Natalie Tan’s Book of Luck and Fortune

Her blue eyes darted to and fro, the movement reminding me of archaeologists wielding flashlights in an undiscovered treasure-filled tomb. I could almost hear the cash register ringing in her head.

Melody didn’t care about my mother—she was a vulture. My hands curled into fists.

“There’s commercial property on Polk listed at three million. They got rid of the residential space upstairs and converted it to office space. It bumped up the value tremendously. I mean, if you want to convert it to a condo and business, that’s also an option, but it needs to be upscale. Perfect for an affluent hipster couple with no kids.”

I took a deep breath to steady myself. That was a great deal of money.

“Ms. Minnows, I’m not interested in selling right now.”

Melody’s smile never wavered. “Perhaps after the funeral, you’ll reconsider. It’s a lot of money to leave on the table. Why would you want to stay?”

“I may be reopening the restaurant.”

“In this neighborhood?” She pressed her hand against the base of her throat. Her French manicured nails gleamed in the fluorescent light. “Bad idea. There’s already five great restaurants within walking distance, and that doesn’t even factor in the mediocre joints scrambling for attention. Besides, the businesses here are struggling. I’ve been trying to convince them to sell, but they refuse to. Something about roots, superstition, and family. I guess tradition is more important than bankruptcy. But you could all walk away as millionaires. For you, the money would mean you could open a nicer restaurant, with a bigger operating budget, and a better location than here. You’ll have to act soon, though.” She ended her pitch with a wink and a tap on the face of her platinum Rolex watch.

There were spikes under her immaculate veneer. We Chinese valued family far more than she realized. Even though she didn’t understand this, she’d made good points, and I was torn. This was all so sudden. But I’d been given a gift: Laolao’s restaurant. Would selling now be a disservice to my dream and to her?

“I’ll leave you my info.” Melody placed her business card in my hand. “Again, I’m really sorry about your mother. She was such a lovely lady.”

Melody let herself out. I doubted that this was the last I’d see of her. The woman was a shark drawn to the blood in the water—after all, the neighborhood was bleeding money. And if I reopened the restaurant, I would be as well. The mortgage on the building had been paid off in Ma-ma’s lifetime, but we’d been far from wealthy. Ma-ma had lived off some small investments, but there wasn’t much, and if she had managed to save anything, it’d be a modest sum at best. I didn’t expect a windfall; I only hoped it would at least be enough to cover the funeral expenses.

I locked the door and shut the lights off, gathered Meimei into my arms, headed up the stairs, and made the decision to contact Celia in the morning. Before I could decide about the restaurant, we needed to say goodbye to Ma-ma.

Celia arrived the next morning in a navy silk frock with a black cat pattern. Her gardenia perfume drifted from her skin, and her cheerful smile matched her rosy cheeks. She exuded the effortless kindness reserved for saints and fairies.

“Thank you for coming,” I murmured. “Please come in.”

I stepped aside and followed her up the stairs. She took her kitten heels off at the landing, donned a pair of guest slippers, and headed to the living room. In the meantime, I offered to make a pot of jasmine tea.

After leaving the kettle on the stove to boil, I headed into the living room. Celia and the kitten were engaged in a standoff. Celia kept her distance at the farthest end of the sofa while Meimei occupied the high-backed chair. The kitten’s back was arched, and her little ears folded down as she hissed at Celia, who held her satchel as a shield.

“Meimei, don’t do that,” I chastised the cat. “That’s rude.”

“She hates everyone but Miranda,” Celia reasoned. “Although, judging from the lack of bandages on your arms, Meimei likes you too.”

I scooped the kitten into my arms and sat in the chair. Meimei stopped hissing, but kept one white ear cocked in Celia’s direction. I buried my fingers into the cat’s fur, scratching and massaging until I was rewarded with purrs. I had never had a cat before, and I could see why Meimei had brought Ma-ma such comfort and joy.

“When I was exploring the restaurant downstairs last night, I had a visitor,” I said. “Melody Minnows. She was asking if I wanted to sell.”

Celia rolled her eyes. “She’s been sniffing around the neighborhood for years. Our businesses are on life support. The blond reaper haunts our doors. I can’t really blame her for being enterprising—everyone has to make a living, right?—but these real estate people want to turn our neighborhood into office space and overpriced condos. The entire city has been gentrifying since the tech boom.”

This reaffirmed what Ma-ma had written in her letter about the state of the neighborhood and what I had seen for myself since I came back. “Has anyone decided to sell?”

“Of course not!” Celia frowned. “This is our community. We’re not going to be pushed out. That is our gate. Our families came here and lived here for generations. If your laolao were alive, she’d be fighting this classist eviction. If only her restaurant were still around, I don’t think business would have gotten so bad.” She paused and gathered herself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be talking about this when there are more important things to deal with. What are your plans after the funeral?”

Celia’s eyes were still locked onto the cat in my arms, and her fingers were glued nervously to the handles on her purse. The street was struggling because these businesses were their lives, while I had the luxury of considering Melody’s offer. My grandmother would never have sold. She would have put up a fight like they were doing now. I never knew her but I realized now she’d have wanted me to take over.

“I’m considering reopening Laolao’s restaurant.”

Celia, who must have noticed that the cat had dozed off, relaxed her death grip on her purse. “Is that something you want to do?”

“Yes,” I replied. “I want to, but I’m nervous that I’ll fail.”

Celia offered me a smile of understanding. “When my parents died and left me the gift shop, I was anxious too. But running the store has given me a sense of comfort and security even though it’s been fairly tough the last five years. But I won’t trouble you with that. The important thing is that you want to try.” She waved her hand. “I know if your laolao were alive, she’d be happy that you’ve chosen this path.”

Celia was right. Laolao had been a great cook, and her legacy had been neglected, but now the chance to follow in her footsteps lay beneath my feet. Could I do this? I wished that Ma-ma were here to see me through this. I had so much regret for the years I lost when I should have reached out and spoken to her. I had chosen my ego over my own mother. We Chinese wore our guilt like jade: pressed against our skin, displayed with pride, and always inherited.

“Do you have the right clothes for the funeral and afterward?” Celia asked. “Black for the ceremony and white for the next one hundred days.”

“I have something to wear for the funeral, but not much in terms of white to last me the hundred days. If I can, I’ll wear white for a year for Ma-ma,” I confessed.

Celia rose to her feet and tipped her head toward the door. “Come, let’s go.”

“Excuse me?”

“Turn the stove off. I’ll take a rain check for the tea. I’m taking you shopping.”

I blushed, taken aback at her generosity. “I can’t—”

“Nonsense.”

To reject her offer would cause offense and breach etiquette. “Thank you.”

“Good.” Celia glanced over my outfit. “Judging by your style, you love thrift shops. I know the best ones in the city.”

The thrift stores Celia chose were both on Mission Street. The biggest one had two floors with the clothing racks organized by color. Celia pulled out fashionable pieces in my size like a fisherman reeling in prize bass. Despite my protests, the cart began to overflow.

She pointed to a crocheted tank dress. “This would be perfect on you and it’s in excellent shape. No snags.”

“This is too much.” I moved to return the item to the rack, but she placed it back into the cart.

She clicked the hangers together, searching for another garment to add to the pile. “I insist. Besides, you pay for clothing by the pound here. It’s not as much as you think.”

“I already feel awful that you had to close your store to take me shopping.”

As far as I could recall, the gift shop had never been closed during the day. Tour buses still loaded and unloaded tourists in Chinatown. If any business could survive in the neighborhood, it would be Celia’s.

She stepped away from the rack, her smile faltering. “Business isn’t as robust as it used to be. I shouldn’t complain because the other stores are doing so much worse.” Celia noticed me trying to return a sundress to the rack, and her frown deepened. “No, put it back in the cart. I’m doing this for you and for Miranda. She was always kind to me. I don’t forget things like that.”

Ma-ma had cultivated friendships that I didn’t even know about. Things must have changed after I’d left. “If your laolao were alive, she would be happy that you might reopen the restaurant,” Celia said. “The talent must run in your genes.”

It was true. Ma-ma had been an excellent cook and would have excelled in any restaurant, but she hadn’t had the temperament for it. Having cooked at home and worked at many kitchens abroad, I knew I was competent enough. “Yes, I can cook, but I haven’t completed any formal training.”

A brightness shone in the older woman’s eyes and her thick lenses enhanced the effect. “That doesn’t matter! I hope you can prepare food like your laolao. Hers was the best I’ve ever tasted, even better than Old Wu’s. When I was a little girl, I would gorge on her fried tofu with chilies. I was much slimmer back then, you know.”

“Was the tofu your favorite dish of hers?” I asked.

“Oh no, there’s too many to count.” Celia’s tone softened as if she were waxing nostalgic about a lost, grand romance, rather than a recipe. “Everything she cooked was excellent. I still remember every dish that she made: beef noodle soup, braised short ribs, drunken chicken wings, deep-fried shrimp rolls … Your laolao cooked from her heart, and that’s why her food was the best in Chinatown.”

The shadow of my grandmother loomed over my future as it must have over Ma-ma in the past. She hadn’t been able to live under it. In time, would I feel the same way? I still had pressing issues to tackle before I opened: financing, permits, licenses, etc. I’d need to apply for a loan or possibly mortgage the building to fund the restaurant. What if I lost everything my family had worked for?

“I hope you do it. The neighborhood will be thrilled.” Celia pushed the packed cart toward the till. Not watching where she was going, she crashed against the concrete pillar. I caught her from falling, but the damage was done: one of her kitten heels buckled and tore off.

“This was a designer heel. I ate at a Michelin three-starred restaurant in Manhattan in these heels,” she wailed. She hobbled to the side and picked up a pair of neon pink sandals from a nearby shelf. She put the sandals on and placed her damaged shoes by her purse.

“I’m so sorry, Celia.”

“I have rotten luck. It happens.” She placed her arm around my shoulders. “You have good luck, though, I can feel it. I have the firm belief that you’ll accomplish what you’ve set out to do. My stomach tells me so. There is no one better to cook in your grandmother’s kitchen than you.”

I feared her faith in me was misplaced, but I welcomed it anyway.

“But the future can wait a bit longer.” Celia blushed, continuing toward the cashiers. “We have the funeral to plan and these ugly pink shoes to pay for.”

Yes, it was time for the formal farewell.

For the next three days, Celia and I planned the funeral. At her insistence, we invited the neighbors. Mrs. Chiu also offered to help. Because of Mrs. Chiu’s reputation for honesty, Ma-ma had paid her to run her most important errands. Mrs. Chiu always smelled of musky perfume with an underlying bite of pickled scallions, a favorite topping for her morning bowl of congee. She still wielded the same heavy, cherry-colored pleather purse that I remembered: both as a weapon and as a portable storage locker. As a child, I thought of her as a busybody gossip who had only come by because she was paid to. Obligation could never equate to friendship no matter the disguise, but I deferred to Celia.

It was a larger affair than I had expected. Everyone in the neighborhood showed up: Mr. and Mrs. Chiu, the twin Shen brothers, Celia, Miss Yu, and even Old Wu. Someone must have told him about the funeral. The incident at his restaurant emphasized our strained relationship.

“Mr. Wu, I wasn’t expecting you,” I said.

“I have my reasons for coming.” His lips formed a thin, harsh line. “Your mother may have died alone, but she should not be interred alone.”

I stemmed my rising anger. “She had me. I loved her more than anyone else in this world.”

He made a hoarse sound with his throat and stepped aside.

I turned my attention to the rest of the neighbors. With each embrace, they welcomed me back and shared in my sorrow. This was more interaction than I was comfortable with. Cultivating my habit of avoidance was easier from a distance.

While I was dressed in black, everyone else wore white, the customary funerary color for non-family-members. We lit the joss sticks and sent our prayers. Mrs. Chiu arranged for a pair of Buddhist monks to conduct the funerary rites so that Ma-ma’s spirit would be ushered into the afterlife. When the ceremony ended, only Celia and I stayed. All that remained was a lingering emptiness inside me.

At the crematorium, I took my place at the side of the coffin as the honored daughter and sole blood relative. The flames devoured the casket and body. When the ashes cooled, they were spilled onto a tray. Celia watched while I used chopsticks to pick out the bones for her urn, which would be interred at the local Chinese mausoleum.

Celia’s patient guidance lessened my mounting grief, yet I was still like a leaf in a river, moving chaotically through the unfamiliar ceremonies and rituals while trying to understand and absorb all the meaning behind each one.

When it came time to prepare the ancestral altar, I regained my balance. My task was to find pictures of my family. I searched the apartment, but couldn’t find any of my grandmother. If my mother had still been alive, I could have asked her. If only.

Beside a vase full of pink roses and peonies I placed a framed picture of Ma-ma in her early forties, a snapshot taken with my 35 mm camera ten years ago. A chin-length bob framed her pale oval face, and a tentative smile teased the corners of her lips. I’d captured the moment right before she smiled. She had been so beautiful.

In the kitchen I made crispy scallion pancakes, fried golden, as an offering to Ma-ma’s spirit. They had been her favorite. We spent so many wonderful afternoons kneading dough dotted with verdant rings of scallions. Now, the kitchen came to life with the sting of my palms slapping the dough into pancakes, the roar of the oil from the submerged golden disks, and the delicious aroma of fried flour and scallions. I split one in half to sample, the delicate layers revealing themselves as I dipped the pieces into a sauce made from soy, vinegar, and smashed garlic. Perfect. I stacked three on a plate and offered them to Ma-ma’s spirit along with another prayer. We Chinese believed that the dead still ate and drank in the afterlife. This concept brought me comfort knowing that I could still feed my mother’s spirit her favorite treats.

I was to pray once every seven days for the next seven weeks. I had also decided to wear white for the next year, more out of love than filial piety. There was a beauty in the rituals, a comfort to be found in the thousands of years of tradition that endured.

With the shrine complete, a genuine smile graced my lips.

Now the decision about opening the restaurant stood before me, unobstructed, like a stack of overdue bills. I needed to take a walk around the block and reorient myself. Had things really gotten as bad as Celia said? This was where I would set up shop. I had to make sure I knew what I was getting into before tethering my dreams to a sinking ship.

I bade the kitten farewell before I went outside for an afternoon stroll.

A thick layer of dust settled on the storefronts of the neighborhood, obscuring the architectural details from the twenties. In a city of grays, Chinatown once stood as a landmark of color and life: beautiful vibrant signs and extravagant chinoiserie. While as a whole this still rang true, my corner of it had become more diminished, as if the buildings on the block were now forgotten relics languishing in someone’s attic. Drab, gray, and old. The weariness showed on the crumbling brick and smudged storefront glass windows. With the Dragon’s Gate at the base, shops lined a hill with a narrow road between them. The parallel parking spots on one side of the street were empty. As a child, the decline was evident. Now all these years later it was even worse.

The other streets were packed with tourists strolling on the pristine sidewalks while ours remained empty. Books, teas, gifts, and traditional medicines should have drawn them to our threshold. In other parts of Chinatown, the bright signage in both English and Chinese contained a liveliness that mimicked a bouquet of lollipops. Not here. I lifted my eyes toward the store signs. The letters now appeared rubbed out by time or neglect. Everything about the neighborhood was leeched of life like a plant deprived of sunlight or a faded black-and-white photograph. Any stranger unfortunate enough to wander here would hurry through lest they, too, become infected by the malaise.

A glimmer of color attracted my eye. Melody Minnows’s beautiful face greeted me from a large real estate sign, hanging over the vacant space that had been a takeout window. She was stunning in her bright pink plumage. How could this sign be the only thing on the street that still retained vibrancy?

Intricate streetlights, imitating golden dragons, still marked the way, the same beacons I had followed in the past. I remembered that sometimes a handful of tourists, cameras flashing, would make their way to the Dengs’ gift shop. They would linger for a moment, murmur a few pleasantries, before returning to the empty tour bus, usually without purchasing anything. But these were ghosts of the past. Even that dwindling stream of visitors was now a dry lake bed.

Much had changed in the seven years I’d been away.

As I continued down the block, the familiar establishments drew my eye: Older Shen’s bookstore, Younger Shen’s herbal shop, Miss Yu’s tea shop, Celia’s gift shop, the Chius’ convenience store, and finally, Old Wu’s restaurant at the end of the road. The street was empty. The neighborhood now seemed to act as a straight thoroughfare to another destination: people merely stopped by the paifang for pictures before moving on to newer, more exciting attractions deeper within Chinatown.

This was where I was supposed to open a restaurant? The location was far from ideal. And money was definitely an issue. I had spoken to the lawyer and Mrs. Chiu about Ma-ma’s finances. After the funeral expenses, the modest amount Ma-ma had left me was enough to cover upcoming permit fees, but not an update of the space nor an upgrade of the appliances.

Could I do this?

I tried giving myself a pep talk. I was twenty-eight years old, far older than Laolao had been when she arrived here all those years ago. If she could do it then, I should be able to now. The same blood pumped through my veins. But I still struggled with doubts.

The sonorous tones of the erhu, the Chinese violin, greeted me as I approached the end of the street. I closed my eyes, drawn to the song. Even the twittering birds overhead stopped. The bow across the two strings coaxed out raw emotion, a bittersweet melancholy spun from the lower register of notes.

The traditional Chinese two-stringed instrument was unusual to the Western eye. It had a long, dark spine with two spikes near the top and a round barrel at the end. One hand manipulated the bow while the other vibrated along the spine, moving up and down along the strings.

As the last note vanished into the summer air, I was released from its spell. Reaching into my purse, I showed my gratitude in the form of paper bills I tossed into the musician’s empty moon cake tin.

“I never realized how much I missed your playing,” I murmured. “Thank you for the song, Mr. Kuk Wah.”

“You’re back in town?” the older man asked.

I nodded.

Mr. Kuk Wah tugged his flat cap over his forehead and set his erhu against the brick wall. The lines around his eyes, like the roots of a banyan tree, had deepened over the years. A dark ink dragon snaked up his right forearm against a background of blooming chrysanthemums. Decades ago, after a particularly thick fog, he had appeared on this street corner to play his erhu, and ever since, like the fog, he’d come and gone as he pleased.

“Why have you returned, Xiao Niao?”

Xiao Niao was from a popular Chinese children’s song and meant “tiny bird.” Ma-ma and I had sung it often. I treasured Mr. Kuk Wah’s term of endearment. He had played the song for me once, soon after we met. I’d sung along, reinforcing the start of our friendship.

“Ma-ma died.”

He removed his hat and pressed it against his chest. Gray infiltrated his short, dark hair; he had to be in his late fifties now. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother’s passing.”

“Thank you. I miss her with every breath.” I was surprised at how easily I could talk about my grief with him.

“Then allow me to play a happy tribute to her life.” He lifted the erhu onto his lap.

The melody unfurled, dancing across the higher registers only to return to the lower notes like a flock of starlings sweeping across the twilight sky. Long interchanging notes were punctuated by staccato plucking of the strings. My heart swelled; Ma-ma would have adored this piece, a playful tune.

At the end of the song, I dived again into my purse, but the musician shook his head.

“This is a gift,” he said.

A worthy tribute. My mother had loved classical music and operas. Perhaps if she had ever ventured outside, she could have met Mr. Kuk Wah and fallen in love with his erhu. In our home, listening to music wasn’t a luxury so much as it was a part of life, like hanging laundry on a clothesline. Bach, Verdi, and Puccini made more of an impact on my consciousness than any modern musician ever had.

“Thank you,” I said.

Mr. Kuk Wah rubbed his chin, bristling his shadow of a beard. “I hope you’ll be staying even after you’ve settled your mother’s affairs.”

“Yes, I’m thinking of reopening Laolao’s restaurant.”

“That’s very honorable of you to follow in your grandmother’s footsteps.”

I lowered my eyes. “I’m not sure if I can do it because there are so many obstacles to opening one. I already tried culinary school and failed spectacularly.” A thread of frustration in my voice escaped without my consent. The walk around the block had reminded me how hard running my own business would be. “I shouldn’t complain. I just inherited a restaurant. Everything’s old but it should still be functional.” Though of course I couldn’t be certain because I hadn’t checked yet.

“Yes, it will be difficult, but I like to think that you’ll succeed.” He paused, then nodded. “If this is what you want to do, then do it. It sounds like cooking feeds something in your soul like music does for me. Following your dream leads to happiness, Xiao Niao.”