Petals from the Sky. Mingmei Yip

told us that since someone had just called to cancel their reservation, we were fortunate to have the last table by the window.

      Wriggling her hips to the lively rhythm of the background jazz, she led us to the table by a floor-length window with tall, tropical plants. As the hostess clicked away on her narrow high heels, Michael stepped to my side of the table to pull out the chair for me.

      I looked around and remembered once reading that during the colonial period, this site had been a resting place for sedan carriers who brought the very rich and privileged to the top of Victoria Peak. Now it was a restaurant for all. I liked its English medieval pointed vaults, cozy stone fireplace, dark paintings of English landscapes—and, of course, the mouthwatering aroma of food permeating the entire place: roast beef, grilled shrimp, lamb in curry sauce….

      A tuxedoed waiter handed us large menus. Silence fell as we looked over the long list of dishes.

      “Well, Meng Ning, have you decided?” Michael finally asked.

      “Not quite, what about you?”

      “I’m vegetarian, so I’ll have sun-dried tomato pasta and Perrier.”

      Feeling embarrassed at being carnivorous, I said I’d have the same, suppressing my craving for a lamb chop. When the waiter left, Michael asked, “Are you also vegetarian?”

      “Not really,” I said, then quickly added, “Are you vegetarian because you’re a Buddhist or because you’re a doctor?”

      “Both.” He nodded toward a neighboring table where a rotund Chinese man was attacking a pork steak, clanking his knife and fork like a warrior, and gobbling heroically. “That battered pork over there used to be a healthy pig, who sunbathed on the meadow, flirted with his girlfriend, told jokes to his children, dreamt sweet dreams under shaded trees, played, laughed.”

      I blushed.

      Michael leaned forward to pat my hand. “Don’t worry, the Buddha was also carnivorous, since he had to eat whatever he found in his begging bowl, meat or vegetables.”

      Not knowing what to say, I looked out the window. The revolving restaurant inched on in largo, taking in the skyline of City Hall, the Conrad Hong Kong hotel, the Hong Kong Bank, the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, the needle-like Bank of China tower designed by I.M. Pei.

      My gaze continued to wander until it alighted on the dim outline of the mountains of the Kowloon Peninsula, the presence of China looming behind them.

      Yi Kong once said If our hearts are not centered, even living in the remotest mountain is like living in a prison. She tapped her heart. Our home is where our hearts settle, and as monks and nuns, our hearts settle anywhere. Whether Hong Kong, the United States, China, even in prison, that shouldn’t make any difference.

      If there was no difference, why then did she want me to enter her temple to become a nun?

      Michael’s voice broke in on my thoughts. “Amazing that I find Hong Kong so beautiful, since I mainly like simple things…I mean simple, yet beautiful things, like Chinese art.” He paused for a second, then said, “Meng Ning, you have a Ph.D. in Asian art history from the Sorbonne?”

      “Yes and no. I still need to go back to Paris for my oral defense.”

      “I love Chinese art.”

      “You do?” I studied Michael’s green eyes and high nose.

      Just then the waiter arrived with our Perrier. When he’d poured our drinks and left, Michael raised his glass to touch mine with a crisp clink!

      “Cheers, Meng Ning. To our having met.”

      “Cheers,” I echoed, feeling a little breathless.

      Between sips, I explained how I’d learned to appreciate Zen art from my nun friend Yi Kong, also a collector. Michael said he liked Song and Yuan dynasty art for its simplicity and elegance, but disliked ornate Qing dynasty art because it was created to show off rather than to give private pleasure.

      “It doesn’t inspire the same feelings of solitude and meditation.” He looked into my eyes. “Things might not last forever, but affections can, and that’s what we cherish in life.”

      I felt both stirred and uneasy. “Sometimes,” I said, avoiding his gaze, “I do like busy art, though.”

      Michael ignored my remark. He leaned forward to gaze at me, a smile blossoming on his face. “Meng Ning, I like to forget my troubles with beautiful things. Chinese art does that for me.”

      I turned raw and tender inside. Few Chinese can understand the subtlety, deep vision, and the deceptive plainness of Chinese art, let alone Americans.

      He went on. “I like its sense of nature. It’s still hard for me to understand why something so simple can be so beautiful…and so comforting.”

      “Because when feelings are too fully expressed,” I said, being very careful to sound casual and not to look at him directly, “no room is left for the unknown and the mysterious.”

      Right then the waiter came back with our dinners. After he’d served us and left, Michael watched me start to eat before he dug his fork into his spaghetti. The pasta tasted much better than I’d expected. The cooking and seasoning were just right, and the slight bite of the parmesan cheese was pleasing.

      “Michael”—I watched him twirl long strands of pasta around his fork—“how long have you been interested in Chinese art?”

      Michael finished chewing the noodles, then put down his fork and dabbed his mouth with the napkin. “Since medical school. One day I received a package in the mail and opened it, not realizing it was for someone else. Inside I found a book on Chinese painting; I glanced through it, not paying much attention at first. Then I became captivated. Those paintings had the kind of beauty I’d been looking for my entire life.

      “It’s the sense of tranquility—the way a whole landscape is built up from simple brushstrokes. Opening that package changed my life. I believe what happens is the result of karma. The package was addressed to a Professor Michael Fulton in the Fine Arts department. I received it by mistake. Fulton, Fuller—a simple mix-up that awakened me to Chinese culture and led me to become a Buddhist.

      “Later, I took the book to Professor Fulton’s office and ended up spending more than an hour discussing paintings with him. The next year I managed to sneak away from some of my medical school lectures to attend his class on Chinese art. He’s now one of my best friends. His collection of Chinese art is small, but all are masterpieces. He jokes that he could never marry because he needs the space for his art collection.”

      “Michael, you must be Professor Fulton’s favorite student.”

      Michael’s expression changed slightly. “Michael Fulton and I are very close; he’s…like a father to me.”

      “Oh…and your own parents?”

      “I’ve been an orphan since I was a teenager,” Michael said matter-of-factly, yet I saw a glimmer of sadness flash across his eyes.

      “I’m really sorry….”

      “It’s all right.”

      The green in his eyes softened; his voice became a whisper. I wondered if he had transcended sorrow and spoken from wisdom.

      Suddenly a strange emotion caught me by surprise—I felt a strong desire to comfort him with a touch, or even…a hug. Like what I had given to the little boy after the fire. I bit my lip and suppressed my feelings. I wanted to know more about his life, but since I’d just met him, I didn’t think I should be too inquisitive.

      Michael changed the subject, his voice cheerful again. “Why don’t you tell me about your family?”

      I did.

      Michael seemed very interested in my life. “You’re a very unusual woman, Meng Ning.”

      Just then the waiter came back and asked,