Mingmei Yip - Song of the Silk Road

The most amazing feat was yet to come. When the two were entangling in all sorts of impossible kung fu and gymnastic movements, suddenly the boy jumped up very high and, while the girl was spinning in circles on one leg, poured tea into the cups on the girl’s head.

Now the audience’s emotions seemed to reach as high as the peaks of the Mountains of Heaven. They screamed, clapped, and threw money in red lucky envelopes onto the stage; some even threw jewelry.

I also screamed “Hao! Hao!” and clapped till my palms turned red and hurt.

The women threw me triumphant looks. “You like this now?”

“It’s incredible!”

“See, we told you so. Come back next week, the same time. We’ll be here, too.”

“I’ll definitely try.”

Feeling more normal after my earlier tea-inspired reflection and the surrealistic tea ceremony, which ended the occasion on a high note, I waved to the waitress to give me the check.

Outside the teahouse, I once again wandered aimlessly, my mind still spinning with the teenage duo’s impossible feats. Then I saw a movie theater with the signboard advertising a Jackie Chan comedy kung fu flick. Good, this was exactly what I wanted, more brainless yet beautifully and intricately choreographed martial arts movements. I was sure my thinking would offend Jackie Chan, if he knew about it, for he must have put lots of brain into designing every single movement. But to me, the effect was still brainless.

I bought a ticket and entered the theater. Nearly every movement made me laugh. Of course it was not because the movie was that funny. I just used the illusory images to release my pent-up emotions.

When the movie was finally over I stayed in my seat, tired from laughing so hard, and watched the credits slowly scroll by.

When names of the martial arts consultants appeared, one burst upon me like an egg dropped on a wok—Chen Dong.

Alias Floating Cloud!

My earlier happy mood was instantly thrown out the window. As I hurried toward the exit with my heart pounding, I thought I saw Floating Cloud’s face smiling in the dim theater. Could Floating Cloud really have been in the audience or was it just my fearful imagination?

Back in the hotel, I collapsed in bed and cried. Could the monk have come all the way here to look for me? Then I suddenly remembered that the face in the theater had a full head of hair. But maybe Floating Cloud had changed back to Chen Dong?

The next day when I woke up it was already noon. As I was wondering if I should visit my mother today or take another day off, I heard urgent knockings at the door. Could Floating Cloud have tracked me here? But when I opened the door, I was relieved to see it was only the hotel manager, though with an angry expression.

“Something wrong?”

“A Mr. Lo asks for you at the reception and insists that we come knock at your door. You shouldn’t have unplugged your phone.”

“Hmm… I’m sorry. Please tell him I’ll be down in the lobby in ten minutes.”

I took a quick shower, dressed, grabbed my purse, then rushed down to the lobby. It must be something very important for Lo to have come directly to my hotel. But what could that be? Maybe he’d found out that there was really three million dollars for me to claim? At that thought, I felt the corners of my lips slowly lifting like a theater curtain. But then I realized that urgent matters were rarely good.

The remnant of a smile on my face was instantly killed by Lo’s unbearably sad expression. “Mr. Lo, something wrong?”

He nodded.

“What is it?”

“Be prepared for some very bad news.” He paused to clear his throat. “Your mother, Miss Mindy Madison, or Cai Mindi, passed away yesterday afternoon.”

“But that’s not possible! I just talked to her the day before and she was fine.” I was yelling. A few guests in the lobby turned to stare at us.

I was surprised to see the lawyer’s eyes turn red and his voice crack. “She died less than twenty-four hours after you left.”

“Then why didn’t you inform me?”

“We called your room many times, but no answer.”

Of course not, I had unplugged the phone in order not to take calls!

Lo went on. “I thought of coming to inform you but had to take care of things in the prison. And I didn’t want to just leave a message.”

“So what are we going to do now?”

“I have made the arrangements. Her body is already in the funeral home. The service will be held in two days and I, or one of my staff, will come pick you up and drive you there. It was her wish to be cremated and that her ashes be scattered in Bohai together with Wang Jin’s.”

“But my father was buried in a cemetery—you just took me there!”

“Your mother placed your father’s ashes in three different places: the grave, under the ruined town city wall, and in her prison cell.”

I was not listening. Too overwhelmed by the news, my mind began to drift to the brief, now infinitely precious meetings I’d spent with my mother.

“Miss Lin”—he studied me with concern—“you all right? Can you come to my office now to go over the arrangements? If not, you’d better get some rest and we’ll do it later.”

“Maybe later. Sorry, my mind is not working right now.”

“I understand. I will call you tomorrow. Rest today.”

Back in my room, I threw myself onto the bed and cried my eyes out. If there really was a God, why did He bring my mother back to me, only to take her away to orphan me a second time?

God was my Hong Kong mother’s adviser-savior, but He seemed to have no answers to my questions, which just bounced back at me like squash balls, making noise but carrying no message. Maybe the blind fortune-teller, Soaring Crane, was a better consultant—at least he listened and responded. Now I wondered if my mother Cai Mayfong’s Christian devotion was due to her secret guilt for the unforgivable sin of betraying her sister. I asked, but God kept His opinion, if He had one, to Himself.

The next days passed as a blur—meeting with Lo, reading my mother’s will, visiting the funeral home. When I arrived for the service, the director offered me a coarse, white funeral costume to wear, but I declined. Hand torn—instead of scissor-cut—and made of coarse hemp, the garment is to show that the grief of the descendents is too great for them to pay attention to what they wear.

My pale green silk dress was met with strong objections from Lo.

“You have to wear white to show respect for the deceased!”

“You want to make me even more depressed so that I follow my mother into the grave?”

Since as a daughter I was indispensable to the service, finally he had to back down.

But then my depression deepened when I saw that only two people had come to bid my mother farewell.

Before I had a chance to ask Lo, he told me, “Miss Madison had many visitors in the beginning, but as the years passed and they realized there was no hope of her release, they stopped coming.”

I exclaimed, “That’s terrible!”

“You must have heard of the saying, ‘A prolonged disease will keep even the most filial son away’?” He shrugged. “Human nature.”

I nodded. What more could I say? “Then who are those two people over there, her best friends?” Or her lovers, I thought as I pointed to the two men talking to each other in a far corner.

“Oh, no, they’re just staff here.”

Because, except for Lo and me, there were no guests to shake hands, to bow or prostrate to the deceased’s picture, or to utter comforting yet empty words, the whole service was over in a mere half hour. I carried out my duties of burning paper offerings, kneeling in front of my mother’s portrait and kowtowing three times while hitting my head hard enough on the floor to be heard by her departing soul. Finally I pressed the button to start the combustion of her physical remains. I tried hard to hold back my tears as my mother, or my aunt, or Mindy Madison, or Cai Mindi, was transformed from flesh to ashes.