by Mingmei Yip
I had never been treated so nicely by a man. Though I believed my father loved me, he had never brought me gifts. Instead, he would steal things from me-gold, silver, antique statues given by the villagers who thought I was the reincarnation of Guan Yin-to pawn them for money to gamble.
Now I wanted to say something to Michael, but swelling in my throat stifled my voice.
Finally I said, running my hands over the jacket he had just given me, “Michael, this must be very expensive?”
He ignored my question. “I know what it’s like to be deprived-I don’t want you to be anymore.” He looked sad for a moment, then, “Meng Ning, I want you to be happy.”
A long silence, then he pulled me to him, tilted my face, and looked deeply into my eyes. “Meng Ning, will you marry me?”
Pushing my doubt about trusting a man and marriage to the back of my mind, I uttered a soft, “Yes.”
Not long after, we made love in his bed, playing hide-and-seek with my naked body under the embroidered jacket.
Two days later, my left hand looked different-adorned with a solitary diamond the size of a lentil. Walking hand in hand with Michael on Fifth Avenue, I kept moving my hand, marveling how such a small surface could give out so many sparkles, like the shimmering of ships’ lights on the sea.
“This diamond is flawless,” the saleswoman at Tiffany had said, shifting it under the light. “Look at its fire, so brilliant that it’d blind your eyes!”
When Michael had been paying with his credit card, another saleswoman nudged my elbow while motioning to him. “Hey, lucky girl, this man must really fucking love you to buy you this.”
18. Reception at the Met
It was a cool evening and the Metropolitan Museum of Art had already closed to the public. Alongside the curb, luxury sedans and yellow taxis disgorged elegant couples-men in impeccable suits or tuxedos and women in gowns or designer suits-carefully walking up the wide flight of steps. Although not heavily bejeweled like some of the ladies, I was at least clad in the elegant Chinese jacket that Michael had bought me, and got a few approving stares.
Michael took my arm and led me across the Great Hall, then down past the Egyptian exhibits into the Temple of Dendur where the reception was starting. After Michael had gotten our drinks, we stood under the sloping glass wall to watch the scene. The temple was at the center of a spacious area with a high ceiling and sloping, floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Central Park was now cloaked in pink twilight. But at this moment even this magnificent sight failed to attract attention. People, looking dignified yet cheery, engaged in hushed conversation in this respectful zone of taste and class. Diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, rubies, and gold glittered, echoing here and there the glint of crystal glasses and silver bowls. To complete this picture of elegance, a small orchestra in a corner was playing classical music that I could not identify.
Michael asked, “Beautiful, isn’t it?” He wore a proud expression, as if by just being here he had already fathomed the mystery and prestige of the art world.
Looking around, I caught sight of a slender sixtyish woman with platinum blond hair tied into a smooth bun, and a necklace of large diamonds-each bigger than my engagement ring. She was talking to a taller woman who instead of diamonds wore a string of pearls as big as my knuckles. Behind them stood two black tie, well-established, gray-haired gentlemen waiting patiently in the registration line.
“Michael”-I nudged his elbow-“these people all seem very distinguished.”
“Meng Ning”-he lowered his voice, now also eyeing the blonde and the tall woman-“this is the Met, so I can tell you these are the richest and most powerful people in New York, including the mayor and the chairman of the Rockefeller Foundation.
“Now look at the couple talking to the mayor. Do they look familiar?”
This couple definitely had the appearance of the privileged. “Hmmm…no, nothing special,” I said with a deliberately nonchalant air.
“They are Kennedys. And the couple to their far right is the Met’s trustee Benjamin Hill and his Chinese wife.”
Although my eyes were now scrutinizing the handsome couples with relish, nevertheless I felt annoyed that Michael was so taken with these social elite. I wanted to say, Oh, so…what’s the big deal? but swallowed my words.
We sipped our champagne while continuing to watch the rich and famous, before Michael excused himself to the men’s room. I went to look inside the temple. Once I stepped into the sandstone area, I heard two women’s voices, one shrill, the other husky, rise in excited tones. I walked farther inside and saw the duo-a big, fiftyish woman in a silver gown and black pearls; the other, equally big but with more delicate bones, in a red evening dress with matching rubies. Seeing that now the three of us were the only people in the small temple chamber, I smiled at them. Instead of returning my cordiality, they cast me sharp, scrutinizing glances. Feeling embarrassed, I pretended to look at the mural while trying my best to suppress a rising resentment.
As if I were invisible, the two continued their conversation.
Black Pearl-the bigger woman with a husky voice-asked, “So have you heard about the Dunns’ divorce?”
“Oh, yes,” Red Dress replied in her shrill voice, “I’d known from the start it wouldn’t work out.” She paused to wet her lips. “The girl’s nobody, all she’s got are her boobs-but just like old Dunn’s Song dynasty painting collection, half are fakes.”
The two burst into laughter.
Then Red Dress, her big eyes darting around, added, “Besides, there are rumors that she’s wild.”
“You mean-” Black Pearl’s high-cheek-boned face lit up.
“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you haven’t heard about her and that actor.”
Black Pearl nodded knowingly. “You mean the one who does independent films and commercials?” She winked. “He’s cute, though.”
“That’s why. Besides, she’s had enough of old Dunn. I doubt he even had sex with her during their honeymoon.”
“You sure?”
“He’s seventy, so maybe he’s already used up…”
The two exchanged meaningful glances, then malicious smiles.
Black Pearl spoke again. “The girl’s not as lucky as she thinks. Dunn’s ex-wife got the better end of things. Now they say he’s going to have to auction off his collection of jewelry.”
Right then I heard Michael’s voice calling me softly from outside the temple. I hurried past glittering pearls and rubies and cold glances and stepped out of the gossip zone.
Michael slipped his arm around mine. “You like the temple?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, faking enthusiasm, while wondering whether I should tell him about my temple experience.
After we’d had our glasses refilled at the bar, we went to a corner to sip our drinks. I continued to watch the people, feeling self-conscious. Then my eyes caught an elegant-looking man walking toward us, smiling. It took a moment before I recognized him-Philip Noble, Michael’s glamorous buddy whom I’d met at La Côte Basque.
He shook hands with Michael. Then, like last time, he lifted and kissed my hand. “It’s such a pleasure to see you again, Meng Ning. How have you been? Enjoying yourself?”
“Yes.” I looked into his sapphire eyes. “I’m also starting to let the famous names and faces sink in.”
Philip mocked disapproval by tossing his thick blond mane. “Nah, big deal, they’re just common people like us-eat, sleep, work, play, and you-know-what.”
He leaned forward and looked deeply into my eyes. “I hear that Michael and you are engaged. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” I smiled, then blurted out, “Philip, then when is your turn?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “I’m different from Michael; he’s the thinker and I’m the hedonist. Since he was a teenager, he’s known what he wanted. Now he’s gotten it, while I’m still living the floating life and enjoying it. Difference is, I’m just not interested in finding a center-unless someday
when I meet someone as lovely as you.” He slapped Michael’s shoulder. “If I’m as lucky as him.”
Michael said, “Meng Ning, just wait. Philip will be married with kids and living in Scarsdale in a few years.”
We all laughed. Although I had no idea where Scarsdale was.
A shaft of light landed on Philip’s face, bringing out more blue in his eyes. How would it feel to be so handsome, to be able to charm all the women in the world?
Then, taking me by surprise, he leaned down to plant a kiss on my lips. I felt my blood cascading like a waterfall. After that, he said, “Michael’s a very nice guy; take good care of him.”
I blushed, then nestled against Michael’s chest.
He sighed. “Why is Michael always the one who gets the best?”
Michael laughed. “It’s because you never look in the right direction.”
Philip smiled, then saw a friend and excused himself. He winked at me as he walked away. I felt my heart skip a beat.
Michael took my hand. “Let’s go find Professor Fulton.”
As I was looking around, I saw a silver-haired gentleman in his sixties with a lofty air and a no-nonsense look. I nudged Michael. “Michael, this man looks so pompous…”
He cast me a chiding glance. “Meng Ning, he’s Professor Fulton.”
I blushed and muttered an apology. Michael took my hand. “Let’s go and greet him.”
The professor was now talking intimately to a very tall and handsome young woman.
“Michael, who’s that beautiful tall woman next to Professor Fulton?”
Michael looked uneasy. He said awkwardly, “She’s…Lisa Fulton, Professor Fulton’s daughter.”
Just then the woman spotted us and smiled. Michael forced a smile back. We finally waded through the crowd and went up to them. The professor greeted Michael warmly. I was impressed that although the professor’s frame was frail and lean after his stroke, he nevertheless had a commanding bearing.
Michael put his arm around my shoulder. “Professor Fulton, this is Meng Ning from Hong Kong. Meng Ning has just gotten her Ph.D. in Chinese art history from the Sorbonne.” Then he turned to the woman and introduced us.
The professor smiled down at me, exchanged a few pleasantries, then turned right back to chat with Michael.
Lisa Fulton moved to my side and smiled warmly. “So you are Michael’s fiancée?”
I nodded, appreciating this very tall, striking beauty in front of me in a turquoise gown decorated with sequins.
To my surprise, she abruptly lifted up my hand and squinted, her voice sharp. “Wow, the rock is huge! Michael must really love you.”
Before I could respond, she asked, “When are you getting married?”
“Oh, I have no idea. You better ask Michael.”
She imitated my tone. “‘You better ask Michael.’ Lucky little woman! Everything is being taken care of.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that.
While Michael and the professor were engaged in a deep conversation on the arts and the art world, his daughter and I went on learning more about each other. Lisa told me that she was a painter of mainly abstract works and had a gallery representation in SoHo. I was only half listening, for my eyes were busy studying this turquoised goddess in front of me.
Then in the middle of our conversation on New York ’s art galleries, she suddenly said, “Oh, excuse me, I need to greet someone,” and hurried toward a white-haired, heavily jeweled, and lavishly dressed couple.
The clickings of her high heels on the floor sounded uneven to my sensitive ears. The perfect-looking goddess was limping. Did she just hurt her leg?
Now I was standing beside Michael and Fulton, feeling like a child bumped into an adult’s party. The professor was still completely immersed in his conversation with Michael, ignoring me. Michael squeezed my hand from time to time to show that he hadn’t forgotten me.
When he finished talking to Michael, Fulton finally smiled down at me. “You enjoying the reception so far?” He didn’t say my name; maybe he’d already forgotten it.
“Yes. I’m impressed; I’ve never been to anything so grand,” I said, swallowing the following words: or so pompous.
We exchanged some more abstract social babble. I listened and responded, yet was aware that his words were directed mainly toward Michael. I sensed a strong affinity between the two, forming a glass wall through which I could only be a spectator peeking in. Suddenly I decided that I didn’t like Professor Fulton, no matter how important he was in the art circle and to Michael. Maybe it was jealousy; I didn’t feel that I’d ever have a place in this world of the rich and powerful.
Finally Michael said to Fulton, “Meng Ning is also a painter. She learned Buddhist ink painting from a very influential nun in Hong Kong.”
Now the professor’s face glowed slightly. “Oh, please tell me more.”
Eager to draw his attention to me, I pushed away any vestige of Confucian modesty and plunged on to tell him about Yi Kong: how her temple had become the most influential in the colony; how she had acquired a priceless collection of Buddhist art from all over China; how she was now building a multimillion-dollar museum in cooperation with the Hong Kong government.
“But the point is, only my mentor has the connections to take her priceless art out of China,” I said, feeling my face flush.
The professor’s attitude toward me was obviously changing. Now he looked at me intently, asked many detailed questions about Yi Kong’s art collection, and seemed to be very satisfied with all my answers. I tried not to show how much I was enjoying this.
“Next week”-now his smile was reaching high to his ears-“when I’m not as busy with the exhibit, you’ll have to let me take you two to dinner.”
19. Beauty with a Limp
The next day I slept late and Michael had already left for work. After I washed, I brewed tea, then cooked myself a simple brunch of instant noodles with cabbage and a pinch of chili. The engagement ring spread its sparkles everywhere-in the mirror, on the glaze of the ceramic tea cup, the silverware. I felt happy, both for the ring and my scalding spicy noodles.
While I was wondering where I should spend the afternoon exploring Manhattan by myself, the phone rang.
I picked up the receiver and cooed into it flirtatiously, “Hi, Michael.”
“Little woman, is that all you have on your mind?”
“Who’s this?”
“Lisa Fulton, Michael Fulton’s daughter. We met at the Met yesterday.”
“Hi, Lisa. How did you get my phone number?”
“You mean Michael’s phone number? Ha, I knew him long before you did. He’s an old friend.” Before I could respond, she went on. “I’m calling to invite you to see the Pollock show at MoMA in the afternoon. I’m sure you have time and you’re interested?”
“Pollock? Yes, I’d like to go.”
“Good. I’ll find you inside the exhibit around three,” she said, then hung up.
It had begun to drizzle in the afternoon, and the Museum of Modern Art was relatively quiet when I arrived. In the lobby, there were only a few people-milling around, waiting, or inquiring at the membership service counter. An intense-looking man, hands locked behind his back and head tilted high, scrutinized the bold-stroked Motherwell painting spanning the wall to the left.
The Jackson Pollock exhibit was a huge show with more than two hundred works on display, beginning with Pollock’s early drawings, and even a few by his teacher, Thomas Hart Benton. I wandered in front of the many canvasses and drawings, trying to look for possible secret codes hidden within the labyrinths of lines and splashes. I was staring at the intricately choreographed energy of Number 32 when a woman’s alto voice rose to my ears, sweet and mellow like a ripe papaya.
“Beautiful lines, aren’t they?”
I turned and saw a very tall and beautiful woman with a smile like a crescent moon across her tanned face. Her long hair was a matching color; the curls splashed down her
shoulders in Pollockian lines. On her neck, several gold chains glittered flirtatiously. Her eyes were dark amber. A Pollock black and bronze scarf with frenzied lines was draped casually across her breasts, and a tight black top slithered around her torso.
I blurted out, “Lisa Fulton! You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you.” Her eyes shot out sparks like Pollack’s dots. Her bronze eye shadow and lipstick enhanced her strong features.
“Pollock is one of my favorite painters.” She smiled. Her teeth, catching the reflection of the light, glowed like fine Chinese porcelain. Her long tapering nails were painted with bronze polish, the color of her hair and lips. Gold bangles jingled on her wrist; one, heavier than the rest, was a panther biting its own tail.
She turned to look at me. “I like the spontaneity, the splashing, and the wildness!” Then she threw back her head and laughed a rich alto laugh, like temple chimes in the wind. A ponytailed guy stared at us. She winked back.
We both turned to look at the painting. But I couldn’t concentrate. Lisa’s presence seemed to fill the space around me; I could almost feel the air next to me move in curves and splashes. She smelled of wild ginger flowers, my favorite. What kind of perfume was scented like this?
Half an hour later, Lisa and I were sitting at the museum café munching sandwiches and sipping drinks. I looked out at the garden; the drizzle had stopped and the air shimmered with a fresh, clean look. A young couple sat on a bench eating pastries. In front of them, giggling Asian teenagers scrutinized a Henry Moore statue; their slim fingers wagged at the swelling surfaces. Farther on stood a tree; its interlacing branches now looked exactly like Pollock’s lines.
As I wondered what to make of my new acquaintance, she said, “You want to see my paintings someday? I’ll invite you to my studio, just you and me, a girl thing.”
I nodded.
“I heard that you’re an artist, too?”
“Hmm…yes and no,” I said, then I told her about myself.
“I’m impressed. A Ph.D. and Zen paintings, these are my dreams.”