Li Ang - The Lost Garden

Lin could only look down at a garden whose design escaped him, for obviously it was now shrouded in a profusion of trees and vegetation. He was surprised when Yinghong spoke up without much thought:

“Just think, I was born in this garden, so my child—”

She stopped, but unease prompted her to continue incoherently:

“I remember once when I was child, a fairly powerful man, General Chen, came to pay us a visit at Lotus Garden. Father hosted a banquet for him at Lotus Tower and I was allowed to join the adults, probably to create a familial atmosphere.”

The recollection brought delight to Yinghong’s face, as she smoothed over her earlier incoherent utterance.

“My father had a Western side to him.”

Lin nodded in agreement.

“The first dish was a cold appetizer. Carefully following my parents’ instructions, I waited until the adults began eating before sampling the food in my bowl. Common with children, I ate the pieces I didn’t like first, saving the best for last. Who’d have thought that the adults would lay down their chopsticks so soon?”

He laughed softly.

“So naturally I had to follow suit and lay down my chopsticks. Then the servers came and took away all the plates and bowls, including mine, with my favorite food still in it.”

“How old were you?” he asked, his eyes brimming with tenderness.

“I don’t really remember, but I know it was before I started school.”

“Do you still recall which favorite dish was taken away?”

“I do, actually. It was cashew nuts,” she said, with an innocent look that bordered on childishness; the feeling of regret persisted. “With a table laden with fancy food, all I was looking forward to was cashew nuts.”

He smiled tenderly, before blurting out in a surprisingly spirited tone:

“Your father saw to it that you were born and raised in the garden, so I, I will help you carry out its renovation. Then our children too will be born and raised in Lotus Garden.”

Caught completely off guard, she looked up at him with confusion in her eyes.

“I want you to marry me,” he said in a hurried but determined voice.

As she fixed her gaze at the man before her, the first thought that came to her mind was a sense that she did not seem to have ever loved him.

Endless clusters of snowy white silver grass flowers in front of Yinghong blanketed heaven and earth.

It was nearly the heart of winter, and yet the silver grass still raged, with giant bunches of white flowers, like wolf tails, growing everywhere and painting the small hill in white. In dry, cold winters, northern winds carried strands and fibers of the flowers into the garden. Their tiny seeds, covered in gray fuzz, drifted all over the place, and when the wind died down, left a fluffy white film on the greenery in the garden, from the wild weeds, to the moss and ivy on the wall, and to the towering trees that were tall enough to block out the roofs.

Finally I saw my very first snow, but what immediately occurred to me was the “snow” I’d witnessed as a child in Lotus Garden.

I must have been a third-grader. I remember it was a winter afternoon when a gust of wind sent a similar whiteness drifting in the air. I thought, at the time, that it must have been the kind of snow scene Otosan had experienced in Japan and Germany. I ran out into the yard to catch the snow, but all I managed to grab hold of were clusters of silver grass blooms, indeed, gray, fuzzy flowers that were feathery light. They began to float in the wind as soon as I opened my hand, wafting over the place so much so that I could only see a flurry of whiteness.

I never knew that the silver grass flowers could be so abundant and so white they looked like snowflakes. Father couldn’t recall such a scene either. Could it be, Ayako, that your homesickness planted a false memory when you saw the snow in New York?

Although I spent so much of my life at Lotus Garden, it was only recently that I was deeply moved by the many wondrous scenes, a result of learning to observe the garden in its minute details. The world is filled with boundless mysteries and wonder; everything is possible and nothing is tenable. I can’t be sure if Ayako has been blessed with karmic fortune to see the rare sight of silver grass flowers blanketing the sky; it could be an illusion, just like the world we live in.

After reaching a certain age, I’ve been thinking recently that everything, including cause and effect, along with retribution, is predetermined, both in this life and in previous incarnations. I still recall when Ayako, as a young child, was nearly bitten by a green bamboo viper, you said that death meant not seeing Father and Mother, and, you added, Lotus Garden. Ayako, you were born and grew up in Lotus Garden, which means you witnessed its various transformations.

You must still recall that year when we set fire to the hill and the wind changed direction suddenly, nearly reducing the garden to ashes. You were the only one who was convinced that the fire would not reach the garden, because you were seeing the flaming hill in the transposed images through the lens of a camera.

And indeed Lotus Garden escaped destruction by fire. Could there be some connection between Ayako and the garden? And what kind of tribulation would the garden, which reached its current state through the efforts of generations of the Zhu family, bring to you? What kind of karmic connection did you have with it?

After spending decades of my life in Lotus Garden, I have yet to see the unusual sight of silver grass flowers covering the sky, as described in your letter. Perhaps this has all been prearranged in some unknown way, for no one can say for sure what happens in life where karmic causes and effects are concerned. Or, it could be that what you saw years ago was, in the end, illusory, like life itself. Even if there were indeed silver grass flowers flying around like drifting snow, the flowers would fall till nothing was left. It would be as if nothing had taken place, nothing appearing and nothing disappearing, for life in the myriad worlds is but a dream.

THE LOTUS GARDEN DONATION CEREMONYtook place in the morning. At noon, a Taiwanese-style banquet was held in the garden, filling all the structures and empty spots under the trees with round tables covered in red tablecloths, as if giant flame flowers were abloom on the summertime garden grounds.

After lunch, VIPs who had come from afar left, while most of the guests stayed behind for the two o’clock lecture under the coral trees by Lotus Tower, with a tour to follow.

The speaker was the middle-aged architect heading the restoration project; a specialist in traditional architecture, he began his lecture in Taiwanese:

“The Taiwanese term liaomweigyah usually refers to a son who squanders his family’s wealth. During the three years of restoration, I spent most of my time in Lucheng, and I’ve often heard the locals speak reverently about the liaomweigyah of the Zhu family, the previous owner of Lotus Garden, Mr. Zhu Zuyan.”

A man who spent years restoring and maintaining historical sites, the architect continued emotionally, showing his fondness for anything old:

“To me, Mr. Zhu was not only not a liaomweigyah but was in fact a protector of ancient structures. Without him, it would be impossible for Lotus Garden to present itself in such a complete state to you all today.”

Some people began to whisper among themselves.

“Yes. Without Mr. Zhu, there would be no Lotus Garden today. If he hadn’t undertaken a total renovation in the early 1950s, this garden, which is over two centuries old and mostly made of wood, would have suffered major damage that could not be easily repaired and returned to its original state, since no modern carpenter possesses the required skills for restoration.”