Petals from the Sky

by Mingmei Yip

  “Oh, my God…I’m sorry…so sorry. How…did it happen?”

  A shadow fell across Michael’s kind face. “Massive heart attack. They tried to resuscitate him but it didn’t work.”

  My initial shock was now replaced by a flood of guilt. I had spoken ill of the man, Michael’s substitute father! Why had I been so insensitive?

  “The funeral will be held in three days,” Michael said darkly.

  “Michael”-I took his hand-“I’ll be there with you.”

  “Thank you,” he said, then nestled his head against my chest. I thought I could feel a sob, but could not see his face.

  Later as we made love, I was aware of Michael’s sadness. His fiery passion and hunger for affection, instead of pleasing me, made me think of him being with Lisa. I couldn’t help but imagine how he had made it with her, or she with him. Had she led Michael on as she had me? Then a new jealousy hit me. Her shriveled leg-caused by the car accident when Michael was driving. Although it marred her beauty, paradoxically it also enhanced it. Perfection tires the eyes, but a little flaw can be an opening into something more exciting. Was Michael still enticed by that vulnerability, that perfect imperfection?

  After lovemaking, Michael lay silently next to me. I suddenly realized that, instead of sharing his grief, I’d been absorbed in my own jealousy and confusion.

  “Michael…” I heard the guilt in my voice as I reached to touch him. But he’d already fallen asleep.

  On Thursday, Michael and I arrived early at the funeral home.

  Inside its grand but gloomy and depressing lobby, Michael shook hands with the funeral director and chatted with him for a moment.

  When we were alone, he said, “Do you mind coming with me while I see Professor Fulton this last time?”

  I nodded. He took my hand and led me to kneel before the casket. I always felt uneasy looking at the dead. But Professor Fulton actually looked calm and dignified. His high forehead, together with the thatch of white hair, made me think of a snowcapped mountain where high monks and nuns would live a secluded life far from earthly foulness. I closed my eyes and whispered a short prayer to wish him happiness and entry into Amida Buddha’s Western Paradise.

  I continued to stare at the professor as I felt tears in my eyes-for his death, for his life, for Michael, for my guilty conscience, for some other submerged yearnings I had yet to name.

  I turned and saw Michael’s face damp with tears.

  “Oh, Michael…” I reached to take his hand.

  “Meng Ning, you’re all I have now,” he said without looking at me. “Please…always be with me.”

  “I will,” I whispered back, feeling his sadness and helplessness in my grasp, and touched by both.

  I thought of the dying kitten. Had it been a premonition of Fulton ’s death?

  Then I turned to look at the encoffined professor and mused that no matter how much rouge they had applied to his face to give him the illusion of life, he was still but a corpse. A breathless, emotionless, souless object on display.

  An installation art.

  Now where was this man who, only a few days ago, had extended an invitation to Michael and me for dinner, not knowing that he’d never be able to show up?

  Feeling ridiculous and a bit unbearable, I said to Michael, “I’ll go look at Professor Fulton’s pictures.”

  “All right, but don’t be long. If you come back and I’m not here, just look around. I’ll be greeting people.”

  “I won’t be long,” I said, then stood up and walked to the desk in a far corner, on top of which were several albums. I turned the pages of one album and saw pictures of Professor Fulton-talking to some important-looking people in a meeting, giving a lecture, appreciating a Chinese scroll painting, standing in front of a huge ceramic vase. I continued to turn pages and saw Fulton and Lisa and Michael in various settings: a room tastefully decorated with antiques and paintings and filled with books; in an open-air café in front of museums, statues, ruins…until my eyes fell on something that made my heart knock hard against my chest. In a fancy restaurant, arms linked and eyes locked, Michael and Lisa were giving each other champagne to sip from tall glasses while Professor Fulton looked on, smiling. Then the next one showed Michael and Lisa kissing on a mountain top, the amber setting sun glowing behind them. Yet another one was taken on a beach. Clad in swimsuits, they were holding each other by the waist, their foreheads touching, their eyes devouring each other’s souls. Clad in a revealing bikini, Lisa’s tanned, near-perfect body could be the object of bitter envy of any woman and the determined goal of all men. In this picture, her two long legs, symmetrical and healthy, would stir the lust of all beings.

  Had Lisa deliberately included the photos of her with Michael so that I would see them? I set down the album-more loudly than I had intended-and turned to walk away. But the place was now very crowded and there was not a trace of Michael. My heart fluttered like a bird struggling to fly out of its cage. Dying for some fresh air, I hurriedly moved toward the exit. Then, when nearing the gate, my feet halted. Michael was chatting with an important-looking couple. And next to them stood Lisa, tall and imposing like a bronze statue. Engaged in a very deep conversation, the four seemed to have known one another for a long time. The sixtyish Asian woman in a finely tailored black suit gestured nervously and looked almost anorexic. I recognized them-the trustee of the Met and his wife-from La Côte Basque, where I had been upset because Michael hadn’t introduced me to them.

  Michael turned and spotted me. Lisa also spotted me and our eyes met; she cast me a knowing smile as if we’d been sharing the profoundest secrets under heaven. I imagined her saying, “You liked what we did the other day, didn’t you? Admit it.” And now she smiled as if suggesting we were allies performing tricks behind Michael’s back.

  My heart clutched and I disliked her bitterly at this moment. I pretended not to see them and quickly walked behind a crowd.

  Then I heard a familiar voice emanating from this small gathering of tall, expensively dressed men. I looked up and saw a familiar face-Philip Noble.

  Oh heavens, my heart started to beat hard and loud like a battle drum. Would he see me? When I tried to move away stealthily I bumped right into the man next to Philip.

  The man turned and looked; I had no choice but to mutter a soft “Sorry,” and hurry away.

  From the corner of my eye, I think I saw Philip turn and look. But then he turned right back to talk. Did he see me? Or did he feign not seeing me?

  Just then the funeral director asked the crowd to move into the next room and be seated.

  The ceremony was very well organized, with many speeches by celebrities in the art world, collectors, deans and professors from the most prestigious universities, directors from Sotheby’s and Christie’s, the president of the Met…

  After that, it was Lisa’s turn. Even though I sat in the third row, I still craned my neck to follow her as she approached the podium. Several men’s eyes widened as they watched her black silhouette, like a gilded devi, glide by in the eerie funeral light. She had not relinquished jewelry, but pared it to a mere bracelet-the ruby-eyed panther biting its tail. Silence fell in the hall as people, mesmerized, intently watched her limp her way onto the podium. Then, breaking their voyeuristic trance, a cry arose. Lisa had stumbled. Michael and one dignitary onstage dashed to her rescue. They helped her up, steadied her, and held her by the waist and shoulders. As a pang of jealousy seized my heart, Lisa regained her balance. She thanked the two men with a nod, then limped-now very noticeably-to the microphone.

  “Don’t worry”-she smiled a little shyly-“this may be my way to be enlightened.”

  Nervous laughter exploded in the audience. It seemed that people liked the daughter as much as they had liked the father. Clearly the fall had brought out an affecting vulnerability that set off her fierce beauty and strong physique. Moreover, Lisa’s speech turned out to be vivid and touching. Instead of praising Michael Fulton directly, like the o
thers had, she told us anecdotes about him that made him seem very human and appealing.

  When Lisa finished, tears glistened in her eyes. I looked around. In the front row, the curators and professors and the art dealers looked at her appreciatively. The middle-aged woman behind me wiped her tears and sighed. Then, to my unease, Philip Noble’s alluring face entered my vision. Head lowered and expression tender, he was listening intensely to an elegant woman of indeterminate age. Then he looked up and smiled a little. Did he see me? Heart beating quickly, I quickly turned back to the stage and saw Michael’s warm, sad eyes keenly searching for mine.

  Michael’s speech, though a little less eloquent than Lisa’s, was equally moving. He recounted how Fulton had “adopted” him as a son and generously shared with him his knowledge of Buddhism and art. And how, without the professor’s teaching and sharing, he, as an American, would have never aspired to the refinements of a Chinese scholar-gentleman: lighting incense, sipping fragrant tea, appreciating delicate scroll paintings, reciting Zen poems. Toward the end, he said, “I believe the karma of knowing Professor Fulton will continue for the rest of my life. I am forever indebted to his kindness.”

  I also felt stirred. Not only by all the powerful speeches and the rich and powerful, but also by the whole drama of life and death condensed in this cool, polished parlor. Michael and Lisa looked so sad and beautiful onstage, the important guests so dignified. And Professor Fulton, alive in their words, and yet so dead in his coffin. Even Michael, sitting onstage among them, seemed altered to me. I wondered: would he someday become one of these dignified, arrogant, silver-haired gentlemen?

  Pondering all these matters, I was surprised when the audience started stirring and realized that the formal part of the ceremony was over. People were standing up, some making their way toward the lobby, others grouped together and talking in restrained tones.

  Michael came to me right away and asked how I’d thought it went.

  “You spoke very well.” I studied his face. “Professor Fulton must be very proud of you.”

  “Yes, he was.” He looked at me fully. “Meng Ning, please come with me while I talk to people.”

  “No, Michael,” I said, suddenly feeling defensive, “it’s awkward for me. I don’t know any of these people here.” I wanted to add I just don’t belong to this circle of the rich and famous, but stopped myself.

  Michael’s eyes were pleading and his voice a little tired. “But please, Meng Ning.”

  “No, Michael.”

  “Meng Ning-”

  “Why don’t you go talk now while I use the restroom. I’ll join you later.”

  “All right.”

  Inside the ladies’ room, I stared at my reflection in the mirror, my heart no more at peace than before. While images of the stylish Lisa, Philip, and the elegant guests flashed across my mind, suddenly a voice broke into my thoughts, startling me. “I’m worried about you, Meng Ning. You look pale. Are you all right?”

  It was Lisa towering over me in the mirror.

  I did not know how to reply. I simply stared.

  “You’re not going to talk to me-even at my father’s funeral?” She was smoothing her bronze hair with a small hawksbill-turtle comb.

  “I’m fine,” I said at last, darkly.

  “But you’re not, Meng Ning. Don’t fool yourself.”

  My throat felt choked and I couldn’t utter a word.

  “Can I do something?” She stared at me with concern.

  Haven’t you done enough?

  “No thanks, I don’t think so.” Although I still found it hard to be angry at those eyes, I managed to say, “Please leave me alone.”

  “All right then, take care,” she said, dropping the comb inside her pocketbook and snapping it shut like a small explosion. “Thanks for coming to my father’s funeral.” Then, “Have you seen Philip and his very rich lady friend?”

  Witch, I mouthed. Then I watched until the door closed behind her before I went inside a stall at the far end to quiet my clamoring mind. All these complicated relationships in the dusty world-were they worth it? Maybe I should have listened to Yi Kong all along.

  My mentor’s words rang loud in my ears:

  There is no real life other than that inside the temple gate. Life in the dusty world would only get people more tangled up, causing endless suffering. But life inside the empty gate would free you from karma.

  And finally:

  When are you coming to play with us? There’s lots of fun going on here.

  I made up my mind-to go back home to Hong Kong.

  Once outside the ladies’ room, I spotted Michael. He hurried up to drape his arm around me. “I’m tired. Let’s go home now.”

  The day after Professor Fulton’s funeral, I told Michael I had decided to go back to Hong Kong.

  To my surprise, he agreed. “I know it’s hard for you in a new environment, and you must have missed your mother, Yi Kong, and Golden Lotus Temple. So maybe it’s good for you to go back for a while.”

  “Thanks for your understanding, Michael,” I said, feeling truly grateful as well as disappointed.

  “Meng Ning, while you’re in Hong Kong ”-he looked at me, eyes full of tenderness-“also think about our wedding. If you don’t have another suggestion, I’d like us to be married in Hong Kong. So I think maybe you can start asking around about where we can have our wedding.”

  That was not what I’d expected to hear. Marriage? My purpose in going back to Hong Kong was exactly the opposite-to give myself some time and space to think over carefully whether I really wanted to be married.

  Michael spoke again, twiddling my engagement ring as if to remind me of our pledge. “I’ll miss you terribly while you’re in Hong Kong. So please come back soon.”

  PART THREE

  26. Form Is Emptiness

  Yi Kong’s smooth, beautiful face hangs over mine. Naked under the fiery redness of the setting sun, her head’s gentle curve appears unmistakably sensuous. Its luminous gold reminds me of the halos on the heads of Christian saints. But this is a halo around the finely shaved head of a Buddhist nun.

  I knew this handsome image before me was as illusory as it was powerful. For I was but daydreaming in Yi Kong’s office in the Golden Lotus Temple. Although I’d visited her in the hospital, this would be the first time I’d seen her in this new place since the fire in the Fragrant Spirit Temple. Though it felt like coming home, my heart was so much changed that the temple seemed like my home in another life. In the past, coming to visit her nunnery had always been soothing; now it was unsettling.

  A nun had told me earlier that Yi Kong was in a meeting and wouldn’t be back until after five-thirty. It was now only five, so I slipped out of her room to take a look at her new office compound. As I passed along corridors and peered in through partially open doors, I noticed that in the five years I’d been away in Paris, the Golden Lotus Temple had been expanded and transformed from an old, shabby eyesore into a grand complex with a Tang dynasty-style temple building as well as this modernized one. I had mixed feelings about the change. Of course I liked the comfort of air conditioning, elevators, clean restrooms. But the omnipresent computer terminals and the stark reception room with polished reproductions of antique Chinese furniture seemed unsuitable for a monastery. Besides, I also missed paper lanterns, peeling paint, rain-furrowed windows, long-burning candles, sun-bleached gateposts, and crumbling walls covered with intricately patterned ivy. From my early visits these had always been an entryway to a world of quiet imaginings and aesthetic associations.

  After fifteen minutes, I went back to Yi Kong’s office, but she was still nowhere to be seen. So I strolled around the spacious room to look at her art collection, which had also grown bigger and better. The contemporary ceramic Guan Yin statue was replaced by a Ming dynasty one, exquisitely molded. On the altar, a gilded antique Buddha statue took the place of a wooden one. Other new acquisitions included two antique bronze incense burners, one in the shape of
a lotus and the other a qin-seven-stringed zither. There were also antique altar cabinets, Pure Land paintings, Song dynasty vases, Ming dynasty furniture. The lively grain of the huanghua li, flowering pear hardwood, glowed reddish brown in the warm twilight. I ran my fingers over its smooth surface.

  How hard had Yi Kong worked to achieve all this in five years? Wondering, I was soothed by the beauty of the art and the wisps of sweet incense mingling with the fresh scent of flowers.

  This world had felt like home to me for so long. I let out a long sigh.

  Then I saw the looming presence of a huge photograph of a statue of a seated Guan Yin. It faced a large window overlooking the train station and towering high-rises of Yuen Long. The photo, which I recognized as Yi Kong’s work, took up nearly the entire wall except for the space underneath where a zitan-red sandalwood-altar was placed. On this sumptuous shrine, abundant offerings of fruit were tastefully arranged in subtly contrasting yet complementary colors: bananas, papayas, mangos, oranges, pineapples, green apples, green grapes, melons-all set on high-legged silver plates. Ginger flowers, lilacs, lilies, irises, azaleas, and other flowers competed quietly in white vases.

  Resting in the “royal ease” pose, the Goddess of Mercy’s right arm extended in a graceful curve with the delicate point of her elbow poised on her raised right knee; her left leg dangled. Patches of pink revealed themselves beneath her gilded crimson robe. I could almost see the multilayered drapery rise and fall, as if she were breathing with life and feeling, excited to be seen.

  When Yi Kong saw me, would she ask me again the same question-Meng Ning, when are you coming to play with us?

  For ten years she’d been expecting me to become a nun in her temple. How should I respond this time?

  I didn’t want to lose Yi Kong’s friendship, nor Michael’s love. I wanted both the fish and the bear’s paw. But how would I have the luck, or the wisdom, to keep both?

  Feeling a slight headache coming, I stepped closer to the enormous picture, made a deep bow to the Observer of Worldly Sound-the name given to Guan Yin because she always listens for cries of help-then put my palms together and whispered a prayer.