Julian was not at all used to his intercom buzzing at 7:30 A.M. But then, many strange, new things had happened since he launched The Authenticity Project. He was still dressed in his pajamas, so he threw on the nearest jacket he could find (Alexander McQueen circa 1995, wonderful epaulets and gold frogging) and a pair of the Wellingtons that had sprung from the understairs cupboard, and he walked out to the gate.
Julian had to look down a couple of feet from his six-foot vantage point to see his visitor. She was a tiny, birdlike Chinese lady, face like a walnut, eyes like raisins, and a wild thatch of short gray hair. She was, quite possibly, even older than himself. He was so busy staring at her that he quite forgot to speak.
“I am Betty Wu,” she said, in a voice much bigger than she was, seemingly undaunted by the appearance of a man dressed in a combination of haute couture, threadbare nightwear, and wet-weather gear. “I come for tai chi.”
“Tai chi?” echoed Julian, aware he was sounding rather gormless.
“My grandson, Biming, he says you want to learn tai chi,” she replied slowly, in a tone one might use if talking to an idiot, or a very young child.
“Biming?” echoed Julian, sounding like an idiot, or a very young child. “Oh, do you mean Baz?”
“I do not know why he does not like Chinese name. Is he ashamed?” huffed the lady called Betty. “He says you want me to teach you tai chi.”
Julian had said nothing of the sort, but realized that there was no point in arguing with this force of nature.
“Er, I wasn’t expecting you, so I’m not exactly dressed for the occasion,” protested Julian, who knew, far better than most, how important it was to wear the right outfit. “Perhaps we should start another time?”
“No time like present,” said Mrs. Wu, narrowing her narrow eyes at him. “Take off the coat and big boots.” She glared at his Wellies as if they’d badly offended her. “You have big socks?” Julian, who was wearing his warmest woolen bed socks, nodded silently.
Mrs. Wu walked into the center of the paved courtyard, shrugging off her black wool coat, which she placed on the wrought-iron bench, to reveal loose black trousers, tied in a drawstring, and a pale-gray smock top. Although it was cold, the sheltered courtyard was lit by the pale winter sunshine. A light frost glittered like fairy dust.
“I talk, you copy,” instructed Mrs. Wu as she planted her feet some distance apart, bent her knees, and raised her arms in an extravagant swooping motion above her head, like a giant heron, breathing in through her nose in an exaggerated fashion.
“Tai chi is good for posture, circulation, and flexibility. Makes you live longer. I have one hundred and five years old.” Julian stared at her, not sure how to respond politely, then she grinned broadly, revealing small, spaced-out teeth, not big enough for her mouth. “It is only joke! Tai chi good, but not that good.”
Mrs. Wu bent her knees again, then turned sideways, bending one arm behind her and pushing the other forward, palm first, as if to ward off an intruder. “Tai chi is about the balance of yin and yang. If you use hardness to resist force, then both sides will break. Tai chi meets hardness with softness, so incoming force exhausts itself. It is philosophy for life also. You understand?”
Julian nodded, although he was finding it very hard to take in everything Mrs. Wu was telling him, while simultaneously following her movements. Multitasking had never been his forte. That’s why he’d never mastered the piano. He couldn’t get his two hands to do different things concurrently. Right now, he was trying to balance on one foot with his right elbow touching his right knee.
“When we first come here in 1973, two men came to restaurant and say, ‘Go back to China and take your filthy, foreign food with you.’ I say, ‘You are angry. Anger comes from stomach. Sit. I bring you soup. For free. It will make you feel better.’ They ate my wonton soup. Recipe from my grandmother. They have been customers of restaurant for forty years. Meet force with softness. Recipe for life. Now you understand.” And, strangely, he did.
As Julian continued to mimic Mrs. Wu’s wide, sweeping movements, a robin flew down, reminding him of Monica’s description of his Secret Garden. The bird perched on the edge of the stone fountain, cocked his head, and looked at Julian, as if wondering what he was doing. You may well ask, thought Julian, wobbling on one foot.
After about half an hour, Mrs. Wu put her hands together in prayer position and bowed toward Julian, who, still copying her, lowered his head toward hers.
“It is good for first lesson,” she said. “In China, we say one meal won’t make a fat man. You need to do little and often. I see you tomorrow. Same time.” She picked up her coat and shrugged it on, in one fluid motion.
“How much do I owe you for the lesson?” Julian asked.
Betty inhaled through her nose so sharply that her nostrils went white. “No pay! You are friend of Biming. You are artist, yes? You teach me to paint.”
“OK,” Julian called after her as she bustled out of the gate. “I’ll see you at my art class on Monday. Come with Baz. I mean Biming.”
Without turning around, Mrs. Wu raised her hand in acknowledgment and was gone, leaving the courtyard feeling emptier than before she’d arrived, as if she’d sucked up some of its energy and taken it with her.
Julian picked up his jacket and his Wellingtons and walked back into the cottage, with more of a spring in his step than he’d had for a long time.
FRIDAYS SEEMED TO be coming around faster, thought Julian, as he walked toward the Admiral. It seemed like no time at all since he was last here. This time he was less surprised to see some figures already resting against the marble vault, bundled up in coats and scarves. As he got closer he could make out Riley, Baz, and Mrs. Wu.
“I told Granny I was coming here,” said Baz, “and she insisted on bringing some of her wonton soup.”
“It’s cold today. My soup warms the body, warms the soul,” said Mrs. Wu, pouring soup from a huge thermos into four mugs that Baz had been carrying in a wicker basket.
“Do sit down, Mrs. Wu!” said Julian, gesturing at the marble slab over the Admiral. He wasn’t actually worried about her comfort, but she was standing on Keith.
“To Mary!” said Riley, raising his mug. Mrs. Wu raised her eyebrows into two curious caterpillars.
His wife. Dead, mouthed Baz to his grandmother.
“To Mary!” they all replied.