“But the point is, only my mentor has the connections to take her priceless art out of China,” I said, feeling my face flush.

The professor’s attitude toward me was obviously changing. Now he looked at me intently, asked many detailed questions about Yi Kong’s art collection, and seemed to be very satisfied with all my answers. I tried not to show how much I was enjoying this.

“Next week”-now his smile was reaching high to his ears-“when I’m not as busy with the exhibit, you’ll have to let me take you two to dinner.”

19. Beauty with a Limp

The next day I slept late and Michael had already left for work. After I washed, I brewed tea, then cooked myself a simple brunch of instant noodles with cabbage and a pinch of chili. The engagement ring spread its sparkles everywhere-in the mirror, on the glaze of the ceramic tea cup, the silverware. I felt happy, both for the ring and my scalding spicy noodles.

While I was wondering where I should spend the afternoon exploring Manhattan by myself, the phone rang.

I picked up the receiver and cooed into it flirtatiously, “Hi, Michael.”

“Little woman, is that all you have on your mind?”

“Who’s this?”

“Lisa Fulton, Michael Fulton’s daughter. We met at the Met yesterday.”

“Hi, Lisa. How did you get my phone number?”

“You mean Michael’s phone number? Ha, I knew him long before you did. He’s an old friend.” Before I could respond, she went on. “I’m calling to invite you to see the Pollock show at MoMA in the afternoon. I’m sure you have time and you’re interested?”

“Pollock? Yes, I’d like to go.”

“Good. I’ll find you inside the exhibit around three,” she said, then hung up.

It had begun to drizzle in the afternoon, and the Museum of Modern Art was relatively quiet when I arrived. In the lobby, there were only a few people-milling around, waiting, or inquiring at the membership service counter. An intense-looking man, hands locked behind his back and head tilted high, scrutinized the bold-stroked Motherwell painting spanning the wall to the left.

The Jackson Pollock exhibit was a huge show with more than two hundred works on display, beginning with Pollock’s early drawings, and even a few by his teacher, Thomas Hart Benton. I wandered in front of the many canvasses and drawings, trying to look for possible secret codes hidden within the labyrinths of lines and splashes. I was staring at the intricately choreographed energy of Number 32 when a woman’s alto voice rose to my ears, sweet and mellow like a ripe papaya.

“Beautiful lines, aren’t they?”

I turned and saw a very tall and beautiful woman with a smile like a crescent moon across her tanned face. Her long hair was a matching color; the curls splashed down her shoulders in Pollockian lines. On her neck, several gold chains glittered flirtatiously. Her eyes were dark amber. A Pollock black and bronze scarf with frenzied lines was draped casually across her breasts, and a tight black top slithered around her torso.

I blurted out, “Lisa Fulton! You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Her eyes shot out sparks like Pollack’s dots. Her bronze eye shadow and lipstick enhanced her strong features.

“Pollock is one of my favorite painters.” She smiled. Her teeth, catching the reflection of the light, glowed like fine Chinese porcelain. Her long tapering nails were painted with bronze polish, the color of her hair and lips. Gold bangles jingled on her wrist; one, heavier than the rest, was a panther biting its own tail.

She turned to look at me. “I like the spontaneity, the splashing, and the wildness!” Then she threw back her head and laughed a rich alto laugh, like temple chimes in the wind. A ponytailed guy stared at us. She winked back.

We both turned to look at the painting. But I couldn’t concentrate. Lisa’s presence seemed to fill the space around me; I could almost feel the air next to me move in curves and splashes. She smelled of wild ginger flowers, my favorite. What kind of perfume was scented like this?

Half an hour later, Lisa and I were sitting at the museum café munching sandwiches and sipping drinks. I looked out at the garden; the drizzle had stopped and the air shimmered with a fresh, clean look. A young couple sat on a bench eating pastries. In front of them, giggling Asian teenagers scrutinized a Henry Moore statue; their slim fingers wagged at the swelling surfaces. Farther on stood a tree; its interlacing branches now looked exactly like Pollock’s lines.

As I wondered what to make of my new acquaintance, she said, “You want to see my paintings someday? I’ll invite you to my studio, just you and me, a girl thing.”

I nodded.

“I heard that you’re an artist, too?”

“Hmm…yes and no,” I said, then I told her about myself.

“I’m impressed. A Ph.D. and Zen paintings, these are my dreams.”

We continued to talk more about paintings, Oriental philosophies, the art world, the art scene in New York. Not only was I surprised that Professor Fulton’s daughter and I had so many interests in common, I was also impressed she knew about Chinese philosophy. Our conversation carried on until we noticed that the museum was about to close.

Outside, Lisa and I said good-bye. Then, after she had walked a few steps, she suddenly turned and came back to me-to invite me out again tomorrow night.

I didn’t know whether to accept or not, though I was tempted. Not only by her beauty and cordiality, but also by an urge for revenge on Professor Fulton-he didn’t give a damn about me, but his daughter did!

“I’d like to, but Michael may want to do something with me tomorrow night.”

She smiled mischievously. “Oh, forget Michael for a moment. He’s too serious and busy. Let’s have some fun together for one night!”

“All right then, but let me ask him first.”

As she started to walk away, I noticed her limp again. That startled me. Such a beautiful woman-how could this have happened? I realized that because she was conscious of her limp, she deliberately walked with an overly dignified bearing. Her pride made me sad. The limp was not very obvious, but, like a grain of sand in the eye-however small-it hurts. Or, like a crack on an otherwise immaculate antique vase-however thin-it mars. Then I thought of Dai Nam and her scar and felt sympathy swell up inside.

Back home, I couldn’t sleep, being too excited by the afternoon’s encounter. I decided to read in the living room and wait for Michael; it was not until nine-thirty in the evening when I heard the lock click.

I dashed to kiss Michael as he closed the door behind him. “Michael, you want me to fix you something to eat?”

“No thanks.” Michael looked exhausted. “I’m too tired. Let’s just go to bed.”

Although I knew he was too tired to listen, I still couldn’t help blurting out the news about my meeting with Lisa.

Now he looked completely awake. “Meng Ning, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to see her.”

“But why?”

“Just stay away from her, OK?”

I was surprised; Michael had never talked to me like this before.

“But I had a good time. I think we may become good friends.”

“Friends?” Michael widened his eyes. “She’s more trouble than you realize. I just don’t want you to get-”

“But I find her very interesting and intelligent, let alone beautiful.”

“Meng Ning, she fools a lot of people.” Now Michael looked at me with concern. “You’re a very sweet and innocent person. I just don’t want you to be-”

“To be what?”

“Please just take my word for this.”

“Michael! She’s your professor’s daughter, and I’m sure you know her well…”

“Yes, only too well.”

“What do you mean?”

“Can’t we just drop this now?” Then he pulled me into his arms and started to kiss me.