Читать книгу Mandarin Mannequins of Chinatown - Patricia Laurel - Страница 6

When the dream came-I held my breath with my eyes closed-I went insane like a smoke ring day when the wind blows-Now I won’t be back till later on-If I do come back at all . . . Buffalo Springfield

In the town of Tiaong, Quezon, in the Philippines, Patti laid on a bed in her friend’s guest room. Buffalo Springfield pulsed through the earphones. It had been an exhausting day and she needed to relax.

Ugu, renowned potter and friend had put her through the drill today. Her mild and unassuming friend turned into a monster that made her throw clay for hours on the wheel. It wasn’t until late in the afternoon when he was finally satisfied and dismissed her.

“Strict discipline, Patti,” Ugu said, wiping the wet clay from his hands. “If you’re going to learn the craft, you have to keep at it until you get it right.” He was back to being her friend again.

Too spent to have afternoon coffee and merienda, she walked from the studio tucked in the back of Ugu’s splendid garden, following the winding tiled pathway dotted with decorative ceramic pieces and pebbles. She strolled by the art gallery and cozy pavilions scattered throughout the courtyard until she reached her bedroom.

The room was a square building of bricks with double glass doors, recycled hardwood floors and simple but tasteful decor. The doors opened onto a short pathway to a separate bathroom, and an alcove next to it where she wrote at daybreak, in the cool of the morning — before breakfast and another day of pottery lessons.

It was a hot and muggy afternoon. A cool shower in the comfort of her air-conditioned nest and a nap should take care of it.

Arms outstretched, Patti hugged the huge bed. She thought about willing herself to write. Her mind had been a blank — nothing productive there.

She wondered why she couldn’t even write a sentence, and why her mind didn’t run wild with imagination in this haven of feel-good karma — where she thought she could find the peace she needed.

Patti fled Honolulu to get away from the clanking of machinery and dust — the endless construction of luxury condos — sprouting on every island space available. One was being built right in front of the lanai of the condo she and John moved to. Their slice of ocean view would soon be obliterated by another concrete monstrosity.

What was hampering her now? Was it writer’s block? Ah well, maybe the words will come tomorrow.

She reached for her IPod and plugged her ears.

When the dream came . . .

She sits behind a desk facing the blank screen of her laptop, and a 3-sided mirror is positioned directly in front of her. It is dark except for a spotlight glaring down on her, as if she was part of the props on a stage and she is the focus.

She wonders what is expected of her. Is she supposed to give a talk or lecture? She hates giving speeches and she has none prepared. She gets up and peers into the darkness to see if there is an audience. Except for the props there is no one and nothing around but eerie silence.

She hears a soft clicking behind her. The spotlight moves to one of the mirrors.

Patti spreads her arm and asks the empty stage. What? Do I just stand here and wait for this mirror to reveal something mind- boggling — the future maybe?

As if in reply, the 3-sided mirror clouds up like her eyeglasses do when the temperature is freezing cold. She goes over to wipe the mirror with the sleeve of her blouse when suddenly the fog clears.

Her niece Samantha appears. Sammy? What’s up, kid? What are you doing in there? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?

Patti reaches out to touch the image of her niece. Instead, a shower of tiny sparks shoots out from the mirror forcing her to take a step back. She stands there helplessly, her heart aching for the silent sobbing Samantha.

The mirror goes blank. The spotlight moves on.

What is going on now? I thought we were back to being a happy family? Jenny is missing in action, and the duwende made peace. What are you going to show me, mirror? Is another evil creature lurking and waiting to get its turn at my niece, my family? Is that nasty Jenny back? Show me!

The next mirror reveals her sister, Yvonne and her husband Jack. The mirror is cracked right down the middle. Jack is on one side and Yvonne on the other. Both are trying to reach out for the other, but it’s as if an invisible wall is between them.

Tears are now streaming down Patti’s face. She wants out of the nightmare. The second mirror goes black, and as if on cue, the third one is illuminated.

Her ancestor Dr. Jose Rizal appears. He is not wearing his traditional 19^th century overcoat. His meticulously combed hair is windblown, and he’s wearing shorts and T-shirt, walking barefoot on a sandy beach. The man from the past looks relaxed and happy.

A dancing Chinese woman materializes behind him, and the focus is on her. She wears a red Cheongsam dress with intricate designs that glitter with every graceful movement. She has a beautiful porcelain-like face with high cheekbones, but her eyes are cold — harsh and cruel eyes that dare anyone to get too close.

Isn’t that just typical? My great-great uncle, the charmer of women, appears in my dream with a woman. Is he supposed to make an appearance here on earth? Is he supposed to fall in love with this beautiful but cold Chinese woman?

The dancer’s movements, graceful as a swan, enthrall and mesmerize. Little bells and beads adorn and dangle from her left eyebrow. But what holds them there?

Patti warily inches her way toward the mirror. Hair — at least 3 to 4 inches of strands of hair hold the ornaments in place. She can almost hear the tiny tinkling sound of the bells.

Her uncle disappears and the mirror turns black except for the figure of the woman in her glittering, stark red mandarin-collared dress that makes her neck seem longer. The image is like a frighteningly beautiful work of art. Patti cannot tear her gaze away from the dancing woman.

Suddenly, the woman’s piercing eyes lock in on her, holding her prisoner. She is unable to move, and all she can do is look into the woman’s eyes.

Disturbing images of people and places take shape in the woman’s eyes, as if to warn Patti not to dare cross this formidable foe. She sees an old wrinkled man, his skin hanging loosely from his protruding bones on his knees pleading, other men cowering in fear and countless of women walking like zombies. A tingle of fear runs down her spine.

Poof! The image of the Chinese woman disappears, and the last mirror goes dark. What is going on? Is this a puzzle for me to solve?

Patti turns this way and that, hoping the spotlight will light up some black corner and present her with a clue, but it has gone dark. She gropes her way back to her laptop. Maybe a message will magically appear on the screen.

Before she can reach the desk, there is a loud clicking noise, as if a door is opening. She steps back and falls straight down into a trapdoor. But before she is consumed by the darkness, the mirror with the split images of Yvonne and Jack reappears — Jack is walking away from his wife.

Stop! I need to know what it all means. How am I supposed to know what to do? The trapdoor slams shut and Patti is engulfed in blackness.

Oh no, I’m plunging to my death and no one will know. Am I having a stroke or something? Will someone discover me dead at Ugu’s place?

She awoke safe in her bed in her friend’s guest room. She wiped her face; it was wet from crying.

Patti switched on the light. The bed cover was all rumpled, as if she had been struggling to hold onto something. She remembered the fall into the darkness, and her hands flailing about for something to hold on to.

She felt a slight breeze from above, and looked up to see something floating down, as if it followed her from her dream fall. A photograph landed on the bed. It was of her in a busy market square in Germany.

Patti had lived in Wiesbaden and went to school in Heidelberg some 80 kilometers away. Later she worked in the newsroom of an American newspaper based in Darmstadt. That was where she met John.

Looks like it was taken in Wiesbaden, she said to herself. Where did this photo come from? I don’t remember this.

She was smiling at the camera, surrounded by people. In her hand was the familiar market basket she still used for shopping in Honolulu’s Chinatown. A man with black hair dressed in dark grey stood behind her. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn’t make out his face. It was blurry.

She wracked her memory, but nothing came to mind. She stuck the photo in one of the several books on the bed stand. She felt a chill.

She reached out to her great-great uncle. Lolo Ciano, where are you? I need you. I have a very bad feeling about this. Please come as quickly as you can.

No reply — only the thumping sound of rotten fruit falling on the roof from the huge mango tree that towered over her bedroom.