“So do you want to go?”
“Of course, Yi Kong Shifu.” It wouldn’t pay much, if anything, but it would be my first actual job as an art historian.
29. Wedding Pictures
Two days before I was to leave for China, as a farewell treat I took Mother to a teahouse that had a soothing atmosphere and served the best kind of tea.
We sat down just as a young tea ceremony instructor had begun telling the story about the imperial Meng Ding tea.
“Once upon a time in the Qing Yi River,” she narrated in her silken voice, “a fish spirit had been meditating strenuously for ten thousand years until she finally transformed into a beautiful young woman.
“One day, dressed as a farm girl, she went to gather tea seeds on the peak of the Meng Mountain and encountered a young man out collecting herbs. They fell in love the instant their eyes met.
“As a token of love, the fish spirit gave her tea seeds to the young man. The lovers vowed to meet again the following year at the mountain peak when the seeds would sprout. The fish spirit said to her lover, ‘That will be the day of our marriage.’
“A year later, when spring came again, as they had pledged to each other, the fish spirit and the young man met again on the mountain and married. On their wedding night, the bride took off her white lace shawl and threw it into the air. Mist formed instantly to nourish the tea leaves he had planted. Ever after that, the tea grew luxuriantly, and the couple lived a happy life that was soon blessed with a son and a daughter.
“As good times rarely last long, so the fish spirit’s marriage to a mortal was finally discovered by the Qing Yi River God, who ordered her to return to the river at once. Taking leave with tears and a broken heart, the young mother said to her children, ‘You must help your father to take good care of the tea leaves on the mountain…and make sure the mist keeps moistening the leaves.’
“Sixty years passed like a horse-leap over a ravine. When the husband had turned eighty, and his children and grandchildren were all grown up, he found his never-ending longing for the fish spirit so unbearable that he jumped into a river and ended his life.
“So great were his accomplishments in tea growing that the emperor conferred on him posthumously the title Master of Popular Wisdom and Wonderful Compassion. The tea he planted on the Meng Mountain was honored as gongcha, Tea of the Imperial Offering.”
After the instructor had finished the story and her tea ceremony demonstration, Mother looked relaxed and happy. She sipped her tea with an imperial air. “Ah, excellent tea. And what a touching love story!” Then she went on to praise the tale and the storyteller’s pretty Chinese dress and silken voice.
Before I had the chance to say anything, she pulled my sleeve. “Meng Ning, I suddenly feel very hungry; let’s find a place to eat.”
“But, Ma-”
“Let’s go. I’m starving.”
We were walking along Waterloo Road. The weather was as hot as the Meng Ding tea. And as intoxicating.
Mother blurted out, “I really love that fish’s story. So moving!”
Her eyes glistened and lost their focus. “The story has a sad ending, but at least the fish and the young man were able to get married and have two children; it was not that tragic after all.”
In the shop window, my mother’s reflection silently overlapped those of other pedestrians on the busy boulevard. Stooping old people, briskly striding young men, shuffling children, giggling teenagers in torn jeans, sweaty construction workers, middle-aged women straining with loaded shopping bags, shiny Mercedes sedans cutting off battered bicycles, packed buses, overloaded trucks lumbering, taxis swishing by, the overpass looming above…
The Ten Thousand Miles of Red Dust reproduced in the light and shadow of a silent movie.
How peaceful, this world of mirrored images, where people intersect but never interrupt, interact but never interfere. Now even my excitable mother looked happy and relaxed in the shiny, cool glass. The deep wrinkles around the eyes of her seasoned doll’s face turned into fine lines, like subtle cracks on the glaze of an antique vase. Even her dyed black hair had a more natural shade. Mother seemed to have forgotten her hunger, her eyes absorbing the commodities displayed behind the glass.
“Hey, look, Meng Ning, Sally Yeh in a wedding gown!” Mother stopped in front of a bridal salon; her eyes fixed on a huge picture of the Hong Kong pop singer. “Very fancy, isn’t it? French sixteenth-century classical court style.” She was reading from a small ad next to the picture.
“Yes, but a distasteful imitation.” Her easily distracted attention annoyed me.
Mother raised her voice to compete with the street noise. “Hey, look, she took the picture at the garden of Versailles, in France.”
“Yes, Ma, it is the garden of Versailles, but not in France. Can’t you tell the background is just a blown-up studio picture?”
Mother seemed determined not to be discouraged by any of my negative responses. “Hey, look how beautiful she is in her bridal makeup.”
“No, too loud. Ma, don’t you see that everything on her face is overdone? Too many colors on the eyelids, the nose shadow is too deep…and…you see those eyelashes? They’re too long and too thick, too artificial! Besides, how come her grin is so big? In the past, women were not supposed to reveal their teeth when they smiled. A bride has to be bashful and demure, at least pretend and act that way, not baring her teeth immodestly like this-”
“It’s theatrical,” Mother said, finally cutting off my harangue. “Like in Beijing opera. You like Beijing opera, don’t you?”
I did.
I remembered as a child how I was thrilled by the actors with their lianpu, multicolored face patterns. My tiny heart never failed to be captivated by patterns moving on the actors’ faces as if a giant portrait were springing to life!
Mother had eagerly taught me how to recognize their symbols. White Face is bad, so be careful of him; Black Face is righteous, so pay respect to him; Green Face is cunning and touchy, so stay away from him; Red Face is brave and courageous, so applaud him; Gold Face is either an emperor or a nobleman, so emulate him.
But not until I grew up did I realize people can put more than one lianpu on their faces. That was more than my mother had taught me. And it takes one lifetime, or many lifetimes, to learn to strip away all the layers until you catch a glimpse of the truth. Or of nothingness, as you discover at the end of the tearful process of peeling an onion.
Now as I searched Sally Yeh’s painted face, her eyes stared back at me from behind the glass, as if beckoning me to enter her dream-world. I wondered who was the real woman hiding behind this pretty mask, and whether she was really as happy about getting married as she looked.
My childhood efforts to identify lianpu still groped in a maze. For the human face, as constant as it seems, is in fact as capricious and camouflaged as the human heart.
I peeked at Mother. She was still studying the pop singer with great envy and absorption, oblivious to a giggling teenage couple and a band of four marching housewives pushing by her.
“Ah, how beautiful she is, wearing all her fancy jewelry,” Mother said, hiding her bare hands behind her. “See, Meng Ning,” she said, her voice soaked with feeling, “Sally Yeh is still single, so nowadays you don’t have to get married to take wedding pictures. The newspaper says it’s fashionable for young women to dress as a bride only to look pretty and to take pictures as souvenirs. I think you should also take pictures like this while you still look young.”
I snapped, “But, Ma, I am not a pop singer, and this is just an advertisement.”
Mother’s face stiffened. “Of course you’re not a pop singer. You’re better, much better!” Then she sighed, muttering to herself, “Hai, then why aren’t there many men knocking at your door?”