The Colour of Tea (36 page)

From somewhere outside of myself I feel that lightness again; it’s as if I am being pulled from above by a string. The wind rakes its fingers through my hair and, when I look up, the clouds have parted. There is a vein of blue sky painted between the buildings above us. Pete lifts his head and sees it too. Gigi goes back inside. We can hear her rewind the tape and then hit Play again. Miss Piaf lets rip. I imagine the English as subtitles, scrolling across that Renaissance painting kind of sky. Speaking of no regrets, leaving the past behind. Then the tiny seed of something quite new. Piaf doesn’t say what it is, but I know. Hope.

Pete places a kiss against my forehead and then lets me go. I take the spade and cover the small grave. With the last shovel of soil, there is now a lump in the earth. I put my fingers to my lips and then press them against the loose dirt.

“Bye, Mama.
Je ne regrette rien.
”

*   *   *

Later that evening, when the day is over and the café is closed, I am surrounded by women. I guess it is a wake, of sorts. The kind Mama would like. Women, gossip, sweet things, and laughter. There is a full moon in the dim sky and a bright peppering of stars; we sit together in candlelight staring out at it. We have eaten
macarons,
pieces of cake, drunk tea and told stories. Marjory has her hair over one shoulder and her fingers in Gigi’s, twisting it like bread dough into a plait. Rilla is pouring Yok Lan some tea. Faith sleeps. Their faces shine golden in the flickering light.

“Your hair is getting long, Gi.” Marjory smiles.

“I haven’t been in to get it cut. I don’t really care about it at the moment. It can grow as long as it likes.” She shrugs.

“You’re not supposed to cut it until sometime after Chinese
New Year, right?” Rilla asks as Yok Lan pats her hand in thanks. The old woman lifts the steaming cup to her lips and takes a sip.

“Yeah. Something like that. I should ask Pau Pau, she knows all the old traditions. I do know it’s lucky to wear red underwear.”

Marjory secures the end of Gigi’s plait with a hair tie. “Yee-ha!” she says. “I like that one. I wonder if I have any saucy red knickers to wear on Chinese New Year?”

Rilla and Gigi laugh.

“I bet you do,” Gigi says and smirks.

“Mama would have liked that too,” I murmur.

They turn to me, their faces solemn now.

“Hey, it’s okay,” I assure them. “It’s good. I feel as if she’s around us, like I’ve set her free to go to heaven or wherever she needs to be. She’s probably looking down on us.”

Yok Lan looks at me as though she knows what I am saying. There is something in her dark eyes that warms and calms me right the way through to my bones. Her wrinkled face breaks into a smile, and she nods.
Good girl,
I imagine her saying.

Marjory gives me a hug.

Rilla passes me the plate of
macarons,
and I take the plum and hibiscus with chocolate ganache.
Pardon.
The shells crumble under my teeth, the chocolate melts into the roof of my mouth and against my tongue.

“What is this new year?” I ask Gigi.

“Like, which animal?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah, this is the Year of the Rat, so next is the Year of the Ox.”

“The Year of the Ox,” Rilla repeats.

I look around at them all again. Their different and beautiful faces in this buttery candlelight. Young and old, different colors, different shapes. Faith is in a pram next to me. I lay my hand against her belly and feel it rise and fall with her breath.

“Hey, let’s toast,” I say, lifting my teacup by the handle. The faces turn to me, and there is a clink of china against china. Orange pekoe tea sloshes onto a tablecloth I have laid out, and Rilla laughs. I imagine Mama’s face looking down on me and seeing me, really seeing me. All of my past without censorship, gazing right through to the core of me. She would be proud of this. I imagine her dark eyes, the flame red of her hair. It sends a shiver from the base of my spine up to the tips of the hairs on my head. Her smile.

“To the new Year of the Ox.”

Their eyes are all on me.

I look down at the tea stain blooming across the white cloth. My voice catches. “I promise never to forget you. Never forget any of you. Yok Lan; Gigi; Marjory; you, Rilla … Faith.” The last name comes out as soft as a whisper. Tears gather in my eyes, the contents of the table swimming in my view. “You have changed me.”

Marjory laughs nervously. “You say that like you’re about to die,” she observes, her jovial voice tinged with doubt.

Only Gigi stares at me, cool and calm. Her face is as pale as if she has seen a ghost; the color has slid right off it. She places both her hands against the tablecloth. Navy blue polish is splashed across the top halves of her nails, grown out from painting long ago and since forgotten about. She inhales slowly and stares through me for a moment. Then she sighs, as if she has always known.

“She’s not dying. She’s leaving.”

La Promesse—The Promise

Orange Pekoe Dusted with Gold and a Mascarpone Filling with Rose Gel Insert

O
ver the next few days Marjory is almost always at Lillian’s and Gigi and Rilla work every day, early till late. I wonder if they are trying to spend as much time as possible here, worried it may soon be gone from their lives. I am anxious too. What to do with the very thing that saved me from despair, gave me hope?
My baby.
Who can love this place like I do? The money does not matter; I’ve made back my investment, and it wasn’t ever about the dollars. The passion for it is the important thing.

As I sit by the window biting at the red, angry skin next to my nails, Faith blows bubbles up at me with her perfectly formed lips. She interrupts my fears. There is no work to do with the girls hard at it in the kitchen, so instead I play with Faith and stare out windows. I lift her from her pram and hold her thick body above my face. She erupts in a stream of squeals and laughs. She is getting heavier, her legs pumping solidly, each one ending in a stripy-socked foot. Her black hair frames her deep brown eyes.

“I love you, little Faith,” I whisper into her neck, bringing her down to cuddle, head over my shoulder.

Outside there is a chattering in a foreign language that makes
me lift my head. Across the road a small white tour bus empties itself of a group of middle-aged Japanese women, all pointing and taking photos. A young, prim, suited woman steps out with a clipboard. Faith makes a little shriek at the crowd from behind the glass, but they are busy adjusting visors on their foreheads, checking purses, sourcing the right button on a friend’s camera, and posing. A man descends the stairs from the back. Silver-haired. Tall. Wearing a black leather jacket. I squint to make sure.

Gigi comes out from the kitchen, dish towel in hand. “Isn’t he that French chef?”

I nod. “Léon.”

I watch as he gathers the women together. They look up at him with wide eyes and big smiles. The young woman in the suit translates, but nobody looks at her; they are transfixed by Léon as he gestures with wide arms, then kisses his fingers. They follow his hands, his slender fingers, and his blue eyes. I imagine their ears full of French accent, their hearts skipping beats. The stories they will tell their girlfriends when they return home.

“What’s he doing?” Gigi peers out the window, dish towel now slung over her shoulder.

“I don’t know.” Watching Léon, I feel no quickening of breath, no rushing heartbeat, no flushing in my face. Nothing. I think of Mama looking down on me, giggling and shaking her head. “Oh, my darling girl, what were you thinking?” I smile, glancing up at the ceiling as though she might be there watching. Then I lean in and kiss Faith’s neck. She nuzzles against me.

Now Léon is heading toward Lillian’s. Gigi steps back from the window.

“Bonjour!”
he says as he enters the café.

“Hi, Léon,” I reply with a smile.

“I’m doing a tour with a group of women from Japan, you can see.” He gestures across the road.

“Yes, I can see.”

“It’s a gourmet tour of Macau. A new business venture for me.” He beams and then lowers his voice. “The wives of the VIP players really have nothing to cater for their interests here. It’s a huge gap in the market.”

“I’m sure it is.”

Gigi crosses her arms and seems to glower at him.

“Well, we are going to the Portuguese restaurant down the road for lunch and egg tarts, and then we will be back here for
macarons.
They must try Lil’s, of course, it is famous.
Macarons
are very popular in Japan. We shall see you soon?”

“No problem,” I say and thank him for the advance notice.

When he leaves, shirttails flapping from below the jacket and his strides long and fast, I wonder how many times I might see him before I leave Macau; wonder if this may be the last time. The women behind him scurry to keep up with his pace, their faces full of smiles. Whether I like it or not, he has played a part in my adventure, this wonderful-terrible, terrible-wonderful year. It feels like a full circle. Going to Aurora that night, learning to make
macarons,
my mad romantic fantasy, finding out I am in love with my husband after all. Now Léon is here to bring others to my café. My Lillian’s. My
famous
macarons.
I grin to myself.

“I don’t like that guy,” says Gigi darkly, her eyebrows drawn together, watching my smile.

“I know, Gi. I know.” I laugh. You don’t have to worry about me, I almost add. If only she had better radar for the wrong guys for herself, I think wryly.

When the crowd has disappeared from sight and I have placed Faith back in the pram, her head heavy with sleep, Gigi goes into the kitchen and returns with a plate, four
macarons
in the center. They are light orange brown, like autumn leaves, dusted with a gold powder. Almost the color of my hair, I think vaguely. She
kisses Faith’s cheek and takes a seat opposite me. She is wearing striped socks like her daughter, but hers are drawn up to her knees and paired with dark green shorts. Faith yawns.

“The new
macarons
?”

She nods and lifts her hair into a ponytail, securing it with an elastic.

“Talk me through it.”

“Orange pekoe flavor, with that gold confection dust on the top.” She holds one up to demonstrate. “Mascarpone filling.” She bites it clean in half and shows me the middle. “Rose jelly in the center.”

“Sounds good to me. What shall we call it?”

“I don’t know.”

I reach over and pick up a
macaron,
the texture, weight, and balance all perfect. Symmetry, lightness, both shells with excellent feet, wedded together with a smooth filling. Nodding with approval, I place it on my tongue. She is right; the orange and rose flavors melt lustily in your mouth. It’s just like Mama—all bright and full of surprises. I am impressed with Gigi; she has learned so much. She has refused to leave Lillian’s and go back to dealing cards, despite whatever chaos it causes at home. She is stubborn and she is talented. I know already that the
macaron
will sell out.

Gigi’s eyes grow wide, waiting for reassurance. Reflected in her dark irises I can almost see myself, sitting like a customer, while she serves me in her apron. A thought falls into my mind and starts to seed.

I rock her daughter in the pram, pushing it gently with my foot. “Let me think about the name,” I say slowly.

Gigi groans lightly, in mock frustration. “Yeah, okay, but tell me … do you like it?”

“Do I like it?” I ask, teasing.

“Well?” Her voice rises in anticipation.

“I
love
it,” I say. “It’s perfect.”

Her tired face splits into a smile. She
sighs and then looks between Faith and me. She puts her head to one side. “Grace, there’s something I have been wanting to talk to you about for some time,” she says seriously.

I nod, glancing at Faith. Her eyes spring open and then close very slowly.

Gigi doesn’t speak for a while, playing with the edge of her apron. Her face seems older, with less makeup, worn, but still as determined as always. She is biting her lip. I want to wrap her in a hug, but instead I wait until she speaks.

“I love her, you know,” she whispers.

“I know you do, Gi.”

“I didn’t expect to.”

I say nothing.

“I thought she was ruining my whole life. Every dream I ever had.” She swallows and blinks. “I’ve been thinking about the life I want for her. The very best. I’m not sure that I …” Her voice trails off, and she stares out above my head.

I wonder if she is looking beyond me, to the small framed poster on the wall. Children dancing, flames, sparks. They look like they are celebrating a new year. I think of Pete encouraging me to listen. Just listen and be her friend. And then I think of Mama, the first time I ever ate a
macaron,
sitting on the bed on a gray, cold morning in Paris.
It’ll make everything better.
Mama’s promise.

“Shall we have a cup of tea and finish these
macarons
?”

Gigi smiles, softly, and nods.

*   *   *

Marjory wears a violet-colored blouse, as dark as a jewel, sleeves floating like gossamer around her long arms. Her blond hair lifts in the breeze.

“Purple?”

“Yeah.” She shrugs. “Thought it was time for some color.”

“I like it.”

She grins at me and looks around the café. The chairs are up on the tables, lights turned off in the kitchen.

“Who are we waiting for?”

“Rilla is out the back, changing. Pete’s picking up Don and meeting us there. We’re waiting for Gigi and Faith.”

“Faith is coming?”

“Don’t worry; there are plenty of babies. I was there this time last year. I’ll stand at the back with her away from …” A memory comes to me. A young woman, in a sweatshirt covered in stars.

“The smoke,” Rilla finishes for me. She is in a light summer dress with short sleeves. It is covered in flowers, and she has tan sandals on her feet. There is no mistaking that she is a girl. Laughing at our astonished expressions, she does a twirl on the black-and-white tiles. The dress billows out around her bare legs.