Mingmei Yip - Petals from the Sky

As we were window-shopping, enveloped by the heat and noise of the boulevard, I noticed our reflections in the glass. Michael’s arm encircled my waist; I nestled my head on his shoulder. Bathed in the shimmering neon light, he looked cheerful, as usual. His beige suit hung well on his broad shoulders, and his flowered tie in burgundy, brass, and amber complemented my floral dress in Chinese imperial yellow. My face was flushed and my hair tumbled loosely around my shoulders. Mother was right; I looked drunk-in a man’s aura.

Once inside the Cultural Centre, Michael excused himself to get us drinks. I looked around and saw that on the pink-tiled walls, colorful banners advertised upcoming performances. One, advertising a Beijing opera, showed a heavily made-up figure in a pearl-tasseled crown and a many-layered, sequined costume. But “she” was a man. Beneath the banner a group of expensively dressed tai tai s, society women, were discussing this impersonator. One-her plump, gold-bangled hand gesturing in big movements-spoke shrilly: “He can play a young widow so well because he’s a man, so he’s not inhibited. That’s why he can express a woman’s frustrated sexual desire so openly.”

Her friend in a pink suit nodded. “But if a woman acted like that, could she have face to go home to her husband?”

A pretty one in an embroidered Chinese dress chimed in, her diamond teardrop earrings swaying erotically in the air. “Ah, Mrs. Chan, you don’t have to worry.” She winked. “If she acted like that I bet her husband would find her even more desirable!”

They all giggled, covering their mouths with their brightly manicured, many-ringed fingers.

Michael returned with orange juice in tall glasses. I told him about the ladies’ conversation.

“That’s an interesting theory.” He handed me the glass and a neatly folded napkin, and looked at me curiously. “But don’t you think a man will also lose face by acting like a real woman?”

“No, on the contrary. He’ll gain face.” When I tried to drink, the rim of the tall glass hit my nose. “Chinese used to think that because men are free of the impurities of the female body, they can portray feminine beauty from a distance-and render a more gripping performance.”

Michael touched my hair. “Meng Ning, you really know a lot about Chinese opera.”

“My mother is a Chinese opera fan. She used to take me to performances when I was a kid.”

He searched my eyes. “You think I’ll have the chance to meet her someday?”

Right then the bell chimed. Michael cupped my elbow and eased me through the throng into the concert hall. A young Chinese woman in a tight dress and spiked heels moved rhythmically ahead of us. Her ponytail kept pecking her buttocks while her arm held tightly onto a foreigner.

Discreetly, I freed myself from Michael’s grasp. Hadn’t I promised myself I’d never be attached to a man?

Inside the concert hall, the mostly middle-aged and elderly audience settled into their seats. At the right-hand corner of the stage, a small orchestra gathered, its musicians carrying drums, gongs, clappers, cymbals, two-stringed fiddles, flutes, and a wooden fish.

After Michael and I had exchanged more small talk, we began to read the program notes amid the crescendoed ambush of the tuning. There were two performances tonight: “Longing for the Pleasures of the World” and “Seduction of the Zither.”

“Longing for the Pleasures of the World” told about a beautiful young nun forced by sickness and poverty to enter a nunnery as a child. Reaching womanhood and bored by the daily routine of sutra -reciting among lifeless statues, she decided-after many months of inner turmoil-to taste the forbidden splendors of the floating world outside. “Seduction of the Zither” told how a young scholar seduced a Daoist nun by skillfully playing the qin-the seven-stringed zither.

A strange feeling crept over me. Could it be coincidence that Michael and I came to see two operas about the love stories of nuns? Was Michael-like the scholar-a messenger of some mysterious destiny, sent to lure me further away from the empty gate? Were the two operas to tell me that the world outside, not the one inside the temple, was my true calling in life? Or were they warning me against its temptation?

I turned to look at Michael; he squeezed my hand, then continued to read his program notes.

The orchestra began with ear-splitting sounds of drums and gongs, and the lights dimmed to the audience’s enthusiastic applause. Next to the orchestra, English subtitles were projected on a screen.

Slowly, the curtain rose to reveal a temple scene with a nun in a loose robe, her bald head simulated by a pink plastic wrap. The flute began to play a mournful tune in the background, and the nun, her eyes flitting among the various objects on the altar-a bell, a drum, a roll of sutra, a big-bellied Buddha-recited in a melancholic tone, “A pity that my head was shaved to become a nun. Time spins fast and spins people old. I don’t want to sacrifice my youth for nothing!”

Stroking her “bald” head, she declared, “My name is Form Is Emptiness. In my youth, my mistress shaved my head to make me a nun.” She frowned, her delicate finger pointing to an embroidered pillow. “Every day I burn incense and recite the sutra, while every night I sleep alone with only this pillow!”

The music changed to a passionate outpouring of fiddles, flutes, gongs, and cymbals, with the nun singing in a high-pitched voice full of sweet innocence. “What a pity that my cushion is not a wife’s pillow.” She pouted her lips. “I am a woman, not a man, so why should I shave my head and wear a loose robe?”

She strode to the imaginary temple gate, made a butterfly stroke with her white-powdered hands, and delicately extended a step. Her expression turned mischievous. “Every morning when I burn incense, I see a lad idling on the mountain behind the temple. He keeps peeking at me and I keep peeking back. Ah, how we long for each other, my destined love! My destined love!”

She turned to look directly at the audience, her tone decisive. “I don’t care if the King of Hell is going to punish me by throwing me into a boiling wok or sawing me in two. Let him do whatever he wants.” Suddenly the music increased in speed and volume; she wildly beat her chest. “We always see the living souls suffer. When do we see the dead despair? Ah, I don’t care! I don’t care! I’m going to tear my robe and bury my sutras, throw away my wooden fish and give up my cymbal. I don’t care what the King of Hell will do to me when I’m dead!”

Both the music and the nun’s singing shot to an extremely high register. “Honestly, I don’t want to be enlightened! I don’t want to recite the Heart Sutra!” She yanked her robe, her eyes glowing with passion. “Whenever I see husband and wife wearing silk and brocade, drinking wine and making merry, my heart burns with desire! Burns with desire!”

This bold declaration from a Buddhist nun took me aback, even though it was only a play. I peeked at Michael; he looked thoughtful. I turned around and looked at the audience. Some men cackled. The foreigner looked thrilled, while Ponytail next to him smiled a dimpled smile. Several rows behind them the three tai tais giggled, this time without covering their mouths and so revealing all their gleaming teeth.

I turned back to the stage to find the nun now singing with a lingering voice, as if unwilling to let go. “I wish I might soon give birth to a baby boy, and joy is awaiting! Joy is awaiting!” Then the curtain closed on this unabashed pronouncement, to the audience’s thunderous applause.

It was intermission and when the cheers died down, Michael turned to me, his face vivid. “Wonderful, Meng Ning.” Then he asked me how I liked it, but I was still too disturbed to give any opinion. Finally I managed to comment on the actress’s supple body movements, her rich falsetto, and the orchestra’s lively playing…all to avoid talking about the story.