Watering Heaven by Liu Peter Tieryas

Author:Liu, Peter Tieryas [Liu, Peter Tieryas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9789881553911
Publisher: Signal 8 Press
Published: 2012-09-28T20:00:00+00:00

The Buddha of Many Parts

I.

Anonymity was my secret identity. I was lost in the sea of Beijing, a nonentity in the metaphor of a metropolis crammed with millions. I spent my days tumbling in the morass of Mandarin, trying to learn and extract the seeds of obscure characters. The library of unknown Chinese tomes seemed endless and questions of my identity withered, solitude keenly evolving into a familiar sense of irony. I relished my isolation, thrived in being unknown even if I was never alone in one of the most populated cities in the world. Enthusiastic vendors sold bronze mirrors that could capture a reflection of your future self while secret restaurants offered kung pao duck heart to help you understand ancient Eastern rites lost over the sieve of time. I saw so many familiar faces I didn’t know, extracts, shadows of ruins, smashed to pieces then reconstructed in the illusory nostalgia of longing. Hair came in all shapes and sizes, and the Chinese were like a lottery from the cauldron of humanity, every brushstroke of human calligraphy breathing in blood. I walked past the elderly, their skin marred by scars and the revolution of balding scalps. Young lovers whistled to the memory of gutter dogs while arguing over misplaced lipstick stains. A mother fed her baby milk directly from her pimply breast, careful to ward off germs from hordes of workers rushing home.

It was evening and I was heading for the subway through ‘Worm Street,’ a hutong that writhed and twisted like a worm from one end to the other. A grandmother with the spine of a boomerang was selling a love potion for 100RMB that’ll make someone fall completely in love with you. A bunch of men were gathered around a xiangqi—Chinese chess—table, analyzing every move, several juggling toughened peach cores inside their palms as they muttered assenting Ahhs and disapproving Ah-yahs. I reached the station, got on a train, grabbed an English translation of one of the four principal classics of Chinese literature from my backpack, Hong Lou Meng—The Dream of Red Mansions. The ride was jittery and tumultuous; the train, almost empty because it was late.

“I love Hong Lou Meng,” a woman said in Mandarin. “Is this your first time reading it?”

I turned and startled to see a tall blonde. She looked like a portrait I’d seen in a French museum, Venus, influenced by elements of Asia, the rapine of sensuality and the crimson parries of a master fencer. Her cheeks were a light rouge, a blend of aplomb and sublime coyness. She wore a turquoise jacket that clung tightly to her lean body, a black miniskirt dripping into a defiant pair of boots raucously laughing at everyone in her way.

“Sorry, I understand Chinese, but my speak not very good,” I said in broken Mandarin.

“You from America?” she asked in English that had no traces of a Chinese accent.

Again, I was surprised. “Yeah.”

“Should have figured,” looking at the English part of my translation.

“You speak perfect English.”

“Born and raised in the States,” she explained.

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