Butterfly Tears

by Zoë S. Roy

  One evening, after a meal of Fanny’s special noodles, Ah Ming slouched on the couch contentedly and watched television. Fanny passed a cup of tea to him and peeled an orange for herself. Then she sat down to enjoy the TV too. On the screen, a chubby baby boy, perched on a huge tire, floated down from the sky. The boy’s wide-open, toothless smile teased Ah Ming. I’m already in my thirties and should be a dad by now. As he thought about this, he glanced at Fanny. She looked hesitant, and then said, “I have something to tell you.”

  “What is it? I’m listening.” Noticing the serious expression on Fanny’s face, Ah Ming was amused. “Now, don’t look so serious,” he teased. “I just want to know if you want to have a baby?”

  “No, no!” Fanny shook her head vigorously from side to side. “I mean, I may… I may …”

  “What?” Ah Ming exclaimed. “You’re pregnant?” His eyes were wide with surprise. He placed his cup down on the coffee table and turned to Fanny. He took both of her hands in his. “This is great! Just great!” God, my wish is coming true, he thought.

  “I am not a hundred percent sure yet, Ah Ming,” Fanny said, pulling her hands away. “And I really would prefer to put it off. I want to get my Master’s degree before having a baby.”

  “What?” Ah Ming’s lips trembled. “Having a kid at an older age is not good for a mother or her baby,” he said.

  “I’m not even thirty. Many women in this country have their first babies after thirty-five. Age doesn’t matter.” She poured out her ideas like water running out of a faucet that had just turned on. “If I hold a degree from a Canadian university, I can find a decent job. Then we don’t need to worry about money should you get laid off.”

  Ah Ming was shocked. “Just hold on,” he said. “We are Chinese and you know men and women have very different roles. I’m the breadwinner and you look after our kids. That’s just the way it is. You don’t need a Master’s degree to do that.”

  “Isn’t it better if we both make a living and bring up our kids together?” Fanny said, biting her lip anxiously. “We are in Canada now and people do things in a different way here.”

  Ah Ming’s head began to throb. He did not understand why Fanny was acting this way. She had always been so accommodating. He looked at her curiously, wondering if he really knew her. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. Let me think it over,” he said, in a voice that was not convincing even to himself.

  “Still, I need to see a doctor and find out for certain one way or the other if I’m pregnant.”

  Ah Ming suddenly felt queasy. The food in his stomach was making him nauseous. Sweat appeared on his forehead as he pressed his hands on his stomach. “Fanny, I don’t feel so good,” he grumbled.

  “Should I take you to the after-hours clinic?” asked Fanny as she wiped his forehead with some tissue.

  “I think so.” But Ah Ming’s voice was feeble.

  She turned off the television and grabbed the car keys on the table. Then Fanny held his arm and led him out the door.

  Once outside, she noticed the streetlights already on, penetrating the endless, dark sky. She suddenly felt homesick. She remembered a voice in Cantonese: “A bowl of noodle soup. Always good. Always warm.” It was the voice of the waitress that used to serve her in the small noodle restaurant Fanny frequented often in her hometown.

  As they hurried to the clinic, Fanny wondered what she might have done differently this time to the noodles that had made her husband so violently ill. It was a dish she had made many times. One she had learned to eat successfully with a fork, despite Ah Ming’s continued protests and insistence on using chopsticks. Maybe this time she had added too much chilli in the sauce. When they entered the clinic, Fanny helped Ah Ming to a chair and then realized that she had to find the washroom immediately. When she sat on the toilet, she thought she detected a drop of blood on her panties. She got up and splashed some cold water on her face, studying her features in the mirror carefully. She knew then that she wasn’t pregnant. And she was relieved.

  Anxious to know what had caused Ah Ming’s stomach pain, she hurried over to her husband in the waiting room. He, too, had made his way to the bathroom where his stomach had heaved, his dinner expunged. But his face was still pale and his hands were clammy. When the doctor finally saw Ah Ming, he sent him home with a note for some over-the-counter medication for indigestion. “What do you think happened?” he asked Fanny, leaning slightly against her as they walked to the door.

  Fanny smiled at him reassuringly. “I must have put too much chilli in the sauce. Don’t worry, everything is okay.”

  Ginkgo

  ONE HOT, STICKY EVENING IN Shanghai, China, Rain wandered onto Huaihai Road in search of the cool breezes coming from the Huangpu River. The sidewalks were crowded with people waving paper or feather fans. Among the crowd was a pretty girl in her thirties, her long braids swinging behind her, her steps tapping to the music that flowed out from the open shops. She was coming toward him. Rain recognized her as the zither player he had met at her own farewell party a few days earlier. His friend, Zheng, was her cousin, and he had asked Rain to play clarinet at the party. Delighted, Rain walked toward her and asked, “Brook, how’re you doing?”

  “I’m doing fine.” Her eyes shone when she saw him. “I remember you!” she exclaimed. “You played the clarinet exquisitely the night of my party.”

  “Your zither performance opened my eyes.” Rain smiled and pointed to a nearby teahouse. “How about a cold drink?”

  “Why not?”

  She followed him into the Red Bean Teahouse and sat down at a table by the window. She asked for some gingko nut soup and he ordered a glass of iced tea.

  “I’m leaving next week and feeling a little bit reluctant,” she confessed. “I’ll be living in a place that is strange and foreign to me, even if New York is a famous, and exciting, city.”

  “Have you met your future husband before?” asked Rain, boldly. At the party he had heard about her upcoming marriage to a prospective businessman.

  “Yes … fifteen years ago, when he visited his relatives. They lived next door to my family,” she answered in a flat voice as if she were telling another person’s story. “But, I only agreed to marry him very recently.”

  “I heard about Den from your cousin. He told me about your engagement,” he said, realizing that he had been staring at her face, unable to avert his gaze. Zheng had also told him about another man who had been in Brook’s life when she was much younger. Zheng said she had been deeply in love with this man. “I’m wondering,” he hesitated for a moment. “If things were different and you could change things that happened in the past, would you still marry Den in the States?”

  “A missed chance won’t come again,” she lowered her voice. “I know my fate.”

  At that moment, they could not find anything else to say. Rain sipped his tea. Brook carefully spooned the ginkgo nut soup into her mouth. They were at a loss for words, but the electricity between them spoke enough. Rain recalled her farewell party.

  Brook, in a white blouse and tight, red satin skirt, had sat on a chair, playing her Chinese zither with tiny, meticulous movements. Her braids were draped over her chest, two bright red hair bows on their ends. As her arms swayed, and her fingers played the strings quickly yet tenderly, the red bows fluttered like butterflies dancing on her chest. A composite of classical Chinese music, “Water Spirit in Hunan” flowed from her fingers like a creek tumbling through a quiet valley. After her performance, Rain had played a cheerful and humorous selection from “Le Nozze di Figaro” on his clarinet. He had noticed that Brook listened to his performance with joyous attention, her eyes betraying her enthusiasm for the melody. Touched, he had performed his best.

  “Rain, I didn’t expect your clarinet to blend so well with my Chinese music, ‘Water Spirit in Hunan.’” Her voice dragged him back to the teahouse.

 
; “I was surprised, too,” he said, tapping his finger on the table cheerfully. “Chinese instruments never attracted me before, but your zither did.”

  “When did you start playing the clarinet?” she asked.

  “In high school. I learned from my elder brother who’d played the oboe in a song and dance troupe.”

  “Ah, that’s why you have an ear for music. I inherited mine from my father, who enjoyed playing the Chinese two-string violin. He trained me with the instrument when I was little, but my mother kept insisting that the two-string violin was not suitable for a girl. So I switched to the zither.”

  “Are you going to play it in the States?”

  “Why not? I’ll take my zither with me and practice it whenever I have time.”

  “Too bad I won’t be able to hear you play again.” He wanted to tell her how much he wished to hear her play again. Instead, he told her about having completed his degree and subsequently securing a job with the foreign trade department.

  “Whoa! You should be carefree.” Brook chuckled. “You’re young and have a promising future.” Thoughtfully, she added, “I returned to the city after a couple of years of re-education, forced upon us by Mao during the Cultural Revolution, and I could not even find a low-paying job.” Brook’s voice was calm, but her tone had a trace of downheartedness.

  Rain placed his glass back on the table, and his fingers tapped it as if he were revealing his thoughts: She’s leaving and I won’t see her anymore.

  They stared into each other’s eyes, but said nothing. Again, a moment of silence wrapped them. When they left the Red Bean Teahouse, Rain remarked that in a popular ancient poem by Wang Wei of the Tang Dynasty, red beans are described as love seeds. They locked eyes, and shook each other’s hand before turning in the opposite direction and walking away. Both were surprised when they caught themselves casting a glance back.

  ***

  Eight years later, in New York City, the day before the Chinese New Year, clientele filled the Dragon Eyes Restaurant on Elizabeth Street. Among the patrons was a young couple having their lunch. They sat at a table behind screens painted with dancing dragons and phoenixes. Above them, on the wall, dim, pink light highlighted a picture of lotus flowers.

  “Rain, take some of mine,” said the woman, her hand delicately holding a glass of beer.

  “Just leave it if you don’t want it,” answered Rain, staring at Plum’s pink cheeks. He could not help but touch her face with his hand, a face that shone under the light. He smiled and leaned toward her. “Are you coming to my place tonight?”

  “Yes.” She rounded her lips, and asked, “When are you going to tell your parents about our relationship, you dutiful son?”

  “It’s too early yet. We’re still young.” In his early thirties, Rain still had plenty of time ahead of him. Why should he rush into a relationship?

  “I’m already yours.” Plum twisted her mouth into a wry smile. She was in her late twenties and was anxious to get married and start a family. “Do you mean you’re dragging your feet only because we’re young?”

  “Hey, aren’t you a modern girl?” Rain grinned at her, taking his hand away from her face. “God knows whether you’ll meet a better man in the future. Enjoy your life now, and don’t think about tomorrow.”

  Flipping her long hair over her shoulders, Plum glared at him. “I get it. Thanks a lot,” she snipped.

  “Okay, okay.” Rain did not want upset her. He picked up a piece of bamboo shoot from a dish with his chopsticks and raised it to her mouth. “Come on now, gorgeous. Eat.”

  Rain’s flattery made Plum happy, and his teasing made her snicker. “Nonsense talker,” she said, flicking his forehead with her fingers.

  After dinner, as they walked toward the entrance, Rain heard a man call, “Brook, did you forget your scarf?”

  Brook? Rain turned his head and faced a woman in her late thirties standing just a few steps away. Her smiling eyes looked as if they were speaking. It was her! He could not believe his eyes. Time seemed to rewind; it was eight years earlier, and they were back in the Red Bean Teahouse on Huaihai Road. He could feel the heat from that street in Shanghai. Like a stream, eight years had passed through high mountains, low valleys, and joined the sea. He was seeing her again on this snow-covered day in another city far away. He greeted her with undisguised pleasure, “Brook! Hello!”

  “Rain! What are you doing here? It is so nice to see you,” she said, surprised and also pleased to see him.

  Rain noticed that she held a child in each of her hands and asked, “Are these your children?”

  “Yes, they are!” Brook replied. “It’s been so many years! How are you? When did you arrive in New York?”

  “I got a job and moved here last year. The world is unbelievably small.”

  “What a coincidence!” She nodded and raised her chin to the man who had called to her earlier. “This is Den, my husband. Is this your wife?” She looked at the girl beside Rain.

  “My girlfriend,” he answered and then introduced her to Plum. “Brook is an old friend from China.”

  Rain stretched out his hand to Den, “I’m honoured to meet you.” Noticing Den’s puzzled eyes, he added, “Brook’s cousin, Zheng, is my friend. He often talked about you.”

  “Ahh, I see … Good to meet you,” Den said, his eyebrows raised. “Please, join us for tea at our home.” Den was very cordial.

  “Our place is near here, only a few blocks away,” Brook added.

  Rain rubbed his hands with excitement. “Sure. We’d love to.”

  Brook’s face lit up. “Let’s go.”

  ***

  Rain’s car followed Den’s down Elizabeth Street and onto Spring Street, stopping in front of a bungalow guarded by two stone lions.

  Rain and Plum followed the family into the house. Den was carrying his young son who had fallen asleep in the car. Den continued on toward his son’s bedroom, while Brook guided the guests into the living room. “Please have a seat,” she said. Her voice was warm and inviting.

  She placed some toys in front of her daughter, after plopping her down in a corner of the living room. “I’ll be right back,” she said as she turned toward the kitchen.

  Den came back to the living room, and took a seat next to Rain. “Are you engaged?” he asked, smiling pointedly first at Rain, then at Plum.

  “Not yet.” Rain said, his eyes meeting Plum’s expectant ones for just a moment.

  Den noticed. “Don’t miss out on your chance, lucky guy.”

  “He can wait because he’s still young,” Plum said, the bitterness in her voice unconcealed.

  “Den, you have a nice house and family,” Rain said, trying to shift the focus from his relationship with Plum. “You must’ve worked hard for years.”

  “Right,” Den said, “and it wasn’t easy.”

  Brook returned from the kitchen and placed a teapot and cups on the coffee table along with a tray of cookies and candy. “Please help yourselves,” she said, gesturing to the platter. When they had finished their tea, Den offered to show Plum around the house. Rain and Brook remained chatting in the living room.

  “How have you been all these years?” Rain asked. “Has your life here been good?”

  “It’s good.” She smiled. “What about you? It’s a real surprise seeing you again,” she said, her pulse quickening.

  “The years have passed like a fast-moving stream.” Rain shook his head ruefully, his eyes locked on hers. “I regret…”

  “Youth is priceless,” Brook interrupted. “Even gold can’t buy it back. You’re both young, and Plum is beautiful. I think she really loves you.”

  “Do you still play the zither?” Rain changed the topic.

  “I’ve only played twice since I came here. I don’t have an audience, you know. Do you still play the clarinet?”

&nbs
p; “I haven’t played it for ages. I’ve been too busy either studying or working.” His eyes glistened. “But I feel like playing again. I have missed it,” he added, reaching into his pocket for a scrap of paper. “Do you have a pen?” he asked, careful not to appear too eager.

  Brook picked up a pencil on the coffee table next to her and passed it to him, her hand lightly brushing his.

  “Here’s my phone number and address,” he said, handing her the slip of paper, his cheeks reddening as the tips of his fingers rested momentarily on her wrist. “May I have yours? Maybe we could get together sometime and play music.”

  “Really? Do you think we could?” she asked, her eyes wide at the anticipation of such a pleasure. They could both hear her husband in the background, making small talk with Plum. Brook’s eyes dimmed. As she lowered her gaze, she whispered a verse by an ancient Chinese poet: “The flowers are gone with the stream, and the spring is over.”

  “But an earthly paradise never disappears,” Rain said undeterred, reciting a verse from another classic poem, which took Brook by surprise, eliciting an appreciative smile.

  “Mommy!” Jimmy, Brooke’s son, cried out as he ran out of his bedroom. “I want Donald Duck!” He climbed into his mother’s lap. Brook cradled him in her arms, distracted, her eyes lingering on Rain’s face.

  Green years fly by. Nobody can stop time. Is love in my dream? Or am I dreaming love? Rain thought of this verse as he watched Brook hold her son. He was about to recite it when Den and Plum returned to the living room.

  “Let’s get to know each other,” Den said magnanimously. “Please, stay for dinner. We can talk about the old days, about back home.” But Plum was quick to respond that she and Rain unfortunately had other plans for the evening.

  ***

  Later, after grabbing a burger at McDonald’s, Rain and Plum went to a revue cinema to see an old movie – Ghost – that Plum had loved. Plum watched the heart-warming story again with tears in her eyes, but all Rain could see was Brook. He couldn’t shake her face from his mind.