I stay in the kitchen staring at the macarons, trying to think of a good name for them. I’ve already decided that we will donate fifty percent of the profits to the Chinese Red Cross, although Pete will no doubt think I have no business sense at all. I’ve decided not to tell him, save us both the aggravation of fighting about it. Every night I am haunted by images of the aftermath of the earthquake. There are faces that look like Yok Lan’s. Faces that look like Gigi’s. Children wandering lost without parents, parents without children, deep, gruesome wounds, and even more severe heartbreak. Rilla passes me the daily papers when they are delivered, begging me with a grim expression not to look at the pictures. I move back from the heat and sit up near the sink, thumbing through a French dictionary, the cover bald and worn in my hands. I scroll through some words in my mind—relief, aid, support. Aide, appui, soulagement. Coeur floats into my mind like a balloon let loose. Coeur curatif. Healing heart. I wonder if the French is correct and make a mental note to call Léon to check. Coeur curatif.
* * *
A few days later, when the Coeur Curatif macarons have completely sold out, a small woman with dark hair stands beside the café door. But I am distracted, thinking of Léon’s order. He came in yesterday and loved the new macarons and the charitable component so much he asked me to supply dozens for a brunch special at Aurora this coming weekend. I told him he was welcome to take the idea for himself if he wanted to make them; he has been so generous to Lillian’s after all, it’s the least we can do. But his face fell as he explained they have sold off most of the pastry kitchen equipment to make more room for a Chinese noodle kitchen. So I happily agreed to the order and offered him a discount. Now I want to produce macarons that will make him proud. They have to be perfect. It’s a huge order for us; it will take us some late nights to fill. For now I am busying myself with other things while I carefully think through the extra ingredients we need to buy.
I notice the dark-haired woman as I clean the windows, even though she has tucked herself nearly out of view. She looks down at her feet and pushes a stone with her toe. Her arms are crossed and wrapped around the front of her as if she is giving herself a hug. Although it is warm, she is wearing a dark green hooded sweatshirt, long hair tucked down into the neck of it. I don’t recognize her.
“Rilla?” I call out.
“Yes?”
“I think there might be someone to see you.”
Rilla comes up behind me and looks out across the road. “Ma’am?”
“Not there.” I turn her gently to face left and point to the woman, who suddenly looks up. When she sees us, she freezes. Dark hair frames her round face; her eyes are as dark as soot. She is older than I imagined from her slight frame, maybe in her early twenties, about Rilla’s age.
“Yes, okay. Can I …?” Rilla asks. There is a strange resolve in her voice I have never heard before. Her mouth is set in a grim line.
“Of course.” I continue to rub the glass fiercely, using a balled-up piece of newspaper. This was Rilla’s tip, to use newspaper on glass, and she was absolutely right, it works like a charm. When I step back, the glass glistens in the warm afternoon light.
Rilla has taken the woman across the road and is now leaning toward her, holding her arm gently. Rilla’s lips are moving quickly, her face concerned but gentle. The woman has her hands pushed into her sweatshirt pockets, pressed into fists, the outlines of which I can see taut against the fabric. Rilla takes both of the woman’s shoulders in her small palms and looks into her eyes. The woman nods and then falls softly toward Rilla, who catches her in an embrace. She rocks her from side to side like a baby, her eyes closed and mouth making the shape of a shush. When Rilla opens her eyes, she looks toward me at the window, newspaper limp in one hand and staring at them both. A flush of embarrassment sweeps over my face. I turn too quickly, almost tripping on a chair leg. I put down the newspaper and glass cleaner on an empty table and walk into the kitchen. Dishes that Rilla was cleaning are floating among the suds in the sink. I put on a pair of gold-colored rubber gloves and plunge my hands deep into the water.
Le Dragon Rouge—Red Dragon
Dragon Fruit Filled with Lemongrass-Spiked Buttercream
You’re being ripped off,” Gigi says bluntly when she pays her bill with a pile of coins.
“Ripped off?” I repeat, scooping up the change.
“The delivery guys who come in here with your flour, sugar, all that stuff? They were talking about it. You’re being charged almost double for some of those things.”
I look up at her quickly.
“I’m not joking,” she says defensively.
“They … talk about it?” I say slowly, closing the register.
“Yeah. I’ve seen them come in before, and just this last time, they were chatting about the supplier. I know him. Well, I know who he is.”
I must look baffled because she carries on, her voice angry. “My grandmother, she had a restaurant. My family have always had restaurants. Well, till Ma ran it into the ground. Now she’s in real estate like every other greedy …” She shakes her head. “Anyway, that guy, he’s a crook. He rips off the gweilos, the expats. You should be getting your stuff from Red Dragon. They’re much better and cheaper.”
I lean my hands against the counter and take a long breath. “Seriously? I mean, they’re really doing that? Charging double?” I can feel my face start to burn. I ask the question, but I know that Gigi is not lying; my instincts are singing with the truth of it. I had thought the price was high but didn’t know what to expect here. I had trusted him. Now I am angry. All those extra supplies for the Aurora order, the cost. More money could have been going to the Red Cross. I feel so naïve, trusting Mr. Teng to give us a good deal. What a snake.
Gigi gives me a hurt look. “I’m not lying.” She picks up her wallet and turns to leave. “Whatever,” she adds coolly.
I step from behind the counter and catch her by the elbow before she is out the door. She swings around to face me, that round belly almost touching mine. I have that feeling again, like stones in the pit of my stomach. It takes me a second to shake it off. My problems are not her fault.
“Hey, hey, wait. Sorry.” I suck in a deep breath. “I do believe you. I just feel like an idiot, that’s all.”
She shrugs.
“I didn’t use another supplier because Mr. Teng speaks English and … I don’t speak Cantonese,” I explain.
“I can see that,” she replies archly. She doesn’t move, but one hand is on the door.
“Well, maybe I need someone who does.” I sigh.
We look at each other like boxers in the ring. Staring and not saying anything. Each waiting for the other to make her move. I have to be the grown-up here, I say to myself. She blinks at me with those brooding, almond-shaped eyes.
And so I hire Gigi as a part-time employee of Lillian’s. Her probation period is three months. We’ll see how she goes.
Cirque—Circus
Lime with Chocolate Ganache, Dusted with Blood-Orange Sugar
The season has plunged, without warning, headfirst into summer; the air is suddenly lemonade-sticky and cloying. Feet slide sweatily in sandals, trousers cling wetly to the backs of legs. The air-conditioning in the café helps, but when the ovens are cranking, the kitchen turns into a blistering nightmare. I can no longer wear my hair down; rather I pile it up on my head like a half-fallen bird’s nest. The only person the heat doesn’t seem to bother is Rilla; she still wears long-sleeved tops that she tugs down over her hands.
I have made us both frozen treats from bananas dipped in chocolate then chilled in our freezer. We wait until the customers from the early-morning rush have left before sitting by the window, positioned directly under the air-conditioning unit. I let out a hot sigh; Rilla blows air up to her forehead. The bananas are hard and creamy, slivers of frozen chocolate sliding onto the table and floor. Rilla glances at the mess, pieces of her hair stuck fast to her forehead.
“Don�
�t worry about that; we need a break. What a morning.”
She raises her eyebrows in agreement. I know she is relieved that Gigi is starting this afternoon. I suspect she is a bit nervous about how it will all work out, she and I having found a kind of rhythm. But she’s hot and tired too, and the extra pair of hands will make a difference.
Beyond the window a gaggle of schoolgirls saunter by in their uniforms—white T-shirts and maroon polyester trousers. They wear their hair in ponytails, long fringes dangling coyly over their faces. Giggling ensues.
“This weather is unbelievable. Not like home.” I shake my head. Pete has a golf tournament with some suppliers this afternoon. He will come home the color of beetroot and cursing. Lazily, I put my feet up on the seat of a chair.
“Australia?” Rilla asks.
“No, London,” I reply, realizing with surprise that I still consider it my home.
“Do you miss it?”
The question gives me pause. When I first moved to Macau, after living back in London for a few years, I did long for things I didn’t know I would miss. Ridiculous, seemingly inconsequential things. Marmite on toast, the anonymity of riding the Tube, warm pubs. The weekend magazine inserts in the Guardian—oh, how I craved those. I even missed that horrible gray London sky. I remember back to those first months in China. How I had forgotten things. Misplaced keys and socks and papers. I had cried instead of laughing when I watched an episode of Little Britain; put eggshells into a cake mix and the eggs in the rubbish. And then, of course, I missed Mama most of all, her laughter over a cup of tea, the taste of her special blackberry syrup with pancakes. Homesickness really is like that—a kind of sickness, an irritating cough or rash you have to ignore until you forget about it, get used to it, or both.
I see it in my customers, suffering so transparently; I wonder if they realize how obvious they are. Their long faces over teapots and empty, crumb-laden plates. They stay too long and talk too much, relishing a familiar accent or an English menu. Personal details spilling out over orders or payments, then forced laughs, awkward smiles. If you ask them how they are, as I have now learned not to, there is always a polite lie, slick as rain on the road. Oh, Macau is wonderful, such a great opportunity. To have a maid—imagine! All my friends back home are so jealous. And we’re going to Phuket for the weekend, you know. Just before they swoon and grin, you can catch the pause, if you’re observant. Not a long pause, but enough. That pocket of truth, dark and silent. I hate this enduring need to make out that your life is perfectly blissful. I think this is why I have always been shy; I never learned this code. The oily lies and half-truths leave me feeling uncomfortable and queasy.
“I did,” I say softly. I now know that what I really miss is what I thought would be my future, rather than my past. Children, baking cakes, making a family.
Rilla smiles. She settles back against her chair and starts to hum, breaking off the last pieces of banana from the stick with her teeth. Her skin is clear and bright; she is beautiful in these quiet moments. Content. If Pete and I have to leave Macau, we can always return to Australia or England. Hell, we could probably go to Canada, Europe, almost anywhere, with our passports. I wonder, grimly, about Rilla’s limited options.
“Yok Lan!” she sings through an icy mouthful.
The old lady comes in leaning on her granddaughter’s arm. Gigi is early. She wears a pair of leggings and an oversize shirt, freshly ironed I notice. Her hair is tied off her face neatly. She lifts her eyes to me a little shyly, lashes thick with mascara. Rilla leaps up to make a pot of Yok Lan’s favorite tea.
“You two want some frozen chocolate bananas?” I offer.
Gigi translates to her grandmother, who shakes her head. “Pau Pau won’t, but I will.” She sinks into a chair, and I can see she is getting heavier week by week. She takes Yok Lan’s cane, puts it out of the way, then lifts a menu from the table and fans her with it. It is a small gesture but filled with love. Yok Lan smiles and closes her eyes, cheeks falling into soft, doughy folds.
“Can you ask Yok Lan if she wants me to make it iced tea today?” calls Rilla from the counter.
“No, she has it hot no matter what the weather is,” Gigi replies for her, shrugging. She mutters to me with a raised eyebrow, “She’s just old school. You know, traditional.”
Yok Lan smiles at her granddaughter.
“Um, we have something for you,” Gigi says to me awkwardly.
Rilla brings a cup, a teapot, and a plate with a medley of macarons on it to the table. She hands Gigi her frozen treat, and Gigi takes it, plunging her other hand into a bag at her feet. She huffs a little as she bends forward.
“Pau Pau …?” She finishes her question in Cantonese.
Yok Lan sits up and nods. She looks to me with sparkling eyes and takes a birdlike sip of her tea.
Gigi passes me a thin plastic sleeve, a piece of paper sandwiched inside. “Pau Pau found this and wanted you to have it,” she explains.
The paper is soft and worn, about seven inches square. It is a print of children in bright shorts and shirts, dancing and whirling red fizzing rings. The girls have long dark plaits like ropes down their backs and the boys half-sphere cap-like haircuts lifted up in the pretend breeze. They wear their shoes with high white socks. A narrow slice of moon hangs in the sky. Down the left-hand side is a faded red border with black Chinese characters, at the bottom a notice in English: YICK LOONG FIREWORKS CO. I feel Rilla’s breath near my shoulder, leaning over to see what it is.
“It’s an old poster. The company used to be famous. Their factory was right here in Taipa; friends of hers used to hand-roll the crackers. She thought you might like to hang it in the café? But only if you want to,” she adds quickly.
Yok Lan looks at me, her cheeks lifted in a smile. She watches for my response.
“It’s brilliant,” I declare. I am already thinking of where I can put it. Perhaps frame it with a green mat and get Pete to help me with the right hook. I step out of my chair and walk with it around Lillian’s. The light falls nicely on one wall, but perhaps the glare will fade it. I hold it at arm’s length, pressing it up against the walls. Yok Lan is grinning in delight, palms pressed together. She chatters gleefully in Cantonese. Gigi gets to her feet to join me. She pulls her ponytail closer to her scalp and presses her lips together in assessment.
“Maybe here?” she suggests, leaning over a table. I put my head to one side and look at the short wall, near the counter. It is bright enough, but the sunlight won’t fade the print.
“We’ll have to move the table …” Rilla points, pouring Yok Lan tea from the pot with the other hand.
“Here, I’ll do it.” Gigi energetically leans across the tabletop to grasp its sides. Her shirt sags in front of her as she lets out a breath. Yok Lan looks up sharply. She bursts out in Cantonese, scared, warning, reaching for her cane.
Gigi lets go of the sides of the table and stands back, bright red with embarrassment. “I can do it, Pau Pau!”
Rilla puts a hand on Yok Lan’s shoulder to calm her. Gigi’s cheeks are flushed. The urge to ask a million questions tugs at me, but not one will sit still in my mind. Rilla is looking at me, but I can’t stop staring at Gigi, catching Rilla’s pointed gaze from the corner of my eye. All four of us remain in our places, the air hanging heavy and silent.
Finally, Rilla says, “Hey, who would like a macaron? We have a new one … Grace, what is it called?” She clears her throat deliberately.
I find my voice and reply. “Le Dragon Rouge.”
“And it’s dragon fruit …”
“With a lemongrass-spiked filling.”
“It’s fruity and creamy at the same time.” Rilla nods at me. “It’s so good.”
Gigi glances at Rilla and then back at me. She lowers her head and whispers, “I’m okay to do things, you know. I can work.”
Her face is so earnest, so free from her usual anger; I almost want to wrap my arms around her. But there is something deeper and re
silient in her too, which keeps me from reaching over.
I nod and put my hand on her slender shoulder. “I know. It’s okay.”
I can hear Rilla chatting with Yok Lan about the different macarons on the plate, pointing out each one and describing it, even though the old woman cannot understand a word of her English. Yok Lan watches Rilla’s finger move over the white plate, one vivid circle at a time.
Gigi looks at me directly. Her face is determined. “So where do I start? You want this table moved? I can do it.”
I shake my head slowly. “No, not till I have the poster framed and we can make sure it’s the right spot. Besides, there are more important things for you to do. I need you to help me tell Mr. Teng where he can go shove his supplies.”
“Where he can shove them?”
“Yeah.”
She gives a small laugh and replies, wryly, “Now that I am good at.”
* * *
I hear it from the kitchen; quickly putting down the dirty plates I have just carried in, I rush to the doorway.
“This is ridiculous!” a customer bellows, leaning a large and unhealthy gut against the counter. “You can’t serve cold coffee. You’ll have to get me a new one. But now I’m late, aren’t I?” He slams his cup down on the counter. He had ignored Rilla when she brought it to his table, conducting a noisy business call on his phone, meaty arm resting across the tabletop. She found a place for it and set it down gently, but by the time he finished his call and noticed it, it was indeed stone cold.
Rilla grabs at the ends of her long sleeves and looks down at the tiles. I wait for her to look up and address him squarely. She normally dissolves the tension of these situations with her peaceful smile, but something has her undone.
The Colour of Tea Page 13
