Rilla and I are running out of chores to busy ourselves with. I have refilled all the saltshakers, carefully lining the bottoms with grains of rice to absorb moisture from the humid air. She has folded an entire box of napkins, stacking them in neat triangles, ready for use. We have scrubbed all the oven trays and cleaned the windows. Rilla finishes with the milk frother and starts to rearrange the magazine shelf.
I place my hands on the front of the counter, leaning my weight against them. Beside me the unsold macarons are lined up in orderly rows in their glass case. I notice I am biting my lip, knowing I will have to discard some of these beauties if they don’t sell today. Rilla has refused to take any home, although she will gather up unsold sandwiches. I don’t know why; perhaps she thinks the macarons are too exotic and expensive for her, or that I might disapprove? I guess I might treat them with too much reverence.
“Okay, Rilla. It’s time we gave you a proper full-blown tasting session,” I tell her, throwing my tea towel over my left shoulder.
“Pardon me, ma’am?” she asks, looking up.
“A tasting. You and I are going to have a tasting.”
“Oh,” she breathes and smiles wide.
After selecting the macarons, I come over to the table where she is sitting with her back poker-straight in anticipation. Her eyes are round under her short glossy fringe. I put napkins in front of us and fill teacups with the steaming hot green tea she likes to drink.
“Here we go. You ready?”
She nods, and I have to laugh at her earnest face, mouth almost turned to a frown.
“All right. We’ll start with Une Petite Flamme. It’s our espresso macaron. Go on, try it.”
She looks down at her plate. “This one? With the gold?”
“Yup, go on.”
She puts it against her tongue like she’s taking communion.
“Good?”
She nods quickly.
Then I place a purple one on her plate.
Rilla lifts it up. “This one has the jam inside, right?”
“Yes; it’s Remède de Délivrance. Black currant filling, in the middle of the cream.”
She closes her eyes while she eats it slowly. So slowly I worry she will need to come up for air.
“What does that mean?” she asks when she has finally swallowed the last tiny mouthful.
“Remède de Délivrance? ‘Rescue remedy.’ It’s violet-flavored.”
“This one is so good, ma’am.” She grins, and I grin back. Rilla’s small hands wrap around a teacup, the mouth of it laced with gold filigree painting. Outside the world seems still, suspended.
“I’m sorry, Rilla; it’s so quiet today I should have let you have the afternoon off. I should have let you go home ages ago.”
“It’s okay. Too many people in my house anyway.” The boardinghouse where Rilla lives accommodates dozens of workers, mainly women sending money back to their homes in other countries. She doesn’t speak about it much, except to say that it is a bit crowded. Pete and I have four bedrooms for the two of us, and she is jammed in like a sardine. She says she used to work in Dubai, living with her employers. She doesn’t talk about that much either, but perhaps she had her own room. Here she can’t even put posters on the wall in case they damage the paint.
“You don’t like it there?”
“I like it. It’s cheap, so more money to send home. It’s fun sometimes, people always talking and singing.” Rilla laughs.
It astounds me, her easy generosity. I notice it in her all the time, taking back food to share with her roommates, sending old magazines to her sisters and brothers, mailing money for a niece’s new shoes or schoolbooks. Rilla reminds me of a gerbera. A bright, colorful bloom with a surprisingly strong, wiry stem underneath.
Sipping my tea, I realize that I envy Rilla’s commitments to her family. In some ways, even though I have four bedrooms and she lives with strangers, she has what I always wanted. For her, sharing is an easy choice. She is part of something greater. Some, not one.
She tries a few more flavors, enraptured, and then stands, picking up the empty plate and her teacup.
“Thank you. So delicious.” She smiles at me.
She goes into the kitchen, humming. It is soft and out of tune; I wonder if she even knows she is doing it. I look down at my teacup. Delicate, beautiful, with heavy bunches of purple grapes painted as if hanging from the rim. The saucer is a bold kind of mauve tartan. It’s the set I always reach for. I think of Mama, of fetching her cups of tea and clearing her plate just as Rilla now does for me. How she would grin up at me as if I’d done the nicest thing and murmur, “Oh, thanks, love.”
There is no breadth to my family, like there is to Rilla’s. I wonder if it gives her a swollen, full feeling to have a big, interconnected family like that. A kind of completeness. Ours was such a small, tight circle. Two was enough. Sometimes too much. I sigh, and in my mind there is a drumbeat of one word: Mama, Mama, Mama …
When I carry my cup and saucer into the kitchen, Rilla is steaming and polishing cutlery. She is singing now, slipping and sliding out of tune. I had assumed she would be a good singer, her voice as light and soft as a bird’s, as she seems so capable at everything. But, in fact, her voice is truly awful. It shakes me out of my daze and makes me laugh. When she looks up, catching my expression, she starts to sing even louder, and I join her, giggling at our two voices, crooning and keening like a couple of mournful wolves howling to the moon.
The door chimes interrupt us. We both come out of the kitchen as Gigi rushes into the café. She pushes her fringe to one side to give Rilla and me a wary gaze. She takes a cautious step back and looks around the café, lifting her chin to see into the kitchen.
“Hi,” I say.
Her hands are closed in small, nervous fists.
“A coffee?” I ask.
She turns to survey me once again. Her sweatshirt glitters with tiny diamantés in letters that I can’t quite make out.
“I’m looking for my grandmother.”
“Yok Lan?” Rilla asks.
I shoot her a puzzled look. “Yok Lan is your grandmother?” I wonder, incredulous. You couldn’t get two more different characters. Talk about generational divide.
Rilla nods and whispers to me, “I think so. She talks to her sometimes.”
I am impressed that Rilla is so observant.
“She was in earlier, but she’s gone now,” I tell Gigi.
“Is everything okay?” Rilla asks quietly from the other side of the table. “Yok Lan, is she all right?” There is affection in her voice.
“We need to find her before she hears the news. Everyone we know is okay, but she might freak if she’s not sitting down. You know, she’s old.” Gigi shrugs. “Anyway, I think I know where she is. It’s her day for mah-jongg. She’ll be at Mei’s.”
This is the most she has said to me for weeks. I have to think for a second before asking, “Sorry, what news?”
“The news,” she says. Then, when she sees we have no idea what she is talking about, she adds, “You know. The earthquake in Sichuan. You didn’t feel it even a little bit?”
“There was an earthquake?”
“It’s been all over the TV. You should have a TV in here.”
Most restaurants in Macau have televisions hung in the corners. It never ceases to amaze me that people here watch television even while they’re dining out. They seem to ignore whomever they are eating with, staring blankly at the square screen. I know it is a cultural difference I will never appreciate and stubbornly refuse to put a TV in Lillian’s.
Gigi gives us a dark-eyed stare. “It was massive.”
Rilla and I look at each other. Earthquake. My mind turns the word over.
“I’ve got to go,” she finishes.
When she has her hand on the door handle, she pauses for a second and puts her head down, thinking of something. She goes back over to the counter, picks up a napkin and a pen, and scribbles her name and number. “Hey
, if you ever see my grandmother alone or sad or whatever … What I mean is, Ma is useless, so it’s best if you call me if she ever needs help. I try to keep an eye on her but … Anyway, you know, she’s old …” she says again. Her voice is quiet, the worry peppered through it, although she is trying to sound nonchalant.
I pick up the napkin and nod. “Yes, of course. We will.”
She gives me the tiniest of polite smiles before leaving.
Rilla and I stay standing in her wake for a moment. Wordlessly we fetch our bags. Now is not the time to polish cutlery; we need to close and go home. Go and see what has happened.
Dearest Mama,
Sichuan peppercorns are one of the five spices in Chinese five-spice powder. Five spices representing the five flavors in Chinese cooking—sweet, sour, bitter, savory, and salty. Did you know that already? It seems like something you might know, something you would tell me in a whisper as I went off to sleep. I had always thought Sichuan peppercorns were bright pink, but it turns out that is another peppercorn altogether. Sichuan peppercorns are reddish-brown. Today is a bitter day. Not sweet at all. Maybe sour. The kind of day that leaves you without hunger, throat aching from the strain of tears kept from falling.
When Pete came home, he sat down on the couch next to me and we watched the news for an hour straight without moving or talking. He didn’t take off his tie, his belt, or his shoes. We just sat there and watched and waited for more pictures and information. They say the quake has killed maybe as many as forty thousand, but each time the reporter came back on the screen thin-lipped and ashen-faced, the number seemed to be creeping up. I finally made beans on toast and Pete got into shorts and T-shirt, but we kept watching until we were rubbing our eyes. The same footage over and over again—unnaturally quiet and gray streets, buildings toppled over like they’d been made with a child’s blocks. The dust as thick as snow; only a few people left walking about in it, stunned and aimless.
It’s getting hot in Macau now, but I took a bath before bed. I couldn’t stop thinking about all that dirt and mess, men and women with broken hearts coughing and crying among it all. The schools of children, crushed. I felt like my heart was going to snap in two. Pete was asleep when I got out of the bath. I put on pajamas and climbed into bed, the ends of my hair still wet and leaving damp patches on the pillow.
Your loving daughter,
Grace
* * *
The day after the earthquake Lillian’s is packed to the rafters. It is so crowded that those who can’t find their own tables join strangers and start to talk. It is as if the catastrophe has brought out the community-minded side of people. Conversations are hushed, and customers linger over their coffees. Children are sent to the corner to play with our basket of toys, mutely constructing castles or ships out of LEGOs; even they must sense the need for regrouping and rebuilding. Rilla and I move quickly, trying to keep up with the rush but maintaining an aura of calm. Everyone is understanding, even when orders are mixed up or delayed. Rilla has brought in a Red Cross donation box, which we place on the counter in front of the biscotti jar. Coins plunk to the bottom all day like raindrops on a tin roof. By late afternoon we are both worn-out, and I take two chairs back to the kitchen. I motion Rilla to join me.
“We have got to take a break. Aren’t you hungry?” I whisper.
She nods gratefully and holds up two chocolate muffins from the fridge counter. They are the last two left, and although they are popular with paying customers, I nod quickly; we need sustenance. We sit in silence, eating hurriedly and washing the dark chunks down with cold milk. Perched on our chairs like this, we must look like teenagers home from school, the kind of afternoon scene I always wished for. Rilla lets out a sigh, and I smile at her; she has chocolate smudging her chin. Just as I finish, the bell on the door chimes and Rilla’s face falls around her mouthful. I shake my head at her.
“No way, I’ll get this one. Stay there.”
“Thanks, Grace,” she mumbles through her muffin. I pause for a moment, notice she has not called me ma’am.
Gigi stands at the counter wearing a dark sweater that hangs down to her hips. She has green lace-up boots over black leggings. Her makeup is thicker than paint, kohl ringing her almond eyes like bruises and eyelashes gluey with mascara. Her hair is pulled back off her face.
“Hey,” she says firmly, drawing herself up to her full height.
“Hey, Gigi. Your hair looks nice, the bangs …”
“Oh yeah, I pinned it back. I like to mix it up,” she says, lifting her chin.
“It looks pretty.”
“Thanks.” She seems surprised by the compliment; her expression softens and her cheeks flush. It’s as if her cool façade has slipped a little. I suddenly see something of Yok Lan’s gentleness in her features.
“What can I get for you today?” I ask, wiping my hands on my apron.
Her eyes fall on the fridge counter, pretty bare now. She takes in the sight of a cake with thick frosting, covered in edible silver stars. I call it Princess Cake, and little girls love it. One of my regular mums says it is magic; it keeps her daughter quiet for at least twenty minutes.
“A slice of that. Please. And an espresso.”
“Sure, I’ll bring them out.”
She gives me a cautious smile. Something feels different between us. Maybe it’s because of the tragedy of the earthquake that we all feel closer to one another. Or maybe it’s because I’ve learned that Yok Lan is her grandmother and with this information it feels as though we know each other better. Whatever the cause, Gigi is more relaxed with me today.
“Hey, how is Yok Lan?” I ask.
Rilla comes to stand next to me and silently extracts an espresso cup from the shelf. She must have heard the order from the kitchen.
“Pau Pau? Oh, she’s fine. She was with her friends, playing mah-jongg. They had forgotten the time. Ma had a fit.”
The espresso machine rumbles into action, dark liquid spurting from the metallic spout, depositing a thick caramel-colored cream on top. Rilla finds a saucer and looks up, concerned. I realize that Yok Lan must be one of her favorite customers.
“Your mum was cross?” I ask, plating up the Princess Cake, a generous wedge with lots of icing.
Gigi shrugs, her sweater falling off one shoulder, exposing a white bra strap, which has worn to a soft, gray color.
“Ma doesn’t like Pau Pau playing mah-jongg. Reckons it’s as bad as gambling. Doesn’t want her to get involved with it. You should have seen her face when I first said I was going to be a dealer. Well, she couldn’t stop me, but she wasn’t happy about it. Didn’t complain about the salary, though.”
She rescues her sweater, sliding it back up and over her shoulder. Her mouth snaps shut as if she has said too much, and she turns to find her favorite table. I follow behind with coffee and cake on a tray.
Before she leaves she comes up to pay her bill and spots the Red Cross box on the counter. She retrieves her purse and drops in a generous handful of coins, patting the top of it as if sending her best wishes. Her face is unarranged, fallen soft and young, despite the thick layer of makeup. When she glances up, she gives me a careful, thoughtful look.
“You should bake something for this.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe a muffin with a red cross on the top. You know, donate some of the profits to the cause. People would like that.”
I thank her, hesitantly. I’m not sure I want business advice from this girl. When she shrugs I notice a pearl of icing stuck in the knitted track in her sweater. A kind of maternal instinct draws me to lean over and brush it off, but she turns too quickly. Rilla stands beside me, and we both watch her leave. Rilla is drying a cup slowly, pushing the tea towel through the curved handle. After Gigi turns down the street and is no longer in view, Rilla continues to gaze out of the window.
“It’s a good idea, the muffin,” she says tentatively.
I nod. Grudgingly, I admit to myself that
it is.
* * *
The next day Rilla and I are hunkered down, peering through the glass of the oven door. Marjory has become such a regular feature she is sipping her morning coffee in the doorway of the kitchen, watching us. She is wearing a silky blouse and shorts with sandals. Beside me, Rilla pushes her hair back, and I notice she is chewing her lip. Inside the oven the macarons slowly swell and harden.
I ask Rilla what she thinks.
“I don’t know,” she murmurs. “I guess it might work.” She steals a glance at me, looking for reassurance.
“They look pretty good to me,” says Marjory, lips suspended over her coffee cup. The tray is dotted with the top halves of macarons, white with two thin raspberry-colored stripes forming a cross. Rilla suggested we try Gigi’s idea with a macaron.
“It was a great idea,” I say, and touch her shoulder.
“Well, it was Gigi really …” Rilla begins. But suddenly she squeals, straightens up, and covers her mouth, which makes me jump and wheel around, one hand pressing against my heart.
“Shit!” Marjory yelps with a laugh, coffee splashing onto her sandals.
“Yok Lan!” Rilla screams, having fallen into a giggling fit. None of us had heard the jangle of the door chime.
Yok Lan stands harmlessly next to Marjory, looking into the oven window and pushing her glasses up against her nose. Her face is wrinkled in a squint; her hair pushed to one side as if she has just woken up. She looks surprised as we giggle but joins in, looking from Rilla to me and back again, trying to figure out what all the fuss is about. It is the first time we have seen her since the day of the earthquake, and she looks the same as ever, her kind, round, nut-colored face smiling and serene. I can’t help but grin just at the sight of her.
“Good God, you scared the life out of me!” screeches Marjory.
Rilla wraps her arm around Yok Lan, and I notice that they are about the same size. She puts her young, dark head close to the old woman’s, and Yok Lan leans into her. She pats Rilla’s hand, resting on her thin arm, and Rilla guides her to a seat, telling her that she will make her a cup of tea. Marjory, smiling, heads to the bathroom to rinse off her sandals.
The Colour of Tea Page 12
