The Astonishing Color of After(52)

Waipo tugs my arm and points at a piano off to the side. Someone has draped a swath of forest-green velvet over the top to keep it from getting dusty. I wonder if it’s the very instrument my mother used, her fingers learning the feel of the keys and the spacing of an octave, her hands working up and down scales.

I tug the velvet off, slide my fingers along the smooth surface.

“That’s a digital piano,” says Feng. “The piano your mother would’ve played must be gone now.”

Murky disappointment sinks through my center, dark as mud.

“Shall we head to the night market?” says Feng. “The sun’s about to set.”

I follow my grandmother back out the sliding glass, past the heavy wooden doors, down the steps.

But just as Feng turns for the main road, a few lazily drifting notes of music catch my attention. A piano. I listen for a few seconds—it’s definitely coming from inside the church.

“Leigh,” says Waipo as I whirl around and run back up.

The music fades away just as I pull open the inner door.

There are the rows and rows of empty pews. There’s the piano, the velvet crumpled on the bench, where I left it, forgetting to put it back. There’s no one to be seen.

Outside again, Waipo looks at me questioningly.

Feng catches the expression on my face. “Is everything all right?”

“I thought I heard someone playing.”

Feng shrugs. “A trick of the wind, maybe.”

There’s a rustling to the left, and when I turn a young man is standing under a tree mere paces away, watching me with a toothy grin. His baggy jeans are filthy, his orange T-shirt stained at the hem. Shoulders hunched up around his ears. Teeth yellow, some of them brown with rot.

“Qingwen yixia…” he says slowly. May I ask… He repeats it. “Qingwen yixia… shi Meiguo ren ma?” Every word comes out so slow and clear that I actually understand the whole question. Are you American?

I cross my arms, trying to make myself smaller. He stares at me expectantly, and so finally I give him a tight nod.

“Come on,” says Feng, beckoning us away.

“What does he want?” I ask.

Feng shakes her head.

When we reach the intersection, I glance over my shoulder. The young man is still standing there. He cups his hands around his mouth and calls something out to us.

Waipo stiffens visibly. She glances at me and picks up her pace.

I nudge Feng. “What did he say?”

She rolls her eyes. “Just spouting nonsense. He said birds belong in the sky.”

My heart skips. When I look back, the man is gone. There’s only the tree, swaying in the breeze, and a strange bit of mist disappearing into its branches.





55





By the time we get to the Shilin Night Market the last of the light has leaked away. Purple-gray seeps into the sky as people fill the intersection. At first glance all there is to be seen are the lights and the crowd. Vertical signs hang on both sides of the streets—lit-up stripes in yellows and blues and pinks and greens, bearing logos and Chinese characters.

The night market feels like a special sort of festival, except Feng tells me it comes alive every night. People walk by holding sweets like shaved ice and red bean ice cream. I see some things I’ve never tried but Dad’s told me about, like stinky tofu, and yellow wheel cakes filled with custard. One stand sells skewers of tiny brown eggs, and other kebabs that look dark and marinated. On either side of the crowd, there are stalls lined up in no particular order, some of them peddling trinkets and clothing and accessories, others smoky with freshly cooking foods—

“The snacks here are called xiaochi,” says Feng. “That translates to little eats, literally. Mmm—all my favorite smells in one place! You know, I always thought the most romantic date would be to walk through a night market together eating everything in sight.” She skips beside me, grinning.

Waipo takes my elbow and leans close to me. She mutters something into my ear, but all I catch is ni mama. Your mother.

I shake my head. “Shenme?”

She says it again, slower, and this time I hear it. Your mother’s favorite night market.

There’s a family with two little kids heading in our direction. The youngest looks up at me with big, round eyes. He tugs on his sister’s hand, points at me.

“Waiguo ren,” his sister says. Foreigner. She turns to her parents, pointing her finger, too. “Ni kan!” Look!

I angle my face away, pretending to be very interested in a stand selling deep-fried squid tentacles. Do people really eat these?

“Hallo, hallo,” says the squid merchant, peering at me curiously.

Too many people pressing close. How am I supposed to find my mother in this place?

“I bet you’ve never had anything as delicious as the food here!” says Feng.

Up ahead, someone starts yelling and the crowd pauses, heads tilting to look. The man’s gesturing wildly with his hands, pointing to the sky as he shouts. He seems to be in charge of a steaming vat: Little golden rounds float on the surface of a dark soup.

Feng makes a noise of understanding. “He’s saying that someone came and stole a bunch of the fish balls.”

And then I catch what he’s saying. Did you see it? A bird—a red bird. Very big!