Mingmei Yip - Petals from the Sky

Right then the master spoke again in his composed tone. “But that’s in the past; no blame now.”

In the past-what did he mean? Was Michael hiding a son somewhere?

Just then I felt Michael’s hand on my thigh. “What did he say?”

But I had no chance to translate, for the master pointed to his forehead and continued. “See, the pale shadow hanging over your friend’s forehead also shows that he had a difficult youth. Something happened to him when he was…I think fifteen, or sixteen.” He tilted his head to get a better look at Michael under the light. “As you can see, his eyes are long and deep and his gaze spirited, signifying wealth and honor. But because sometimes his eyes are also fathomless, his love life will not be smooth.” He paused. “In fact, it’s rather troubled. He might have more than one marriage. Anyway, when he was a rich and eminent Chinese in his past life, he kept several concubines. He needed their yin energy.” Then he paused to scrutinize me. “Your friend also needs to build his yin energy, which he let run down. Too many negative yin ”-he meant “dead”-“people in his life. They drain away his positive yin energy.”

I remembered the décor in Michael’s apartment, which desperately needed some positive yin touch-sources of female energy like crawling plants, flowers, wind chimes, colorful pictures.

“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. Miss, inside you there’s a spring of young yin energy that you should put to good use by helping your friend. Remember: when man and woman occupy their correct places it is the great righteousness of heaven.” He paused, then added, “Your friend is starving for your yin energy.”

Before I had the time to absorb what he’d said, the master went on to praise Michael’s strong fingers with conical tips, which indicated intelligence and moral rectitude. And Michael’s voice, deep and sonorous like bells, signified longevity. But, he added, if a person has a bell-like voice and also a deformity like a mole underneath the eyebrow, he can still risk dying young. Like my father, I suddenly realized-and squirmed.

As if reading my mind, the master stroked his beard meditatively. “Our faces are formed by our hearts, and we can always change our hearts by accumulating merit.” He concluded his reading by motioning to Michael. “His beginning has not been good. But as long as your friend is steadfast to face his loss, his life will be long and righteous.”

He stopped, then asked, “Are you his girlfriend?”

I lowered my head and felt color rising to my cheeks.

He smiled. “Good. Then listen carefully, miss. He not only needs you, he needs the woman in you, not the little girl.”

“Master, what do you mean?” As I tried to make him explain more, he waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve already revealed enough of heaven’s secrets.”

The girl came and took us out of the room. After we’d paid, she walked us to the door. “ A Mi Tuo Fo -Hail to the Merciful Buddha-and good luck.” Then she winked at me. “Your boyfriend is too thin; you should cook him more tonic soup, like I do for Master.”

I smiled, wondering what her relationship was with the fortune-teller. Then I turned to look at Michael and felt a tenderness swell in my chest.

During our taxi ride home, I told Michael about the fortune-teller’s readings: my previous incarnation as a nun, my love debt, his good physiognomy, fortune, longevity, and his bad karmic relationship with his relatives.

As I wondered whether I should tell him what had been said about his troubled love life and his lack of yin energy, Michael asked, his eyes intense, “Meng Ning, is that what he really said?”

“Yes.”

“Did he really say my parents, or even my…son, sacrificed for me?”

“Yes…but, Michael, this is just for fun.” I looked at his creased brows. “You’re not going to take his words seriously, are you?”

Michael’s face flushed; he didn’t respond.

“Michael, you were not”-I swallowed the words-“married before?”

Michael had already guessed my question. “Meng Ning, I’ve never been married.”

“Then the fortune-teller is wrong and you shouldn’t worry-”

“But didn’t he say anything at all about my love life?”

“He said…you might have two marriages-”

“Damn!”

“Michael, relax! Didn’t you say this is superstition?”

Right then the taxi jerked to a stop in front of a red light. A very tall truck pulled up right next to us. Michael looked up; the truck driver, his muscular, tattooed arm dangling outside the window, looked down and hollered, “What are you, some kind of asshole?”

Michael shot back, “Why don’t you go fuck yourself!”

“Why don’t you bite my ass!”

Michael yelled, “You jerk off, asshole!” and gave him the finger.

The truck driver’s eyes read murder. Then, just as he opened the door to get out, the light changed and our cab shot ahead.

Shocked, I threw him a sharp glance. “Michael!”

He didn’t respond.

“Michael, you all right?”

“I’m sorry.” His face reddened and his voice cracked. “I’m so ashamed of myself… I…I guess I’m just tense.”

Something was troubling Michael. What was it? Were there still things that the fortune-teller had deliberately left out for fear of revealing too many secrets of heaven? As I wondered, the taxi pulled to a stop in front of his apartment building.

Back home, Michael brewed coffee and prepared some snacks.

When we were sipping and munching, the fortune-teller’s reading kept spinning in my mind. I eyed Michael. There was much I wanted to ask him about, but his forlorn expression made me swallow my questions.

The crunching of chips seemed to be the only sound punctuating the silence between us. Finally Michael looked up and smiled wryly. He tried to say something but stopped before he began.

“Michael”-I reached to touch his face-“please tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I’ve been thinking about my parents.”

I remembered the fortune-teller’s words:

The pale shadow hanging over your friend’s forehead also shows that he had a difficult youth. Something happened to him when he was fifteen, or sixteen.

Knowing that this was a difficult subject for him, I asked very softly, “You mind telling me about them?”

“Only briefly, for I really don’t want to bore you with the details.”

“I understand. Go ahead.”

“When I was fourteen, my mother had an unexpected pregnancy and died giving birth to my younger sister. A year later, my father remarried. The woman was his gold-digger secretary and a monster. The marriage lasted less than two years because my father died seven months after being diagnosed with cancer. After the funeral, I never heard from my stepmother again, and I’m actually very glad about that. However, my father left all his money to her and I was penniless.”

“I’m so sorry, Michael. Then how did you survive?”

“Philip Noble. Philip’s father was an ophthalmologist and comfortably off. He invited me to live with them.”

“What about your other relatives?”

“My grandparents were gone. My mother had sometimes mentioned a black-sheep uncle who owned a small bar in New Jersey. But when I finally tracked down his phone number and talked to him, he was furious that I’d found him. Not only did he refuse to help, he hollered, ‘Who gave a shit about me when I was poor?’

“I spent some time with the Nobles, but I couldn’t ask for too much from them-after all, they are not my parents. So it was really my discovery of Chinese art that changed things for me. Somehow it brought me back to life again. Both the art and Professor Fulton. I became closer to him than to Philip’s father because we shared more interests. Professor Fulton should be at the Met tomorrow; I’ll introduce him to you. He was very kind to me. I owe him a lot.”