Mingmei Yip - Petals from the Sky

I blushed.

“And so seductive,” he said, tilting up my chin so that he could press his lips hard on mine.

Ten minutes later, Michael stuck his head out of the kitchen and asked, “Is tea OK?” his spiked hair sending a tinge of warmth to my heart.

“No,” I said. “I want Coke. Since I’m now in America, I want something American.”

“Then Coke it is.” His voice sounded cheerful and the sound of his energy filled the kitchen.

I walked around to appreciate the apartment. Illumination from two blue-and-white porcelain lamps warmed the cozy living room. Several pieces of antique Chinese furniture glowed in the soft light. On a low table stood a delicately crafted and subtly glazed blanc de chine Buddha statue.

Bookcases lined two walls; the others were covered with Chinese paintings. A very simple brush painting caught my eye: Han Shan and Shi De-the two legendary lunatic-poet-monks of the Tang dynasty-swept the floor of the temple gate with straw brooms, and laughed as if everything in this Ten Thousand Miles of Red Dust is but a joke.

One of Han Shan’s poems was written in cursive calligraphy in a corner of the painting:

Unknown

I live on the mountain

Enjoying the solitude among white clouds

Michael’s apartment possessed a lonely quality. Was this what drew him to Zen? Was I feeling the loneliness of someone orphaned at a young age, or something more philosophical-or both?

Again I looked at the two hermits in the painting. Han Shan- Cold Mountain -got his name because he’d lived a secluded life on a remote mountain where, even in the hottest summer, its snowcap never melted. His friend Shi De-Picked Up-got his name because he was an orphan dumped on the street and found by a Zen master who went about riding on a tiger. Since the boy had no name, no parents, no possessions, the Zen master simply called him by the way he’d found him-Picked Up. Picked Up lived a carefree and detached existence. His eyes always shone clear and bright, and his smile was penetrating. Day in and day out, he and Cold Mountain swept leaves, scrawled poems on rocks, played with the village children, and appreciated the moon. They are honored in Chinese legend because they lived their lives according to the Dao-The Great Way.

A strange feeling crept over me. Michael’s life, in a certain respect, resembled that of the two monks. He’d been orphaned (I hadn’t yet had the chance to ask how). He seemed detached; he wrote poems and appreciated the moon… However, instead of an isolated mountain monastery, Michael lived in a nice apartment in one of the busiest cities in the world. But hadn’t some of the old Chinese sages taught that the true hermit feels free of the dusty world while dwelling in the clamorous city?

I walked to the kitchen and asked Michael whether he needed help. He was arranging crackers in a bowl. “No, Meng Ning. You must be tired from the trip; why don’t you relax in the living room? I’ll join you in a minute.”

I went back into the living room, not because I wanted to relax, but because I had to suppress an urge to cry. I was confused. If I was so attracted to Michael, why had I turned down his proposal in Hong Kong? But then what about Yi Kong, and the Goddess of Mercy? What about my calling since my fall into the well seventeen years before? What about my dream to be part of the nuns’ carefree life?

I leaned against one of the bookcases, and to distract myself began to read the titles. There were many volumes of Chinese philosophy and literature, all in English translations: the Book of Changes , Dream of the Red Chamber, Six Records of a Floating Life, Journey to the West…But I also found The Plum in the Golden Vase-China’s most notorious erotic novel. I pulled it out from the shelf, flipped through the pages, and ran into:

The moment the young monks saw the wife of Wu Dai, their Buddha nature and Zen mind were lost. Their hearts were like unleashed monkeys and their spirits untamed horses. In disarrayed groups of seven and eight, they collapsed in her sensual aura…

When they were supposed to strike the stone chimes, their minds were so bewitched that they wrongly smashed the elder monks’ scalps. All the efforts of their meditation in the past drained into the gutter; even the Buddha’s ten thousand warrior attendants could do nothing to guard them against their desire for this woman…

This was followed by a woodblock print graphically portraying the beautiful woman coupling with a monk.

My cheeks felt hot, yet my eyes wouldn’t detach themselves. I was fascinated by the forthright description, written three hundred odd years ago, of the monks’ sexual craving for an attractive woman. The author’s courage to express the yearning of his heart without fear of condemnation by Confucian hypocrites deeply moved me. I felt a heat rising gradually in my groin. I was sure my cheeks were now the color of a monkey’s butt, but that didn’t stop my hands from impatiently turning the page to read more.

Just then I heard Michael coming from the kitchen. I pushed the book back onto the shelf.

“Meng Ning, what are you reading?”

“Oh…nothing special.” While I felt the burning sensation in my cheeks, my mind raced with scenes of our first night together behind the mound in Cheung Chau, the bold declaration of the two nuns in the Kun opera, Michael’s poem, our resumed intimacy not long ago…

Michael put the tray onto the low Chinese table, then came to embrace me from behind. I heard playfulness in his voice.

“But you look so absorbed-something sexy? Tell me.”

“I can’t.”

He reached toward the shelf for the book, but I pushed his hand away.

“Must be some kind of love story between a monk and a nun, right?” He nibbled my neck. “If you entered the empty gate to be a nun, I’d also become a monk.”

There was a long, pregnant pause. Then he released me and led me to sit down on the sofa. “Let’s have something to eat.”

Then he offered me his white-glazed cup with Iron Goddess of Mercy tea. “Want to try?”

“No. Thanks. I have my Coke.” I decided to be stubborn, like an American woman. Then I said, “Michael, I envy you living in such a lovely apartment,” expecting he’d finish the sentence with the “but no bachelor’s house is complete without a hostess” cliché I’d detested so much in the past.

Then I sensed something discordant. The qi in his apartment was unbalanced-almost all yang energy. Suddenly I felt an itch to add something yin: a vase of roses or daisies or carnations next to the Buddha; frilly white-laced curtains against which dangled a tinkling wind chime; lilac, cedarwood, and bay leaf potpourri on the coffee table.

But Michael was busy buttering the crackers. He handed me one and said, absentmindedly, “Oh, thank you.” Then he refreshed my Coke, which made bright, tinkling noises with the ice.

At seven-thirty, after I’d had a nap and a shower, Michael took me to La Côte Basque in midtown for dinner. The restaurant was decorated with colorful murals depicting groves of trees and cozy eighteenth-century buildings beside the Mediterranean Sea. The bold brushstrokes and vivid colors invigorated my senses, which had been dulled by jet lag. I could feel the qi circulating everywhere.

After we were seated, I found out that the prices on the menu were as rich in qi as the surroundings. Michael and I ordered Perrier, salad, then vegetarian pasta for him and bouillabaisse and lobster for me.

In a few minutes the waiter returned with our drinks, a basket of assorted bread, and spheres of butter nestled with ice in a small silver bowl. He poured us the Perrier and left. Sipping the mineral water, I looked around. The customers were all attired tastefully, men in suits and women in evening dresses, as if about to attend a concert or an elegant private party. Bathed in the pleasant aroma of gourmet food, they chatted, smiled, ate, drank deeply, and looked satisfied. The tuxedoed and silent-footed waiters moved around the white-clad tables, making delicious clinking sounds. Off in a quiet corner I noticed a distinguished-looking couple-a white man with an Asian woman-both with graying hair and elegant clothes.