Mrs. Lau ran down the stairs from their apartment, having heard the shattering glass, only to see her husband and two policemen pick Pedro up and walk toward the small bed they kept in the back room of the store. She was the best apothecary in Macau, and kept a cabinet of original recipes for Chinese medicines. “We thought she’d be better than the hospital,” one of the policemen told Mr. Lau. He closed his eyes and nodded his head.
The repeating motIon of her graceful steps could be heard as she approached the back room. Mrs. Lau gathered a tray of medicines, sterile bandages, surgical gloves, and medical instruments.
“Perhaps you should go take care of the broken window, Love.”
Mr. Lau knew his cues after 28 years of marriage. “Yes, immediately, my dear.”
He ushered the policemen out, and conversation was heard in the front room.
Mrs. Lau soaked a towel in anesthetic for Pedro to breathe in. She surveyed Pedro’s body as she took out each piece of glass, staunched the flow of blood, and sewed up each wound. There were many. ‘Patience is the only way I’m going to get all of them,’ she thought.
Mr. Lau came back into the room after the policemen were gone. “Would you please give me the second instrument on the left side of the tray?” she asked. Mr. Lau handed her a medium-sized pair of tweezers.
Methodically, and took out all the glass pieces. She only had to look at a medical instrument on the tray, and her husband would hand it to her. Their quiet understanding filled the room. For two days after his operation, Pedro remained in a semi-conscious state, as Mrs. Lau gave him her original medicines to prevent infection and relieve pain. Mr. Lau prepared her tea and liquid recipes to keep him nourished.
Pedro didn’t remember when he started to be aware of an opaque world defined by soft voices, fragrance from perfume on the sleeves of a pink silk robe, and cold water, but he rested in his womb. There were no decisions, only time for his body to regain control of itself and allow him to feel each part healing. He drifted in and out of sleep for three days. When he finally opened his eyes, he saw the studied expression of Mrs. Lau.
“Love,” she called to her husband, “He’s awake, but perhaps we should keep him on liquids for one more day.” Mr. Lau ran in after finishing up with the window installers. In the bed he saw a man who did not know where he was.
“You are in the back room of our shop. I do my accounting here,” said Mr. Lau gently. Light filtered in from the slats of red wooden shutters. A fan swayed from side to side, softly rustling stacks of old papers, from which came the sweet smell of vanilla flowers.
There is peace in hidden places so mundane that their existence never occurs for those with things to do. The wonders of such a place of no importance, mostly, allow you to think.
Pedro remembered Jiao-liang’s icy blue eyes as they reflected the precise image of his bike's chrome handlebars. Those expressionless eyes hid pain that wouldn't end until his life did. ‘How could I not have seen this?
Maybe I should count how many ways are there to see,’ Pedro thought. ‘First, there is hindsight. Then, there is careful observation. I should have noticed that Jiao-liang looked through eyes that were a shield. I knew someone who served time in prison. He could see with his instincts. A convict who became a caged animal inside could be drinking champagne in an expensive suit outside, but another ex-convict would recognize his true nature immediately.
Also, common sense should have allowed me to see Jiaoliang’s determination, and realize it could only have had one conclusion. Instead, I only saw a chrome stallion through a clueless, innocent gaze. What an idiot! That’s why I’m here. I must learn to see the world with different sets of eyes.’
“How stupid could I have been?” Pedro asked Mr. Lau. Sensing his guilt, Mr. Lau shook his head. “No, What happened is that you survived Jiao-liang. Not many people do.”
Pedro looked astonished. “Wait, you know who he is?”
“Of course, I do. Everyone does. He was the brilliant, talented son of Dr. Chang, once the most prominent linguist, poet, and calligrapher in Macau. I had the honor to study with him. Jiao-liang let you jump off. If he had wanted to kill you, he would have broken your wrists first, pulled your tongue out until you suffocated, and then put you on the motorcycle.”
Pedro was dumbstruck. Mr. Lau laughed. “Macau is small. Everyone in the Chinese community knows everyone else and has an opinion about them — which, of course, they share at any opportunity.”
Pedro shook his head almost imperceptibly. He tried to look through Mr. Lau to find a hidden logic in the interconnectedness presented before him, but he was an outsider. He didn’t grow up touching jade, merging with its thousands of years of energy.
Then there was the poetry. Pedro had never known about that — the brush and ink expressing rivers, clouds, folds of mountains that looked like dark eyebrows, age, hope and lack of hope, uselessness, and return. He was a tourist that stumbled upon an inner world. With all his study in interior design and the Chinese aesthetic, would he ever be anything else?
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