Mingmei Yip - Petals from the Sky

The sharp ringing of the telephone jolted me upright. I picked up the receiver and heard Michael’s tender voice from the other end of the line. “Meng Ning, you had a good time today? What are you doing right now?”

The following day, Saturday, Michael returned from Boston. I feigned a headache and slept most of the time to avoid conversation. He tended to me tenderly, our two-day-old quarrel forgotten. On Sunday, sensing my distress, he insisted on taking me to a temple in Flushing where, he told me, I could meditate and feel better. I had no energy to say no. Besides, my conscience told me that I should please him.

While we were lining up for lunch with other lay Buddhists in the Vegetable Root Zen Center, Michael told me that he would like me to meet some of the monks.

A yellow-robed Chinese monk came up to greet us. I could not help finding his face very ugly, with its bulging eyes, buckteeth, and sharp chin. Bones seemed to stick out of his tattered robe.

Michael put his hands together and bowed respectfully. “ Nan Mo A Mi Tuo Fo, Master Hidden Virtue.” Then he gestured toward me. “This is Du Meng Ning, my fiancée.”

The monk grinned so widely that I feared his teeth were going to fall out. He pointed to my tray. “Eat more, Miss Du.”

While exchanging bows with him, I tried my best to use my Zen mind to suppress my aversion.

Before he left, he said cordially to Michael, “Please eat more, Doctor Fuller. Then stay for our performance of martial arts by monks from the famous Shaolin temple in China.”

As he walked away under the overhead fans, the fluttering of his robe somehow seemed to show detachment from the dusty world-so far the only redeeming feature I could find.

This center was quite unlike the temples I had known in Hong Kong. Everything seemed depressing-the bare, paint-peeled walls; the bare, gray stone floor. What appeal did Michael find in this place where there were no pretty nuns, no tender yin energy, but only monks like bundles of dried-up sticks? I let out a long breath.

“See, Meng Ning, “Michael, oblivious of my mood, said jokingly. “Master Hidden Virtue is not interested in the fact that you’re my fiancée and that we’re getting married.”

I didn’t respond.

Michael continued on a different track. “He must think that, as a gweilo, I’d like martial arts, but I don’t.”

“I do.” I deliberately contradicted him to vent my frustration.

“Do you?” He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never told me that.”

“You never asked.”

But Michael looked at me tenderly. “I’m sure there’re still lots of things I’ll learn about you, Meng Ning. I look forward to that.” He took my hand in his and whispered into my ear, “I love you.”

Again I didn’t respond, but kept inching forward with the crowd. Ahead of me stood a Chinese boy whining to his mother that he hated vegetarian food and wanted a hamburger from McDonald’s.

The mother lowered her voice, widened her eyes, and chided, “Son, I warn you, no more complaining! Now it’s only one more week before you can eat meat again. Can’t you wait just one more week? When your grandfather recovers from his operation, he’ll give you big lucky money for the merit you accumulated for him by eating no meat. You understand? So stop fussing right now and think about your karma!”

The boy, though he stopped complaining, continued to sulk, his face a wrinkled tangerine. His mother pinched him on the ear.

“Aiii-ya!” He made an animal-being-slaughtered sound.

Michael and I got our food, then sat down on a bench to eat. The food was tasty and balanced in qi -cooked with the right proportion of sugar and salt, wine and vinegar, water and oil. A mindful preparation, but even that didn’t arouse my appetite. For now, things in my life seemed-like the smell of the food and the pained “aiii-ya!” -suspended in midair.

Michael put some of his fungus and mushrooms onto my plate. “I’m so happy we can be together in this temple.” He began to eat ravenously. “Reminds me of how we met in the Fragrant Spirit Monastery.”

“I hope there won’t be another fire.”

Michael squinted at me curiously, then returned to his food. In this modest temple, Michael seemed transformed, especially in comparison to his bearing at the Met the other night. Then and there he’d acted and talked fastidiously, while here he seemed happy and relaxed, like someone in his natural habitat.

When most had finished eating, Master Hidden Virtue walked to the center of the hall and announced, “Gud afternun, evibody. I hope you all enjoyed your lunch. Before we start our meditation sexssions, the monks from the Shaolin Temple of the Henan province of China will perform for us their famous marso arts.” Now I was even more annoyed by this bony monk’s thick accent.

He motioned to the fourteen gray-clad monks standing behind him by the altar. The monks smiled back, showing fourteen rows of teeth against darkly tanned faces.

Master Hidden Virtue pushed his glasses up and, bulging-eyed and bucktoothed, went on. “Shaolin kung fu has been handed dan drough seventy generations-over one dousand years-from the northern Wei dynasty to the present day. This heart and mind boxing, which mimics the actions of animals and men, is known to be as swift as lightning, as ferocious as a taiger, and as elusive as qinging clouds. All the Shaolin Shifus are renowned for their airlegant posture-sitting crossed-legged like a bell, standing steadfastly like a pine, woking speedily like the wind, sliping with bodies curved like a bow.

“Shaolin kung fu specializes in boxing, cudgeling, and internal exercises that embody a deep Zen philosophy. Combining soft and hard strategy, the monks defend like a virgin and attack like a tiger.”

Amidst waves of applause, the Shaolin monks now strode to the center. I felt a little happier that they looked young, muscular, and full of confidence. One with an angular face and torchlike eyes walked in front and led the others to bow deeply to the audience, hands in the prayer gesture. Fleetingly, fourteen bald heads caught the reflection of the bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Another round of applause exploded in the hall.

When the cheers finally died down, the monks stepped aside. Then, out of nowhere, four young child monks dashed to the front. Pink-cheeked and robust, their eyes darted like dark marbles on a cloudless sky. From the side, their clean-shaven heads resembled big question marks. They giggled and bowed; the audience clapped halfheartedly.

But then, like flashes of lightning, they thrust their fists and jolted their legs in a series of graceful movements-kicking one leg to the side, squatting on one leg with arms punching, stretching hands like a dragon’s claw, kicking while standing on their heads, back-somersaulting…

The audience was silent for a beat, then broke into thunderous applause.

The next performance was qigong . The head monk, all muscles and fierce eyes, firmly planted his feet apart on the ground and looked quite still, when in fact, Master Hidden Virtue told the audience, he was moving his qi-internal energy.

Michael said into my ear, “I like this, motion in stillness, or vice versa.”

Still upset, I didn’t respond. Now the head monk finally finished moving his qi and was ready for actual kung fu. Four younger, twentyish monks tested their broad knives by rubbing their blades back and forth on the head monk’s abdomen. Then, before I knew what was going to happen, the novices let out a sharp “Ahhh!” and stabbed him in the stomach with full force.

I screamed; Michael pressed my shoulder against his. “Meng Ning, you all right?”