And yet, joy was ephemeral, running away like a shy child as soon as he noticed it. Guilt was his reliable ally. What would Fei Fei say from her watery grave? “Liu, you have flown away from me.” Yes, it was true that she was the one to leave. She had flown into the heavens, but his grief had kept her tethered to earth on a long, taut string. Liu felt it most keenly in the dark hours when he was alone with the sleeping baby.
In the light of day, however, he could walk away and forget the fear that trailed him like restless spirits, without a sound. He relished waking up at the light of dawn, and looked forward to his new project, although he felt some trepidation about working with the waitress.
For her new assignment, Mei Ling began coming over to the construction site in the early afternoon. One day, as they huddled over a book of wallpaper samples, he imagined his hands gliding across her skin, finding their way to her shoulders, her hair, her full, buoyant lips. Those desires were naughty, even defiant, but Liu did not care in that moment.
While he never did carry out those fantasies, Liu found as the days passed that he felt surprisingly at ease around Mei Ling.
On a sunny afternoon, Tai sent them to a store that carried lighting fixtures. Liu had never seen such a galaxy of lights, floor lamps casting golden warm rays, track lighting in orderly constellations, spotlights that shone like moonbeams. They headed toward the back of one aisle, where elegant wall sconces were displayed.
“Liu, what would you do if you had all the money in the world?” Mei Ling asked.
“I’ve never thought about that. I guess I’m happy enough to have a roof over my head.” Liu pondered for a moment. “Perhaps I’d want a grand old house with a courtyard, filled with fruits and an old magnolia tree. There were homes like that in Daxi, where I grew up.”
“Did you live in one?”
“No, the best we had was a three-room house that Pa built after the floods destroyed the old one. But I left home soon after that, a year or two later.”
“I grew up in a village not far from here,” said Mei Ling. “I always wanted to get out, too. My father didn’t let me, though.” She ran her fingers down the neck of a table lamp inlaid with cloisonné.
“Why?” Liu asked, somewhat distracted by her movements.
“I was the firstborn, and when my brother came along, the penalties for a second child increased. My father decided I should pay those dues by working on the land—as if it was my fault for being born.” Mei Ling flashed a look of indignation. “Even when I reached a marriageable age, he wouldn’t let me go.”
Liu stared at her smooth porcelain features, wondering how old she was. “What happened to the suitors?”
“Well, my father scared them away. He said I was strong willed, that I had no homemaking skills, and couldn’t tell a teakettle from a crowing cock. My mother was offended, of course. And it wasn’t true, except for the strong-willed part.”
“So how long did they keep you at home?”
“Until last year, when I was twenty-three. Our village was moved to Guangdong province. I didn’t want to go, so I found a way to move to the city. My parents are having a hard time there, though. They received a plot of land half the size of what we had before. And the neighbors, they treat them like refugees from another land.”
“It’s good you found your way here. Tai is very glad to have you.” Liu was seized by an impulse to flatter her, but could only think of his friend’s words. “He said you have a woman’s touch.”
Mei Ling turned to Liu with a sweet smile. “Yes, I know just how to spice up a bowl of beef noodle soup, don’t I?”
Liu clutched his throat. He fell to his knees, hacking as if seized by an uncontrollable cough.The bright lights bore down upon him. Sweat trickled down his temple, and a tickle in his throat almost convinced him the act was real. Mei Ling went along with the ruse, patting his back vigorously with both hands. She uttered exclamations of concern, and when she could no longer keep a straight face, she broke into hysterical giggles.
Liu straightened up, and Mei Ling’s hands seemed to linger a moment before falling away. “Can you tell a boastful man from a whistling kettle?”
“No.” Mei Ling wrinkled her nose. “But I’ll take the crowing cock any day.”
By this time, Liu’s theatrics had attracted attention from the store clerks.The two hurried through their selection and placed an order. As they walked back to Tai’s restaurant, Liu asked Mei Ling what she would do if money were no object.
Without hesitation, Mei Ling replied, “Why, I would be a singer. Not in classical operas, like some dressed-up peacock. I’d be a pop music star, and sing to packed audiences in Hong Kong or Shanghai.”
“Do you sing now?”
“Yes, when I go to church. My mother began taking me to Mass several years ago, when I was old enough to understand. She was baptized as a little girl. My grandfather became Catholic, you see, when he lost his wife, my Po Po.” Mei Ling’s voice trailed off.
Liu remained silent. He thought of Fei Fei, and for the first time, he did not get choked up with despair, but simply felt a rustle of sadness in the space he shared with Mei Ling.
The two stopped to sit on a bench in a quiet square. “Po Po lived through the terrible famine. My grandfather worked all day in the village furnace, stoking the fires to melt cooking pots and plows into steel. Like everyone else, he had to leave the harvests untended. Po Po had three children to feed, and when she went to beg for rice from a merchant in the neighboring town, she ... she was taken advantage of.”
Mei Ling’s voice became strained, as if these were her own memories. “So Po Po had an illegitimate son by this man,” Mei Ling continued, almost in a whisper. “My grandfather never knew. And when the little boy became gravely ill, Po Po went to the merchant to ask for help, to get some modern medicines for their son. He turned her away, saying, ‘That is not my child. And if you insist on sullying my name, I will send bandits after your family.’ So Po Po left. Days later, she threw herself in the river.”
Mei Ling began to sob, her chest heaving softly as she tried to keep from attracting attention. Liu did not know what to say. He often heard that women were emotional creatures, but he did not recall ever seeing Fei Fei so dispirited. He fished out a soiled handkerchief from work, which Mei Ling accepted.
“My grandfather mourned for all of forty-nine days, and as soon as his duty was done, he married Po Po’s younger sister. She knew what had happened to Po Po, but never dared to tell him. The little boy soon died, and Po Po’s sister bore a son, which was a great joy and relief to my grandfather. After all, he had Po Po’s three girls in tow, and nobody to carry on his name.”
Liu put a tentative hand on her shoulder. He was struck by the suffering that Mei Ling’s grandmother had endured. Those crude comments he used to hear, casually uttered by the coal porters as women passed by, now seemed not only thoughtless, but cruel. A spike of anger arose. He leaned closer.
“Po Po’s sister, of course, treated her own son like a little prince. But my mother and the other stepchildren were girls, so they were doubly cursed. My mother married as soon as she turned seventeen. She had a crush on the parish priest, a young foreign man.When she got older she dreamed that a wealthy suitor would sweep her off her feet. But she married my father, a poor peasant from a nearby village.”
When Mei Ling finished her story, she dabbed the last traces of her tears with the handkerchief, then returned it to Liu. “Thank you. I . . . I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry I babbled on. We should be getting back.”
IN THE FOLLOWING WEEKS, LIU AND MEI LING SPENT MORE time together, finding new projects to work on, from designing the entrance décor to picking linens and plates for festive occasions. Mei Ling persuaded Tai that these details were quite important, especially if a couple was getting married or a businessman was hosting foreign guests.Tai relented, but as the expenses grew, he insisted on wrapping up the work so that he could open his new restaurant.
At last, Liu invited Mei Ling to an outdoor concert in the town square, featuring singers and dancers from a traveling troupe. Mei Ling declined, as her Sundays were filled with church activities. She invited him to join her instead.
Liu had little interest in exotic religions, although he remembered Fei Fei’s encounters with the Catholic priest she had befriended as a child. He agreed to go; it was a chance to spend time with Mei Ling outside of work.
THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY, LIU SHOWED UP AT SEVEN IN THE morning outside the Catholic Church in Wushan. Grander than anything he had seen, the edifice was solid white, as if carved from one immense stone. The church bells chimed in a mellifluous tone like the chanting of monks, and Liu bowed his head instinctively.
“This is a nice place,” he said, as he joined Mei Ling inside.
“Yes, it’s like a glimpse of heaven,” Mei Ling replied. “We’re fortunate to have this new church, after the old one got destroyed.”
The interior of the church was otherworldly. Every surface glowed with light, the smooth wooden pews, the brilliant panels of stained glass, even the backs of the elderly women kneeling in prayer. A long table at the altar was adorned with fine silverware. Behind it was a life-sized figure of a man suspended on a huge crossbeam of wood.
“Who is that?” Liu whispered to Mei Ling, as she led him down the aisle into one of the pews.
“Why, that is the living Christ. He is the son of Mary and the savior of mankind.”
“Where does he live? And what are those things in his feet?” Something about the statue fascinated him: the gaunt Western face, the beads of blood frozen on its temple, the scanty loincloth.
“Well, Jesus Christ lives in our hearts, if we accept him into our lives. He died on the cross, you see, to atone for our sins,” Mei Ling said solemnly.
Liu was confounded by her declaration. The statue clearly depicted a human, and how could a dead man also be alive, no matter how great he was? And how had she accepted him into her heart? Perhaps she loved this Jesus. Liu suppressed a tinge of jealousy, and decided he should not ask any more questions.
The priest soon emerged in a magnificent robe.The sleeves undulated in great waves whenever he raised his arms in prayer. The readings and incantations were delivered in Chinese, but Liu could barely understand anything the priest said.The language was elevated, the stories mythical yet different from any of the legends that Liu had grown up with.
At length, Mei Ling whispered to Liu, “Now Father Chong is giving a sermon about how we should live our lives.”
Closing the leather-bound tome, Father Chong raised his voice from its steady drone. He delivered a bellowing sermon, full-throated and sincere. His eyes seemed to pierce into the soul of every member of the congregation. He wagged his fingers as if lecturing children, although many in the pews looked like they could be his mother. When he reached an epiphany, the spirited priest pounded his fists on the table, and a tinkle of silverware echoed through the church.
During the sermon, Liu managed to piece together the story about a woman named Mary, with a long last name. She had committed adultery, the priest said, but Jesus forgave her and allowed her to follow him.
What a weak man, Liu thought. I would never forgive a woman for betraying me.
“We are sinners, all of us. And only by giving our lives to Christ will we be saved!” Father Chong stared grimly at his congregation. A bird that had flown in during the sermon banged its wings against the stained glass, but not a human soul stirred.
Liu, meanwhile, was getting uncomfortable sitting in the hard wooden pew. Who was this Jesus Christ, he wondered. If he was a martyr, it was only wishful thinking that the man was still alive. Liu decided he did not like the hollering priest, who, beneath his finery, reminded him somehow of his father. Liu figured that what he really wanted was money from the parishioners. Maybe this priest was as sly as Ol’ Fang. As for Jesus, Liu wondered what kind of claim he laid on Mei Ling’s heart.
When the singing began, Liu glanced over at his companion. Mei Ling’s eyes were shut and a rapturous look set her cheeks aglow. Her voice floated as clear as silver bells as she sang:Christ the Lord is risen today
Ah-ah-ah-ah-al-leluia!
Sons of men and angels say
Ah-ah-ah-ah-al-leluia!
Mei Ling swayed from side to side, her dress rustling lightly against Liu, her entire body, as it seemed, consumed by passionate devotion. And as enchanted as she was with the service, the heavenly music, this martyr on the cross, so Liu found himself under her spell. Her devotion uplifted him; her rapture freed some frozen part of his soul. Her voice, joined with the ethereal harmonies of the organ, rose into a crescendo. “Ah-ah-ah-ah-al-le-lui-AH!”
The waves of music washed over Liu, as if he stood beneath a glorious waterfall sent from the heavens. And when the singing subsided into contemplative silence, Liu glanced at Mei Ling, who smiled at him with her quivering lips and clear, moist eyes. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze.
Liu left the service brimming with energy. He could feel it in his bones, that youthful vigor from his twenties. The strain of his sorrows, the unfulfilled hopes that turned into despair, these now retreated to the shadows. Liu did not attribute this to Christ, the priest, or his church and congregation. It had been Mei Ling; she was his angel of mercy.
12
LIU’S CEREMONIOUS DATE WITH MEI LING HAD ENDED ALL too soon. He had declined to stay for a special celebration after the Mass. But he did so with a twinge of regret, and bade her an awkward farewell by the entrance.
“Come, little monkey.” He scooped up Rose in his arms. “Let’s take a walk.”
She clung to him with her little fingers, her rump firmly seated in his elbow. Liu had not ventured out with her since their trip to the town square. Now he was seized by a primal urge for physical closeness, to do what fathers were supposed to do, to hold one’s offspring in one arm, even if there was no one else in the other.
Liu thought of bringing Rose by the church, where Mei Ling was likely cavorting and laughing with her fellow parishioners. But he also imagined them frowning on his presence. And the baby—what questions would they ask of a single man bearing a baby? Worst of all, he feared what Mei Ling would think. This savior Christ, he had learned, was conceived by a virgin, and had no earthly father.Yet in no way could Liu explain his single fatherhood as a divine act.
As they passed by a mother toting her young child along, Rose reached out to grab the embroidered flowers on the woman’s dress. He batted her hand away, and she squealed in protest. Little Rose couldn’t really be an incarnation of Fei Fei, he decided. The infant girl was water. She was salvaged from the Yangtze’s banks, with a temperament as fierce as the swollen river’s currents. She knew her likes and dislikes. She consumed egg custard and sweetened rice porridge with gusto, crying for more even when her bird-sized stomach had reached its limit. Mrs. Song tried to cajole her into eating cauliflower and peas, but little Rose refused. The twice-cooked mush would be flung back unceremoniously, landing on the old woman’s nose and cheeks, or once, on her glasses.
It was a warm midsummer’s day, filled with the fragrance of fresh oranges and baked tofu from vendors’ carts. The colorfully dressed woman reminded Liu of Fei Fei. It surprised him that he would think of her, but he was in a good mood, and the thoughts appeared like diaphanous clouds.
Fei Fei would always be air. She had an insatiable curiosity and could rarely sit still. Perhaps that was her undoing, Liu thought. In old Fengjie, he relished the quiet Sunday afternoons in the teahouse where the men played mahjong. It was a respite from the commotion of the street vendors, the din of shoppers haggling over the price of pomelos and plastic shoes. There was a turtle-like quality to Liu’s movements at those times, during the one day of the week when he wasn’t hauling coal. He always thought that if he could carry on at a languorous pace all his days, he would age gracefully like that serene, bronze-faced Buddha in the ancient temple.
Fei Fe
i, however, had a restlessness that pregnancy only seemed to intensify. In the early months, she could still fly about from one errand to the other, gathering parcels of smoked ham and vegetables from the outdoor market to her growing bosom. In the later months, she developed a strange appetite for preserved cabbage and fried pork rinds, the combination of which would only turn her stomach. Still, Fei Fei struggled to get out of bed, and no matter how much her belly throbbed or her back ached, she insisted on taking a stroll to the Buddhist temple or the town square. She liked to sit beside the old men with their caged birds, watching the crowds playing badminton or practicing tai chi.
In the temple, she would get down on her knees, wobbly with weight and expectation. She would light sticks of incense, and pray for safe delivery of her child. She asked for the benevolent protection of her ancestors. In her father’s lineage of boatmen, many had given their lives to the Yangtze. And lastly, Fei Fei asked for guidance, so that she could be a better wife to Liu, reining in her wanderlust to settle down to the duties of motherhood.
When Fei Fei’s grandmother, her Po Po, died at the ripe age of 81, her mother set up an altar in the house, with the old woman’s photograph on a paper lotus. For forty-nine days, the altar was resplendent with flowers and incense, and every day her mother set out a feast of her favorite foods: spicy tofu, roast duck, beef tripe, and rice wine. Having lived into her eighth decade, she was commemorated at the funeral with red posters instead of white, red as a symbol of happiness that she had crossed the hurdles of human suffering and lived such a long life.
Fei Fei did not get to live such a long life. White was the color of the posters at her funeral, white for death, an untimely one at that. Fei Fei’s mother wailed vociferously; it was not just a matter of tradition but the loss of a daughter so soon on the heels of her own mother. Liu stood quietly beside his in-laws, as still as the eye of a terrible storm, with a calm that belied his shattered heart. The chanting of the monks droned on as the women sobbed; the fierce and overpowering incense swirled around him. All seemed meaningless to Liu.
In the Lap of the Gods Page 9