Petals from the Sky. Mingmei Yip

was not written by Father but by Su Dongpo, the great Song dynasty poet. Worse, Father had changed the original “ten years” of Su’s poem to suit his eight years’ separation from Mother. It broke my heart that Mother could not see the truth, even when it was bared right in front of her eyes. To her, believing is seeing, rather than the reverse. Or did she deliberately choose to be blind?

      Suddenly, a strong wind blew from the window and the rice papers scattered on the floor in a flurry. Mother stooped to pick them up, embarrassing me with her plump torso and her awkward pose.

      “Quick, Meng Ning, close the windows! And be careful not to trample on your father’s poems!”

      I went up to the windows and saw, to my surprise, that what brightly shone outside the window was not the moon, but a streetlamp.

      The phone’s trilling jolted me awake from my reverie; I snatched it up. “Hello.”

      “Can I speak to Meng Ning, please.”

      “Michael?” My heart raced.

      “Yes. Meng Ning.” A pause, then, “Are you all right? I called last night, but nobody answered the phone. I was worried about you.”

      “Oh, I’m so sorry, Michael. I didn’t hear anything. Mother must have turned off the phone. Sometimes she doesn’t want to be bothered. I’m fine.”

      “Your knee and ankle…you want me to come over and change the bandages for you?”

      “No thanks. I think I can manage,” I said, feeling a tug at my heart and suppressing it.

      He asked whether I would like to go to the hospital with him to visit Yi Kong and other patients from the fire.

      I was glad he’d asked, and suddenly ashamed. How could I have forgotten to think of my mentor, who not only had taught me Buddhism and Zen painting, but also had given me free meals and even lent me money for my father’s funeral?

      Michael was waiting for me by the entrance of Kwong Wah Hospital when I arrived at five-thirty in the afternoon. We bought some fruit and juice at a street stall outside, then walked into the lobby.

      Yi Kong slept, with two nuns sitting at her bedside—the eye-twitching nun and a young novice. Once I’d put the gift on the chest beside the bed, they signaled us to go outside.

      When we were in the corridor, they both exclaimed, “A Mi Tuo Fo! Praise to the Merciful Buddha! Thank you so much for what you two have done.” Although I remembered them from the retreat, I’d never asked their names. The eye-twitching nun was Lonely Journey and the young nun No Dust. Lonely Journey told us Yi Kong was only exhausted from the fire and worried about the damage caused, but she was otherwise fine.

      Michael asked how the fire started. No Dust frowned. “An eight-year-old boy did it.” Her voice grew angry. “He is the naughtiest in our orphanage, can never be disciplined. Yesterday he stole some meat from who knows where and tried to cook it behind the Meditation Hall, but he fell asleep. We only learned about the cause this morning when another orphan came to tell us. He hasn’t come himself to apologize.”

      No Dust paused. “This boy came to our orphanage after his father stabbed his mother to death and none of his relatives were willing to take him, fearing he’d bring bad luck into their houses. We took him, and now see what he’s done to us.” Then she widened her eyes. “Bad boy! The fire could have killed the Venerable Yi Kong!”

      Michael spoke, his voice sad. “He’s just a boy. It’s just his ignorance, and…it’s hard to be an orphan.”

      The two nuns smiled, looking embarrassed, then began to talk about other things. Toward the end of our conversation, Lonely Journey told me that Yi Kong wished to see me after she was out of the hospital.

      Michael and I headed toward the Yau Ma Tei MTR station on Waterloo Road. The broad street was crowded with hurrying people and speeding cars. As we passed the YMCA, I saw our reflections in the glass door. Michael looked spirited in his green shirt and khaki pants, his hair slightly mussed by the breeze. While I, in my white blouse and long skirt (to cover my scraped knee), looked like a child beside him. Then I noticed we were holding hands. Feeling my color rise, I immediately withdrew mine. Michael seemed not to notice. “Meng Ning, would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

      9

      The Peak

      Michael suggested the Peak Restaurant, so we walked to the station, took the MTR to Tsim Sha Tsui, then walked to the pier to board the Star Ferry to Central. On the ferry, I felt the teeming life of the harbor with its buzzing noises and its smells of salt, seaweed, and fish, while I watched the imposing skyline draw near. In the twilight, outlines of the many-layered buildings seemed to undulate like contrapuntal music. I pondered which was real, which illusory: Central District, where the world’s most frenzied speculators meet to invest their billions, or the Fragrant Spirit Temple, where thousands of disciples flood to accumulate merit? But wasn’t their merit now all gone in the blaze? In my mind, once again the fire, like a fierce goddess, danced, glared, and radiated spidery fingers through my imagination, to mock my fascination and fear.

      I shivered.

      Michael put his arm around me. “Meng Ning, are you OK?”

      I looked at his face and remembered Yi Kong had once said, Detach from human love; it’s illusory.

      But what about her compassion and Michael’s kindness—were they equally illusory?

      “I’m fine, Michael,” I said. “Just a bit confused.”

      “You’re still thinking about the fire?”

      I remained silent. How could I tell him I was, in fact, less troubled by the fire than by my aroused feelings about men—about him?

      He pulled me closer to him. “It’s over, and we’re fine.”

      We got off the ferry and began to stroll. The walk took five minutes, during which we didn’t talk much except about the fire.

      It was almost eight when we arrived at the Garden Road tram station. We stood with a few tourists and local Chinese in the small waiting area. Trams ran every ten minutes, so it wasn’t long before we boarded.

      With a jerk and a crisp ting! the tram began to climb the steep hill. Inside, tourists squirmed excitedly on wooden seats or clutched nervously at leather straps. Three Chinese women with teenage daughters, all carrying small cameras over their small breasts, giggled and screamed whenever there was another jerk or ting!

      Michael and I leaned by the window, gazing outside. The sky had just blushed into fuchsia, anticipating the rising of Goddess Moon. It was hot, but the sea breeze felt fresh on my face.

      After a while, I saw Victoria Harbor appear in ellipses between crowded buildings. Across the harbor, the emerald water reached lazily to embrace the ragged coastline of Kowloon. I found myself seeing Hong Kong through fresh eyes. After the fire, now everything—even the familiar—looked acute and interesting: the harbor, the sea, the meditating boats, the shimmering neon lights blinking like sweet dreams. As a solitary cloud drifted across the moon, I nudged closer to Michael.

      He pointed outside. “Meng Ning, look at the airport runway.” His long finger directed my eyes to Kowloon.

      The brightly lit runway stretched out into the royal blue sea like a fiery tongue, quietly lapping up a plane. My heart stirred at Michael’s physical presence. The air around me seemed to be filled with his cologne and his body heat.

      He said, “I think Hong Kong is the only city in the world where the plane lands right in the middle of things. I like that. It’s Zen, right here and now.”

      The tram strained toward the top of the hill and all the buildings outside looked slanted, as if they were falling down. I felt a jolt inside. Was it an omen that I’d also soon be falling…in love?

      Just then the tram passed a thicket of bamboo and fir trees and jerked to its stop—the