Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune(76)

“What is she like?”

“She’s beautiful. The kind of beauty I keep rediscovering every morning I awaken beside her. She is an amazing cook like her mother, and her capacity for kindness is boundless. It was one of those lightning-struck loves for me. Remember when we talked about songs and how each person has their own? I played her song for her: ‘Sono andati?’”

“She sounds like your soul mate.”

“If I can find mine, you will find yours, but I think you know who it is already.”

I blushed.

“Daniel is your match.” He chuckled. “The one dressed in wires and blinking lights. The one who keeps dropping by.”

“Yes, but I don’t know if I can win him back.”

“Oh, I’d bet my erhu on it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

He laughed, then winked at me. “Trust me, I know.”

I giggled. “Do I get to keep your erhu if not?”

“You can, but I know I’m right,” he said with a laugh. He placed the case on his lap and stroked the hard shell as one would pet a lover.

The urge to hear my father play struck me. The voice of the erhu was his. It was as if he spoke with two voices. I yearned to hear him play now.

“Can you play something for me, please?” I asked, resting my chin on my hands.

“As you wish.” He withdrew his erhu from its case.

I listened, enraptured. The rest of the world gave way to the auditory, the beauty of unseen vibrations enchanting the cochleae. Like the song of a siren. There was nowhere else I wanted to be in this moment than in the company of my father.

I sighed when the music ended. The legend of my father’s erhu was a gift I would cherish forever. I leaned over. “I want to ask you for some advice about Daniel.”

“Well,” he said, returning his erhu into its case. “I would suggest that you should trust your heart and realize that love grows while infatuation fades. Do you remember when you asked me about my wife speaking to me again after all these years?”

“Yes, it seemed strange that she would speak to you after years of silence.”

“A few weeks ago, something changed. I had tried many times before, but she refused to see me, but that morning was different. As usual, I stood across the street so she could see me from the windows. I waited for her. Though Miranda never ventured outside of her tower, she paced the windows and occasionally watched the world go by.”

Until the day she died, the vision of Ma-ma through the second-floor windows was a constant sight in the neighborhood. My mother viewed the rest of the world like a fish tank—one she was glad not to be a part of.

“I waved to her, and for the first time since I left, she saw me. Her eyes met mine. I thought she would be afraid and run away, but she stayed, with her fingertips to the glass and she spoke one word. Even from a distance, I knew she said my name. That was when Miranda ran outside to join me.”

Ma-ma. I closed my eyes as tears sprang from them, spilling down onto the countertop.

“Why are you crying, Xiao Niao?” he asked.

“Because I finally know how my mother died, and she was happy.”

He stumbled back. “Your mother?”

“Yes. My mother, Miranda.” I wanted him to realize it, to acknowledge me first as his daughter, then claim me. I had been waiting too long, all my life, to hear him say the word.

My father narrowed his eyes and stared at me, the type of visual examination I often employed when poring over old photographs or film reels. Was he discovering the truth? Could he see the resemblance? And what if he didn’t? Twenty-eight seconds ticked by, one for every year of my life.

“Nu-er.”

Daughter.

My tears turned into crystals, sliding off my skin and singing as they fell onto the countertop. I muffled a sob with a cupped hand. My father reached for my cheek. His fingers hovered over my skin, for the gift of touch was impossible.

“You look like your mother,” he said. His dark eyes softened, glistening with tears. “How did I not know?”

“Ma-ma never had a chance to tell you,” I confessed. “I love you, Baba. Tell her I love her too.”

Then Thomas Kuk Wah smiled. It was an expression of joy mixed with paternal pride. This was my father. I snapped a photograph of the moment in my mind, one to place alongside my mother’s. And thus, the thread holding him tethered to the Middle Kingdom was cut. Before my eyes, my beloved father dissipated into fog, much like the heavy earthbound clouds of the bay burned off in the heat of the rising sun.

Baba.



* * *





?I collected the teardrop crystals off the countertop and counted them. Eight. The luckiest number in my culture. Yes, I was lucky. Though I had lost my father once more, I didn’t mourn him, for he was with Ma-ma now.

My elbow brushed against the base of the goddess. Bringing her out into the light had not changed her condition. The pits and scars continued to mar her skin. I had hoped she would be restored to her full glory, since my mother’s last request would be fulfilled and the restaurant was set to succeed.

“Will I ever see you smile again?” I asked.

I examined the crack running down the center of her face. Though the fire had spared her, her physical corruption caused me pain. As I ran my hands over her crevices, my fingernails caught the edge of a deep pit near her shoulder. The piece came off, peeling, and its lack of sharpness surprised me, for I had been cut before. With a gentle tug, the small piece came off in my hands, revealing something shimmering underneath. Gold.