Glorious Sunset: Part 4, to office

Ben does not talk much. When he was a child, on sunny Saturday afternoons when neighborhood kids were out in the graffiti-smeared playground chasing strayed cats on fences and hitting teeballs with wooden sticks, he would dress himself in a white checkered shirt and a grey sweater, and follow Martha docilely to museums. Staring blankly at giant paintings that dwarfed his skinny frame, he squeezed his mother's hand tightly as if to secure his place in the crowded gallery, and pushed his spectacles up his nose to ensure he did not miss a single detail. Returning home when the sun set, while Martha prepared our Saturday special mu-shu pork and chicken soup in the kitchen, Ben sat silently at the dinner table with a set of well chewed color pencils and a large white sheet of paper, and tried to recreate the vision he captured meticulously during the outing. Martha slipped unintrusively to his side, witnessed his progression with an intrigued smile, and gently stroked his jet-black hair in slow palsating rhythm. His works of art, simple, innocent and abstract all at the same time, filled up the entire kitchen door, until new ones replaced them a few months later.

Situated in Embarcadero, the architectural firm that hired Ben two years ago is one of three biggest in San Francisco. At the entrance sit two blond-hair receptionists in grey suits who instantaneously notice my arrival the moment I exit the elevator. "May I ... speak with Benjamin Li please?" I ask meekly. "Certainly. Which time slot is your arranged appointment?" The younger one on the right replies in a well practiced rhythm. Sensing a split second of indecision, the older one rescues me in a reassuring tone, "I will notify him right away, sir. Please wait a minute," sending a glance of admonition to the other. In a minute, Ben appears from the buzzing corridors in a navy blue blazer and blue jeans sans necktie. "Dad, is everything okay?" Ben inquires with sincere concern. Standing tall and muscular, Ben towers over me; my aged and weathered frame is a dwindling shadow to his formidable presence. "Nothing is the matter. I just had dim sum with Auntie Mable." Ben narrows his eyes; Mable's far-reaching manipulation is notorious. "You are busy... I will drop by another time." I begin to take my leave. "No please, I am finishing a meeting, why don't you wait at my cube?" Without waiting for a response, he leads me by the arm to a larger-than-average unit in the middle of the cubicle fortress. As he disppears into a conference room, I lower myself to a guest chair nudged between his large beige office desk and a pot of oversized synthetic evergreen. Secretaries, draftmen, architects and managers continue to stream pass the hallway in fast and purposeful motion. Feeling slightly out-of-place, I survey my surrounding in slow and deliberate movements. Besides the office desk that sits in the middle, a tilted drafting table hides further in the back corner. The charcoal cubicle walls are pinned full of roughly scribbled reminders in pastel colors. On the desktop are mountains of official documents, architectural drawings and a cantankeriously humming computer. At the corner of his desk, half covered by his black overcoat, sits a small, old photo of Martha in a dark wooden frame. I suppose she still smiles at him when he draws.

Ben returns a little more than ten minutes later. "I am sorry, the meeting is extended another 30 minutes. Why don't you wait at the coffee shop at the street corner? It's warm and quiet, and Chai tea is great there. Nancy will guide you." Not wanting to cause any more disturbance, I retreat subserviently from the premise with the older receptionist Nancy. Along the way, Nancy tells how diligent and valuable Ben has been to the firm, having just completed a large IT facility project in San Jose. "The firm will take care of the bill. Please make yourself at home," She smiles warmly when we reach the posh cafe, nods and returns to the office.

The sun is beginning to set, laying a long shadow from the door on the Persian carpet that hugs the sandy parquet floor. The sound of coffee cups lightly clanging against each other can be heard with a steady flow of running water as they are carefully handwashed. Next to traces of bagel crumbs deserted by earlier patrons, I sip a warm cup of tea alone on a corner stool; businessmen are still hard at work while housewives have long returned home from shopping to prepare evening dinners. Big yellow taxis, carrying homeward-bound mothers and school children in uniforms, pass by in synchrony with the periodic color changes of the street traffic signals.
Since when has Ben grown from an introverted boy to a factory-made white collar contributor to great American enterprises? It is as if all these years of family life, even the years while Martha was still alive, had been compressed into a single hour of movie clip, and flashed before ones' eyes without a chance for cherished rememberance. Ben grew even quieter after Martha's passing, focused on his schoolwork and his drawings. He always excelled, never complained, and never voiced an objective of any kind. As a single father, I could not possibly ask for a more obedient son, yet in a singular momentary lapse, he has become a faceless stranger, one who exists in a foreign dimension than my own. I reconsider my hidden fear that I am now unable to surpress: Do my failure to protect Martha and subsequent silence mean an eventual loss of my own son as well?

I leave before Ben's arrival.

Glorious Sunset: Part 3, to dim sum

I have never particularly liked dining in old Chinatown in San Francisco; if I want to enjoy a sumptuous, authetic Chinese meal, besides the new wave of countless neo-Asian hideaways run by young and ambitious entrepreneurs in the heart of the city (I wonder if Ben is an occasion patron), there are a handful of mom-and-pop establishments in the South Bay, whose familiar faces and congenial conversations more than make up for the gaudy red draperies and smoke-stained yellow walls. I don't know what it is really, but perhaps it is the old retired coolies wearing skinny and weather-hardened faces, strolling the narrow cobbled streets endlessly on bended backs, that remind me too much of the hardship of the first Chinese pioneers paving the way before me: laying down wood planks for the trans-American railroad, sieving for gold dust in collapsible mines, handwashing mountains of laundry with bleached hands. But Mable has again insisted on Ming's, so here I am sitting opposite Martha's sententious older sister on our regular table in the fish tank corner for early dim sum on a breezy Friday morning.

"How are your kids... Jasmine and Jasabelle?" Very proud that I can finally manage to spit out her daughters' names without stuttering in embarrassment after all these years. I know one is a tea name and the other rhymes with the first. "Aiyah, Bo, they don't like to be called kids anymore. they are in college already. 'Young adults' they call themselves nowadays," both of Mable's daughters are attending University of California, Berkeley across the bay. I don't think I have seen them in over a year. As Mable continues her oration on the lives of young ones -- her favorite subject -- about their unfathomably hectic schoolwork, their recent fashion purchases, their active social lives, my eyes unconciously drift to the nondescript metal carts steadily passing by in the aisles. Stacked with round bamboo containers of steaming hot shrimp dumplings, chicken feet and cha-siu-bao, pushing these carts are often plump middle-aged Chinese women with no makeup and ivory white bracelets that they have worn since they were children, a symbol of devotion more to Chinese traditions than to the Bhuddist temples from which they were purchased. Many of them speak little English, never have married and will spend the majority of their lives rising and sinking in the echelons of microcosmic Chinatown. Behind the emotionless facets, what kind of lives are lived daily away from the Chinese restaurant running precisely and mechanically like clockwork? What dreams and hopes can be held in the land of opportunities when so few can be seen in this segregated enclave? Like Martha, do they steal time one day of the month, walk the sandy shores alone to the sound of gently beating waves, stare at the radiant setting sun, wine red like a blooming rose and glorious like a gigantic sunflower, and ponder about life's mysterious creator?

"Are you listening, Bo? Where are you looking at?" As Mable wakes me from my procrastination, I sip the chrysanthemum tea in earnest -- it is so hot it burns my tongue. Like Martha, Mable often reads my mind, "Martha has been gone for nine years, Bo ... it is not easy for me either," Her eyes begin to water. Needless to say that she loves her sister as much as I do. Physically, Mable and Martha bear little resemblence; Mable is a tea cup shorter but sturdily built, and has grown even sturdier over the years. Sporting a traditional perm and a neatly pressed China dress, she laughs loudly, cries bravely, and loves passionately each and everyone within ten feet of her existence. She is Picasso to Martha's Bonnard. Obviously my pedantic and subdued demeanor does not fall in her region of interest. But Chinese are a strange bunch that adheres faithfully (dogmatically) to social conventions, so as Martha loved me, Mable loves me also. For her persistent meddlings, I am forever grateful.

"Now that you are retired what are you doing to yourself?" After a couple of serving of fresh egg tarts, she has regained her composure and inquires with her exploring eyes. I utter the standard reponse: gardening, walking the parks, enjoying life in general. "I worry about you. Maybe having too much free time is not good for you." Lowering my head, I sit squarely on my seat. "Why don't you go see Ben, huh? He would be glad to see you." Truth be told that Ben and I have been distant. Martha was the glue that binded us, and since her death, the sudden emptiness, which was first overwhelming, was subsequently replaced by walls of unspeakable silence. Sure, we share the loss of a loved one, but we mourn differently, and perhaps our differences have driven us apart slowly over time.

I decide to visit Ben's office after lunch.