Petals from the Sky (20 page)

“It’s because my mind is full of shit!”

The light turned green and we started to walk. When the crowd thinned, I pulled forward. Michael let go of my hand. He had to be really angry now. Afraid, I hurried back to him and took his hand. “Michael…I’m sorry.”

He looked at me, his gaze intent but wary. “Please, tell me what’s bothering you.”

But I remained stubbornly uncommunicative, bottling up all my feelings.

24

Men Are Nothing but Trouble

B
ack home, Michael led me to sit down on the sofa. “Meng Ning”—he looked concerned—“what is it? Please tell me.”

I surprised myself by uttering a bitterness I’d never known, nor experienced. “Maybe I should. But I don’t know whether I can trust you, Michael, or your professor, or…your monks.” I knew I was venting the anger caused by my encounters with Lisa and Philip on Michael. I knew I was being absurd. But I couldn’t help it.

Michael looked startled. “Have I been doing something wrong? I thought you enjoyed the martial arts at the Zen center, so now why suddenly bitter? That’s not like you.”

“Maybe from now on it is,” I snapped, then blurted out in spite of myself, “and I should have known it’s dangerous to be too close to the heart of a man, for it spurts nothing but trouble.”

But Michael didn’t get angry; he looked worried instead. “Why are you suddenly angry with men? I’ve never heard you talk like that before. What’s bothering you?”

“I think I should have entered the empty gate to be a nun….”

“What are you talking about? Can you shake yourself out of this?”

“No,” I said bitterly, blaming all my recent disillusionments and confusion and guilt on him. “Michael, I always wanted to be a nun. I never intended to love men, but to avoid them. Then you come along and toss my world upside down…”

He remained silent while staring at me, looking puzzled.

Though feeling powerless and knowing I was being unfair, I couldn’t stop my bitter talk. “Michael, it was never my intention to fall in love with you. I’ve always thought I’d be a nun like Yi Kong, or maybe a single career woman, instead of ending up being a jobless and penniless thirty-year-old spinster.”

Now Michael seemed really stung by my words. “Meng Ning, would you stop all this nonsense?!”

I hugged my knees and buried my face between them, ashamed of my attachment to Michael, my weakness, my meanness to him, my childish attack on men. And, of course, my near-betrayal of him with his ex-fiancée and his best friend.

But then when I looked up and met Michael’s penetrating eyes, my irrationality was fueled anew. “Michael, you have your professor and your meditation and the rich and famous in the art world.”

He swallowed hard, willing himself to calm down. “Why are you talking like this? You know I care about you. Besides, I don’t know why you hold a grudge against Professor Fulton.”

I retorted, “Because he acted cold to me. He hardly even glanced in my direction. He’s a snob.”

“Maybe he’s a bit of a snob, but he helped me through my difficult years after my parents’ deaths. It was he who introduced me to Buddhism and Chinese art, which is what brought us together.

“Whatever his faults, Professor Fulton has done a lot for me. Be honest, Meng Ning. Who wouldn’t jump at the chance to go to a VIP reception at the Met and get a glimpse of a Kennedy and the mayor of New York?”

I held my tongue, realizing what Michael had said was true.

He went on. “I’m not a social climber, if that’s what you think. But I do want to be a part of this art world. Because it gives meaning to my life. Not to mention the privilege of getting close to objects that outsiders wouldn’t even dream of having the chance to see. Meng Ning, it wasn’t easy for me to get myself accepted into this world.” He cast me a meaningful glance. “Professor Fulton has just met you twice. I’m sure he’ll like you; just give him a chance, OK?”

I nodded.

“Now tell me what you don’t like about the monks.”

Because Master Hidden Virtue was bulge-eyed and bucktoothed and his English was heavily accented.
I wanted to say this aloud but knew how it would sound.

“Because they are boring.” That was all I could mutter.

Michael dismissed my opinion with a laugh.

Before he could say anything, I blurted out, “Besides, that Zen center is an eyesore. And it’s a bad influence on you—too much meditation.”

“Meng Ning, meditation is the core of Buddhism. It is what really trains your mind. How can you dismiss it like this?”

“You know what? I think you overwork your intellect with those monks. That’s why you’re so guarded and serious.” I was repeating what Lisa and Philip had told me.

Michael frowned. “What do you mean? I’m not withdrawn. Have I been neglecting you? Don’t I show my affection for you?”

“It’s not that, it’s…” Suddenly I remembered the fortune-teller’s saying:

Your friend also needs to build his
yin
energy, which he let run down. Although he’s orderly and well organized on the surface, his spirit underneath is restless. He needs more earth and water in his life to balance his fire and metal.

“You’re losing touch with your feminine side.”

“My feminine side?” He looked completely puzzled.

“Michael, you’re always in control.” Seeing that he didn’t respond, I ventured on. “Your life is arranged so perfectly that I don’t see any place for me.”

Michael seemed to be thinking deeply, then he said, his voice pained, “Why are you telling me these things? That’s not like you.”

He’d never sounded like this before and it made me worry. I knew I was being mean and unfair to him to cover my guilt. I’d never talked like this to anyone, but then I’d never even had a boyfriend. “Michael, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“But you just did.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Art has been my great solace in life. That is, until I met you. So how can you say that you don’t see a place for you in my life? You realize how that hurts me?”

“Oh, Michael…”

“Please understand.” Michael’s voice turned gentle. “Besides Professor Fulton, I’m also very grateful for the monks in the Vegetable Root Zen Center. Their meditation teaching helped me through a lot of the stresses in my life.”

“Like what?”

“Problems at work, when I broke up with Lisa, after she’d aborted our son, the car accident…” As if realizing something, he suddenly stopped in midsentence.

“What car accident?”

“I don’t want to talk about it now.”

“Now is the only time, Michael. What car accident?”

His face looked pained. “The one that caused Lisa’s limp.”

Before I had time to absorb the shock, Michael said, “I was driving.”

“Oh heavens, what happened?”

“We were on the way to a gallery opening, quarrelling over her abortion. Then I missed a red light and the car crashed. Miraculously I was not even scratched, but poor Lisa…”

Jealousy swelled inside me like a dam about to burst. “Michael, do you still love her?”

“No! What kind of a question is this? I’m in love with you!” He paused to smooth back his hair. “Do you know how it feels to make someone—someone you care about—a cripple? You have no idea!” He paused, then said, “Anyway, I do feel I owe her because of the accident.”

“Was that the reason you stayed with her for so long?”

“Yes, partly, and maybe to pacify Professor Fulton.”

“Did he blame you for that?”

“Yes and no. But of course he was heartbroken.”

“But the whole thing is not entirely your fault!”

“This is not a question of whose fault it was, Meng Ning. The result is that it cost Lisa her leg.”

“Then what made you finally decide to leave?”

“Enough is enough. After that, she went back to Philip Noble.”

“What?”
I could hear my voice, sharp like a thrusting Zen knife.

“Philip and Lisa were high school sweethearts. The most handsome couple, they were chosen by the school’s drama club to play Romeo and Juliet over and over. But she only went back to him for a short time. After that, she started sleeping with lots of people, both men and women, so I hear.”

My ears felt on fire while I remained silent, completely shocked and drained by this unexpected and unwelcome revelation.

Michael changed the subject. “Meng Ning, I believe it’s good karma that Lisa finally left. Otherwise I would never have met you. Now you know my past, and please, let’s just leave it at that. Will you?”

I nodded, still too shocked to say anything.

Michael looked more relaxed now. “And you’re not going to be a nun, Meng Ning. Sorry, but I just don’t see a nun in you, except in your head. Time now to wake up from this nun dream. Besides, just as you think that the monks are not a very good influence on me, I’d tell you neither is Yi Kong an entirely good influence on you.”

“Why?”

“All these prejudices against men.”

“But she’s guided me since I was thirteen.”

“I’m just telling you things you’ve been choosing to ignore. Yi Kong may be a good nun, but her calling is completely different from yours. You could have become a nun years ago, but you didn’t. Besides, being a nun won’t get rid of men, if that’s what you think.”

“No, Michael, Yi Kong doesn’t care about men!”

“You really believe that?”

“Of course!”

“Maybe she doesn’t,” Michael said matter-of-factly, “but I’m sure that won’t stop her from wanting their money. If Yi Kong is as successful as you say, I’m sure she has to deal with men all the time, helping her with her projects or donating to her temple—”

“Michael, you don’t know her, so don’t criticize her!”

“You really believe she got all her donations to build a school, an orphanage, a nursing home, a museum, and to reconstruct the whole nunnery only from women?”

I was speechless.

Michael went on. “Instead of just letting you worship Guan Yin and recite the Heart Sutra, I think your mentor should have encouraged you to meditate more.”

“She did. But I don’t care about it.”

“But that’s the only way to free yourself from your prejudices. I don’t say your devotional feelings are bad, Meng Ning. But, after all, Guan Yin is just a symbol.”

A long pause. Then Michael’s voice turned gentler. “Meng Ning, you don’t know what Yi Kong really had gone through before she entered the empty gate. If she has no idea what it’s like to be loved by a man, then how can she be so sure that that kind of love is illusory?

“We’re all going to die someday, whether inside or outside the empty gate. We cannot avoid death, but no one should die filled with regret over denying one’s heart. And don’t judge all men by your experience with your father. Nobody has two Buddhas as parents.”

Suddenly I felt mortified and eager for physical intimacy. Yet Michael, sitting easily beside me, didn’t seem to have any idea what to do.

Finally he asked, “What do you want me to do, Meng Ning?”

I remained silent.

He reached toward me, pulling me to him, and kissed me. Then, as if suddenly thinking of something, he stood up, walked to his briefcase, took something out, and returned to hand me an embroidered Chinese pouch. “I bought this for you in Boston.”

“What is it?” I asked, unzipping the pouch.

It was a jade bracelet.

I felt tears stinging my eyes and a pebble stuck in my throat so I couldn’t talk.

Michael looked at me tenderly. “You like it?” His eyes were green, translucent, and flawless like my grandmother’s jade bracelet.

I nodded.

“I’m sorry you lost your jade bracelet. I hope this can cheer you up a bit.” He cupped my face; my heart pounded at his soft breaths.

“You break my heart when you look so sad,” he said, then kissed me again.

He went on: “I know your father gambled away the bracelet you meant to inherit. I’d love you to have another one.” Lovingly, Michael slipped the bracelet onto my hand. But it hung pathetically loose on my wrist.

“Can we size it?” he asked, now looking extremely dejected.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think so, Michael.”

“I feel so bad. What…are we going to do with it?”

Silence, then I said, “Why don’t we give it to my mother as a gift?”

Michael’s face seemed shrunk, his voice sad. “If that’s what you want—”

“Michael, I’m sorry…”

He looked completely crushed.

My heart, like a knocked-over shelf of condiments, spilled a hundred different feelings and flavors.

25

The Funeral

T
he next morning, the air between Michael and me was still tense. We ate our breakfast quietly, without much talking. After that, he planted a kiss on my forehead. “Meng Ning, I’ll be coming home a little early tonight, around six.” Then he left like a breeze.

Toward four in the afternoon, I suddenly realized I needed to go grocery shopping to replenish the almost empty fridge. By the time I arrived home, it was five. After I’d closed the door behind me I saw, to my surprise, Michael. He was sitting on the sofa and looking very pale. My heart started to pound. Something must have gone wrong; otherwise he wouldn’t be home so early. Had he found out what happened between me and Philip, or me and Lisa?

I put down the groceries by the door, then hurried to sit next to him on the sofa, feigning calm. “Michael, you all right?”

“Some very bad news,” he said, looking pained and on the verge of tears.

My heart flipped. “What is it?”

“Professor Fulton died this afternoon. I tried to call you, but there was no answer.”

“Oh, my God…I’m sorry…so sorry. How…did it happen?”

A shadow fell across Michael’s kind face. “Massive heart attack. They tried to resuscitate him but it didn’t work.”

My initial shock was now replaced by a flood of guilt. I had spoken ill of the man, Michael’s substitute father! Why had I been so insensitive?

“The funeral will be held in three days,” Michael said darkly.

“Michael”—I took his hand—“I’ll be there with you.”

“Thank you,” he said, then nestled his head against my chest. I thought I could feel a sob, but could not see his face.

Later as we made love, I was aware of Michael’s sadness. His fiery passion and hunger for affection, instead of pleasing me, made me think of him being with Lisa. I couldn’t help but imagine how he had made it with her, or she with him. Had she led Michael on as she had me? Then a new jealousy hit me. Her shriveled leg—caused by the car accident when Michael was driving. Although it marred her beauty, paradoxically it also enhanced it. Perfection tires the eyes, but a little flaw can be an opening into something more exciting. Was Michael still enticed by that vulnerability, that perfect imperfection?

After lovemaking, Michael lay silently next to me. I suddenly realized that, instead of sharing his grief, I’d been absorbed in my own jealousy and confusion.

“Michael…” I heard the guilt in my voice as I reached to touch him. But he’d already fallen asleep.

On Thursday, Michael and I arrived early at the funeral home.

Inside its grand but gloomy and depressing lobby, Michael shook hands with the funeral director and chatted with him for a moment.

When we were alone, he said, “Do you mind coming with me while I see Professor Fulton this last time?”

I nodded. He took my hand and led me to kneel before the casket. I always felt uneasy looking at the dead. But Professor Fulton actually looked calm and dignified. His high forehead, together with the thatch of white hair, made me think of a snowcapped mountain where high monks and nuns would live a secluded life far from earthly foulness. I closed my eyes and whispered a short prayer to wish him happiness and entry into Amida Buddha’s Western Paradise.

I continued to stare at the professor as I felt tears in my eyes—for his death, for his life, for Michael, for my guilty conscience, for some other submerged yearnings I had yet to name.

I turned and saw Michael’s face damp with tears.

“Oh, Michael…” I reached to take his hand.

“Meng Ning, you’re all I have now,” he said without looking at me. “Please…always be with me.”

“I will,” I whispered back, feeling his sadness and helplessness in my grasp, and touched by both.

I thought of the dying kitten. Had it been a premonition of Fulton’s death?

Then I turned to look at the encoffined professor and mused that no matter how much rouge they had applied to his face to give him the illusion of life, he was still but a corpse. A breathless, emotionless, souless object on display.

An installation art.

Now where was this man who, only a few days ago, had extended an invitation to Michael and me for dinner, not knowing that he’d never be able to show up?

Feeling ridiculous and a bit unbearable, I said to Michael, “I’ll go look at Professor Fulton’s pictures.”

“All right, but don’t be long. If you come back and I’m not here, just look around. I’ll be greeting people.”

“I won’t be long,” I said, then stood up and walked to the desk in a far corner, on top of which were several albums. I turned the pages of one album and saw pictures of Professor Fulton—talking to some important-looking people in a meeting, giving a lecture, appreciating a Chinese scroll painting, standing in front of a huge ceramic vase. I continued to turn pages and saw Fulton and Lisa and Michael in various settings: a room tastefully decorated with antiques and paintings and filled with books; in an open-air café in front of museums, statues, ruins…until my eyes fell on something that made my heart knock hard against my chest. In a fancy restaurant, arms linked and eyes locked, Michael and Lisa were giving each other champagne to sip from tall glasses while Professor Fulton looked on, smiling. Then the next one showed Michael and Lisa kissing on a mountain top, the amber setting sun glowing behind them. Yet another one was taken on a beach. Clad in swimsuits, they were holding each other by the waist, their foreheads touching, their eyes devouring each other’s souls. Clad in a revealing bikini, Lisa’s tanned, near-perfect body could be the object of bitter envy of any woman and the determined goal of all men. In this picture, her two long legs, symmetrical and healthy, would stir the lust of all beings.

Had Lisa deliberately included the photos of her with Michael so that I would see them? I set down the album—more loudly than I had intended—and turned to walk away. But the place was now very crowded and there was not a trace of Michael. My heart fluttered like a bird struggling to fly out of its cage. Dying for some fresh air, I hurriedly moved toward the exit. Then, when nearing the gate, my feet halted. Michael was chatting with an important-looking couple. And next to them stood Lisa, tall and imposing like a bronze statue. Engaged in a very deep conversation, the four seemed to have known one another for a long time. The sixtyish Asian woman in a finely tailored black suit gestured nervously and looked almost anorexic. I recognized them—the trustee of the Met and his wife—from La Côte Basque, where I had been upset because Michael hadn’t introduced me to them.

Michael turned and spotted me. Lisa also spotted me and our eyes met; she cast me a knowing smile as if we’d been sharing the profoundest secrets under heaven. I imagined her saying, “You liked what we did the other day, didn’t you? Admit it.” And now she smiled as if suggesting we were allies performing tricks behind Michael’s back.

My heart clutched and I disliked her bitterly at this moment. I pretended not to see them and quickly walked behind a crowd.

Then I heard a familiar voice emanating from this small gathering of tall, expensively dressed men. I looked up and saw a familiar face—Philip Noble.

Oh heavens, my heart started to beat hard and loud like a battle drum. Would he see me? When I tried to move away stealthily I bumped right into the man next to Philip.

The man turned and looked; I had no choice but to mutter a soft “Sorry,” and hurry away.

From the corner of my eye, I think I saw Philip turn and look. But then he turned right back to talk. Did he see me? Or did he feign not seeing me?

Just then the funeral director asked the crowd to move into the next room and be seated.

The ceremony was very well organized, with many speeches by celebrities in the art world, collectors, deans and professors from the most prestigious universities, directors from Sotheby’s and Christie’s, the president of the Met…

After that, it was Lisa’s turn. Even though I sat in the third row, I still craned my neck to follow her as she approached the podium. Several men’s eyes widened as they watched her black silhouette, like a gilded
devi,
glide by in the eerie funeral light. She had not relinquished jewelry, but pared it to a mere bracelet—the ruby-eyed panther biting its tail. Silence fell in the hall as people, mesmerized, intently watched her limp her way onto the podium. Then, breaking their voyeuristic trance, a cry arose. Lisa had stumbled. Michael and one dignitary onstage dashed to her rescue. They helped her up, steadied her, and held her by the waist and shoulders. As a pang of jealousy seized my heart, Lisa regained her balance. She thanked the two men with a nod, then limped—now very noticeably—to the microphone.

“Don’t worry”—she smiled a little shyly—“this may be my way to be enlightened.”

Nervous laughter exploded in the audience. It seemed that people liked the daughter as much as they had liked the father. Clearly the fall had brought out an affecting vulnerability that set off her fierce beauty and strong physique. Moreover, Lisa’s speech turned out to be vivid and touching. Instead of praising Michael Fulton directly, like the others had, she told us anecdotes about him that made him seem very human and appealing.

When Lisa finished, tears glistened in her eyes. I looked around. In the front row, the curators and professors and the art dealers looked at her appreciatively. The middle-aged woman behind me wiped her tears and sighed. Then, to my unease, Philip Noble’s alluring face entered my vision. Head lowered and expression tender, he was listening intensely to an elegant woman of indeterminate age. Then he looked up and smiled a little. Did he see me? Heart beating quickly, I quickly turned back to the stage and saw Michael’s warm, sad eyes keenly searching for mine.

Michael’s speech, though a little less eloquent than Lisa’s, was equally moving. He recounted how Fulton had “adopted” him as a son and generously shared with him his knowledge of Buddhism and art. And how, without the professor’s teaching and sharing, he, as an American, would have never aspired to the refinements of a Chinese scholar-gentleman: lighting incense, sipping fragrant tea, appreciating delicate scroll paintings, reciting Zen poems. Toward the end, he said, “I believe the karma of knowing Professor Fulton will continue for the rest of my life. I am forever indebted to his kindness.”

I also felt stirred. Not only by all the powerful speeches and the rich and powerful, but also by the whole drama of life and death condensed in this cool, polished parlor. Michael and Lisa looked so sad and beautiful onstage, the important guests so dignified. And Professor Fulton, alive in their words, and yet so dead in his coffin. Even Michael, sitting onstage among them, seemed altered to me. I wondered: would he someday become one of these dignified, arrogant, silver-haired gentlemen?

Pondering all these matters, I was surprised when the audience started stirring and realized that the formal part of the ceremony was over. People were standing up, some making their way toward the lobby, others grouped together and talking in restrained tones.

Michael came to me right away and asked how I’d thought it went.

“You spoke very well.” I studied his face. “Professor Fulton must be very proud of you.”

“Yes, he was.” He looked at me fully. “Meng Ning, please come with me while I talk to people.”

“No, Michael,” I said, suddenly feeling defensive, “it’s awkward for me. I don’t know any of these people here.” I wanted to add
I just don’t belong to this circle of the rich and famous,
but stopped myself.

Michael’s eyes were pleading and his voice a little tired. “But please, Meng Ning.”

“No, Michael.”

“Meng Ning—”

“Why don’t you go talk now while I use the restroom. I’ll join you later.”

“All right.”

Inside the ladies’ room, I stared at my reflection in the mirror, my heart no more at peace than before. While images of the stylish Lisa, Philip, and the elegant guests flashed across my mind, suddenly a voice broke into my thoughts, startling me. “I’m worried about you, Meng Ning. You look pale. Are you all right?”

It was Lisa towering over me in the mirror.

I did not know how to reply. I simply stared.

“You’re not going to talk to me—even at my father’s funeral?” She was smoothing her bronze hair with a small hawksbill-turtle comb.

“I’m fine,” I said at last, darkly.

“But you’re not, Meng Ning. Don’t fool yourself.”

My throat felt choked and I couldn’t utter a word.

“Can I do something?” She stared at me with concern.

Haven’t you done enough
?

“No thanks, I don’t think so.” Although I still found it hard to be angry at those eyes, I managed to say, “Please leave me alone.”

“All right then, take care,” she said, dropping the comb inside her pocketbook and snapping it shut like a small explosion. “Thanks for coming to my father’s funeral.” Then, “Have you seen Philip and his very rich lady friend?”

Witch,
I mouthed. Then I watched until the door closed behind her before I went inside a stall at the far end to quiet my clamoring mind. All these complicated relationships in the dusty world—were they worth it? Maybe I should have listened to Yi Kong all along.

My mentor’s words rang loud in my ears:

There is no real life other than that inside the temple gate. Life in the dusty world would only get people more tangled up, causing endless suffering. But life inside the empty gate would free you from karma.

And finally:

When are you coming to play with us? There’s lots of fun going on here.

I made up my mind—to go back home to Hong Kong.

Once outside the ladies’ room, I spotted Michael. He hurried up to drape his arm around me. “I’m tired. Let’s go home now.”

The day after Professor Fulton’s funeral, I told Michael I had decided to go back to Hong Kong.

To my surprise, he agreed. “I know it’s hard for you in a new environment, and you must have missed your mother, Yi Kong, and Golden Lotus Temple. So maybe it’s good for you to go back for a while.”