by Mingmei Yip
Like a good kid she obediently drank the last drop as I watched her like a mother her sick child. I had no idea what thoughts were on her mind, but they were definitely nothing simple—this complicated, sophisticated, dying woman. My mother.
She touched my cheek. “Don’t worry too much, my daughter. All our maps are just previewed ones and can always be redrawn.”
33
Tea House
That night, exhausted from the meeting with my mother, I decided to give myself a break, so before going to sleep I unplugged the phone. Other nights I had sometimes been awakened by callers speaking in strange dialects who were misdirected by the operators to my room.
The next morning, feeling a little more rested, I went down to the hotel restaurant for the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet. As soon as my eyes landed on the abundant spread of food—Chinese doughnuts, pork buns, pickled vegetables, onion and scallion pancakes, thousand-year-old eggs, fermented stinky tofu, fried rice, congee (with scallion and beef, fish fillet, pork belly, and seafood), all kinds of juice and tea—my stomach started to rumble like boiling rice soup.
A half hour later, I was amazed at myself that I’d wiped my plate clean not only once but three times. Satisfied with my filled-up, now-quieted-down stomach, I decided my next step was to empty my brain. So I headed straight back to my room to take a nap, which I hoped would be dreamless.
Around three in the afternoon I woke up, quickly washed my face, then went out for a walk. Wandering aimlessly, I spotted a black signboard with four gold characters: BIG BOWL TEA HOUSE.
I felt my heartstring pulled by the two words “Big Bowl.” Cool. I always loved things big. Or people with a big heart, like Alex. And of course the huge, infinite desert I’d just left behind….
Now looking at these four characters, “Big Bowl Tea House,” though not long ago I’d eaten a huge breakfast, I felt myself drawn like one hopelessly bewitched by a femme fatale.
As I stepped inside, the soothing fragrance of tea meandered over to caress my nostrils. The place, bright and spacious, was decorated in red and gold, the two colors of good luck and festivity. The waitresses were all dressed in red cheongsam—body-hugging Chinese dresses with a high collar but even higher side slits to play hide-and-seek with sensuously moving legs. Above the chatting diners were suspended round red lanterns, square black ones with red tassels, and delicately carved golden bird cages. Tables were draped with red cloth embroidered with gold threads in the Chinese characters of Fu, good fortune; Lu, wealth; and Shou, longevity. Framed paintings and calligraphy occupied most walls. The one that caught my eye read:
Tea is a way to make friends
to appreciate arts
to cultivate the Path
A way of enlightenment
One entire wall was covered by a huge Chinese painting of plum blossoms. In front of it was a small red-carpeted platform, and flanking the painting was a couplet:
Don’t make fun of my doggerel
Always, the best tea does taste like a beautiful woman
Wow. This unusual comparison suddenly made me feel very beautiful, giving me a sudden impulse to splurge on the best kind of tea.
A very young waitress led me to a small table.
“Miss, your first time here?” She smiled, revealing some regular teeth.
“Yes.”
“Tourist?”
“Yes, how can you tell?”
“You people look so different.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t know, more Westernized, I guess,” she said, handing me the menu.
I glanced at the huge varieties of tea with poetic names: Iron Bodhisattva, Cold-Headed Oolong, ancient Pu’er, Yellow Mountain Hairy Peak, Big Red Robe, White Peony, Before Rain, Dragon Well, Cloud and Mist, Turquoise Spring, Blushing Lotus, Sorcerer’s Plum…. You name it and they had it. So, to hide my confusion as well as ignorance, I decided to order according to price. But then I discovered some tea, like the Big Red Robe and one special kind of Iron Bodhisattva, cost as much as two hundred renminbi a pot, which made me feel, alas, suddenly much less generous.
Probably seeing that I couldn’t make up my mind, the waitress said, her voice soothing like green tea, “Miss, just pick one. All our teas are first rate. But if you want my recommendation, try the aged Pu’er.”
I joked. “Is this to match my face?”
She jumped back. “Oh, no, of course not!”
I felt a little guilty that she actually looked very frightened.
“That’s not what I meant, miss. You look very young and pretty.”
“Thanks, and so are you.”
She blushed. “Maybe you don’t know since you don’t live here. Pu’er tea is getting more expensive each day. At auctions, collectors literally pay the price of gold for just a few pounds.”
“Is that so?”
She nodded. “And this particular one was just won in an auction by our boss. That’s why I recommend it.” She paused, then said, “If you go elsewhere, you might end up drinking fake Pu’er.”
I widened my eyes to show disbelief. “How can tea leaves be fake?”
She laughed a little. “Of course, the color is dyed and the fragrance sprayed on.”
“Oh, heavens!” This time I laughed. “How old is the Pu’er here?”
“Three years.”
“That’s old?”
“For tea, yes. There are some even older, but those are reserved only for our very special and distinguished guests.”
“How distinguished?”
“You should know, miss, that this is a very famous teahouse established in the 1940s. You’re lucky you got a seat today, because you arrived early. Even celebrities and movie stars have to order our tea in advance and reserve seats for our performances. We have tea ceremony, Beijing opera, pop songs, storytelling, magic shows.”
After another round of pleasant chitchat, I finally ordered the aged, eighty-renminbi-a-pot Pu’er. In five minutes, the waitress brought my tea on a large lacquer tray together with a hot towel and two small plates of snacks—an assortment of dried olives, kumquat, sugared plum, honey loquat, and watermelon seeds. After she left, I took a sip of the scalding amber liquid and let out a long exhalation. Despite all the recent, head-spinning happenings, I felt a strange sort of relief, even happiness. Maybe because some mysteries about my life had been brought to light, even though I hadn’t known about them in the first place.
Between sipping my aged tea, cracking dyed-red watermelon seeds, and popping the sweet-and-sour plum and the sweet-and-bitter kumquat into my mouth, I reflected on my relationships with my dead mother and my recently met about-to-die one. Of course, no matter what the dead one did to the still-living one, the one who raised me had been good to me, and nothing, not even the truth, would change my love for her.
However, now I also felt affection for my brave, mysterious new mother. Would I have the chance to peek inside the secret chamber of her soul and eavesdrop on some of her forbidden thoughts before they vanished forever?
As my mind was wandering, so were my eyes. I noticed now the place was gradually filling up with customers. Groups of men talked animatedly, probably discussing business and politics. The women, looking well off in nicely cut suits and dresses, leisurely sipped tea and deftly cracked watermelon seeds with long-nailed fingers as they gossiped animatedly.
Although the teahouse had become quite noisy, the earthy-tasting, pleasant-smelling, amber tea relaxed me. The place’s warm red and gold glow wrapped me in a cocoon of reminiscence and nostalgia.
After another hour of more tea sipping, reflecting, and watching people come and go, I finally felt some acceptance that Mindy Madison was my mother and sensed myself connected to her with subtle qi flowing between us. I didn’t want her to die. But what hope was there for her?
After the waitress refreshed my third pot of tea, a savvy male’s voice spilled through the amplifier and snaked into my ears. I looked and saw a small man holding a
microphone on the big stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, attention please! Now our tea performers the Gao brother and sister are going to stun your eyeballs with their impossible tea ceremony. Let’s give them a big welcome!”
A round of loud applause exploded in the hall, followed by the entrance of—to my surprise—two teenagers. The duo’s lean bodies were wrapped in bright red and gold-rimmed kung fu outfits. With their smooth faces and sweet expressions you might wish they were your own children.
I couldn’t help but chuckle. How could these two thin, pubertal sticks be tea masters? From what I knew of tea ceremony, it is performed by people at least in their fifties, with calm countenance, dignified posture, and elegant, ritualized hand movements choreographed in a quiet, meditative setting. So how could these two youngsters have anything to do with “menopausal” tea ceremony? Worse, a loud kung fu music sound track started to boom to accentuate the duo’s presence.
A fiftyish, plump woman at the next table leaned toward me. “Miss, don’t underestimate these little people. We’re all here for them.”
The woman next to her at the same table chimed in, “I paid someone to babysit my grandson so I could come watch them.”
“Are they that good?”
“You’ll see.”
“But they’re just kids!”
“Believe me, miss, kids do amazing things.”
“Believe us, miss, be ready to be shocked,” her friend added.
Just then the duo made a deep bow to the audience followed by some warm-up martial arts movements—high kicks, fist strikes, legs stretched on the floor in the Chinese “one” character, all accompanied by their Bruce Lee-esque battle cry, “Hhhhaaa-Ahhh!”
I leaned to my neighbors and lowered my voice. “You’re sure they’re going to perform tea ceremony, not martial arts?”
The plump one whispered back amid the noisy commotion, “Oh, you must never have heard about it. This is modern tea ceremony, nothing to do with those performed by the white-haired folks with arthritic hands and constipated expressions. Shhh… pay attention and watch.”
Two female assistants pushed a cart to the middle of the stage, then quickly left. On the cart was a metal teapot with a three-foot-long spout, several small teacups, and a big kettle of water boiling on an electric stove.
The brother picked up the vessel and poured water into the long-mouthed teapot. Then the girl arranged all the cups—about five or six—on her head. After that, they began to move around swiftly, stretching their limbs in various gymnastic movements with the girl balancing the teacups the whole time. In about five minutes, suddenly the boy thrust at the girl with the teapot’s swordlike beak, and the girl fended off his attacks with her bare hands. All the time, the cups remained absolutely still. After that, the girl grasped the long beak and the two spun around in quick circles. Loud applause and the shouting of “Hao! Hao!” burst out from the captivated audience.
The most amazing feat was yet to come. When the two were entangling in all sorts of impossible kung fu and gymnastic movements, suddenly the boy jumped up very high and, while the girl was spinning in circles on one leg, poured tea into the cups on the girl’s head.
Now the audience’s emotions seemed to reach as high as the peaks of the Mountains of Heaven. They screamed, clapped, and threw money in red lucky envelopes onto the stage; some even threw jewelry.
I also screamed “Hao! Hao!” and clapped till my palms turned red and hurt.
The women threw me triumphant looks. “You like this now?”
“It’s incredible!”
“See, we told you so. Come back next week, the same time. We’ll be here, too.”
“I’ll definitely try.”
Feeling more normal after my earlier tea-inspired reflection and the surrealistic tea ceremony, which ended the occasion on a high note, I waved to the waitress to give me the check.
Outside the teahouse, I once again wandered aimlessly, my mind still spinning with the teenage duo’s impossible feats. Then I saw a movie theater with the signboard advertising a Jackie Chan comedy kung fu flick. Good, this was exactly what I wanted, more brainless yet beautifully and intricately choreographed martial arts movements. I was sure my thinking would offend Jackie Chan, if he knew about it, for he must have put lots of brain into designing every single movement. But to me, the effect was still brainless.
I bought a ticket and entered the theater. Nearly every movement made me laugh. Of course it was not because the movie was that funny. I just used the illusory images to release my pent-up emotions.
When the movie was finally over I stayed in my seat, tired from laughing so hard, and watched the credits slowly scroll by.
When names of the martial arts consultants appeared, one burst upon me like an egg dropped on a wok—Chen Dong.
Alias Floating Cloud!
My earlier happy mood was instantly thrown out the window. As I hurried toward the exit with my heart pounding, I thought I saw Floating Cloud’s face smiling in the dim theater. Could Floating Cloud really have been in the audience or was it just my fearful imagination?
Back in the hotel, I collapsed in bed and cried. Could the monk have come all the way here to look for me? Then I suddenly remembered that the face in the theater had a full head of hair. But maybe Floating Cloud had changed back to Chen Dong?
34
Sea Burial
The next day when I woke up it was already noon. As I was wondering if I should visit my mother today or take another day off, I heard urgent knockings at the door. Could Floating Cloud have tracked me here? But when I opened the door, I was relieved to see it was only the hotel manager, though with an angry expression.
“Something wrong?”
“A Mr. Lo asks for you at the reception and insists that we come knock at your door. You shouldn’t have unplugged your phone.”
“Hmm… I’m sorry. Please tell him I’ll be down in the lobby in ten minutes.”
I took a quick shower, dressed, grabbed my purse, then rushed down to the lobby. It must be something very important for Lo to have come directly to my hotel. But what could that be? Maybe he’d found out that there was really three million dollars for me to claim? At that thought, I felt the corners of my lips slowly lifting like a theater curtain. But then I realized that urgent matters were rarely good.
The remnant of a smile on my face was instantly killed by Lo’s unbearably sad expression. “Mr. Lo, something wrong?”
He nodded.
“What is it?”
“Be prepared for some very bad news.” He paused to clear his throat. “Your mother, Miss Mindy Madison, or Cai Mindi, passed away yesterday afternoon.”
“But that’s not possible! I just talked to her the day before and she was fine.” I was yelling. A few guests in the lobby turned to stare at us.
I was surprised to see the lawyer’s eyes turn red and his voice crack. “She died less than twenty-four hours after you left.”
“Then why didn’t you inform me?”
“We called your room many times, but no answer.”
Of course not, I had unplugged the phone in order not to take calls!
Lo went on. “I thought of coming to inform you but had to take care of things in the prison. And I didn’t want to just leave a message.”
“So what are we going to do now?”
“I have made the arrangements. Her body is already in the funeral home. The service will be held in two days and I, or one of my staff, will come pick you up and drive you there. It was her wish to be cremated and that her ashes be scattered in Bohai together with Wang Jin’s.”
“But my father was buried in a cemetery—you just took me there!”
“Your mother placed your father’s ashes in three different places: the grave, under the ruined town city wall, and in her prison cell.”
I was not listening. Too overwhelmed by the news, my mind began to drift to the brief, now infinitely precious meetings I’d spent with my mot
her.
“Miss Lin”—he studied me with concern—“you all right? Can you come to my office now to go over the arrangements? If not, you’d better get some rest and we’ll do it later.”
“Maybe later. Sorry, my mind is not working right now.”
“I understand. I will call you tomorrow. Rest today.”
Back in my room, I threw myself onto the bed and cried my eyes out. If there really was a God, why did He bring my mother back to me, only to take her away to orphan me a second time?
God was my Hong Kong mother’s adviser-savior, but He seemed to have no answers to my questions, which just bounced back at me like squash balls, making noise but carrying no message. Maybe the blind fortune-teller, Soaring Crane, was a better consultant—at least he listened and responded. Now I wondered if my mother Cai Mayfong’s Christian devotion was due to her secret guilt for the unforgivable sin of betraying her sister. I asked, but God kept His opinion, if He had one, to Himself.
The next days passed as a blur—meeting with Lo, reading my mother’s will, visiting the funeral home. When I arrived for the service, the director offered me a coarse, white funeral costume to wear, but I declined. Hand torn—instead of scissor-cut—and made of coarse hemp, the garment is to show that the grief of the descendents is too great for them to pay attention to what they wear.
My pale green silk dress was met with strong objections from Lo.
“You have to wear white to show respect for the deceased!”
“You want to make me even more depressed so that I follow my mother into the grave?”
Since as a daughter I was indispensable to the service, finally he had to back down.
But then my depression deepened when I saw that only two people had come to bid my mother farewell.
Before I had a chance to ask Lo, he told me, “Miss Madison had many visitors in the beginning, but as the years passed and they realized there was no hope of her release, they stopped coming.”
