by Mingmei Yip
With my first glance I could see that Michael’s home was full of books, paintings, and works of art. The residue of incense permeated the air. I suddenly remembered something and broke away from him.
“Meng Ning, stay with me. I haven’t seen you for weeks.”
I ignored him, went to open my carryon, took out the Guan Yin painting, then returned. “Michael”-I handed him the framed miniature painting-“I did this for you.”
Michael scrutinized the Goddess, his eyes like those of a child who has just discovered a treasure chest. Moments passed and his gaze was still glued to the white-robed image riding a lotus on the turquoise waves.
Finally I asked, “You like it, Michael? The Goddess will protect you-”
“Like it? Oh, Meng Ning, it’s wonderful.” He turned to look at me hard and long, as if this were our first encounter. “How come you didn’t tell me that you’re also so talented?”
I blushed.
“And so seductive,” he said, tilting up my chin so that he could press his lips hard on mine.
Ten minutes later, Michael stuck his head out of the kitchen and asked, “Is tea OK?” his spiked hair sending a tinge of warmth to my heart.
“No,” I said. “I want Coke. Since I’m now in America, I want something American.”
“Then Coke it is.” His voice sounded cheerful and the sound of his energy filled the kitchen.
I walked around to appreciate the apartment. Illumination from two blue-and-white porcelain lamps warmed the cozy living room. Several pieces of antique Chinese furniture glowed in the soft light. On a low table stood a delicately crafted and subtly glazed blanc de chine Buddha statue.
Bookcases lined two walls; the others were covered with Chinese paintings. A very simple brush painting caught my eye: Han Shan and Shi De-the two legendary lunatic-poet-monks of the Tang dynasty-swept the floor of the temple gate with straw brooms, and laughed as if everything in this Ten Thousand Miles of Red Dust is but a joke.
One of Han Shan’s poems was written in cursive calligraphy in a corner of the painting:
Unknown
I live on the mountain
Enjoying the solitude among white clouds
Michael’s apartment possessed a lonely quality. Was this what drew him to Zen? Was I feeling the loneliness of someone orphaned at a young age, or something more philosophical-or both?
Again I looked at the two hermits in the painting. Han Shan- Cold Mountain -got his name because he’d lived a secluded life on a remote mountain where, even in the hottest summer, its snowcap never melted. His friend Shi De-Picked Up-got his name because he was an orphan dumped on the street and found by a Zen master who went about riding on a tiger. Since the boy had no name, no parents, no possessions, the Zen master simply called him by the way he’d found him-Picked Up. Picked Up lived a carefree and detached existence. His eyes always shone clear and bright, and his smile was penetrating. Day in and day out, he and Cold Mountain swept leaves, scrawled poems on rocks, played with the village children, and appreciated the moon. They are honored in Chinese legend because they lived their lives according to the Dao-The Great Way.
A strange feeling crept over me. Michael’s life, in a certain respect, resembled that of the two monks. He’d been orphaned (I hadn’t yet had the chance to ask how). He seemed detached; he wrote poems and appreciated the moon… However, instead of an isolated mountain monastery, Michael lived in a nice apartment in one of the busiest cities in the world. But hadn’t some of the old Chinese sages taught that the true hermit feels free of the dusty world while dwelling in the clamorous city?
I walked to the kitchen and asked Michael whether he needed help. He was arranging crackers in a bowl. “No, Meng Ning. You must be tired from the trip; why don’t you relax in the living room? I’ll join you in a minute.”
I went back into the living room, not because I wanted to relax, but because I had to suppress an urge to cry. I was confused. If I was so attracted to Michael, why had I turned down his proposal in Hong Kong? But then what about Yi Kong, and the Goddess of Mercy? What about my calling since my fall into the well seventeen years before? What about my dream to be part of the nuns’ carefree life?
I leaned against one of the bookcases, and to distract myself began to read the titles. There were many volumes of Chinese philosophy and literature, all in English translations: the Book of Changes, Dream of the Red Chamber, Six Records of a Floating Life, Journey to the West…But I also found The Plum in the Golden Vase-China’s most notorious erotic novel. I pulled it out from the shelf, flipped through the pages, and ran into:
The moment the young monks saw the wife of Wu Dai, their Buddha nature and Zen mind were lost. Their hearts were like unleashed monkeys and their spirits untamed horses. In disarrayed groups of seven and eight, they collapsed in her sensual aura…
When they were supposed to strike the stone chimes, their minds were so bewitched that they wrongly smashed the elder monks’ scalps. All the efforts of their meditation in the past drained into the gutter; even the Buddha’s ten thousand warrior attendants could do nothing to guard them against their desire for this woman…
This was followed by a woodblock print graphically portraying the beautiful woman coupling with a monk.
My cheeks felt hot, yet my eyes wouldn’t detach themselves. I was fascinated by the forthright description, written three hundred odd years ago, of the monks’ sexual craving for an attractive woman. The author’s courage to express the yearning of his heart without fear of condemnation by Confucian hypocrites deeply moved me. I felt a heat rising gradually in my groin. I was sure my cheeks were now the color of a monkey’s butt, but that didn’t stop my hands from impatiently turning the page to read more.
Just then I heard Michael coming from the kitchen. I pushed the book back onto the shelf.
“Meng Ning, what are you reading?”
“Oh…nothing special.” While I felt the burning sensation in my cheeks, my mind raced with scenes of our first night together behind the mound in Cheung Chau, the bold declaration of the two nuns in the Kun opera, Michael’s poem, our resumed intimacy not long ago…
Michael put the tray onto the low Chinese table, then came to embrace me from behind. I heard playfulness in his voice.
“But you look so absorbed-something sexy? Tell me.”
“I can’t.”
He reached toward the shelf for the book, but I pushed his hand away.
“Must be some kind of love story between a monk and a nun, right?” He nibbled my neck. “If you entered the empty gate to be a nun, I’d also become a monk.”
There was a long, pregnant pause. Then he released me and led me to sit down on the sofa. “Let’s have something to eat.”
Then he offered me his white-glazed cup with Iron Goddess of Mercy tea. “Want to try?”
“No. Thanks. I have my Coke.” I decided to be stubborn, like an American woman. Then I said, “Michael, I envy you living in such a lovely apartment,” expecting he’d finish the sentence with the “but no bachelor’s house is complete without a hostess” cliché I’d detested so much in the past.
Then I sensed something discordant. The qi in his apartment was unbalanced-almost all yang energy. Suddenly I felt an itch to add something yin: a vase of roses or daisies or carnations next to the Buddha; frilly white-laced curtains against which dangled a tinkling wind chime; lilac, cedarwood, and bay leaf potpourri on the coffee table.
But Michael was busy buttering the crackers. He handed me one and said, absentmindedly, “Oh, thank you.” Then he refreshed my Coke, which made bright, tinkling noises with the ice.
At seven-thirty, after I’d had a nap and a shower, Michael took me to La Côte Basque in midtown for dinner. The restaurant was decorated with colorful murals depicting groves of trees and cozy eighteenth-century buildings beside the Mediterranean Sea. The bold brushstrokes and vivid colors invigorated my senses, which had been dulled by jet lag. I could feel the qi circulating everywhe
re.
After we were seated, I found out that the prices on the menu were as rich in qi as the surroundings. Michael and I ordered Perrier, salad, then vegetarian pasta for him and bouillabaisse and lobster for me.
In a few minutes the waiter returned with our drinks, a basket of assorted bread, and spheres of butter nestled with ice in a small silver bowl. He poured us the Perrier and left. Sipping the mineral water, I looked around. The customers were all attired tastefully, men in suits and women in evening dresses, as if about to attend a concert or an elegant private party. Bathed in the pleasant aroma of gourmet food, they chatted, smiled, ate, drank deeply, and looked satisfied. The tuxedoed and silent-footed waiters moved around the white-clad tables, making delicious clinking sounds. Off in a quiet corner I noticed a distinguished-looking couple-a white man with an Asian woman-both with graying hair and elegant clothes.
Michael pointed toward them. “Meng Ning, see the couple over there? They’re a trustee at the Met and his wife.”
“You know them?”
“Yes.” Then, to my surprise, Michael rose from his chair. “Excuse me, Meng Ning, I need to say hello,” he said, then walked to the couple.
Michael shook hands with the man and engaged in a brief conversation with him. He looked eager to please; the two responded with faint smiles and slightly nodding heads.
As I was wondering what they were talking about, Michael had already come back. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” I nearly asked, Then why didn’t you introduce me to them? but Michael was already speaking. “Benjamin Hill has one of the best collections of Chinese paintings in the West. I’d have introduced you, but I didn’t want to interrupt their dinner. Hope you don’t mind.” He buttered a bread stick and handed it to me.
Feeling my upset wane, I asked, “You know a lot of people in the arts?”
“Just a few. Michael Fulton knows most of them, in Oriental art anyway. It’s through him that I’ve met a few. I enjoy talking about art, but most of the art collectors are not very nice unless you are at least as rich as they are.”
No wonder he hadn’t looked entirely at home when he’d talked with the trustee.
Just then the waiter came back with our food.
Michael reached to squeeze my hand. “Let’s enjoy ourselves, Meng Ning. It’s so good to have you here.”
I started to eat my soup and Michael dug his fork into his greens. He looked happy and ate with great relish. I felt touched, while also wondering: why wasn’t he acting upset that I’d turned down his proposal?
After we had finished our appetizers and were waiting for the next course, a very handsome man in a silvery gray suit and matching silk tie came over to greet Michael. Michael introduced him as Philip Noble, a dear friend, and invited him to sit with us. “Enchanté,” the stranger said-then to my surprise, bowed and brought my hand to his lips.
Michael put his hand on my shoulder. “Meng Ning, Philip has been my best friend since high school. Nice guy and a great theater talent. Used to play Romeo in our school drama club, so be prepared for his theatricality.”
Philip slapped Michael’s shoulder amicably, flicked his thatch of thick blond hair, rolled his long-lashed eyes, and flashed his perfect white teeth. “Oh, no. Michael is the genius. We used to call him ‘the professor.’ Actually he liked that. He knew he was good.” He winked. “And now, of course, he’s the best.”
Michael smiled, looking almost boyish. After the two men had exchanged a few more pleasantries, they told me bad jokes from their training at Johns Hopkins.
I could see the bond between them despite their different temperaments and physiques. Noble cut a striking figure-well over six feet, broad-shouldered and athletic, like Achilles stepping from Greek mythology into the twentieth century in a tailored suit. Next to him, Michael, quieter, with a medium build, more resembled an artist or a scholar. I didn’t understand the affinity between them, but there were surely many corners in Michael’s life still waiting for me to explore.
Watching Philip Noble’s glamorous features and manners, I almost felt I was interviewing a movie star. I was conscious of his curious, fresh blue eyes on me.
When Michael went to answer his beeper, Philip asked, “Meng Ning, how long are you going to stay in New York?”
“A few weeks,” I said, feeling a little dazed. “Can you suggest places to go?”
“ Fifth Avenue, the Met, SoHo, Central Park -” He paused. “I think you’d better ask Michael. He knows all the cultural places, though he’s always so busy.”
“Are you also a neurologist?”
“Oh, no. That’s Michael’s field, takes a lot of brains. I’m a cosmetic surgeon.”
“That’s interesting.” No wonder he was so flashy.
“Oh, yes. I love it. I like to make people look beautiful. Vanity, isn’t it?” he said, then tossed his blond hair again and shot me a young Paul Newman stare.
“But if that makes people happy, why not?” I smiled.
“Exactly. God gives a woman a face, but she wants a different one-that’s where I come in. People care about themselves so much that they don’t want to be themselves. But I shouldn’t complain.” He shrugged. “I live off people’s vanity.”
“Or taste,” I added. “If faces are works of art that reflect the taste of their owners, then we should appreciate their efforts to enhance.”
Noble looked at me deeply with his sparkling, fathomless eyes. “Good. I like that, Meng Ning. But I’m afraid I’ll never see you as a patient. Not only do you not need a different face, but I’m sure many of my patients would want one as naturally beautiful as yours.”
Embarrassed by this flattery, I sipped my water, then uttered a shy “Thank you, Philip, but you’re overpraising me.”
Noble signaled with his head to an elegant, fortyish woman at the table across from us. “See the lady over there? You find her beautiful?”
I looked and exclaimed, “Oh, yes!”
He shook his head, his silky hair shifting like waves under the moonlight. “To be blunt, I find her look totally repulsive.”
I was horrified to hear this. “But why?”
“Because there’s nothing natural about her. It’s all work under a skillful knife.”
“How can you tell?”
“I’m the expert. Too bad she didn’t come to me. I could have taken another ten years off her original fiftyish face.”
“Oh, heavens!”
Philip reached to pat my hand. I noticed his gold cuff links-miniature sculptures of that Egyptian queen who may be the most beautiful and mysterious woman in history.
“Meng Ning, your naïveté is very charming.”
I studied Noble’s perfectly chiseled features. Was this beautiful Romeo’s face also the masterpiece of an adroit knife?
As if he were a mind reader, Philip smiled. “While I’m a plastic surgeon myself, I don’t trust any colleagues in my specialty. So I’d never put my face at risk in their hands, not even twenty years from now.”
I didn’t know how to respond to this.
Philip cast another glance at the fiftyish woman who looked forty before he resumed the conversation-in a different thread. “How long have you known Michael?”
“A few weeks,” I said, feeling a little tense. “And you’ve known Michael for much longer.”
“Almost twenty years,” he went on, creasing his thick brows. “Since high school, Michael has never failed to amaze me. When we all went out to movies or a bar, he’d stay in the dorm burying himself in all kinds of books. He always said life is too short to learn about all the things he’s interested in. This guy never wastes a minute and works like a dog to get what he wants. Back at Johns Hopkins, often he didn’t even bother to eat, so I’d bring him back pizzas or Chinese takeout.”
I enjoyed watching Philip’s facial expressions swim effortlessly from one emotional zone to another. How many more faces did this Romeo have?
He continued. “Michael went to Hopkins on scholarships, yo
u know, because his parents died when he was a teenager. It was very hard for him-”
Right then Michael returned as the gray-haired waiter came with our entrees.
“Enjoying a good conversation?” Michael asked. I felt his hand warming the nape of my neck.
“Is everything OK?” Philip shifted sideways for the waiter to put down our plates.
“Fine, it was just a patient asking for a prescription.”
I smiled up at Michael. “Philip was telling me how smart you are,” I said, feeling stirred by his soft, caring touch.
Just then Philip Noble excused himself and went back to his table.
I smiled at Michael before I dug my fork into the lobster. Still so fresh and alive, it looked as if he (I liked to think the lobster was a he and the shrimp a she) was just out of the ocean. Bad karma. Both for myself and for “him,” I thought, while spearing a juicy piece and putting it into my mouth.
Was it my mother or my father?
“Good?” Michael asked.
“Couldn’t be better.” I licked my lips.
16. The Fortune-Teller
We arrived home at eleven. Riding up in the elevator with our bodies touching, I was aware of Michael’s desire. The floor indicator seemed to blink forever. When it finally read twenty-eight, Michael took my hand and we walked out. He found his key, opened the door, and let us in. Soundlessly he closed the door, and, without a word, led me straight into the bedroom. Knowing what he was going to do to me in a while, my heart flipped to allegro tempo.
He took off his tie and jacket and tossed them over a chair, then came over to embrace me. He nibbled my earlobe and kissed my neck while his arms closed around me, his hands reaching to unzip my dress.
“Michael”-I was still not used to being so intimate with a man-“please turn off the light.”
“But, Meng Ning-”
“Michael, please.” I insisted until he gave in.
Instantly, dimness fell over the room, with only the moonlight illuminating one side of his face. Eyes intent in the dim light, his hands worked to take off my dress and peel off my stockings. When he tried to unhook my bra, I pulled his hands away. The disappointment on his face pained me, but I felt too shy to be naked-I wasn’t even used to looking at my own nude reflection in the mirror.