by Mingmei Yip
“Yes, but a distasteful imitation.” Her easily distracted attention annoyed me.
Mother raised her voice to compete with the street noise. “Hey, look, she took the picture at the garden of Versailles, in France.”
“Yes, Ma, it is the garden of Versailles, but not in France. Can’t you tell the background is just a blown-up studio picture?”
Mother seemed determined not to be discouraged by any of my negative responses. “Hey, look how beautiful she is in her bridal makeup.”
“No, too loud. Ma, don’t you see that everything on her face is overdone? Too many colors on the eyelids, the nose shadow is too deep…and…you see those eyelashes? They’re too long and too thick, too artificial! Besides, how come her grin is so big? In the past, women were not supposed to reveal their teeth when they smiled. A bride has to be bashful and demure, at least pretend and act that way, not baring her teeth immodestly like this-”
“It’s theatrical,” Mother said, finally cutting off my harangue. “Like in Beijing opera. You like Beijing opera, don’t you?”
I did.
I remembered as a child how I was thrilled by the actors with their lianpu, multicolored face patterns. My tiny heart never failed to be captivated by patterns moving on the actors’ faces as if a giant portrait were springing to life!
Mother had eagerly taught me how to recognize their symbols. White Face is bad, so be careful of him; Black Face is righteous, so pay respect to him; Green Face is cunning and touchy, so stay away from him; Red Face is brave and courageous, so applaud him; Gold Face is either an emperor or a nobleman, so emulate him.
But not until I grew up did I realize people can put more than one lianpu on their faces. That was more than my mother had taught me. And it takes one lifetime, or many lifetimes, to learn to strip away all the layers until you catch a glimpse of the truth. Or of nothingness, as you discover at the end of the tearful process of peeling an onion.
Now as I searched Sally Yeh’s painted face, her eyes stared back at me from behind the glass, as if beckoning me to enter her dream-world. I wondered who was the real woman hiding behind this pretty mask, and whether she was really as happy about getting married as she looked.
My childhood efforts to identify lianpu still groped in a maze. For the human face, as constant as it seems, is in fact as capricious and camouflaged as the human heart.
I peeked at Mother. She was still studying the pop singer with great envy and absorption, oblivious to a giggling teenage couple and a band of four marching housewives pushing by her.
“Ah, how beautiful she is, wearing all her fancy jewelry,” Mother said, hiding her bare hands behind her. “See, Meng Ning,” she said, her voice soaked with feeling, “Sally Yeh is still single, so nowadays you don’t have to get married to take wedding pictures. The newspaper says it’s fashionable for young women to dress as a bride only to look pretty and to take pictures as souvenirs. I think you should also take pictures like this while you still look young.”
I snapped, “But, Ma, I am not a pop singer, and this is just an advertisement.”
Mother’s face stiffened. “Of course you’re not a pop singer. You’re better, much better!” Then she sighed, muttering to herself, “Hai, then why aren’t there many men knocking at your door?”
I pretended not to have heard her. She went on, this time staring right into my eyes. “Meng Ning, don’t act stuck-up and chase men away. And don’t be overly choosy so you end up getting only the leftover rotten apples at the bottom of a moldy crate.”
I remained silent. She gave me a chiding glance. “You’re very pretty and talented, so I really don’t believe there’re no men prostrating at your feet. It must be your attitude. You know the proverb ‘Gorgeous as the peaches and plums, cold as the ice and frost’?”
Seeing that I still didn’t respond, Mother plunged on: “I have taught you many things, but never to snub men, especially the good ones like doctors, lawyers, or even engineers.”
“Ma-” Suddenly Michael’s face, looming large, squeezed out all thoughts in my mind.
“What?”
I blurted out before I could stop myself, “Actually, someone has just proposed to me.”
Mother had a stunned expression, as if her teenage daughter had just told her that she was pregnant. “Really?”
“Yes.”
She studied me with a puzzled expression, ignoring a withered old woman pushing through the space between her and the shop window.
“Is it true?” A smile was gradually blooming on her face. “Then why didn’t you tell me earlier? Who is he?”
“He…he’s an American.”
“ABC?” She meant American-born Chinese.
“No, he’s…white.”
“You mean a white ghost?”
Although Mother looked happy having learned that someone had proposed to me, she didn’t look pleased that he was an “old barbarian.”
Because, in Mother’s opinion, foreigners were synonymous with wantonness and debauchery. When she was in a bad mood, they would even be carriers of an unspeakable disease. When I’d prepared my trip to the States, she’d said, “Ah, very brave, go to America and deal with barbarians. I’ll never have your guts, I don’t want to catch AIDS!” Of course she didn’t mean sex, but sitting on a chair someone with AIDS had sat on, that sort of thing.
“But, Ma, please don’t use that ugly word. Michael is very nice to me and-”
“Mic Ko?” Mother pinched her eyes into slits. “When did this Mic Ko propose?”
“A month ago.”
“How long have you known each other?”
“A few months.”
Mother snatched a paper fan from her handbag, snapped it open, and fanned impatiently. “Too quick! That’s typical American. Can’t wait, everything rush, rush, rush! Instant tea, instant coffee, instant sex, instant marriage, instant divorce! Can’t sit down for ten minutes to brew tea, spend another ten to appreciate the leaves, another five to smell its fragrance, and another five to sip. That’s why Americans have no culture, because they have no time!”
After Mother had finished repeating the tea instructor’s lecture and criticizing American culture, she paused to look into my eyes. “Ah, innocent girl. Love and marriage are never as simple as that. Don’t believe the Chinese saying ‘If you’re in love, you’ll eat your fill by drinking water.’ I suffered enough from that with your father. And if it’s with a barbarian, that’s worse. Americans always think everything in their country is better than ours, except Suzie Wong.”
She plunged on excitingly. “I had a friend who had a white ghost husband. Not only did he sweat like a coolie, he gobbled food like a refugee, roared with laughter like a huge broken bell struck by a lunatic, and embarrassed her women friends by washing his throat with wine and making gurgling sounds like he’s doing you-know-what. One time during a banquet when he got drunk, he glanced at the women and said, ‘How come when an old hag reaches fifty, she’s still horny,’ then, ‘Don’t worry if a girl’s ugly, as long as she’s handy.’”
Finally Mother concluded her harangue. “That’s what people end up with when they marry a gweilo.”
“Ma, but Michael is nothing like this. He’s a doctor.”
“A doctor?” Mother sneered. “Of what? Philosophy? Or poetry?”
“Ma, didn’t you just worry that I would never get married? So aren’t you happy now that someone has proposed?”
In the shop window, the golden twilight glistening in the reflection softened Mother’s visage; sometimes I could see my face in her older one. Her robust figure turned more supple; even the deep purple suit she wore now spoke with a softer hue.
“Hai!” Mother sighed. “Meng Ning, of course I’m glad you’re getting married. But…I’m also afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That you’ll be…unhappy”-she let out a long sigh-“like your mother.”
A long pause. Traffic whizzed by. Restless people and speeding cars
kept passing through her in the glass.
But Mother was fine. For nothing can hurt a soul in a mirage. As no one can steal the moon reflected on a river.
Mother had the same expression when she watched Beijing opera with me when I was a child. Now I certainly understood why she liked the painted-face actors so much, but got so upset when I aspired to be one.
However, I still couldn’t fathom the way she loved me, even though I had shared the same roof and nearly the same face with her for thirty years.
Now in the shimmering reflection of the shop window, our eyes parted as swiftly as they had touched, like a pair of kissing fish. I gazed at my own face and found my thirty-year-old mother there, whispering to me all her girlish dreams, eyes fresh.
I wanted to love her back as much as she loved me, and much more.
I touched her elbow. “Ma, don’t worry.”
“Hai!” Mother sighed again. “I’m a very careful person, but see what happened to me with your father.” She put a strand of my hair in place.
My mother could be very difficult in her own way, but despite being of the older generation, she had only occasionally nagged me about finding a husband.
Her remarks about the fish bones, about Sally Yeh, and today about the story of the fish spirit were the few times she had hinted marriage to me.
If I had not misread her face pattern, nor misinterpreted her dreams.
I said after a long silence, “Ma, although I said yes to Michael’s proposal, I might still”-I swallowed hard-“break the engagement.”
Mother’s voice shot two octaves higher. “Turn down a doctor? Are you crazy? How many girls will be befriended by a doctor, let alone asked to be married?”
A middle-aged man cast us a curious glance.
My cheeks felt hot. I stammered, “I mean…Ma, I’ll be careful…I mean, if Michael turns out to be bad, I can…always get a divorce.”
Mother spat, “Choi! Daigut laisi! It’s bad luck to talk about divorce before you’re married!” Daigut laisi means “great prosperity and luck,” to counteract anything bad that’s been said.
“Ma, calm down. People are staring at us.”
“Then watch your mouth and stop saying unlucky things.”
“All right, all right.”
We resumed walking along Waterloo Road and I began to tell Mother, amid the intense heat and noise, everything about Michael. Except, of course, my recent baffling experiences in New York, my confusion. After that, I took the engagement ring that Michael had bought me out of my purse.
Mother looked at the stone with envy. “Beautiful, excellent fire!” she exclaimed, then asked timidly, “Can I try?”
“Of course.” Right in the middle of the busy boulevard, I slipped the ring onto her fourth finger, but it was too small, so I took it off and slipped it onto her little finger.
My eyes stung when I saw a big smile bloom on her face. “Ma, anything more that you want?”
“I only want my daughter to be happy,” she said, giving me back the ring.
30. A Trip to China
My trip to document the art of grottoes in Anyue was scheduled to last for a month. Michael was not very happy upon hearing the news.
Across eight thousand miles, I could clearly sense disappointment in his voice. “Meng Ning, I know I can’t stop you from going. But please take very good care of yourself and don’t make me worry.”
When he asked for my address and phone number in China, I said, “I’ll be staying in a temple and there is no phone. Anyway, I’ll try my best to find a phone to call you from time to time.”
His voice suddenly turned distressed and alarmed. “You mean I can’t reach you, not at all?”
“But don’t worry, Michael, I’m traveling with nuns and Guan Yin. We’ll be protected. Anyway, you have the temple’s address, so you can write to me.”
This time I really wanted to be left alone, not only to concentrate on my work, but also to clear my mind to make the most important decision in my life.
On October tenth, Enlightened to Emptiness and I took a flight from Hong Kong to Chengdu, the capital of Sichuan, and from there, a seemingly endless ride in a decrepit van to the Anyue grottoes.
Long before the van ride was over, any jealousy I’d felt toward Enlightened to Emptiness had dissipated. She was too innocent and too young for me to harbor such feelings toward her.
The driver, Mr. Qian, a volunteer from the Circular Reflection Monastery where we were going to stay, asked whether this was our first trip to China.
Enlightened to Emptiness uttered an excited “Yes!”
I said, “I’ve only been to Guanzhou…”
“Then you’ll be surprised to see the differences in the north,” he enthused, “and I’m sure you’ll like it.”
But I was not so sure. What slipped past us among the sparse trees were low gray buildings decorated with two different kinds of banners: official admonitions such as Let’s build a civilized China, and Marry late, have one child, or unofficial ones: clothes, towels, bed sheets, blankets, underwear, all fluttering lazily in the air. I saw a motorcycle pass with a large wicker basket containing dozens of chickens, squealing and flapping, their feathers scattering in the air while the vehicle drove toward their ill-fated destination. A boy was smoking in front of a store, under the watchful eye of his admiring father.
I soon dozed off.
At two o’clock in the afternoon, we finally arrived at the town and then, after another fifteen minutes’ ride on a narrow winding path, the Circular Reflection Monastery. A fortyish nun with a round face came to answer the door. Mr. Qian introduced us and we exchanged bows. The nun, Compassionate Wonder, split a wide grin. “Our Shifu has been expecting you two the whole day. She’s been very excited to have visitors from so far-me, too.”
On our way to the dorm, Compassionate Wonder said, “You two are our first guests from Hong Kong. Our humble temple is brightened by your visit.”
I almost chuckled. What was the big deal to have someone from Hong Kong? But I put on a smile and said, “I’m flattered.”
Enlightened to Emptiness immediately threw in, “And I’m honored.”
Compassionate Wonder let out a hearty laugh. “Ah, so Hong Kong people also have a glib tongue!”
Enlightened to Emptiness and I were led to different dorms: she was to live with the other nuns while I, a lay person, took a room in the dorm for Buddhist guests. I unpacked, took a shower, and then we were served snacks. Since my friend refused to break the monastic rule of no eating after noon, I was the only one to enjoy the steaming buns and fragrant tea in the Fragrance Accumulating Kitchen.
Around three, Compassionate Wonder took us to see the abbess, Beckoning Invisibility Shifu. I took an instant liking to this sixtyish, plump woman. Always smiling, she seemed to be soaked in the endless joy of the Dharma.
While Compassionate Wonder was busy serving tea and snacks, Beckoning Invisibility, her small eyes darting between my friend and me, said, “I was told many times how beautiful Hong Kong is, and today I finally have the chance to greet someone from there. How wonderful.”
After returning her praise with our hands together in the prayer gesture and a demure “thank you but you overpraise,” Enlightened to Emptiness and I presented to the abbess our gifts-a book on Buddhist architecture and a bronze incense burner carved with lotuses.
Only after several more rounds of politenesses, tea pouring, and drinking, did the abbess finally take us for a tour of the temple where she introduced us to the other Shifus and to the workers and volunteers. Around seven, Enlightened to Emptiness and I retired early to our dorms.
The next morning I woke up at six. Enlightened to Emptiness had probably awakened much earlier, for in my semi-wakeful state, I could hear chanting drifting from the Hall of Grand Heroic Treasures. After a quick wash, I joined the nuns in the kitchen for a breakfast of porridge, buns, and pickled vegetables-simple but delicious after my sound sleep. Then, with not much ado,
we grabbed our belongings and set out for the grotto sculptures.
Four of us climbed into the same rickety van provided by the temple: Mr. Qian, the driver who’d brought us here yesterday; a lanky young man named Little Lam, who’d be our guide as well as help us with odds and ends during the trip; Enlightened to Emptiness; and me.
Yi Kong wanted me to survey at least three grottoes, and our first destination was the Sleeping Buddha Temple located in Bamiao Township, forty kilometers north of Anyue.
After about an hour, with a sharp turn of the van, Mr. Qian announced that we’d arrived. He said that he wouldn’t join us for the tour, for he’d rather stay in the van with his favorite company-Longlife brand cigarettes.
I stepped out of the van and gasped. I’d never seen a Buddha so huge.
Carved out of an entire cliff, he was lying with his head facing east and his feet west. Little Lam came up to me and said, “Impressive, isn’t it? The Buddha’s length is twenty-three hundred meters.”
I turned to pass this information to Enlightened to Emptiness, but saw that she was prostrating vigorously on the ground and mumbling-probably a sutra or Hail to the Buddha’s Name. I also bowed and said a short prayer.
I walked here and there, shading my eyes while taking in different views of this gargantuan yet peacefully reclining statue, as well as the group of figures on its top. Two figures stood at the Buddha’s feet-one was the warrior attendant and the other one a woman mourning his death.
Without delay, Enlightened to Emptiness and I got to work, taking pictures and writing down detailed descriptions of the statues’ iconography: headdresses, facial expressions, mudras, postures, drapery, amulets, and other decorations. We transcribed inscriptions, worked out dates, and recorded damage. During our work, people hovered around us and interrupted our concentration with unending questions: