“I…”

“Do you want to burn some fragrant oil and ask for your fortune?”

“To burn fragrant oil” is a euphemism for a donation, since one has to pay both for the fragrance and the oil.

“Hmmm…yes.”

He asked me to pay for a prepackaged offering, then pointed to small bundles of rolled-up rice paper on a tray. “Now pick your fortune.”

When I hesitated, he said, “Don’t worry, miss, all good ones.”

With a pounding heart, I picked up a paper scroll, untied the ribbon, and let my fortune unroll in my palm:

Chances of success: Good

Thunder awakens one who’s in a cocoon.

The butterfly flies off under the evening sun.

What’s within and without combines.

The phoenix finally takes off to meet the dragon.

Confusion together with a bittersweet feeling overwhelmed me as I dragged my feet away from the temple. Was I the butterfly to be awakened from a cocoon and then fly off toward the sun? Was I the phoenix and Michael the dragon? So this was the message from Guan Yin?

After I got out of the taxi from Chinatown and was walking toward Michael’s apartment building, I saw, to my utter surprise, Philip Noble’s tall frame leaning against the wall next to the apartment’s entrance. Wearing a T-shirt, blue jeans, and running shoes instead of his Italian suit and leather shoes, he took on another image-casual, down-to-earth, approachable. He looked tired and depressed, his face gaunt and his eyes sunken. An unspeakable feeling swelled inside me as I stepped toward him.

Spotting me, Philip dashed forward and pulled me into his arms.

When he tried to kiss me, I disentangled myself from his eager arms, then looked up at his pathetically handsome face. “Philip, why didn’t you call?”

“I meant to, but thought I should come and see you in person.”

There was an awkward silence before I asked, “Philip, anything special you want to see me for?” Although I knew exactly the reason.

“Meng Ning, I just want to apologize to you for what happened last night.”

“It’s all right.”

“Can I…come up to your place?”

“You mean Michael’s place.”

“I need to talk.”

“Philip, why don’t you just go home and let’s forget what happened?” I was feeling overwhelmed by this man’s beauty and sadness.

“I can’t…can you? Please, Meng Ning, let me go up-or would you like to come to my place?”

“No, I don’t…”

“Please, I really need to talk.”

Just then the doorman Frank appeared outside the building, holding open the door for an elderly resident. He spotted me and smiled. “Hi, Miss Du,” he said, then searched me and Philip with curious eyes.

I quickly slipped away from Philip and entered Michael’s building.

Back in the apartment, I went straight to the bedroom, threw myself onto the bed, and cried my heart out. What had I done to my life? How could I possibly turn from a potential nun to a slut in less than two months? No, only two days! Now I desperately needed Michael’s strong arms around my shaking body, his large hands to wipe away my tears, his gentle voice to whisper comforting words, steering my life back onto the right track. Or maybe Yi Kong would be the only one who could guide me in life, and her temple my only refuge.

The sharp ringing of the telephone jolted me upright. I picked up the receiver and heard Michael’s tender voice from the other end of the line. “Meng Ning, you had a good time today? What are you doing right now?”

23. VegetableRootZenCenter

The following day, Saturday, Michael returned from Boston. I feigned a headache and slept most of the time to avoid conversation. He tended to me tenderly, our two-day-old quarrel forgotten. On Sunday, sensing my distress, he insisted on taking me to a temple in Flushing where, he told me, I could meditate and feel better. I had no energy to say no. Besides, my conscience told me that I should please him.

While we were lining up for lunch with other lay Buddhists in the Vegetable Root Zen Center, Michael told me that he would like me to meet some of the monks.

A yellow-robed Chinese monk came up to greet us. I could not help finding his face very ugly, with its bulging eyes, buckteeth, and sharp chin. Bones seemed to stick out of his tattered robe.

Michael put his hands together and bowed respectfully. “ Nan Mo A Mi Tuo Fo, Master Hidden Virtue.” Then he gestured toward me. “This is Du Meng Ning, my fiancée.”

The monk grinned so widely that I feared his teeth were going to fall out. He pointed to my tray. “Eat more, Miss Du.”

While exchanging bows with him, I tried my best to use my Zen mind to suppress my aversion.

Before he left, he said cordially to Michael, “Please eat more, Doctor Fuller. Then stay for our performance of martial arts by monks from the famous Shaolin temple in China.”

As he walked away under the overhead fans, the fluttering of his robe somehow seemed to show detachment from the dusty world-so far the only redeeming feature I could find.

This center was quite unlike the temples I had known in Hong Kong. Everything seemed depressing-the bare, paint-peeled walls; the bare, gray stone floor. What appeal did Michael find in this place where there were no pretty nuns, no tender yin energy, but only monks like bundles of dried-up sticks? I let out a long breath.

“See, Meng Ning, “Michael, oblivious of my mood, said jokingly. “Master Hidden Virtue is not interested in the fact that you’re my fiancée and that we’re getting married.”

I didn’t respond.

Michael continued on a different track. “He must think that, as a gweilo, I’d like martial arts, but I don’t.”

“I do.” I deliberately contradicted him to vent my frustration.

“Do you?” He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never told me that.”

“You never asked.”

But Michael looked at me tenderly. “I’m sure there’re still lots of things I’ll learn about you, Meng Ning. I look forward to that.” He took my hand in his and whispered into my ear, “I love you.”

Again I didn’t respond, but kept inching forward with the crowd. Ahead of me stood a Chinese boy whining to his mother that he hated vegetarian food and wanted a hamburger from McDonald’s.

The mother lowered her voice, widened her eyes, and chided, “Son, I warn you, no more complaining! Now it’s only one more week before you can eat meat again. Can’t you wait just one more week? When your grandfather recovers from his operation, he’ll give you big lucky money for the merit you accumulated for him by eating no meat. You understand? So stop fussing right now and think about your karma!”

The boy, though he stopped complaining, continued to sulk, his face a wrinkled tangerine. His mother pinched him on the ear.

“Aiii-ya!” He made an animal-being-slaughtered sound.

Michael and I got our food, then sat down on a bench to eat. The food was tasty and balanced in qi-cooked with the right proportion of sugar and salt, wine and vinegar, water and oil. A mindful preparation, but even that didn’t arouse my appetite. For now, things in my life seemed-like the smell of the food and the pained “aiii-ya!”-suspended in midair.

Michael put some of his fungus and mushrooms onto my plate. “I’m so happy we can be together in this temple.” He began to eat ravenously. “Reminds me of how we met in the Fragrant Spirit Monastery.”

“I hope there won’t be another fire.”

Michael squinted at me curiously, then returned to his food. In this modest temple, Michael seemed transformed, especially in comparison to his bearing at the Met the other night. Then and there he’d acted and talked fastidiously, while here he seemed happy and relaxed, like someone in his natural habitat.

When most had finished eating, Master Hidden Virtue walked to the center of the hall and announced, “Gud afternun, evibody. I hope you all enjoyed your lunch. Before we start our meditation sexssions, the monks from the Shaolin Temple of the Henan province of China will perform for us their famous marso arts.” Now I was even more annoyed by this bony monk’s thick accent.