The Colour of Tea

by Hannah Tunnicliffe

  I push his coffee toward him and then, remembering my manners, come out from behind the counter myself, wiping my hands against the stripes of my apron.

  He lifts a long-handled fork with three thin prongs from his bag. It has an aura of danger about it, like a devil’s trident.

  “What is it?”

  He laughs at my bewildered expression. “In French we say fourchette à tremper.” The words roll from his tongue like sweet marbles. He holds it gently in both hands and presents it to me. “I thought you might use it, if you are making chocolates to put onto cakes or something like that.”

  “A chocolate fork?” I remember the chef in the kitchen of Aurora, dipping pralines in the dark chocolate lava, rolling them against the pale flesh of marble. The memory makes my mouth water.

  Léon’s eyes are smiling at me. “Yes, a chocolate fork. I’m sure you know how to use it. Anyway, it can take some practice, but …” He shrugs in the way only a Frenchman can, curling his bottom lip almost petulantly.

  A chocolate fork. What a gift.

  “Thank you, Léon. This is so thoughtful.” I take it with both hands and then lean closer to give him a kiss on each cheek. The rough hair of his jaw brushes against my lips. He smells of hot baked bread and cinnamon.

  Over his shoulder I see the top of the door open and then close against the chimes. They jangle like champagne glasses knocking together at a wedding.

  “Pete!” I call out, a little too brightly.

  My husband looks from Léon to me and back again. His gaze drifts slowly to the fork in my hands. A key ring is looped over his index finger.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask with a smile.

  “Thought you might like a ride home.” There is a frown between his eyes. He catches sight of Rilla, who gives a small wave. “Hey, Rilla.”

  “Hi, Pete,” she sings back.

  Gigi peeks out from the kitchen; she has not yet met Pete, but she quickly retreats with her cup in her hands. Pete comes to Lil’s every now and then, but he’s not what I’d call a regular. I know we’ve grown distant; it’s as if our lives are moons orbiting different planets. Pete belongs to Mars, Grace to Venus. But he is here now, and it feels strangely awkward to have him in my territory, the slice of Macau that is all mine. Pete looks back at Léon, his gaze cool. An energy zaps among Pete, Léon, and me that I can’t even understand, let alone explain. It’s as though Pete can read my mind, my heart, those little teenage waves of lust.

  Léon clears his throat and steps forward to greet him. He shakes Pete’s hand with a broad smile, his other hand grasping Pete’s shoulder. Perhaps he doesn’t notice when Pete leans away from him.

  “Long time no see.” Léon grins.

  “Yeah, yeah. It’s Léon, right?” Pete anglicizes his name, stretching out the e, the n thick at the end. I see Léon’s face drop just a little.

  “Léon, yes,” he replies, gently correcting Pete’s pronunciation.

  “Uh-huh. How’ve you been?” Pete smiles with closed lips and a slight lift of his chin. The frown is still knitted in his forehead.

  “I am really well. Business is good. Perhaps not as good as Lillian’s, but I can’t complain.”

  Pete looks around the café. Marjory gives him a smile, which he returns.

  “It does a pretty good trade, huh?” he admits. There is a confused mixture of pride and shame in his voice. It looks to me like he wants to say something more, but then his gaze drops to the floor.

  Léon speaks instead, his voice light and unaffected. Perhaps he is the only one of us not noticing the obvious. “Well, I should get going. Thanks for the coffee. And the macarons.” He lifts the box of Coeurs Curatifs, which Rilla has tied with a ribbon.

  “My pleasure. Thank you for the chocolate fork.”

  “No problem,” he replies graciously and turns without kissing me goodbye.

  When he leaves, the café seems quiet, the large, bright presence of him emptied from the room. I eye the door through which he left as darkness creeps into the early-evening sky. The register closes with its signature ring. I look back to Pete, who is staring at me.

  “I’ve just got to tidy up, get ready for tomorrow …” I say quickly, moving back around the counter and untucking my tea towel.

  “Sure.” He nods. “I’ll have a chat with Marjory. I’ve been meaning to get Don’s number to catch up for a beer.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay,” he returns.

  It takes him a moment to turn and me a moment to start clearing out the counter fridge.

  * * *

  Later that night I wake up on the couch. My foot has fallen drowsily to the floor, and I make a short sound between a grunt and a moan. It is dark beyond the open curtain, and I’m covered in sweat, my hair stuck to my forehead. The television is blaring, pictures of people jumping up and down with bright flags. It takes me a few seconds to rearrange the details into a lucid ensemble. I am in the living room, Pete is dozing on the couch, opposite; we had been watching a documentary about the upcoming Beijing Olympics. There have been protests and arrests, violence in Tibet, people evacuated as their homes are replaced with stadiums. I rub my eyes and look over at Pete. He is stretched out, full-length, and snoring loudly.

  I wobble to the kitchen. My head is heavy and fuzzy, like a watermelon on my neck. I pray that I am not getting sick; I don’t have the time. I drink a glass of water in big, urgent mouthfuls. When I put it down, I misjudge the angle. The glass skates along the countertop before falling to the floor and shattering. The pieces fly apart, making pretty, dangerous shards all over the floor.

  “Shit.”

  I crouch down, my legs feeling a little shaky, and start to pick up the fragments. A tiny diamond of glass presses into my fingertip and makes me curse again. Being crouched like that, my head thundering, and feeling the shock of the cut, which is now leaving tiny tears of blood on the floor, seems to hurtle me back into memories. The dark kitchen could be any kitchen. Here and now or then and there.

  I try to focus on picking up the last slivers, but I am distracted by a foggy kind of remembering.

  * * *

  “Mama?”

  There she is in the corner. Sitting on the floor. Knees bent up toward her chest.

  “Hey, Mama?”

  Her eyes are red-rimmed and wild-looking.

  “Gracie,” she whispers, as if someone might be listening.

  “What are you doing?”

  She’s got her satin dress pulled on over a pair of jeans. She stares at me, bewildered and lost. Her eyes make two brown pools in her face. I squint to see her better in the dim light. The dress has a tear down one armpit, like she tried to tug it on too fast.

  “Mama, what are you doing in here?”

  “Oh. Oh well …” She glances to either side of her, not letting go of her knees. “I was just … looking for something I guess,” she says, and I can hear the tremor in her voice.

  “What were you …?”

  “Come here, Gracie girl. Come sit beside your mama.” She pats the floor beside her, as if I am still a child, not an awkward, leggy teenager, and gives a tremulous smile.

  “I’ve got an exam in the morning.”

  “Come on, darling. Just a little minute. Please?” Her voice is so raw and pleading, her eyes searching for mine. I walk over and lower myself onto the floor. The tiles are hard and icy under me.

  “There, there …” she soothes, as if I need it. Her eyes light up as she pats my knee. “You know, darling, I was just thinking we could get you those riding lessons you were wanting. We might even be able to get you a pony of your own.” Her cheeks are flushed beneath those wide, feverish eyes.

  “I don’t want riding lessons.”

  “Sure you do. You haven’t stopped talking about them.”

  “That was when I was eight, Mama.”

  “No …” she starts and then stares at me. Legs too long. Acne on my chin. Breasts not quite grown in. Her gaze is drawn out and
strange. It makes me feel uncomfortable.

  “I’m sixteen, Mama. I’m going to university in a few years.”

  She keeps staring. “No, Gracie,” she says.

  “Yes, I’m going to study geography. You remember.”

  Now her face grows dark and she starts whispering urgently. “No, no, Gracie. You can’t do that. You’re too young; you need to stay here.”

  “But you said …”

  Mama can’t be interrupted. She carries on whispering frantically. “You can’t go, darling. You’re much too young.”

  “I’m sixteen, Mama.”

  “And besides, I need you here. You can see how it is.”

  I look around the darkened kitchen. There’s nothing here but the two of us and a floor that needs sweeping.

  Her voice grows more desperate. “You won’t go, will you, Gracie?” She takes my face in her palm and turns it toward her. “You won’t leave, will you, Gracie?”

  “Mama …”

  “You can’t leave your mama, Gracie. We need each other, my girl. You need to stay with me here.”

  “I want …” Even in the poor light I can see the tears welling in her eyes, and her expression is so despairing I fall quiet. I look at the worn lipstick on her lips and the hollows of her cheeks. She has grown skinny in the last month; it makes her look older.

  “Say you won’t leave.”

  “Mama …”

  “Promise me, Grace. Promise me you won’t leave.”

  I take a deep breath and feel a heaviness on my shoulders.

  “Gracie?”

  “I promise. I promise …”

  She lets go of my face and pats my knee. We sit in silence, staring out across the floor.

  “Did you have lunch today?”

  “Oh, I expect so,” she says absently.

  “What did you have?”

  “I’m not sure, darling. I was out. I had a million things to do. I found this blue bird’s egg, did I show you? It’s incredible. Nature’s art, Gracie.”

  “I saw it.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty.”

  She smiles and takes my hand. She holds it to her cheek, kisses it and sighs. Her cheekbone is as hard and pale as a chess piece under my fingers.

  “How about I make us some quiche?” I offer.

  She nods. “That would be lovely, darling.”

  I stand up and then help Mama up too. I look across the countertop to the bag of onions.

  I shake my head.

  The kitchen of my childhood dissolves and becomes the kitchen in our apartment in Gee Jun Far Sing. My hand is full of broken glass. I shake it over the bin and let the pieces fall to the bottom. I pour myself a fresh glass of water and head to the bedroom, passing Pete’s dark, sleeping figure on the way. I fall into bed and put my head onto the pillow. Sleep comes quickly and with it hot and feverish dreams.

  * * *

  I am flying across a tenebrous sky, peppered with blinking stars. The wind draws its long, cool fingers through my hair.

  I sigh, my mouth in a light smile, my eyes wide and wet. There is someone above me—no, he cradles me gently, like you might embrace a lover.

  “Are you happy, Grace?” he murmurs. His voice runs right through me. Beyond the sphere of us there is silence, deep and still. I breathe him close, the scent of him, a sliver of his bare chest against my skin. It smells familiar. He smells of baking bread. I breathe it in deeply, let it fill me.

  Suddenly we are arching upward, higher and higher as the air becomes lace-thin. Suspended for an instant before tumbling towards the ground in tight spirals. He holds me closer, and I melt into him, letting him control me and, at the same time, keep me safe. Soon enough we are back to flying through the air in long, wide ovals. I feel light-headed and hot, like I have been kissed slowly and deeply. I glance up and see that he is grasping bright orange silk ribbons in his free hand, his other muscled arm still wrapped firmly around my waist.

  “So?” he whispers again. That voice. Silkier than a touch. A touch I want on my body, my breasts. A hot shiver ripples over me. I close my eyes and let the moving air stream over the lids. Touch me. Touch me, I beg silently.

  “Are you happy?”

  “Mmm …” I moan. There is a pulsing in the core of me, that part that makes me a woman, desperate for him to put his lips against me. Please.

  Léon’s lips move to my ear as if he might say something, but instead he starts to kiss my neck. I hear my breath tumble out of me in a groan. His mouth is warm and wet as he breathes and kisses and whispers into the bowl of my ear. His full lips graze my cheeks. I yearn hungrily to feel him with my own mouth; I struggle to turn toward him.

  “Careful,” he warns, but he is smiling at me, teeth ivory-pale. I reach for him, desperate, finally tasting his mouth with mine. It feels like I am pouring myself into him, into this kiss, drowning and disappearing into him. My body aches to be part of his, to feel him as part of me.

  Gravity is tugging at me. Léon has only one arm around my waist. He is kissing down my neck, my body throbbing with the need to have my mouth against his once more. I want him. I want him to be mine. I bite my lip as I feel the heat and shape of him against my inner thigh and taste the salt of my own blood full of lust.

  “Please …” This time I beg out loud, my voice thickened with wanting, husky and raw. As I draw myself closer to him, I slip down against him. He catches me, his arm now tight and pressed up underneath my breasts.

  “Careful,” he warns, this time a growl that makes me thirst for him even more.

  But we are unbalanced, and I am falling from his grasp. I cry out, desperate for the heat and scent of his body.

  “Grace!” He calls as he reaches to clasp my wrist.

  Suddenly there is a rush of noise, like listening to the heart of a seashell. The sounds of a wave against a pebbled shore. Out of the darkness there comes a wall of faces with open mouths. I squint, focusing. It is a theater of people, watching me swinging from Léon’s hand. Their eyes and mouths and faces sharpen out of the darkness. A Chinese lady turns to her friend, whispering, tutting. Her face zaps into focus as she raises an arched pencil line of an eyebrow. Léon’s grip pinches, and I yelp. Then the woman is gone, disappearing into darkness. I am flooded with fear. My heart beats loudly in my ears. I beg him with my eyes, Don’t let me go!

  “Grace!” he calls from above, his accent rich and purring, his voice desperate in a way that makes me ache with need. I am falling.

  Falling.

  Falling.

  Falling.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” someone coos.

  I gasp for air.

  “Hey, Gracie. It’s okay. Darling?”

  Pete holds on to me as I wrestle and twist. He is behind me, trying to cling on to my forearms, keep them down against my chest.

  “No!” My voice is breathless and twisted.

  “You just had a bad dream. It’s okay …”

  It’s as though my body is electric, alive and zinging with longing. I am panting. Léon! my body seems to call, while I find my breath. The heaviness of my head slowly comes back to my attention, the weight and the steady thrum against my skull.

  I stop thrashing and surrender to the mattress.

  “What was all that about?” Pete whispers, uncurling himself from me. Blood rushes through me as if I have run a mile. I am still reeling with the spinning and tumbling of my dream, the room swinging about me in dizzying loops. Léon. Ribbons. Falling. Léon. River-blue eyes.

  “Huh?”

  “I’ve never seen you like that. Are you all right?”

  I pull off the covers and lie on my back, naked and gasping for air. Fever rises off me, pulsing in waves. The room slows, and then settles to a comforting stillness.

  I turn my heavy head to look at Pete, his brow furrowed in a frown, his eyes serious.

  “I think I might be getting sick,” I answer simply. Then I swallow and turn away, my body still shi
vering with want, knowing that Pete’s face was not the one I had hoped to see.

  Brise d’Été—Summer Breeze

  Yuzu with Dark Cherry Filling

  The air is thick and gluey with heat. It feels as though I’ve just stepped out of a scorching bath, steam clinging to the hairs on my skin. I have to blink to stop the world from slipping sideways. My head thumps with a steady drumbeat. This morning I woke up somewhere in between being completely awake and completely asleep, a place in which Mama hovered over me singing and spinning. Paris, Paris, Paris, she was begging. We’ll move to Paris, Gracie. You don’t need to go, we’ll move to Paris. The only way to shake her out of my mind was to force myself into a cold shower and then stumble out of the house.

  I pass a Chinese health store and a tea shop before reaching the pharmacy. Normally I move so fast I don’t even notice my surroundings, rushing to get flour or sugar, to bank the daily takings, to drop off a cushion cover, splattered with coffee, at the dry cleaner’s. Today I can barely walk faster than Yok Lan, each step an effort that leaves me breathless. There are no bottles of vitamins in the health store, no bright posters with happy faces. Instead there are dried shark fins, the color of skin hardened to a callus, yellowy and transparent; bottles of puckered mushrooms; herbs; the smell of fish. By the front step is a miniature shrine, red with gold writing. Incense sticks stand in an old cup, burned down to their yellow stubs. A woman inside fans herself with a magazine, staring at me blankly through the window. Her face hangs limp, bored or wearied by the heat.

  At the tea shop, the aunties behind the counter are engaged in an animated conversation. They wear maroon aprons, leaning over the brass tops of the big tea containers, shaking their heads and sucking their teeth, gossiping. It doesn’t matter that I can’t hear or understand them, the postures and gestures of women judging other women are universal. No, she is not a good mother. You are right, she has become fat. What about her husband, does he not see it? My God, what a busybody she is. Who can manage such a mother-in-law? They seem full of energy, even if it is for slander and lopsided truths. I wonder if their tea would fix my cold but decide to use the more traditional route and head toward the pharmacy.