Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune

by Roselle Lim

  I was comforted by the fact that although I hadn’t known much about it, the two women had been friends, and not just through necessity.

  “Was she depressed when she was growing up?” I asked.

  “Miranda wore her sadness like her natural hair color. It was a part of her for as long as I can remember. It’s not like she wasn’t capable of happiness, she just felt sorrow more keenly than the other emotions. She was my closest friend. Even though she was older than me, it didn’t matter.”

  “What about her agoraphobia?”

  “When she was younger, she still went outside. Everything got worse after your grandmother died. Your laolao’s accidental death hit her hard. She was never at ease going out of the house, and then your father . . .” Celia sighed. “It’s like she believed that going outside would place her in physical danger.”

  “Did she ever try to get help?”

  “As far as I know, Miranda never saw anyone to treat her condition. I think it was a source of tension between her and your grandmother. Your laolao didn’t know how to deal with her depression and anxiety. My parents tried to convince her to get help for Miranda, but Qiao didn’t understand. Mental illness isn’t treated as well as a case of arthritis in our culture.”

  If I hadn’t already liked Celia before, I’d like her even more now. It gave me great comfort that someone else saw my mother as a person, and not as a cursed eccentric.

  “I wish I could have done more for her,” I confessed.

  Celia reached across the table and patted my hand. “Oh, darling, we all do. At least you’re doing something for her now.”

  “You may have tasted her food, but you’ve never tasted my cooking. I’ll need to make something for you soon so you can see for yourself.”

  Celia smiled. “I think great cooking is in your blood. Your restaurant will be wonderful and it will help the neighborhood so much. Some people pray to Jesus, Allah, or Buddha, but I worship sublime cuisine. It has been there for me all my life. Food comforts, heals, and is the only lover I will ever take.” The last line was delivered with a wink.

  I stifled a giggle. “But you haven’t found your true love yet. I don’t think you should settle.”

  “It’s not settling. My future boyfriend will know soon enough that food is my husband and he’s the mistress.”

  We both erupted in laughter.

  And so I found an ally in the most unexpected of places.

  It dawned on me suddenly that the last person I needed to help was, of course, Celia.

  * * *

  After my lunch date with Celia, I visited the market again. I emerged from the floral shop with armfuls of lavender peonies and violet hyacinths. The flowers were for Ma-ma and Guanyin. It might have been a trick of the light, but the statue of the goddess seemed less melancholy this morning, though the pits and craters still scarred her. One day, I vowed, I would see her restored to her original beauty.

  The sonorous notes of “Celeste Aida” greeted me as I came out of the store. Mr. Kuk Wah, his head moving in unison with his bow, sat at the curb playing his erhu. If the soul could exist outside the body, his would be his instrument.

  For five minutes, the world stood still. Nothing existed for me but the voice of that erhu.

  I swayed to the music like seagrass, undulating to the shifting notes. Hope stirred within me, surging with the melody, uplifting me like no other force in this world could. I was my mother’s child, a true melophile through and through. Too soon, it ended.

  “Thank you, Mr. Kuk Wah,” I murmured.

  He set aside his instrument and smiled. Tiny lines wrinkled around his dark eyes. As was his custom, the musician wore a palette of grays and blacks, dressing in the same monochromes found in the cement sidewalk underneath him. “I’m glad you’ve decided to stay. Is the restaurant open yet?”

  “Not quite. I need to do a few things first.”

  He arched his brow. “Conditions imposed by the city?”

  “No, not that.” I paused then corrected myself with a laugh. “It may sound silly, but a mystic told me I needed to help three people first so the restaurant can succeed.”

  “Mystics are meant to be heeded, even more so than regulations and rules—not that you should disregard the latter. If you need to help three people, perhaps you can help me. Did I tell you I was married once?” He pulled off his cap and held it against his chest. The dragon tattoos on his arms shifted, coiling against his skin, their bright scales glinting in the sunlight. “I loved her, but did she really love me? Even after all these years, I am uncertain. If only love was a physical quantity that could be measured and weighed so that one could be sure of his lover’s affections.” He lifted his eyes to meet mine. “I know what you’re going to ask. What happened? Well, we quarreled and parted ways. I’ve tried for years, but she won’t talk to me anymore. Can you help me? I need advice.”

  Since I was on a roll, helping out another neighbor, especially one I considered a friend, seemed an easy decision. I smiled and bowed. “Mr. Kuk Wah, will you do me the honor of having tea at my grandmother’s restaurant?”

  “I would love to,” he replied.

  * * *

  After running upstairs to refill the vases of the family shrine, I opened the door to the restaurant for the musician. Walking inside a cloud of the peonies’ and hyacinths’ perfume, I replaced the flowers in the vases for the goddess, discarding the old. As promised, I served the musician a pot of tea.

  “You are making reparations to Guanyin,” the older man commented after sipping his jasmine tea. “I wonder how long it will take for her to forgive.”

  I adjusted the flowers. “All I want is to see her smile again.”

  The musician studied the statue, counting all the scars as if taking a census. He hummed an unfamiliar tune, which repeated every four bars as his two fingers tapped on the counter. When he found a pair of forks nearby, his feet resumed the beat as he clashed the tines against each other. The melody echoed in the small space until he ended it with a flourish.

  “What were you playing?” I asked.

  “Something I made up for my wife. I call it the ‘Love Trap.’ I set a snare for her and she fell in. She was happy for a while, but somehow, she escaped and is forever lost to me.”

  I laughed and shook my head. “I apologize. It’s not your sorrow that I am amused by but your logic. When I was in Italy, I worked at a cafe in Udine. Every morning, a regal woman came in asking for a cappuccino while she read the morning paper. The diamond rings sparkled on her fingers as she held the cup to her lips. She told me once that she had been married five times and the only reason was because men assumed wooing is a onetime effort. If she had been wooed during her marriages, perhaps she wouldn’t have been as wealthy, but she would have been happier. It makes me think: could you woo your wife now?”

  “I’m not so sure. Wooing is a skill I haven’t practiced in years.”

  “Then hone it like playing the strings of your erhu. It must be like riding a bicycle.”

  “More like fumbling for a flashlight in the dark.”

  I laughed before tossing the pile of old flowers into the trash. “She loved you once, enough to marry you. Surely that means something.”

  “Perhaps.” A shadow traveled across his face and his dark eyes grew distant. The tattooed dragons on his forearms constricted, tightening around his skin, scales shimmering under the pendant lamp like burnished metal. “But love can fade over time the way a beautiful note vanishes in the air after being played.”

  “Then keep playing. Play until you ensnare her heart again.”

  “But will it work?”

  “You won’t know until you try.”

  He leaned over the counter and rested his chin on his hands. “How did you get to be so knowledgeable about relationships?”

  I laughed. “I’m n
ot. I’m an impostor who only gives good advice to others.”

  Mr. Kuk Wah would be horrified if he knew about the wreckage of the relationship I had left behind in the Pacific. I had broken a man’s heart and run away from the consequences. Emilio would forgive me sooner than I would ever forgive myself.

  “Where did you go just now, Xiao Niao?”

  The musician’s question snapped me back to the present. I blinked and tucked the painful memory away, burying it under the sand so the waves could wash all the traces away.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Kuk Wah. You have my full attention again.”

  He lowered his eyes and cleared his throat. “So I’m supposed to woo my wife?”

  “Yes, just like I’m supposed to woo my future customers with my food.” I tipped my head toward the Victrola in the corner with the wooden box of records beside it. “Perhaps you can find some musical inspiration.”

  Mr. Kuk Wah smiled as he walked over to the antique player. He treated the introduction with quiet formality, as if he were on a first date with an elegant woman. First, he lifted the lid, admiring the turntable and whispering something inaudible into it. He traced the ornate swing arm of the turntable before lifting it to accommodate the incoming vinyl. After his silent homage, he crouched down to leaf through the records, humming a cheerful tune.

  I disappeared into the kitchen with lightness in my steps to refill the pot of tea. The joy the musician felt for my beloved record player was infectious. Minutes later, he had chosen La traviata. I grinned at his romantic choice.

  Tomorrow, I would cook the chicken wings and help the Chius solve their own love dilemma.

  Chapter Ten

  The recipe dictated that the chicken be marinated in the morning and served in the afternoon or evening of the same day.

  Drunken Chicken Wings

  Garlic

  Five-spice powder

  Peppercorns

  Chilies

  Paprika

  Chicken wings

  Shaoxing wine

  Smash the garlic cloves before adding them to a bowl with the rest of the spices. Massage the seasonings into the chicken wings before adding to the wine.

  Cover.

  Marinate for three hours to encourage new love and six hours to rekindle a love gone sour. Do not marinate for longer than eight hours.

  Finish by deep-frying.

  Note:

  Love and inebriation produce the same effects: bouts of joy and impaired decision making. I am approached often by lovers to help solve their problems. I try my best, knowing that meddling in the affairs of the heart can lead to interesting situations.

  I combined garlic, five-spice, black peppercorns, Thai chilies, and paprika in a large bowl for the seasoning. I tumbled two pounds of chicken wings out of their brown paper wrapping and into the waiting bowl, where I kneaded the pungent mixture into them, squeezing the spices into the meat like an experienced massage therapist. Another bowl full of Shaoxing rice wine awaited the wings as the next step after their rigorous massage. They soaked and relaxed, basking in the pool of wine to become drunken like their name. I set them aside to marinate in the fridge.

  I called up the Chius to invite them for a snack. Mr. Chiu promised to come by at two with his wife. As I thought of the couple, my mind wandered to another dormant subject with painful memories: my father. If Mr. Kuk Wah was determined to fix his marriage, why didn’t my father want to save his? Why had he left us?

  I’d watched Ma-ma raising me alone and wondered if things would have been different if my father were around. Perhaps if he had been there, Ma-ma would not have had all those dark spells or the hours she’d spent miles away in her mind while her eyes remained hollow and empty. I’d been so helpless when Ma-ma suffered those debilitating episodes. I’d done what I could by running to the restaurant to pay for food, even when I was so young I could barely reach the counter, but I couldn’t talk to her about things the way another adult—a partner—could have.

  If my father had been there, maybe Ma-ma’s demons wouldn’t have controlled her. He could have saved my mother’s life when I wasn’t there.

  Perhaps, I mused, I had transferred my potent wrath for my father onto the neighbors. It was easier to have active targets than a missing one.

  Yes, life could have been different, but hoping for these possibilities was akin to catching sunlight in a butterfly net. Like my father, my mother would never return. I had no choice but to turn my eyes to the future. Mr. Kuk Wah could still change his fortunes, and, with my help, so could the rest of the neighbors.

  I heated up the oil in the wok and waited until it reached temperature.

  What magical results would Laolao’s drunken chicken wings bring?

  The side dish for the drunken chicken wings was a pickled slaw. This was my recipe and something I had picked up from my travels in Vietnam. I julienned carrots and daikon radish, dancing my knife across the wooden block, tapping until the vegetables turned into perfect matchsticks. I added ribbons of napa cabbage and romaine lettuce before drizzling a light dressing of white vinegar and sugar on top. I tossed the medley until the sweet tanginess enveloped all the contents.

  Once the slaw was done, I checked the wok with its refined peanut oil. When it was heated, I tossed the wings into the liquid depths, sending the oil roaring with their entrance. I scooped them out with my golden net only moments later.

  After tasting the first portion and deeming it perfect, I tossed more of the wings into the wok to have them emerge crispy and fried to perfection. Soon, the two-pound batch of drunken chicken wings rested on a rack. I divided the portion with a pair of stainless tongs for each of the couple’s plates, arranging them alongside a generous heap of colorful slaw.

  The Chius needed help. I couldn’t bear watching their marriage break down. As much as I didn’t want to care for them, I couldn’t deny that I was starting to see the neighbors as individuals instead of a faceless mob. I wasn’t the misanthrope that I’d thought myself to be; I didn’t have that luxury now that my fate was tied to theirs.

  The bell at the front door of the restaurant signaled the arrival of the Chius. I washed my hands and popped out of the kitchen to welcome them. Mr. Chiu stood a step behind his wife with a wistful expression on his face. Mrs. Chiu busied herself with examining the statue of the goddess.

  “I remember a time when Guanyin was radiant,” she said in a hushed tone. To my surprise and to his, she turned to her husband. “Do you remember, Wayne?”

  He cleared his throat. “Of course. We had our first date here and she was on the counter. How could I forget?”

  She turned to me, brushing his comment aside. “I can’t stay for long. I have appointments this afternoon. It was kind of you to invite us for a snack.”

  I gestured to the stools by the counter. “Please, have a seat. I will bring you the food shortly.”

  Returning to the kitchen, I added the finishing touches to their plates with an ear cocked toward the dining area. Eavesdropping was a social transgression, but since I was already meddling in their lives, it felt like a minor offense—although, lately, I’d been a repeat offender.

  “Anita . . .”

  “Don’t. I came here for her, not you. She just lost her mother and you’re only thinking of yourself,” Mrs. Chiu hissed. “You’re always thinking only about yourself.”

  “I’m thinking about us. I can’t stop thinking about us.” The tone of his voice shifted from a plea to a question, one a lawyer might ask in front of a jury. “Our son told me that you still keep your wedding ring on when you visit him. Why do you keep it on when you’ve told me—”

  “Because I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Then there’s hope.”

  I didn’t hear an answer from Mrs. Chiu, so I took the silence as my cue to bring out the food and a fresh pot of tieguanyin tea. I�
�d arranged the crispy chicken wings on a bed of romaine hearts to showcase the contrasting colors of golds and greens. Every chef was an artist at heart. The key to the most successful dish was to first seduce the eyes and the nose, for if the dish failed in this, no one would want to take the next step of tasting it.

  “I hope you like chicken wings,” I declared, emerging from the kitchen.

  Mr. and Mrs. Chiu both stared at the plate in awe. Mr. Chiu wiped his hands with a napkin before picking up a drumette with his fingers. Mrs. Chiu picked up her fork and stabbed her wing, avoiding the dilemma of messy fingers.

  A loud, satisfying, crunching sound emerged as they ate. As I watched, fractures ran along the surface of their skin, reminding me of shattered porcelain. The cracks deepened as they ate. Once they were finished, tiny streams of glittering gold filled the cracks: mending, repairing what was broken, and transforming it into something far more beautiful. It was similar to a piece of kintsukuroi I’d picked up in Kyoto, repaired pottery that had been mended with gold.

  The Chius turned to each other. Their eyes met and their hands reached for each other, fingers and palms touching. Mrs. Chiu reached for her husband’s cheek with her free hand. “Wayne, I’m so sorry. I really do love you.” She sounded almost surprised to remember.

  He leaned over and kissed her. “Let’s get out of here.”

  A girlish giggle escaped Mrs. Chiu’s lips.

  The couple walked out in a half embrace, side by side.

  As they exited the restaurant, the glass door swung open. Dressed in a plum frock, Celia panted, bracing herself against the opened door. Her round face was flushed and her perm askew. She caught her breath before shrieking, “Where are the chicken wings?”

  I swallowed before confessing, “I’m so sorry. I only made enough for the Chius.”

  Celia staggered to the counter and sobbed. “No! I smelled them and came as quickly as I could. I almost threw my ankle out running over so I could get here before anyone else.” She banged her fists against the counter. “But I’m too late.” She sighed.