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.