Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune(26)
“Not quite. I need to do a few things first.”
He arched his brow. “Conditions imposed by the city?”
“No, not that.” I paused then corrected myself with a laugh. “It may sound silly, but a mystic told me I needed to help three people first so the restaurant can succeed.”
“Mystics are meant to be heeded, even more so than regulations and rules—not that you should disregard the latter. If you need to help three people, perhaps you can help me. Did I tell you I was married once?” He pulled off his cap and held it against his chest. The dragon tattoos on his arms shifted, coiling against his skin, their bright scales glinting in the sunlight. “I loved her, but did she really love me? Even after all these years, I am uncertain. If only love was a physical quantity that could be measured and weighed so that one could be sure of his lover’s affections.” He lifted his eyes to meet mine. “I know what you’re going to ask. What happened? Well, we quarreled and parted ways. I’ve tried for years, but she won’t talk to me anymore. Can you help me? I need advice.”
Since I was on a roll, helping out another neighbor, especially one I considered a friend, seemed an easy decision. I smiled and bowed. “Mr. Kuk Wah, will you do me the honor of having tea at my grandmother’s restaurant?”
“I would love to,” he replied.
* * *
?After running upstairs to refill the vases of the family shrine, I opened the door to the restaurant for the musician. Walking inside a cloud of the peonies’ and hyacinths’ perfume, I replaced the flowers in the vases for the goddess, discarding the old. As promised, I served the musician a pot of tea.
“You are making reparations to Guanyin,” the older man commented after sipping his jasmine tea. “I wonder how long it will take for her to forgive.”
I adjusted the flowers. “All I want is to see her smile again.”
The musician studied the statue, counting all the scars as if taking a census. He hummed an unfamiliar tune, which repeated every four bars as his two fingers tapped on the counter. When he found a pair of forks nearby, his feet resumed the beat as he clashed the tines against each other. The melody echoed in the small space until he ended it with a flourish.
“What were you playing?” I asked.
“Something I made up for my wife. I call it the ‘Love Trap.’ I set a snare for her and she fell in. She was happy for a while, but somehow, she escaped and is forever lost to me.”
I laughed and shook my head. “I apologize. It’s not your sorrow that I am amused by but your logic. When I was in Italy, I worked at a cafe in Udine. Every morning, a regal woman came in asking for a cappuccino while she read the morning paper. The diamond rings sparkled on her fingers as she held the cup to her lips. She told me once that she had been married five times and the only reason was because men assumed wooing is a onetime effort. If she had been wooed during her marriages, perhaps she wouldn’t have been as wealthy, but she would have been happier. It makes me think: could you woo your wife now?”
“I’m not so sure. Wooing is a skill I haven’t practiced in years.”
“Then hone it like playing the strings of your erhu. It must be like riding a bicycle.”
“More like fumbling for a flashlight in the dark.”
I laughed before tossing the pile of old flowers into the trash. “She loved you once, enough to marry you. Surely that means something.”
“Perhaps.” A shadow traveled across his face and his dark eyes grew distant. The tattooed dragons on his forearms constricted, tightening around his skin, scales shimmering under the pendant lamp like burnished metal. “But love can fade over time the way a beautiful note vanishes in the air after being played.”
“Then keep playing. Play until you ensnare her heart again.”
“But will it work?”
“You won’t know until you try.”
He leaned over the counter and rested his chin on his hands. “How did you get to be so knowledgeable about relationships?”
I laughed. “I’m not. I’m an impostor who only gives good advice to others.”
Mr. Kuk Wah would be horrified if he knew about the wreckage of the relationship I had left behind in the Pacific. I had broken a man’s heart and run away from the consequences. Emilio would forgive me sooner than I would ever forgive myself.
“Where did you go just now, Xiao Niao?”
The musician’s question snapped me back to the present. I blinked and tucked the painful memory away, burying it under the sand so the waves could wash all the traces away.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kuk Wah. You have my full attention again.”
He lowered his eyes and cleared his throat. “So I’m supposed to woo my wife?”
“Yes, just like I’m supposed to woo my future customers with my food.” I tipped my head toward the Victrola in the corner with the wooden box of records beside it. “Perhaps you can find some musical inspiration.”
Mr. Kuk Wah smiled as he walked over to the antique player. He treated the introduction with quiet formality, as if he were on a first date with an elegant woman. First, he lifted the lid, admiring the turntable and whispering something inaudible into it. He traced the ornate swing arm of the turntable before lifting it to accommodate the incoming vinyl. After his silent homage, he crouched down to leaf through the records, humming a cheerful tune.