Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune(12)

Much had changed in the seven years I’d been away.

As I continued down the block, the familiar establishments drew my eye: Older Shen’s bookstore, Younger Shen’s herbal shop, Miss Yu’s tea shop, Celia’s gift shop, the Chius’ convenience store, and finally, Old Wu’s restaurant at the end of the road. The street was empty. The neighborhood now seemed to act as a straight thoroughfare to another destination: people merely stopped by the paifang for pictures before moving on to newer, more exciting attractions deeper within Chinatown.

This was where I was supposed to open a restaurant? The location was far from ideal. And money was definitely an issue. I had spoken to the lawyer and Mrs. Chiu about Ma-ma’s finances. After the funeral expenses, the modest amount Ma-ma had left me was enough to cover upcoming permit fees, but not an update of the space nor an upgrade of the appliances.

Could I do this?

I tried giving myself a pep talk. I was twenty-eight years old, far older than Laolao had been when she arrived here all those years ago. If she could do it then, I should be able to now. The same blood pumped through my veins. But I still struggled with doubts.

The sonorous tones of the erhu, the Chinese violin, greeted me as I approached the end of the street. I closed my eyes, drawn to the song. Even the twittering birds overhead stopped. The bow across the two strings coaxed out raw emotion, a bittersweet melancholy spun from the lower register of notes.

The traditional Chinese two-stringed instrument was unusual to the Western eye. It had a long, dark spine with two spikes near the top and a round barrel at the end. One hand manipulated the bow while the other vibrated along the spine, moving up and down along the strings.

As the last note vanished into the summer air, I was released from its spell. Reaching into my purse, I showed my gratitude in the form of paper bills I tossed into the musician’s empty moon cake tin.

“I never realized how much I missed your playing,” I murmured. “Thank you for the song, Mr. Kuk Wah.”

“You’re back in town?” the older man asked.

I nodded.

Mr. Kuk Wah tugged his flat cap over his forehead and set his erhu against the brick wall. The lines around his eyes, like the roots of a banyan tree, had deepened over the years. A dark ink dragon snaked up his right forearm against a background of blooming chrysanthemums. Decades ago, after a particularly thick fog, he had appeared on this street corner to play his erhu, and ever since, like the fog, he’d come and gone as he pleased.

“Why have you returned, Xiao Niao?”

Xiao Niao was from a popular Chinese children’s song and meant “tiny bird.” Ma-ma and I had sung it often. I treasured Mr. Kuk Wah’s term of endearment. He had played the song for me once, soon after we met. I’d sung along, reinforcing the start of our friendship.

“Ma-ma died.”

He removed his hat and pressed it against his chest. Gray infiltrated his short, dark hair; he had to be in his late fifties now. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother’s passing.”

“Thank you. I miss her with every breath.” I was surprised at how easily I could talk about my grief with him.

“Then allow me to play a happy tribute to her life.” He lifted the erhu onto his lap.

The melody unfurled, dancing across the higher registers only to return to the lower notes like a flock of starlings sweeping across the twilight sky. Long interchanging notes were punctuated by staccato plucking of the strings. My heart swelled; Ma-ma would have adored this piece, a playful tune.

At the end of the song, I dived again into my purse, but the musician shook his head.

“This is a gift,” he said.

A worthy tribute. My mother had loved classical music and operas. Perhaps if she had ever ventured outside, she could have met Mr. Kuk Wah and fallen in love with his erhu. In our home, listening to music wasn’t a luxury so much as it was a part of life, like hanging laundry on a clothesline. Bach, Verdi, and Puccini made more of an impact on my consciousness than any modern musician ever had.

“Thank you,” I said.

Mr. Kuk Wah rubbed his chin, bristling his shadow of a beard. “I hope you’ll be staying even after you’ve settled your mother’s affairs.”

“Yes, I’m thinking of reopening Laolao’s restaurant.”

“That’s very honorable of you to follow in your grandmother’s footsteps.”

I lowered my eyes. “I’m not sure if I can do it because there are so many obstacles to opening one. I already tried culinary school and failed spectacularly.” A thread of frustration in my voice escaped without my consent. The walk around the block had reminded me how hard running my own business would be. “I shouldn’t complain. I just inherited a restaurant. Everything’s old but it should still be functional.” Though of course I couldn’t be certain because I hadn’t checked yet.

“Yes, it will be difficult, but I like to think that you’ll succeed.” He paused, then nodded. “If this is what you want to do, then do it. It sounds like cooking feeds something in your soul like music does for me. Following your dream leads to happiness, Xiao Niao.”

I clung to this scrap of hope and mulled over Mr. Kuk Wah’s advice as I made my way back home.



* * *





?I walked to the kitchen table and sat down. Meimei jumped on my mother’s vacant seat and hopped onto the table to attack the stack of mail, batting it with her furry paws until it fell into a flat pile. While Meimei alternated her paws over the envelopes in an adorable cat version of Twister, a lilac envelope caught my eye. It bore no stamp, but my name was written in beautiful cursive on the front.