Besides, being a nun won’t get rid of men, if that’s what you think.”
“No, Michael, Yi Kong doesn’t care about men!”
“You really believe that?”
“Of course!”
“Maybe she doesn’t,” Michael said matter-of-factly, “but I’m sure that won’t stop her from wanting their money. If Yi Kong is as successful as you say, I’m sure she has to deal with men all the time, helping her with her projects or donating to her temple-”
“Michael, you don’t know her, so don’t criticize her!”
“You really believe she got all her donations to build a school, an orphanage, a nursing home, a museum, and to reconstruct the whole nunnery only from women?”
I was speechless.
Michael went on. “Instead of just letting you worship Guan Yin and recite the Heart Sutra, I think your mentor should have encouraged you to meditate more.”
“She did. But I don’t care about it.”
“But that’s the only way to free yourself from your prejudices. I don’t say your devotional feelings are bad, Meng Ning. But, after all, Guan Yin is just a symbol.”
A long pause. Then Michael’s voice turned gentler. “Meng Ning, you don’t know what Yi Kong really had gone through before she entered the empty gate. If she has no idea what it’s like to be loved by a man, then how can she be so sure that that kind of love is illusory?
“We’re all going to die someday, whether inside or outside the empty gate. We cannot avoid death, but no one should die filled with regret over denying one’s heart. And don’t judge all men by your experience with your father. Nobody has two Buddhas as parents.”
Suddenly I felt mortified and eager for physical intimacy. Yet Michael, sitting easily beside me, didn’t seem to have any idea what to do.
Finally he asked, “What do you want me to do, Meng Ning?”
I remained silent.
He reached toward me, pulling me to him, and kissed me. Then, as if suddenly thinking of something, he stood up, walked to his briefcase, took something out, and returned to hand me an embroidered Chinese pouch. “I bought this for you in Boston.”
“What is it?” I asked, unzipping the pouch.
It was a jade bracelet.
I felt tears stinging my eyes and a pebble stuck in my throat so I couldn’t talk.
Michael looked at me tenderly. “You like it?” His eyes were green, translucent, and flawless like my grandmother’s jade bracelet.
I nodded.
“I’m sorry you lost your jade bracelet. I hope this can cheer you up a bit.” He cupped my face; my heart pounded at his soft breaths.
“You break my heart when you look so sad,” he said, then kissed me again.
He went on: “I know your father gambled away the bracelet you meant to inherit. I’d love you to have another one.” Lovingly, Michael slipped the bracelet onto my hand. But it hung pathetically loose on my wrist.
“Can we size it?” he asked, now looking extremely dejected.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think so, Michael.”
“I feel so bad. What…are we going to do with it?”
Silence, then I said, “Why don’t we give it to my mother as a gift?”
Michael’s face seemed shrunk, his voice sad. “If that’s what you want-”
“Michael, I’m sorry…”
He looked completely crushed.
My heart, like a knocked-over shelf of condiments, spilled a hundred different feelings and flavors.
25. The Funeral
The next morning, the air between Michael and me was still tense. We ate our breakfast quietly, without much talking. After that, he planted a kiss on my forehead. “Meng Ning, I’ll be coming home a little early tonight, around six.” Then he left like a breeze.
Toward four in the afternoon, I suddenly realized I needed to go grocery shopping to replenish the almost empty fridge. By the time I arrived home, it was five. After I’d closed the door behind me I saw, to my surprise, Michael. He was sitting on the sofa and looking very pale. My heart started to pound. Something must have gone wrong; otherwise he wouldn’t be home so early. Had he found out what happened between me and Philip, or me and Lisa?
I put down the groceries by the door, then hurried to sit next to him on the sofa, feigning calm. “Michael, you all right?”
“Some very bad news,” he said, looking pained and on the verge of tears.
My heart flipped. “What is it?”
“Professor Fulton died this afternoon. I tried to call you, but there was no answer.”
“Oh, my God…I’m sorry…so sorry. How…did it happen?”
A shadow fell across Michael’s kind face. “Massive heart attack. They tried to resuscitate him but it didn’t work.”
My initial shock was now replaced by a flood of guilt. I had spoken ill of the man, Michael’s substitute father! Why had I been so insensitive?
“The funeral will be held in three days,” Michael said darkly.
“Michael”-I took his hand-“I’ll be there with you.”
“Thank you,” he said, then nestled his head against my chest. I thought I could feel a sob, but could not see his face.
Later as we made love, I was aware of Michael’s sadness. His fiery passion and hunger for affection, instead of pleasing me, made me think of him being with Lisa. I couldn’t help but imagine how he had made it with her, or she with him. Had she led Michael on as she had me? Then a new jealousy hit me. Her shriveled leg-caused by the car accident when Michael was driving. Although it marred her beauty, paradoxically it also enhanced it. Perfection tires the eyes, but a little flaw can be an opening into something more exciting. Was Michael still enticed by that vulnerability, that perfect imperfection?
After lovemaking, Michael lay silently next to me. I suddenly realized that, instead of sharing his grief, I’d been absorbed in my own jealousy and confusion.
“Michael…” I heard the guilt in my voice as I reached to touch him. But he’d already fallen asleep.
On Thursday, Michael and I arrived early at the funeral home.
Inside its grand but gloomy and depressing lobby, Michael shook hands with the funeral director and chatted with him for a moment.
When we were alone, he said, “Do you mind coming with me while I see Professor Fulton this last time?”
I nodded. He took my hand and led me to kneel before the casket. I always felt uneasy looking at the dead. But Professor Fulton actually looked calm and dignified. His high forehead, together with the thatch of white hair, made me think of a snowcapped mountain where high monks and nuns would live a secluded life far from earthly foulness. I closed my eyes and whispered a short prayer to wish him happiness and entry into Amida Buddha’s Western Paradise.
I continued to stare at the professor as I felt tears in my eyes-for his death, for his life, for Michael, for my guilty conscience, for some other submerged yearnings I had yet to name.
I turned and saw Michael’s face damp with tears.
“Oh, Michael…” I reached to take his hand.
“Meng Ning, you’re all I have now,” he said without looking at me. “Please…always be with me.”
“I will,” I whispered back, feeling his sadness and helplessness in my grasp, and touched by both.
I thought of the dying kitten. Had it been a premonition of Fulton ’s death?
Then I turned to look at the encoffined professor and mused that no matter how much rouge they had applied to his face to give him the illusion of life, he was still but a corpse. A breathless, emotionless, souless object on display.
An installation art.
Now where was this man who, only a few days ago, had extended an invitation to Michael and me for dinner, not knowing that he’d never be able to show up?
Feeling ridiculous and a bit unbearable, I said to Michael, “I’ll go look at Professor Fulton’s pictures.”
“All right, but don’t be long. If you come back and I’m not here, just look around. I’ll be greeting people.”
“I won’t be long,” I said, then stood up and walked to the desk in a far corner, on top of which were several albums. I turned the pages of one album and saw pictures of Professor Fulton-talking to some important-looking people in a meeting, giving a lecture, appreciating a Chinese scroll painting, standing in front of a huge ceramic vase. I continued to turn pages and saw Fulton and Lisa and Michael in various settings: a room tastefully decorated with antiques and paintings and filled with books; in an open-air cafe in front of museums, statues, ruins…until my eyes fell on something that made my heart knock hard against my chest. In a fancy restaurant, arms linked and eyes locked, Michael and Lisa were giving each other champagne to sip from tall glasses while Professor Fulton looked on, smiling. Then the next one showed Michael and Lisa kissing on a mountain top, the amber setting sun glowing behind them. Yet another one was taken on a beach. Clad in swimsuits, they were holding each other by the waist, their foreheads touching, their eyes devouring each other’s souls. Clad in a revealing bikini, Lisa’s tanned, near-perfect body could be the object of bitter envy of any woman and the determined goal of all men. In this picture, her two long legs, symmetrical and healthy, would stir the lust of all beings.
Had Lisa deliberately included the photos of her with Michael so that I would see them? I set down the album-more loudly than I had intended-and turned to walk away. But the place was now very crowded and there was not a trace of Michael. My heart fluttered like a bird struggling to fly out of its cage. Dying for some fresh air, I hurriedly moved toward the exit. Then, when nearing the gate, my feet halted. Michael was chatting with an important-looking couple. And next to them stood Lisa, tall and imposing like a bronze statue. Engaged in a very deep conversation, the four seemed to have known one another for a long time. The sixtyish Asian woman in a finely tailored black suit gestured nervously and looked almost anorexic. I recognized them-the trustee of the Met and his wife-from La Cote Basque, where I had been upset because Michael hadn’t introduced me to them.
Michael turned and spotted me. Lisa also spotted me and our eyes met; she cast me a knowing smile as if we’d been sharing the profoundest secrets under heaven. I imagined her saying, “You liked what we did the other day, didn’t you? Admit it.” And now she smiled as if suggesting we were allies performing tricks behind Michael’s back.
My heart clutched and I disliked her bitterly at this moment. I pretended not to see them and quickly walked behind a crowd.
Then I heard a familiar voice emanating from this small gathering of tall, expensively dressed men. I looked up and saw a familiar face-Philip Noble.
