Butterfly Tears

by Zoë S. Roy

  ***

  The days went by smoothly and quickly. Huidi had a man; Wade had a father figure; and Peng had home-cooked meals and a warm body next to him at night.

  One Saturday afternoon, Huidi decided to prepare a few fancy dishes for a special meal. Peng offered to help and rinsed the vegetables while she basted the duck they had managed to find in the supermarket for roasting. “Would you like to live in Canada?” she asked while setting a pot on a burner. She wasn’t sure how to turn the conversation to what mattered most to her.

  “You mean to live here for good?” He gave a wry smile. “What kind of job could I get?”

  “Work at the university?” Huidi placed another pan on the stove.

  “You’re kidding,” he said with a smirk. “It would take me at least five years to get a Ph.D. Even then I might not find a teaching position.”

  “You could open a convenience store and that will make enough money,” she said as she began stir-frying the vegetables.

  “A store? That isn’t the type of work I want to do. Besides, I’ll be promoted to an associate professor when I go back to Beijing.” He cleaned up the counter while Huidi heaped steamed rice into a serving bowl.

  “All jobs are the same to me as long as they bring in enough income.”

  “Remember? I have a wife and a daughter. It’s hard for me to make a decision about staying in Canada.”

  “What does your wife do?” She felt curious.

  “Let’s change the topic.” He sat down as Huidi placed the steamed rice and a platter of stir-fried vegetables on the table.

  “Why do you live with me?” she muttered as she sat down across from him. She had wanted this evening to be special. The conversation wasn’t going in the direction she had hoped for.

  “What?” he asked. He was looking at her curiously and sniffing. “Something’s burning.”

  “That’s my duck!” she yelled as she jumped up and then pulled open the oven door. She should have turned the oven down an hour ago. The stench of burnt meat spread throughout the kitchen.

  “We talked too much and forgot what we were doing.” Peng said, moving to the window to let in some fresh air.

  Huidi dumped the charred dish and scraped the pan. What does he think about living with me? she wondered, not able to shake off the feeling that the burnt duck might be an omen. She remembered that the mandarin duck was a traditional Chinese symbol for lovers. Why, Huidi thought, can’t we live together like mandarin ducks?

  ***

  That evening, they all watched television until Huidi persuaded her son to go to bed. When she returned, she sat on the couch next to Peng. With a deep breath, she asked, “Why do you live with me?”

  “I don’t know.” He turned his head. “Because you’re nice.”

  “But you have a wife.” She raised her voice.

  “You don’t want me? I can move out if you don’t want me,” he chuckled. “Is that what you want?” His eyes seemed to mock her.

  “No, I mean…” She searched her mind for the right word.

  “You mean I shouldn’t be living with you?”

  “No, I mean you should think about living with me.” She stared into his face.

  “Now I am living with you. What else do you want?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I don’t even know myself,” he said, shaking his head. “If you want me to go, I will. If you want me to stay, don’t ask too much.”

  “Sorry,” said Huidi. She didn’t want him to leave. But she didn’t know how to convince him to stay with her permanently. “I hope you will stay.”

  “Let’s just see what happens.” He reached for her hands. “Cheer up. There’s no point talking about the unknown.”

  ***

  Christmas was around the corner. Huidi bought some indoor Christmas lights and hung them along the window frame.

  “What’s bothering you?” she asked as she glanced at Peng’s troubled face.

  “This year is almost over,” he sighed.

  “Don’t you like Christmas?”

  He did not answer, so she stopped asking.

  A few days later, Huidi arrived home from work with a look of excitement on her face. “Peng!” She took out an invitation card from her manager and said, “Look! We’re gonna have a Christmas party this coming Friday. I want you to go with me. Can you come?”

  “Oh, no. I have some odds and ends to take care of.” He shrugged.

  “Come on. I won’t go if you don’t go,” she said, trying to hide the disappointment in her voice. She hoped he would change his mind.

  “This coming Friday?” He looked at the calendar and shook his head. “I can’t find the time for it. But it will be fun and you and Wade must go.”

  At five o’clock on Friday afternoon, Huidi and Wade went to the Christmas party at the cafeteria. There was lots of relaxed and happy chatter. Dishes with all kinds of different foods were laid out on several tables. Platters of sweets turned Wade’s eyes into saucers. But Huidi could not enjoy it. It was past ten o’clock when she got home only to find that Peng was not there. Maybe he is still working on his report in the computer lab, she thought.

  Her heart sank the next morning when she opened her eyes and touched the empty pillow beside her. She turned over and got up to pull open the closet doors. His clothes and suitcases were gone. Unable to hold herself up, she fell to the floor and wept. She knew he had left her life. And now she was alone again.

  ***

  Time flew.

  When Huidi received the December phone bill, she stared at the figure on the paper. The long distance charges came to $443.69, but Peng had evaporated like a dream. Damn! She had to pay the bill by using some of the money she had saved for emergencies.

  Day by day, week by week, she gradually began to feel better. In February, she received a letter without a return address on the envelope. She tore it open.

  Feb. 1, 1996

  Huidi,

  Sorry for leaving you without saying goodbye. I can’t explain why. I’m enclosing a cheque of $200 for the long distance calls I made before I left. If the money is not enough for the bill, consider the difference as my fee for tutoring Wade.

  Best wishes for the Chinese Year of the Rat!

  Peng

  Huidi turned the letter over but could not find his name nor a mailing address on the envelope. She only identified a few Chinese characters: Beijing, China.

  She sighed and threw the envelope into a trash basket.

  Sitting at the table, she was lost in thought: Speaking Chinese is easier. But then I might only meet people like Peng. And just like him, others might try and take advantage of me. He never even told me his full name. Now two men in my life have abused me. Never again. I must learn to speak English. I know I can learn. Finally she picked up the phone and dialled Sandy’s number. She regretted she hadn’t called her more often.

  “It’s Huidi calling.” She was eager to talk when she heard Sandy’s voice. “Can you help me find some information about ESL classes?”

  “I sure can,” answered Sandy in a surprised voice. “Are you sure you can spare the time? I know you are working full-time.”

  “Yeah, important to improve English. I am ready to sign up for ESL class.”

  “Great. I’m sure you can make some friends in that class, too,” added Sandy.

  “Do you think they have evening classes?”

  “Evening classes? Maybe. I can ask about childcare for ESL learners, too. When can you start?”

  “Right now!” Huidi felt better after speaking with Sandy, happy with her decision. She could live in Canada not only for her son, but also for herself.

  Noodles

  FANNY STRUGGLED TO EAT NOODLES out of a bowl filled with shrimp-flavoured soup using her fork.

  �
�Why don’t you just use chopsticks instead?” asked her husband, Ah Ming, who was putting on his backpack, amused by Fanny’s attempts to spear the noodles with her fork. He did not wait for her answer. “I’m leaving. Are you sure you don’t need me to go with you?”

  “It’s only two blocks away. I can find it by myself.” Fanny continued working on her noodles. Fanny, from a small town in China, had joined Ah Ming in Toronto only a few weeks before. Everything had interested her. However, she was frustrated by the fact that she could not understand English despite having taken lessons before coming. Everyone spoke so fast. Although Ah Ming told her to take it easy, and not to worry about it too much, Fanny had already signed up for a free English as a Second Language course for newcomers sponsored by the United Church in the neighbourhood.

  Finally she swallowed the last sip of the noodle soup. She felt triumphant at not having had to resort to chopsticks. With a book bag on her shoulder, she left home. Walking past the pedestrians in the morning rush hour, she felt as if she had become a schoolgirl again, hurrying to her classes. Her goal was not to be late. She walked quickly until she finally reached the Church. Following the sign pointing to the ESL classroom in the basement, she was happy to find a roomy space. The door was wide open, and other students were arriving. Colourful pictures of the English alphabet hung on the walls around the classroom. Fanny chose a desk in the back of the room that would give her a good view of the teacher who had short blonde hair and was wearing a pink blouse and black skirt. There were about fifteen students in the class. She had a welcoming smile for all of them.

  “Good morning. Welcome to class.” The woman instructor’s voice was smooth and pleasant, but Fanny did not know how to respond to her greeting. She could only smile.

  “My name is Gay MacDonald,” said the instructor. “I’m a student in the Ph.D. program in the Linguistics Department at the University of Toronto, and a volunteer teacher in the adult ESL program.”

  Then she asked all the students to talk a little about themselves.

  “Hi. I’m Usha from India. Nice to meet all of you.”

  “I’m from Albania.”

  “I’m José and I’m from Cuba.”

  “I’m from Pakistan.”

  Fanny discovered the world was small after she heard a voice from behind her say, “I’m from China.”

  Fanny turned her head toward the young woman who had spoken. Delighted to meet a classmate from her country of origin, she asked her, “Which province are you from?”

  “Guangdong. And you?” answered the young woman who reached out her hand in greeting.

  “Me, too.” Fanny grasped her classmate’s hand.

  Fanny’s eyes misted. Meeting people from her home country always warmed her heart. It reminded her of another encounter a couple of days earlier.

  At a local grocery store, Fanny had pushed a buggy down an aisle, her eyes scanning the shelves lined with colourful cans, boxes, and containers. Her buggy had run into a woman who was reading the label on a box of cake mix. The woman looked Chinese. The moment had offered Fanny her first chance to speak to someone from her home country, so she had greeted the woman in Chinese, “Ni-hao! Are you from China?”

  “Err…” The woman had looked blankly at Fanny. “Are you from the U of T?”

  “No,” Fanny had replied in Chinese, “but my husband is a student at the university. How long have you been here? Do you know…?”

  “I’ve been here for a long time,” the woman had answered in English. She looked older than Fanny and smiled only a little. She seemed to understand Fanny but would not speak in Chinese. “Excuse me.” The woman did not show any interest in the conversation and said, “I’ve got to run.”

  Before Fanny had a chance to say goodbye, the woman had vanished down the aisle. Why is she so unsociable, just like a “foreigner?” In her mind, “foreigners” always kept their distance from one another. Fanny used to call non-Chinese people “foreigners” in China and even now, in Canada, she still thought of non-Chinese people as “foreigners.” But this woman was obviously from here, maybe even born here. And Fanny suddenly realized that she was the “foreigner” now.

  The instructor’s voice dragged Fanny back to the present. “Let me tell you something about my teaching plan first; and then you can tell me your expectations for this course.”

  Fanny could only catch a few sentences. She wondered if the others could understand everything the instructor said. A young fellow next to her appeared to enjoy the lecture immensely. He had light brown skin and curly hair. The man listened with smiles and asked questions in a clear voice. A sour feeling swelled over Fanny as she thought about taking English courses in China. As a university student, she had found the English course the hardest nut to crack. She could memorize a large vocabulary, but always had trouble with pronunciation and intonation. She was uncertain if there was something wrong with the teacher’s pronunciation or if her ears had a problem. Since then, her hair had stood on end whenever she heard anyone speak English.

  But, something was different in this class. Fanny found herself less nervous when listening to the instructor, who combined body language and situational conversation in English. And Fanny’s vocal muscles felt less tense when she practiced daily conversation with other students, many of whom were struggling as hard as she was to learn. However, English words still sounded like gusts of wind that came in one ear and went out the other. She had trouble keeping them in. Midway through the class, her head seemed to have turned into a big bowl full of paste. Later, the paste became dough that got sliced into long noodles that hung there, one by one, waiting for her to use them for something.

  While working on a writing assignment at home, she got confused trying to use those English “noodles.” She was unable to distinguish one noodle from the other. She decided to ask Ms. MacDonald for help. After carefully planning what she would say on the phone, Fanny dialled her teacher’s number.

  “Hello, may I speak to Gay?” She still winced whenever she called her instructor by her first name. In China, that would be seen as disrespectful. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Fanny wanted so much to fit in.

  A hoarse voice came through the phone line. “Speaking.”

  It was a woman’s voice, but it was so hoarse that it took Fanny aback. Is this Gay? Is she sick? Fanny was confused. “Are you Gay?” she asked hesitantly, embarrassed to think she might be disturbing her instructor on a day she was not well.

  “No, no. It’s…”

  Puzzled, Fanny hastily hung up. At that moment, all her English “noodles” collapsed into a big ball of gooey dough. Now she was not sure whom she had dialled. Later she learned that “gay” was a word for homosexuals. She realized she should have asked, “Is this Gay?” instead of “Are you Gay?” She worried about whom she may have offended with her mixed-up English.

  Several weeks later, Fanny took a trip with her class to G. Ross Lord Park. They walked through a meadow with many trees. Purple, pink, and butter-yellow wild flowers blanketed the meadow and swayed easily with the breeze. Birds chirped in almost every tree they passed. The park was quiet and so different from the parks she had visited in China. In China, the parks were gated, and were no more than cultivated gardens surrounded by fences, criss-crossed with concrete paths and filled with crowded pavilions. For Fanny, the park they were visiting was like a big open field in the wild.

  While enjoying the fresh air and taking in the views of the field, Fanny snacked on a box of raisins. When she was finished, she tossed the empty box onto the grass. She was surprised to glimpse a Canadian man picking up the tiny carton she had thrown and slip it into his pocket. Knowing that some people collected pictures on matchboxes, Fanny thought, People in Canada must collect pictures on all kinds of boxes.

  At lunchtime, some of her classmates put several picnic tables together and everybody placed his or her potluck offer
ing on the large wood surface. Fanny recognized the young man who had picked up her empty raisin box. She watched him when he strode purposely toward the trash can and fished something out of his pocket. When Fanny realized he was tossing her raisin box into the trash, her face flushed crimson.

  “Does anybody like pizza?” Gay pointed to a large, flat box on the table, smiling. “Please help yourselves.” The pepperoni, red tomato, green pepper, and mushrooms that topped the pizza looked so inviting. Fanny helped herself to a slice. It was her first taste of pizza.

  “Oh, it’s very delicious,” one student said after he bit noisily into a slice. “Did you make it yourself?” he asked Gay.

  “No, but my boyfriend Larry did,” replied Gay, a tone of pride in her voice, her hand gesturing to the young man who had thrown Fanny’s box into the trashcan. “He works at Pizza Hut.”

  A number of students began clapping their hands.

  How could a Ph.D. student fall in love with a cook? Fanny thought with astonishment. According to the Chinese way, the man should always be in a higher position than his woman. This pair was the opposite.

  Fanny was bewildered by many things that day. She wondered if she was experiencing “culture shock”—she had learned the phrase from her instructor. It was as if her cooked English “noodles” had been smothered in cranberry sauce with chilli, a confusing and odd combination.

  ***

  A year later, after his graduation, Fanny’s husband, Ah Ming, found a job. Fanny had made good progress in English. She spoke English to anyone except her husband, and, she could use a fork to eat any kind of food except soup.

  The couple’s favourite meal was Fanny’s noodles with sweet and sour pork chops. First, she fried the chops in a bit of oil until they turned golden yellow, then she poured the sweet and sour sauce mixed with finely chopped ginger, onion, and garlic over top. Simmering the meat for a few minutes was the last step in the cooking process. The noodles, prepared separately, made a bed for the pork chops and their sauce. This dish was so delicious that they both felt it could easily compete with the famous full-course meals made especially for high-ranking officials in the Qing Dynasty.