Petals from the Sky

by Mingmei Yip

  A few minutes later, the waiter came back with my order. Waiting until he’d left, I raised my glass and whispered to myself, “Congratulations, Dr. Du.”

  Then I softly recited the Song dynasty poet Su Dongpo’s poem:

  A cup of wine amidst colorful blossoms,

  Sipping all by myself,

  I raise my cup and invite the moon to join me.

  With my shadow,

  There are finally three parties here!”

  As I was enjoying my espresso and my croque madame, I looked about. There was always something magical simmering in the air of Paris. Even the smallest corner seemed to wink at me and whisper, “Come, take a look; it’s fun in here.” The shop windows of the clothing stores opposite the café were decked with the colors of fall-chocolate brown, khaki, camel, cadet blue, navy, black, gravel black. As always, I was impressed by the refined French eye, which selects colors that compete and complement all at once. I watched a shapely, red-attired woman dash across the street to hail a taxi; her silver scarf lifting in the wind resembled a wisp of incense or cursive calligraphy.

  I dropped two sugars into my espresso and slowly stirred it with a spoon. With pleasure, I listened to the sound of metal hitting against the rim of the ceramic cup. Then I took a lingering sip, savoring the coffee’s bittersweet taste. After that, I cut a big piece of croque madame and put it, slowly and sensuously, into my mouth.

  Pedestrians walked, talked animatedly with friends, or window-shopped while munching crepes, nibbling sandwiches, or licking ice creams. I watched leaves shiver in the early autumnal breeze and the intense but blasé expressions of the Parisians, somehow feeling a Zen-like tranquility amidst the hustle and bustle of the city.

  Scenes of my first day in Paris five years ago flashed across my mind…

  The morning after my arrival, I had awakened in the dormitory of La Maison d’Asie with the sun gently touching a corner of my bed. I flicked and warmed my toes in the patch of light, then stretched, yawned, jumped off the bed, and went to look out the window. Although there was nothing much to see outside except other dormitory buildings, I still felt thrilled to be in Paris.

  Bonjour, Paris! Comment allez-vous?

  I took several deep breaths, inhaling as much of the Parisian morning air as my small lungs could take. Then, when I saw a young couple pass under a tree munching crepes, pangs of hunger stabbed my stomach. I flounced into my sweater, slipped on my jeans, and went out.

  My feet thudded eagerly on the cobblestone street as I twisted my neck, looking in all directions, trying to take in all the scenes: a gray stone building covered with crawling vines; a window with an intricately patterned decoration in the shape of lilies; a young girl with a lavender scarf and violet boots. After passing a cigarette store, a florist, and a newspaper stand, I spotted a supermarket and plunged in.

  Walking around and looking at the huge varieties of produce, I felt impelled to look for a simple meal-something cheap. With my mother back in Hong Kong for me to somehow support, plus unknown years ahead in Paris, I had to stretch my small scholarship as far as possible. I looked at the rows and rows of food arranged neatly on the shelves, until my eyes landed on a package of craquelin. I did not know exactly what was inside, but the cover picture looked very appetizing, with a colorful display of biscuits with shrimp, ham, cheese, sausage, lettuce, tomato, olive, pepper, onion. My eyes caressed the different items of food while my mouth watered. The price-one franc fifty-seemed unusually cheap for a hearty meal like this. I grabbed two packages, hurried to the beverage section to get some instant cocoa, then went to pay at checkout.

  Back in my dormitory room, I cooked myself a cup of hot chocolate to go with the craquelin. I sucked back the saliva flooding my mouth. Then, with great anticipation and affection, I opened the package.

  Alas! As if struck by an anti-magic wand, all the shrimp, ham, cheese, sausage, tomato, and onion were gone! What lay in front of my eyes were a few stacks of wrinkled, paperlike biscuits, completely bare, like the miserable and weathered face of an octogenarian. Anger welled up into my throat.

  I was cheated by the supermarket! Or, I almost cried out in despair, somebody had opened the package and ate all the delicious toppings!

  But what should I do? I didn’t think I could go back to the supermarket and complain to the checkout person. Anyway, who would care? Making a fuss over one-and-a-half francs, I would be the one who would become the laughing stock, not the checkout person nor the owner. Stuttering in my insufficient French, I would sound pathetic and ridiculous.

  After a long mental struggle, I finally sat down submissively and started to nibble my first Sunday brunch in Paris, à la Zen.

  Not to my surprise, the so-called craquelin tasted terrible. I felt like an old woman chewing on tree bark during a famine. How I missed my mother’s delicious cooking: soy-sauce chicken, steaming fish with black bean sauce, sweet and sour pork, crispy salt-and-pepper shrimp…

  Then, as I was about to throw away the rest of the biscuits, I suddenly spotted a line of small letters at the bottom of the package, hidden among the pictures of shrimp, ham, cheese, sausage, tomato, and onion: “Proposer de servir”-serving suggestion. A joke at my expense!

  Still hungry, I began to unpack.

  As I was pulling out items one by one, a cockroach crawled out from the suitcase. How incredible that this little ugly thing had traveled with me six thousand miles-all the way across the Pacific Ocean from Hong Kong to Paris! Poor creature! I studied the dazed-looking brown bug for long moments. Was he starved after all these long hours in the airless dark trunk? Was he now lonely and miserable like me? Would he be able to make friends in the future? Then suddenly I realized he was at this moment my only companion in the whole world. A gust of loneliness swelled up in me.

  I broke off a piece of the leftover craquelin and threw the crumbs onto the floor. To my surprise, he didn’t eat. Even a Hong Kong cockroach was too well fed and spoiled to have any appetite for the tasteless biscuits! Finally I used one craquelin to scoop him up, then went to the communal kitchen and put him on the counter. What would his fate be? Maybe he could find some better food here, or, his death. It’d all depend on his karma, his fate…

  I decided to go out and get a real meal, even though it would deplete my tiny budget. I took the Metro to the Sorbonne and finally settled in a café in the little plaza in front of the university.

  Barely did I have time to look around when the waiter plopped down a menu and demanded, “Que voulez-vous manger?”

  While I couldn’t answer a simple question about what I wanted to eat, he urged, “Croque monsieur, croque madame, sandwich avec jambon et fromage?”

  “Croque madame, s’il vous plaît.” I had no idea what that was, but, feeling rushed, ordered it because the word “madame” made it sound like something special for women. The only flaw was it cost one franc more than the croque monsieur.

  “Bien, quelque chose à boire?”

  I hastily glanced at the menu. “Es…pres…so.” It was the cheapest kind of beverage, but the hardest to pronounce.

  When the waiter put down the coffee cup, I was surprised at its diminutive size-not much bigger than the toy cup I used for pretend drinking as a child. Don’t the French get thirsty? I took a sip and involuntarily spat out the liquid, shocked by the bitterness. Mon Dieu! Isn’t life bitter enough for the French? Fortunately the madame-French toast topped with fried egg over a thick piece of ham and melted cheese-was filling and delicious.

  Ah, I imagined how wonderful to be rich; even one franc could make such a big difference in life…

  Some car horns snapped me back from my reverie. The café looked exactly the same as five years before, but my karma now seemed different-though just as uncertain. I had my Ph.D., but was still unsure of my future-would I take refuge as a nun or get a job in the secular world, remain single or get married? But I’d already turned down Michael’s proposal! I let out a sigh.

  PART TWO
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br />   15. New York, New York

  Back in Hong Kong, right after Mother had helped me bring in the luggage and closed the door, she lowered her voice as if to divulge a secret. “While you were away, some gweilo has called several times.”

  My heart started to pound. “Oh, what’s his name?”

  “Mic Ko something. He said he called from the United States.” Mother eyed me suspiciously. “Who is this foreign devil?”

  “Nothing, Ma-”

  “You mean this man is nothing, or he wants nothing from you?”

  “Ma!”

  “If a man’s mouth says he wants nothing, that always means he does want something, you understand?” She paused. “I don’t like foreign devils-they always want more, more, more!” Now she stared at me through her pinched eyes. “But then when you want to get married, they don’t want you anymore!”

  “Ma, no one is talking anything about getting married!”

  “Oh, if you react so strongly, that means you’re thinking about it, right?!”

  “Ma!” I decided to lie to save myself from more motherly harassment. “I think it must be the Asia Society in New York, which might be interested in my application for a position.”

  Mother looked happy. “Good. Now let me fix some tonic soup to invigorate you after the plane ride,” she said, then whistled “One Day When We Were Young” all the way to the kitchen.

  Although I was dying to call Michael right back, I decided to wait a little.

  Mother prepared a big dinner. “This is to celebrate your Ph.D.” she said, then started to pile fish, chicken, shrimp, and vegetables onto my plate.

  Starved from the unsatisfying airplane meals, I was hungry for my mother’s delicious cooking and ate with great relish. As I was raking rice into my mouth with my chopsticks, I noticed that she was not eating.

  “Ma, are you not hungry?”

  “Ah”-she looked at me as if I were her first love, then rolled her eyes heavenward-“I don’t know how an ignorant woman like me can give birth to a doctor daughter like you!”

  I reached to pat her hand. Just then the phone rang and Mother dashed to pick it up.

  She cupped the receiver and made a face. “It’s that same gweilo!”

  I went up to snatch the receiver from Mother and waved her away. “Michael?”

  “Meng Ning?”

  A silence. Then Michael’s voice again. “Meng Ning, where have you been? I was worried about you!”

  He sounded so upset that I didn’t have the heart to blame him for not calling me earlier. “I was…in Paris.”

  “Your mother told me that, but she wouldn’t give me your phone number.”

  “I’m sorry, Michael. She doesn’t trust strangers.”

  “It’s all right. So you’ve gotten your Ph.D.?”

  “Yes.”

  “Congratulations, Meng Ning. I’m so happy for you!”

  “Thanks.”

  Another pause. His voice now sounded low and edgy, as if he hadn’t slept for days. “I’m so sorry I didn’t call you earlier. The operator tried many times, but couldn’t connect from Tibet to Hong Kong. Then when I tried from the States, you’d already left for Paris.”

  “Michael, I’m sorry about all that…but anyway, I’m talking to you now.” A pause, then I asked, “How’s Professor Fulton?”

  “He had a stroke while collecting antique thangkas in Lhasa. When I arrived, the local doctors were treating him with Tibetan medicine, which I didn’t understand at all. I immediately booked a flight, brought him back, and put him in New York Hospital.”

  Michael went on to tell me that fortunately it was only a mild stroke, so the Professor’s partial loss of memory and motor function would only be temporary. Already he could eat on his own and move around, though with a walker.

  “You don’t have to worry, Meng Ning. He’s fine now,” Michael said, sounding more relaxed. Then he changed the subject. “Will you come to the States to see me?”

  I didn’t know how to respond to this for several seconds. Then I felt his anticipation rolling toward me from the other side of the world.

  “Meng Ning, you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you come? Please…”

  I didn’t know what to say. Wasn’t he angry with me? If I went to see him in the States, what would happen? Would he still be serious about me, even though I’d turned him down?

  I covered my chest, fearing that my heart would flutter out of me. In the intimate silence stretching across the Pacific Ocean, I imagined myself listening to his breathing and touching his eyebrows, which resembled the Chinese character “one” saturated with qi…

  “Meng Ning, please.” Michael’s urgent voice rose again. “Please say yes.”

  A moment later I looked at the telephone receiver, now back on the table. I had agreed.

  I went back to finish my celebration dinner. I decided not to tell Mother about Michael-not yet.

  So, when she asked about my long-distance telephone conversation, I said, “Ma, it’s the Asia Society in New York. So I’m going to the United States for a job interview.”

  “Wow, Meng Ning.” A big smile bloomed on her face. “Now good luck finally pours into our house one after another!” she enthused, beginning again to pile food on my plate until it’d become a miniature meat mountain.

  So barely two weeks after I’d come back from Paris I was packing again. My hands were busy smoothing the tiny red flower on a pair of black lace bikini panties, from which Mother’s suspicious eyes seemed unwilling to part.

  Then my mother, who’d never been to New York, but who had her opinion about any city, told me emphatically, “Meng Ning, when you take a taxi in New York, you have to make sure you never take your eyes off the meter, because the driver has fixed it to jump faster.”

  “Ma!” I cast her an annoyed glance, stuffing the panties in the suitcase. The flower now looked like a drop of blood on the black spider-web pattern.

  Mother plunged on. “I was told in New York passersby will just stand and watch while people are being robbed, or even murdered. But this is not the worst. The most disgusting is that when passengers push and shove to get onto the subway, they’ll thrust others onto the rail and the train will just keep going and nobody cares. So this is New York! Be careful!

  “Oh, I also remember there is a place called something like Sentro Bark which is famous, not for its scenic spots, but because it is packed with drug addicts, murderers, whores, child molesters, gigolos, rapists, and vampires at night. So promise me you’ll never go there, will you?”

  On September third, near the end of the six-hour flight to New York from San Francisco, the captain’s cheerful voice announcing the plane’s arrival at JFK awoke me from a nap. I looked out the window and saw the 747’s wing bank low over the water and turn back toward the sandy beach. Inland, miniature buildings, cars, highways, skyways, and a few patches of green angled away from me. When the plane finally struck the runway, I realized I’d be seeing Michael in a few minutes. My heart started to pound. I took out the painting I’d made for him and looked at it one last time as the plane taxied down the runway. It was a white-robed Guan Yin riding on a huge lotus leaf, holding the Heart Sutra. Since I couldn’t afford to buy him anything expensive and did not want to bring him anything cheap, I hoped the Bodhisattva I had brushed onto gold-speckled rice paper would find her way into his heart.

  The moment I walked into the waiting area I spotted Michael leaning against a pillar. I was startled by the sadness on his face and by the leanness of his once robust frame. A pain stabbed inside me. Then our eyes met. The air had reincarnated. Michael swiftly came to me and, without a word, pulled me into his arms. After long moments of silence, he whispered into my ear, “Meng Ning, I’ve missed you so much.” Then more hugs and kisses before he released me, grabbed my suitcase, and led me to the cab stand.

  Beside me in the confines of the cab, Michael looked very appealing in his black turtleneck and gray
corduroy pants. I felt happy feeling his shoulder against mine as the nearness of his body soothed my heart. My eyes busily played a tug-of-war between the passing scene outside and his long-missed face within. Michael put his hand on my thigh as the car sped along Grand Central Parkway toward Manhattan.

  Michael held my hand during the trip, until our taxi pulled to a stop at a nondescript apartment building. “We’re on the Upper East Side,” he told me as he paid the driver. A blue-uniformed doorman came to open the door for us and carried my baggage into the lobby.

  “Good evening, Doctor,” he said to Michael.

  Michael introduced me and told Frank, the doorman, that I would be staying for a few weeks. Should I need any help, his assistance would be appreciated. Frank nodded while he held open the elevator door and punched the button for the twenty-eighth floor. “Nice to meet you, Miss Du. Enjoy your stay.”

  I smiled back and saw Michael stick a twenty-dollar bill into his hand.

  After we entered his apartment, Michael set down my luggage, took my arms, and tilted back to study me. I felt his lips warming my forehead and my brows. Moments had passed before he released me to look me in the eye. “Meng Ning, how come each time I see you you’re more beautiful than before?”

  With his fingers, he slipped the band from my ponytail so that my hair tumbled over my neck and shoulders. He smoothed it back and began to search my lips with slow, gentle kisses.

  “I missed you,” he whispered, his breath light and ticklish in my ear.

  Feeling myself stir, I pulled him to me and ruffled his soft hair. “I missed you, too, Michael.”

  We collapsed in the chaise longue in the foyer. His caresses started to alleviate my body’s stiffness from the twenty-two-hour trip. When I was about to rest my head on his shoulder, I noticed the door was still left half open.

  “Michael, the door…”

  But he murmured, “Forget the door,” then kicked it shut and pulled me closer to him…