Mingmei Yip - Petals from the Sky

I blushed and muttered an apology. Michael took my hand. “Let’s go and greet him.”

The professor was now talking intimately to a very tall and handsome young woman.

“Michael, who’s that beautiful tall woman next to Professor Fulton?”

Michael looked uneasy. He said awkwardly, “She’s…Lisa Fulton, Professor Fulton’s daughter.”

Just then the woman spotted us and smiled. Michael forced a smile back. We finally waded through the crowd and went up to them. The professor greeted Michael warmly. I was impressed that although the professor’s frame was frail and lean after his stroke, he nevertheless had a commanding bearing.

Michael put his arm around my shoulder. “Professor Fulton, this is Meng Ning from Hong Kong. Meng Ning has just gotten her Ph.D. in Chinese art history from the Sorbonne.” Then he turned to the woman and introduced us.

The professor smiled down at me, exchanged a few pleasantries, then turned right back to chat with Michael.

Lisa Fulton moved to my side and smiled warmly. “So you are Michael’s fiancée?”

I nodded, appreciating this very tall, striking beauty in front of me in a turquoise gown decorated with sequins.

To my surprise, she abruptly lifted up my hand and squinted, her voice sharp. “Wow, the rock is huge! Michael must really love you.”

Before I could respond, she asked, “When are you getting married?”

“Oh, I have no idea. You better ask Michael.”

She imitated my tone. “‘You better ask Michael.’ Lucky little woman! Everything is being taken care of.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that.

While Michael and the professor were engaged in a deep conversation on the arts and the art world, his daughter and I went on learning more about each other. Lisa told me that she was a painter of mainly abstract works and had a gallery representation in SoHo. I was only half listening, for my eyes were busy studying this turquoised goddess in front of me.

Then in the middle of our conversation on New York ’s art galleries, she suddenly said, “Oh, excuse me, I need to greet someone,” and hurried toward a white-haired, heavily jeweled, and lavishly dressed couple.

The clickings of her high heels on the floor sounded uneven to my sensitive ears. The perfect-looking goddess was limping. Did she just hurt her leg?

Now I was standing beside Michael and Fulton, feeling like a child bumped into an adult’s party. The professor was still completely immersed in his conversation with Michael, ignoring me. Michael squeezed my hand from time to time to show that he hadn’t forgotten me.

When he finished talking to Michael, Fulton finally smiled down at me. “You enjoying the reception so far?” He didn’t say my name; maybe he’d already forgotten it.

“Yes. I’m impressed; I’ve never been to anything so grand,” I said, swallowing the following words: or so pompous.

We exchanged some more abstract social babble. I listened and responded, yet was aware that his words were directed mainly toward Michael. I sensed a strong affinity between the two, forming a glass wall through which I could only be a spectator peeking in. Suddenly I decided that I didn’t like Professor Fulton, no matter how important he was in the art circle and to Michael. Maybe it was jealousy; I didn’t feel that I’d ever have a place in this world of the rich and powerful.

Finally Michael said to Fulton, “Meng Ning is also a painter. She learned Buddhist ink painting from a very influential nun in Hong Kong.”

Now the professor’s face glowed slightly. “Oh, please tell me more.”

Eager to draw his attention to me, I pushed away any vestige of Confucian modesty and plunged on to tell him about Yi Kong: how her temple had become the most influential in the colony; how she had acquired a priceless collection of Buddhist art from all over China; how she was now building a multimillion-dollar museum in cooperation with the Hong Kong government.

“But the point is, only my mentor has the connections to take her priceless art out of China,” I said, feeling my face flush.

The professor’s attitude toward me was obviously changing. Now he looked at me intently, asked many detailed questions about Yi Kong’s art collection, and seemed to be very satisfied with all my answers. I tried not to show how much I was enjoying this.

“Next week”-now his smile was reaching high to his ears-“when I’m not as busy with the exhibit, you’ll have to let me take you two to dinner.”

The next day I slept late and Michael had already left for work. After I washed, I brewed tea, then cooked myself a simple brunch of instant noodles with cabbage and a pinch of chili. The engagement ring spread its sparkles everywhere-in the mirror, on the glaze of the ceramic tea cup, the silverware. I felt happy, both for the ring and my scalding spicy noodles.

While I was wondering where I should spend the afternoon exploring Manhattan by myself, the phone rang.

I picked up the receiver and cooed into it flirtatiously, “Hi, Michael.”

“Little woman, is that all you have on your mind?”

“Who’s this?”

“Lisa Fulton, Michael Fulton’s daughter. We met at the Met yesterday.”

“Hi, Lisa. How did you get my phone number?”

“You mean Michael’s phone number? Ha, I knew him long before you did. He’s an old friend.” Before I could respond, she went on. “I’m calling to invite you to see the Pollock show at MoMA in the afternoon. I’m sure you have time and you’re interested?”

“Pollock? Yes, I’d like to go.”

“Good. I’ll find you inside the exhibit around three,” she said, then hung up.

It had begun to drizzle in the afternoon, and the Museum of Modern Art was relatively quiet when I arrived. In the lobby, there were only a few people-milling around, waiting, or inquiring at the membership service counter. An intense-looking man, hands locked behind his back and head tilted high, scrutinized the bold-stroked Motherwell painting spanning the wall to the left.

The Jackson Pollock exhibit was a huge show with more than two hundred works on display, beginning with Pollock’s early drawings, and even a few by his teacher, Thomas Hart Benton. I wandered in front of the many canvasses and drawings, trying to look for possible secret codes hidden within the labyrinths of lines and splashes. I was staring at the intricately choreographed energy of Number 32 when a woman’s alto voice rose to my ears, sweet and mellow like a ripe papaya.

“Beautiful lines, aren’t they?”

I turned and saw a very tall and beautiful woman with a smile like a crescent moon across her tanned face. Her long hair was a matching color; the curls splashed down her shoulders in Pollockian lines. On her neck, several gold chains glittered flirtatiously. Her eyes were dark amber. A Pollock black and bronze scarf with frenzied lines was draped casually across her breasts, and a tight black top slithered around her torso.

I blurted out, “Lisa Fulton! You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Her eyes shot out sparks like Pollack’s dots. Her bronze eye shadow and lipstick enhanced her strong features.

“Pollock is one of my favorite painters.” She smiled. Her teeth, catching the reflection of the light, glowed like fine Chinese porcelain. Her long tapering nails were painted with bronze polish, the color of her hair and lips. Gold bangles jingled on her wrist; one, heavier than the rest, was a panther biting its own tail.

She turned to look at me. “I like the spontaneity, the splashing, and the wildness!” Then she threw back her head and laughed a rich alto laugh, like temple chimes in the wind. A ponytailed guy stared at us. She winked back.