The Colour of Tea (16 page)

The door chimes interrupt us. We both come out of the kitchen as Gigi rushes into the café. She pushes her fringe to one side to
give Rilla and me a wary gaze. She takes a cautious step back and looks around the café, lifting her chin to see into the kitchen.

“Hi,” I say.

Her hands are closed in small, nervous fists.

“A coffee?” I ask.

She turns to survey me once again. Her sweatshirt glitters with tiny diamantés in letters that I can’t quite make out.

“I’m looking for my grandmother.”

“Yok Lan?” Rilla asks.

I shoot her a puzzled look. “Yok Lan is your grandmother?” I wonder, incredulous. You couldn’t get two more different characters. Talk about generational divide.

Rilla nods and whispers to me, “I think so. She talks to her sometimes.”

I am impressed that Rilla is so observant.

“She was in earlier, but she’s gone now,” I tell Gigi.

“Is everything okay?” Rilla asks quietly from the other side of the table. “Yok Lan, is she all right?” There is affection in her voice.

“We need to find her before she hears the news. Everyone we know is okay, but she might freak if she’s not sitting down. You know, she’s old.” Gigi shrugs. “Anyway, I think I know where she is. It’s her day for mah-jongg. She’ll be at Mei’s.”

This is the most she has said to me for weeks. I have to think for a second before asking, “Sorry, what news?”

“
The
news,” she says. Then, when she sees we have no idea what she is talking about, she adds, “You know. The earthquake in Sichuan. You didn’t feel it even a little bit?”

“There was an earthquake?”

“It’s been all over the TV. You should have a TV in here.”

Most restaurants in Macau have televisions hung in the corners. It never ceases to amaze me that people here watch television even while they’re dining out. They seem to ignore whomever
they are eating with, staring blankly at the square screen. I know it is a cultural difference I will never appreciate and stubbornly refuse to put a TV in Lillian’s.

Gigi gives us a dark-eyed stare. “It was massive.”

Rilla and I look at each other. Earthquake. My mind turns the word over.

“I’ve got to go,” she finishes.

When she has her hand on the door handle, she pauses for a second and puts her head down, thinking of something. She goes back over to the counter, picks up a napkin and a pen, and scribbles her name and number. “Hey, if you ever see my grandmother alone or sad or whatever … What I mean is, Ma is useless, so it’s best if you call me if she ever needs help. I try to keep an eye on her but … Anyway, you know, she’s old …” she says again. Her voice is quiet, the worry peppered through it, although she is trying to sound nonchalant.

I pick up the napkin and nod. “Yes, of course. We will.”

She gives me the tiniest of polite smiles before leaving.

Rilla and I stay standing in her wake for a moment. Wordlessly we fetch our bags. Now is not the time to polish cutlery; we need to close and go home. Go and see what has happened.

Dearest Mama,

Sichuan peppercorns are one of the five spices in Chinese five-spice powder. Five spices representing the five flavors in Chinese cooking—sweet, sour, bitter, savory, and salty. Did you know that already? It seems like something you might know, something you would tell me in a whisper as I went off to sleep. I had always thought Sichuan peppercorns were bright pink, but it turns out that is another peppercorn altogether. Sichuan peppercorns are reddish-brown. Today is a bitter day. Not sweet at all. Maybe sour. The kind of day that leaves you without hunger, throat aching from the strain of tears kept from falling.

When Pete came home, he sat down on the couch next to me and we watched the news for an hour straight without moving or talking. He didn’t take off his tie, his belt, or his shoes. We just sat there and watched and waited for more pictures and information. They say the quake has killed maybe as many as forty thousand, but each time the reporter came back on the screen thin-lipped and ashen-faced, the number seemed to be creeping up. I finally made beans on toast and Pete got into shorts and T-shirt, but we kept watching until we were rubbing our eyes. The same footage over and over again—unnaturally quiet and gray streets, buildings toppled over like they’d been made with a child’s blocks. The dust as thick as snow; only a few people left walking about in it, stunned and aimless.

It’s getting hot in Macau now, but I took a bath before bed. I couldn’t stop thinking about all that dirt and mess, men and women with broken hearts coughing and crying among it all. The schools of children, crushed. I felt like my heart was going to snap in two. Pete was asleep when I got out of the bath. I put on pajamas and climbed into bed, the ends of my hair still wet and leaving damp patches on the pillow.

Your loving daughter,
Grace

*   *   *

The day after the earthquake Lillian’s is packed to the rafters. It is so crowded that those who can’t find their own tables join strangers and start to talk. It is as if the catastrophe has brought out the community-minded side of people. Conversations are hushed, and customers linger over their coffees. Children are sent to the corner to play with our basket of toys, mutely constructing castles or ships out of LEGOs; even they must sense the need for regrouping and rebuilding. Rilla and I move quickly, trying to keep up with the rush but maintaining an aura of calm. Everyone
is understanding, even when orders are mixed up or delayed. Rilla has brought in a Red Cross donation box, which we place on the counter in front of the biscotti jar. Coins plunk to the bottom all day like raindrops on a tin roof. By late afternoon we are both worn-out, and I take two chairs back to the kitchen. I motion Rilla to join me.

“We have got to take a break. Aren’t you hungry?” I whisper.

She nods gratefully and holds up two chocolate muffins from the fridge counter. They are the last two left, and although they are popular with paying customers, I nod quickly; we need sustenance. We sit in silence, eating hurriedly and washing the dark chunks down with cold milk. Perched on our chairs like this, we must look like teenagers home from school, the kind of afternoon scene I always wished for. Rilla lets out a sigh, and I smile at her; she has chocolate smudging her chin. Just as I finish, the bell on the door chimes and Rilla’s face falls around her mouthful. I shake my head at her.

“No way, I’ll get this one. Stay there.”

“Thanks, Grace,” she mumbles through her muffin. I pause for a moment, notice she has not called me ma’am.

Gigi stands at the counter wearing a dark sweater that hangs down to her hips. She has green lace-up boots over black leggings. Her makeup is thicker than paint, kohl ringing her almond eyes like bruises and eyelashes gluey with mascara. Her hair is pulled back off her face.

“Hey,” she says firmly, drawing herself up to her full height.

“Hey, Gigi. Your hair looks nice, the bangs …”

“Oh yeah, I pinned it back. I like to mix it up,” she says, lifting her chin.

“It looks pretty.”

“Thanks.” She seems surprised by the compliment; her expression softens and her cheeks flush. It’s as if her cool façade has
slipped a little. I suddenly see something of Yok Lan’s gentleness in her features.

“What can I get for you today?” I ask, wiping my hands on my apron.

Her eyes fall on the fridge counter, pretty bare now. She takes in the sight of a cake with thick frosting, covered in edible silver stars. I call it Princess Cake, and little girls love it. One of my regular mums says it is magic; it keeps her daughter quiet for at least twenty minutes.

“A slice of that. Please. And an espresso.”

“Sure, I’ll bring them out.”

She gives me a cautious smile. Something feels different between us. Maybe it’s because of the tragedy of the earthquake that we all feel closer to one another. Or maybe it’s because I’ve learned that Yok Lan is her grandmother and with this information it feels as though we know each other better. Whatever the cause, Gigi is more relaxed with me today.

“Hey, how is Yok Lan?” I ask.

Rilla comes to stand next to me and silently extracts an espresso cup from the shelf. She must have heard the order from the kitchen.

“Pau Pau? Oh, she’s fine. She was with her friends, playing mah-jongg. They had forgotten the time. Ma had a fit.”

The espresso machine rumbles into action, dark liquid spurting from the metallic spout, depositing a thick caramel-colored cream on top. Rilla finds a saucer and looks up, concerned. I realize that Yok Lan must be one of her favorite customers.

“Your mum was cross?” I ask, plating up the Princess Cake, a generous wedge with lots of icing.

Gigi shrugs, her sweater falling off one shoulder, exposing a white bra strap, which has worn to a soft, gray color.

“Ma doesn’t like Pau Pau playing mah-jongg. Reckons it’s as
bad as gambling. Doesn’t want her to get involved with it. You should have seen her face when I first said I was going to be a dealer. Well, she couldn’t stop me, but she wasn’t happy about it. Didn’t complain about the salary, though.”

She rescues her sweater, sliding it back up and over her shoulder. Her mouth snaps shut as if she has said too much, and she turns to find her favorite table. I follow behind with coffee and cake on a tray.

Before she leaves she comes up to pay her bill and spots the Red Cross box on the counter. She retrieves her purse and drops in a generous handful of coins, patting the top of it as if sending her best wishes. Her face is unarranged, fallen soft and young, despite the thick layer of makeup. When she glances up, she gives me a careful, thoughtful look.

“You should bake something for this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe a muffin with a red cross on the top. You know, donate some of the profits to the cause. People would like that.”

I thank her, hesitantly. I’m not sure I want business advice from this girl. When she shrugs I notice a pearl of icing stuck in the knitted track in her sweater. A kind of maternal instinct draws me to lean over and brush it off, but she turns too quickly. Rilla stands beside me, and we both watch her leave. Rilla is drying a cup slowly, pushing the tea towel through the curved handle. After Gigi turns down the street and is no longer in view, Rilla continues to gaze out of the window.

“It’s a good idea, the muffin,” she says tentatively.

I nod. Grudgingly, I admit to myself that it is.

*   *   *

The next day Rilla and I are hunkered down, peering through the glass of the oven door. Marjory has become such a regular feature
she is sipping her morning coffee in the doorway of the kitchen, watching us. She is wearing a silky blouse and shorts with sandals. Beside me, Rilla pushes her hair back, and I notice she is chewing her lip. Inside the oven the
macarons
slowly swell and harden.

I ask Rilla what she thinks.

“I don’t know,” she murmurs. “I guess it might work.” She steals a glance at me, looking for reassurance.

“They look pretty good to me,” says Marjory, lips suspended over her coffee cup. The tray is dotted with the top halves of
macarons,
white with two thin raspberry-colored stripes forming a cross. Rilla suggested we try Gigi’s idea with a
macaron.

“It was a great idea,” I say, and touch her shoulder.

“Well, it was Gigi really …” Rilla begins. But suddenly she squeals, straightens up, and covers her mouth, which makes me jump and wheel around, one hand pressing against my heart.

“Shit!” Marjory yelps with a laugh, coffee splashing onto her sandals.

“Yok Lan!” Rilla screams, having fallen into a giggling fit. None of us had heard the jangle of the door chime.

Yok Lan stands harmlessly next to Marjory, looking into the oven window and pushing her glasses up against her nose. Her face is wrinkled in a squint; her hair pushed to one side as if she has just woken up. She looks surprised as we giggle but joins in, looking from Rilla to me and back again, trying to figure out what all the fuss is about. It is the first time we have seen her since the day of the earthquake, and she looks the same as ever, her kind, round, nut-colored face smiling and serene. I can’t help but grin just at the sight of her.

“Good God, you scared the life out of me!” screeches Marjory.

Rilla wraps her arm around Yok Lan, and I notice that they are about the same size. She puts her young, dark head close to the old woman’s, and Yok Lan leans into her. She pats Rilla’s hand,
resting on her thin arm, and Rilla guides her to a seat, telling her that she will make her a cup of tea. Marjory, smiling, heads to the bathroom to rinse off her sandals.

I stay in the kitchen staring at the
macarons,
trying to think of a good name for them. I’ve already decided that we will donate fifty percent of the profits to the Chinese Red Cross, although Pete will no doubt think I have no business sense at all. I’ve decided not to tell him, save us both the aggravation of fighting about it. Every night I am haunted by images of the aftermath of the earthquake. There are faces that look like Yok Lan’s. Faces that look like Gigi’s. Children wandering lost without parents, parents without children, deep, gruesome wounds, and even more severe heartbreak. Rilla passes me the daily papers when they are delivered, begging me with a grim expression not to look at the pictures. I move back from the heat and sit up near the sink, thumbing through a French dictionary, the cover bald and worn in my hands. I scroll through some words in my mind—relief, aid, support.
Aide, appui, soulagement.
Coeur
floats into my mind like a balloon let loose.
Coeur curatif.
Healing heart. I wonder if the French is correct and make a mental note to call Léon to check.
Coeur curatif.

*   *   *

A few days later, when the
Coeur Curatif macarons
have completely sold out, a small woman with dark hair stands beside the café door. But I am distracted, thinking of Léon’s order. He came in yesterday and loved the new
macarons
and the charitable component so much he asked me to supply dozens for a brunch special at Aurora this coming weekend. I told him he was welcome to take the idea for himself if he wanted to make them; he has been so generous to Lillian’s after all, it’s the least we can do. But his face fell as he explained they have sold off most of the pastry kitchen
equipment to make more room for a Chinese noodle kitchen. So I happily agreed to the order and offered him a discount. Now I want to produce
macarons
that will make him proud. They have to be perfect. It’s a huge order for us; it will take us some late nights to fill. For now I am busying myself with other things while I carefully think through the extra ingredients we need to buy.