17
At my door, a box awaits. Red and gold with cheap plastic beads colored to look like jade hanging from the lace. No one around to claim it, no note or card. Jason. I can still smell him. Did he get here before me to leave an “I’m sorry” present? I unlock, rush to check the window. Maybe he’s still there. No sign of him. Although, across the street, an old, fishtailed car, red paint and golden wheels, starts its engine and wends around the first corner. Almost as if it wanted to be seen. Strange, but no time for silly games.
It wasn’t Jason. His bag still lies near the TV. The medicine box. The jiu-jitsu mats we use for classes and more. A pair of sneakers next to the door. He wasn’t messy, but his little ghosts are still everywhere. Little reminders of our life together, our future apart. In the corner, the oxygen tank, totem of my other past, stood tall and defiant. Just in case, I cover my face with the mask, release the valve.
Time for the box.
Whoever left this took their time to make a very traditional Chinese wrap. Layers and layers of paper, all sorts of intricate patterns, until I get to…the gift: a red-lacquered piece of wood, carved in the shape of a leaf.
No, it’s not a leaf! I leap toward my side table, open the drawer. I know it’s there.
Shifu’s carving. A red feather, like the one in the box. They’re no perfect match, more like hand-carved to match the same original design, but definitely a pair. Shifu’s friends. Those I was supposed to have looked for. To finish my training. Was I being summoned?
“Chinatown,” Shifu told me when he first gave me the carving. “Find my friends there.” I wonder if master knew that neighborhood was nothing like the little villages near Wudang. When I arrived, sad for the loss and inebriated by the big city at the same time, I didn’t go. Too busy, I told myself. Then, ashamed of the reluctance, I didn’t have the guts to reach out. Finally, I pretended I had forgotten.
Maybe it was time.
The next morning, I call the lab saying I was going to be a little late. The BART from Oakland drops me at Montgomery Station in San Francisco. From there to Dragon’s Gate, just a few blocks. The smell of dumplings, roast duck, incense. I hadn’t been here for a while. Almost forgot how hectic it was. Tiny shops everywhere, filled with phony Chinese souvenirs and Golden Gate T-shirts for the tourists. Finally, I spot them. I knew they were here! Red lanterns on jade-colored light posts, with golden dragons on top. Like the box and the fishtailed car. I’m in the right place.
Seeking some sort of sign, I continue to walk. So many people. So rushed and ordinary. What kind of life is that? They argue in screams that cause white tourists to curl, fearing a fight. Cars honk as if there were real traffic. All bearable only because of the soothing notes of an erhu somewhere afar. No other musical instrument represents China better than it. I can imagine the artist playing, dumb Americans taking photos of the “strange lap violin that sounds like a kung fu movie.” Then, the worst: from all corners, a different cat waves, always that stupid happy face. Cats, I don’t mind. But I have a problem with smiles.
Keep going, Yinyin. Bakeries selling wife cakes and bubble tea pass by, kite shops, wok stores. At times I stop, show the red feather to a local to see if they know what it is. An old lady scoffs, smacks her head with a palm, calls me dumb. Then rushes in, locking the door behind her. A street vendor, a shopper that seems local, a girl distributing pamphlets for the nearest massage parlor. They all titter and disappear inside. “Hey, what’s funny?” I’m left outside, no answer. Once I saw it, though, it all made sense. On the corner of Sacramento and Hang Ah, a tea house like every other. Except this one has a giant sign saying “Fèngmáo.”The Feather of the Phoenix. It has to be it.
“Nihao.” The old man serving a guest greets me and I show him the red carvings. He chain-bows, “Som Shifu. Som Shifu. Xuéxiào” and points at the little martial arts school across the street, behind the fishtailed car, camouflaged among all that gold and red.
“Dragon Scale Kung Fu School” says the window decorated with lanterns, curtains, and carved wooden trims. Bodies overflow beyond the door. Tourists, locals, white people with cauliflower ears. I push through them. The place resembles a beehive. Crowd, movement, buzz.
Inside, an old bald man with a big belly and a disobedient beard does some clown shit. I position my hands in a discreet Daoist sign, hoping someone there would notice, and watch the bearded man circle his fingers in the air. Four feet away, a bunch of idiots follow with their faces. He palm-strikes the empty space between himself and his opponents, and the foes all drop on cue. In his real-life cartoon, the old fart defeats all his fake enemies without placing a single finger on them. Would be awesome if it wasn’t a disgrace to the reputation of real kung fu. The Chinese part of the audience applauds. Myself? I want to get in there and beat the guy for making an ass of my country and my art.
Someone hits the gong. A young kid who acts too serious for his age.
In fear, the circus disbands. So fast that before the sound is over, only the old man stands on the mats. Glorious, superior. Master Som, I bet. In Mandarin, he talks to the crowd; the gong boy translates. “Today is another chance for secrets of the ancient art of Chinese gong fu to be seen by America. May the challenger say his name?” I hope the challenger is good.
“Josh Blauberg,” says the redhead. A white, Japanese grappling uniform covers his torso and hangs over his orange board shorts and fingerless gloves. He carries a new black belt, still stiff on the edges from lack of use. Kid doesn’t look very smart either. Hard to say who is the bigger joke.
The old man and his translator continue: “Mr. Blauberg answered the challenge…to anyone who dared to face Master Som’s qi. In victory, the school will pay him five thousand dollars. In loss, Mr. Blauberg agrees to tell the world…about the superiority of Chinese gong fu against the modern world of mixed martial arts, or as they’re called today, em-em-a.”
The American nods. They shake hands. Bow. Shake hands again. Bow. Awkward. The two build distance, then another gong. I can hear the kid’s feet brushing the mat, slow, cautious. There is no buzz anymore. The old master cocks his hands, and with no warning, throws his magical qi bomb at the young guys. From the audience, a rude American screams “Hadouken!” and a few others laugh. I don’t blame them, but would love to beat them for their manners, anyway. Nothing happens.
Flustered, the old master walks toward the opponent, waving his palms as if collecting an invisible load of qi toward his belly button to reload his qi bombs. Meanwhile, the American, with no sense of decorum, walks toward the master with a fist raised to announce a strike, and hits him square in the nose. No attempt to defend.
“Oooh!” exclaims the crowd, in fear and shame. A collective loss of face.
A few in uniform rush to attend the master. They surround him, frenetic, loud, speaking an odd mix of tongues and throwing accusing looks at the contestant. The American walks in circles, chest up in a physical brag he doesn’t deserve, the eyes skipping between his friends and the angry gathering around the host.
Gong! The master is raised to his feet and for a second, I wonder if he got distracted by my hands. He points my way with his eyes. “Again,” says the shifu. Reluctant, the gong boy thumps it one more time.
The charlatan throws a meek and unbalanced kick in the air and is countered on the ribs. A roundhouse, sloppy and unimpressive, but on target, nonetheless. The old man bends just to eat a knee in the face, his grunt echoed by the entire audience—even visitors. The kid was already diving TV-wrestler-style, ready to finish the fight, when a startled crowd leapt between them.
Please, Gods of Wudang: make this man not be one of Shifu’s friends.
Students and visitors push, yell, point fingers. A brawl, ugly in both its blood and its lack of honor. Unless the jocks are much better than their ginger friend, they are going to get killed, and there is nothing I can (or want to) do. So I prepare to leave.
A thunder interrupts: “Stop!” commands the master, and a river of silence widens the gap between the fighters. Was he talking to me or them?
Master Som now stands in front of the winner and his friends. Chin high, head tall, eyes wandering to the sides between the shiny bald head and the protruding belly. Betrayal. Dishonor. Shame. Behind, his eldest student shakes his head in disgust. He raises three overstuffed red envelopes, hands them to the winner.
With scorn, the outsiders accept the prize. I would have slapped them right there. Good manners you test in victory. But I have nothing to do with them, so I watch the brawlers depart, teasing the crowd with their vulgar boast. So toxic, their path remains empty even after they are gone.
“Leave,” mutters the master. “All of you.” His eyes are distant, his voice unsure. Nonetheless, the audience abides. I follow, sad to witness an elder face his end, no matter how ridiculous the whole fanfare was. I think of Shifu, how heartbroken he would be the day he couldn’t defend himself anymore. In a certain way, I’m glad he departed before his fall. Someone pokes my forearm. A short Chinese elder. He has the dark and rugged skin of a fisherman, hands like stone. His rich silk robe says something else: a man of possessions. So confusing. Behind him another elder also in silk, long and shiny white hair pulled into a perfect ponytail, slow aristocratic moves. They repeat my Daoist sign in their bow.
It didn’t take long for the students to empty the school of any visitors. They close the door. The window. It’s only the four of us now. The bleeding impostor, the two men in expensive robes, and me. I say nothing. If anyone is to talk, it must be them.
“The vigilante thing, young woman. Not good for community,” says the owner of the school. I respond with a befuddled glare. The short dude interferes: “Sorry, he’s getting old, losing his manners.”
“You have something that belongs to me?” says Master Som.
I’m not ready to respond yet.
“I told you. She doesn’t know shit,” says the grumpy short one. “Do you?”
In silence, I say no.
They take my backpack. Geriatric thugs. So sure of themselves I don’t know how to react. Before I can, the darker one is already pulling his thick fingers back out. The bag drops on the mat and his hands expose the two lacquered feathers I brought.
“My name is Fai Tián,” says the tallest of them. He reaches into his pocket and opens his hand. Another carved feather. “Enchanted to meet you, young lady.”
“Mine is Lau. Sing Lau,” says the dark-skinned fisherman. With the other hand, he shows his own too. “Those you carry belong to Master Som and…your father, I believe.”
“My Shifu,” I respond. “My father was someone else.”
They all bow in respect, and Master Som points to the back of the room, where a small octagonal table surrounded by richly adorned Chinese chairs seems to await us. In the center of it, a silver tray and in the middle of the tray, one lonely peach awaits.
The three masters turn to me in anticipation. I get it. They call it a Dao fruit in China. A gate to immortality. But I’m not a fan, so I take my seat and ignore the offering.
“What?” Master Som asks. “You don’t like magic peach?”
“It’s not that,” I say, trying to change subject, but they insist, so I am forced to explain. “It makes me feel…” Damn, why am I telling them this? I try to forget about it again but their hungry-mutt faces won’t let me. “It feels like I’m having sex with a woman, Ok? Not that I have any problem with it, but…it’s not my thing!”
Around the table, they slap their hands on their foreheads, some making more noise than others, and make gestures of outrage. “See? That’s what you get for being such a liberal teacher,” Master Som says. “What do you expect? Start with teach Wing Chun and wrestling. Where else would it end? Not liking peach,” says Master Lau. “You have a dirty mind. Your father would be very, very angry.”
This time it’s Master Tián who corrects him. “Her Shifu, you old dog.”
They all grin; I am not sure why. Shifu Lau orders the young man to take the silver tray away, and then turns back to me: “So you came here to…”—he waves his hand in a circle toward the faint bruise in my face, his expression lost between pain and disgust—“…finish your training, I suppose? You don’t seem so good.”
How dare they? I had just watched an unimpressive beginner MMA fighter defeat the so-called master and they are mocking my face? Saying they would train me? Having been raised to respect the elders, I avoid voicing my thoughts. Shifu must have been senile at the point when he ordered me here.
“I came to…” I say and give the host his wooden feather. And you know what the motherfucker does? He grins again. Then he claps twice, above his forehead. Like a drunk rich monkey. It doesn’t take a second, and a blur rushes from behind the panels carved with golden dragons and phoenixes. A pale young man, carrying a tray with tea for four, bows to the masters, then me. That red hair…he rises. The MMA dude?!
“Shifu?” says the flame-headed servant, still wearing the top of his Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu gi and the short black belt. The mock fighter leaves and Master Som asks: “Did you really think that was real?”
They all explode into loud, obnoxious laughter. The fool seems to be me. Trying to save face, I stand, just to be sat back again by their kind, yet very firm hands. “Please, wait, young girl.” His eyes are full of resolve. “You are one of us now.”
“Us?”
“Us, the Red Phoenix Society,” says Master Tián.
“Such a stupid name. Sounds like Harry Potter shit!” interrupts Master Lau.
“You too American,” Master Tián barks back.
“We’ve been here for thirty years, thickhead,” replies Lau.
More loud laughs. What do they have in that tea?
Master Tián proceeds: “There used to be more. More of us. Used to know so many things. Shape-shifting, combustion, alchemy, poetry, telepathy…some of it was lost when the bomb unbalanced the qi of everything on Earth.”
“Hiroshima,” explained Lau. “But we still know big ones.” Tián continued: “We started to get old, sick, and some died…We’re the only ones left. The Shadow Leap, you learn it yet? From Shadow Monkey.”
I stammer. “Me? I…I did…I mean…”
Master Tián reaches my hand and places a finger on my pulse. “No way. Too much yang,” he says, “And this…” He waves at my face bruises again.
Master Lau agrees with a nod, but then gives me a gentle grin: “No worry needed, little one. You are young. And woman. Women learn slower.”
My skin must have burned strawberry red because the owner of the school had to jump in: “But become good later! Better than men.”
Fucking eggs. I try to stand up again, but the pony-tailed master, Tián, holds me again. “Want to break curse, need to fix qi,” says Master Lau, followed by Master Som: “Want to fix qi, must own family secret.” Then Master Tián: “Want to learn family secret, must break curse.”
Great. A coordinated riddle. Just like Shifu used to do. Although Master wouldn’t use it for such mumbo jumbo. His tales explained real techniques. Qi bombs to explain joint alignment. Iron body to explain bone bruising. Shadow Leap to explain his dazzling footwork. I get angry. “Sorry, I don’t believe in magic,” I reply.
Yes, I say that, to their faces. And part of me immediately repents. Bad manners have no excuse. Even in truth. They are now quiet, somber. Trading looks, communicating in a silent language I can’t comprehend. I close my fists waiting for darts to come flying into my head, for someone to grab one of the spears on the wall and crack my skull with it, or a giant with a machine gun to turn me into a noodle strainer. Too many mobster movies? Maybe. Nothing happens. I calculate my chances. These three old hacks, barehanded, I can take them down. The wooden leaves are still on the table though. I stretch out my hand, as slowly as I can. Maybe they won’t see it.
PAK! The tall one slaps my wrist. They are laughing again. Three deranged, senile kung fu frauds. Oh my. No time for dotards. I grab Shifu’s gifts anyway and storm toward the door. Why would he send me to these people?
“Yinyin,” says Master Som.
Out of a politeness they don’t deserve, I turn. He has his palms facing each other, holding an imaginary sphere like we do in Tai Chi practice. His weight loads over his back leg, rather elegantly, I must say. Then his hands move to the side of his waist and I can swear the walls bend a few inches. It can’t be. Did they put something in my tea? Then he shoots an imaginary ball of qi in my direction with so much poise I leap to avoid getting hit. Such a fool! And BANG! The door bursts open behind me.
I admit, that trick was good.
The host bows. “You like that, ha? Can’t use often, though. Big qi waste cuts life short,” he says, then looks up as if retrieving an old memory. I wait, and he finally continues, with a refreshed enthusiasm. “We also have blue flower and magic mushroom to mix with honey! For head demons, you know?”
What did Shifu tell them?
“Oooh, I see dragons! Dragons!” mocks the little fisherman, with a high-pitched voice that is supposed to represent me. “Give me magic mushrooms! So cool!” All three crack up laughing.
That’s enough. I flip them my middle finger and slam the door behind me. I have work to do. A real job, not this hocus pocus bullshit.