door with a loud bang that seemed to make the ground shiver. The kids roared with laughter; the kitten jerked. The rotund kid dropped his bamboo stick and picked up the cigarette butt while his comrade cheered him on. “Yes! Poke it in the eyes, the eyes…”
“Stop that and leave her alone!” I shouted. My voice sounded surprisingly intimidating to my own ears. Both kids halted, the fat one’s hand hanging in midair. They looked up and studied me with eyes full of spite. Fat Boy gave me a dirty look and spat, “Bitch!” while Skinny made a gargoyle face by stretching his mouth with his filthy fingers and dropping his tongue. He shouted to Fat Boy “Let’s go!” and the gang of two dispersed noisily, feet splashing in puddles.
I knelt down by the kitten. She lay on the debris-littered sidewalk beside several huge garbage bins with rotten meat and vegetables spilling from the lids. The piece of maroon meat next to her gave off a sickening stench. I stooped nearer and murmured, “Meow, meow” as gently as I could while holding my breath. She struggled to open her eyes. “Meow, meow,” I cooed again, rubbing my finger against her nose, still cool. Then to my utter surprise, she raised her paw to grab. Instinctively I jerked back. But when she mustered all her strength to reach again, a revelation hit me. She was trying to play with the gold-plated Guan Yin pendant swinging from my neck! Deeply moved by this act of innocent desire, I took off the chain and swung the trinket in front of her. She must have found the sparkling gold fascinating, for despite her weakness, she managed to get up and wobble two steps toward me. She grabbed at my pendant several times, making languid arches with her puny paws. After that, she uttered a feeble “meow” and slowly plopped down, her eyelids dropping. Dying-I supposed-from food poisoning.
A sadness climbed up my spine. I stooped there to let the drizzle wet my face, not knowing what to do. Finally, I recited the Heart Sutra and said a short prayer to Guan Yin, asking the Goddess of Mercy to take her soul to the Western Paradise, so that when she was reborn in this world, she would be reincarnated as a human and lead a happier life.
After I finished my prayer I covered the kitten with some newspaper, then hurried out from the back alley. My head ached as I continued to wander along Mott Street, trying to forget what had happened in Lisa’s apartment while the kitten’s image lingered. When she saw my pendant she had wanted to play with it. Even a kitten facing death had not had her desire quenched. Let alone we humans! Dai Nam-hadn’t she spent her whole life hanging on fiercely to the very idea of letting go?
I began to walk fast, and the rain, resuming, trickled like tears down my face. Through my blurred vision, I noticed something green and red in the wet mist-a temple. I dashed across Canal Street, hurried toward the crimson gate, and plunged in.
Inside, I found myself in a large foyer with an unattended reception desk, then a smaller hallway leading to a room painted bright yellow. I stepped across the threshold into the huge deserted chamber, and started to walk around below the large dome. An elaborately carved table, decorated with offerings of flowers and incense, stood before the altar. Behind it, on the altar itself, stood images of Buddhas and Guan Yins. I made a quick bow and turned around toward the exit.
Along the hallway hung rows of pieces of silk, all dyed bright yellow. Fastened to each were pictures of men, women, children, even babies. Curious, I paused to scrutinize them for a few moments until a realization hit me-these were tablets for the dead!
Then my eyes met a baby’s. He was about seven or eight months old, with thick, spiky hair, a round face, and a dimpled smile. On the right-hand side of the tablet was a small row of Chinese characters:
To our dear baby boy Guo Wang
(Country’s Hope),
who passed away on July 10, 1930
The left side read:
With great sadness in heart, your loving parents,
Chan Yan and Lu Feng
I turned away, having no heart to stare any longer at that innocent face. Had he lived, he would have transformed first into a handsome young fellow and by now into…a middle-aged man! I imagined his sad, wrinkled eyes staring at me, as if saying: “Since my parents are long gone, now no one comes to pay homage to me anymore.”
For a moment, I was overcome with sadness. Who knew when it would be my turn to have my picture on a little yellow tablet? Sooner or later we would all join my father, my little brother, the little Country’s Hope, and even the little kitten.
Feeling despondent at the thought, I dragged my feet back to the foyer. Wanting to look for solace and maybe even some answers for my life at present, I walked and looked into several rooms to try to find someone-a monk, a nun, a lay Buddhist volunteer.
Then I heard faint noises emitting from a room. I hastened there, peeked in, and saw a small TV running a Hong Kong soap opera.
“Hello!” I yelled, despite myself.
The door was pulled open and a huge head thrust in front of me. The man’s eyes, big, bulging, and bloodshot, scrutinized me with annoyance. “What’s the matter?” he asked in accented English.
“I…”
“Do you want to burn some fragrant oil and ask for your fortune?”
“To burn fragrant oil” is a euphemism for a donation, since one has to pay both for the fragrance and the oil.
“Hmmm…yes.”
He asked me to pay for a prepackaged offering, then pointed to small bundles of rolled-up rice paper on a tray. “Now pick your fortune.”
When I hesitated, he said, “Don’t worry, miss, all good ones.”
With a pounding heart, I picked up a paper scroll, untied the ribbon, and let my fortune unroll in my palm:
Chances of success: Good
Thunder awakens one who’s in a cocoon.
The butterfly flies off under the evening sun.
What’s within and without combines.
The phoenix finally takes off to meet the dragon.
Confusion together with a bittersweet feeling overwhelmed me as I dragged my feet away from the temple. Was I the butterfly to be awakened from a cocoon and then fly off toward the sun? Was I the phoenix and Michael the dragon? So this was the message from Guan Yin?
After I got out of the taxi from Chinatown and was walking toward Michael’s apartment building, I saw, to my utter surprise, Philip Noble’s tall frame leaning against the wall next to the apartment’s entrance. Wearing a T-shirt, blue jeans, and running shoes instead of his Italian suit and leather shoes, he took on another image-casual, down-to-earth, approachable. He looked tired and depressed, his face gaunt and his eyes sunken. An unspeakable feeling swelled inside me as I stepped toward him.
Spotting me, Philip dashed forward and pulled me into his arms.
When he tried to kiss me, I disentangled myself from his eager arms, then looked up at his pathetically handsome face. “Philip, why didn’t you call?”
“I meant to, but thought I should come and see you in person.”
There was an awkward silence before I asked, “Philip, anything special you want to see me for?” Although I knew exactly the reason.
“Meng Ning, I just want to apologize to you for what happened last night.”
“It’s all right.”
“Can I…come up to your place?”
“You mean Michael’s place.”
“I need to talk.”
“Philip, why don’t you just go home and let’s forget what happened?” I was feeling overwhelmed by this man’s beauty and sadness.
“I can’t…can you? Please, Meng Ning, let me go up-or would you like to come to my place?”
“No, I don’t…”
“Please, I really need to talk.”
Just then the doorman Frank appeared outside the building, holding open the door for an elderly resident. He spotted me and smiled. “Hi, Miss Du,” he said, then searched me and Philip with curious eyes.
I quickly slipped away from Philip and entered Michael’s building.
Back in the apartment, I went straight to the bedroom, threw myself onto the bed, and cried my heart out. What had I done to my life? How could I possibly turn from a potential nun to a slut in less than two months? No, only two days! Now I desperately needed Michael’s strong arms around my shaking body, his large hands to wipe away my tears, his gentle voice to whisper comforting words, steering my life back onto the right track. Or maybe Yi Kong would be the only one who could guide me in life, and her temple my only refuge.
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?”
23. VegetableRootZenCenter
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
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.
