The Magic Phoenix

She was six and still not yet at school (children didn't go to school till they were seven or even eight in those days), and so she was sitting at her grandfather's desk in his shop in Upper Cross Street, pretending to be a towkay.

Before long, she saw an itinerant hawker crossing the road and climbing the stone steps that straddled the monsoon drain in front of the shop.

He was not any ordinary old pedlar but one that purveyed wonderful wares - tiny, brilliant figures made of coloured dough.

They were attached to little sticks which were stuck onto the top part of the hawker's padded bamboo pole:
There were lords and ladies from Chinese opera, phoenixes and dragons and other fabulous creatures and animals, all intricately, exquisitely fashioned from little bits and strips that were pinched off lumps of smooth, sticky colourful rice dough.

The pedlar, seeing a bunch of noisy children playing near the shop, unhooked a box and a small wooden stool from his bamboo pole and sat down, right in front of the shop.

The children at once crowded round him. Mei Ling craned her neck to look but remained at her grandfather's desk, for her grandma had told her to stay clear of the rough neighbourhood kids.

But an urchin girl with dirt-streaked face and tangled hair called to her in Cantonese,"Eh! Choet lei tai lah, lei! Jo gung-jai, ah!" ("Eh, you! Come out and look! Making dolls!").

Mei Ling got up and walked tentatively towards the circle of chattering children, who made room casually for her.

The children continued to exchange wisecracks as the pedlar opened his black tin box, but Mei Ling was silent, peering inside the hawker's box, counting 15 lumps of dough lying there, all differently coloured.

Soon, even the ragamuffin bunch grew quiet as they watched the pedlar at work, his fingers flitting about, deftly pinching, rolling, pressing, and pleating. Faster than seemed possible, he was fashioning a dragon with fierce eyes and a strong lithe body.

Mei Ling was lost in wonder at the grace and artistry of his old gnarled hands.

The dragon had red and yellow scales and a green crest.

She always watched out for him after that, mentally referring to him as Ah Bak (Old Uncle).

On two more occasions, she saw him creating his masterpieces.

And one day, feeling bold, she even ran out of the shop to greet him.

So the old pedlar stopped in front of her and plucked a yellow-and-turquoise butterfly from his bamboo pole.

"You want to buy?" he asked gently.

But she backed away, suddenly shy.

The old man stuck the butterfly back on his pole and walked away with small shake of his head.

She felt a momentary tinge of regret as she watched him go, for the butterfly had light fluttery wings.

Why had she not taken it? Even the urchin kids bought a tiny chick or a little goldfish from the old man once in a while. But she had never done so.

Why not?

She had money in her pockets and she knew her grandma would not mind her buying from something from the old man.

Later, looking wistful and puzzled, she told her grandmother: "Grandma, I saw a very nice butterfly today, not a real butterfly but a doll-butterfly. One of that Ah Bak's little creatures. He wanted to sell it to me. But I didn't buy it, I don't know why."

Her grandmother smiled at her. "You'll only have think a little harder and you"ll know why," she said, in a way that let the little girl know that she was interested in her problem.

Mei Ling's grandmother wore the traditional samfoo, but she had close-cropped hair like a man's, which in the 1950s was highly unusual for a woman, especially a woman of 57.

The glasses she wore were also unconventional for the time, for they were horn-rimmed and sturdy, and somehow enhanced her alert expression.

The girl knew that her grandma was expecting an intelligent answer from her and so she thought hard and then she said, with full conviction:

"That Ah Bak's dolls are so beautiful! If I hold one in my hand, I may want to touch it. And if I touch it, I may spoil it. If I spoil it, I won't enjoy looking at it any more. And that will be very sad!"

Mei Ling was really trying to explain that the old man's creations held more enchantment for her when admired from afar, that they seemed to her too delicate and too sophisticated to be mere toys for children.

The next day, the old man passed by again, and her grandma, who was in the front of the shop, hailed him, saying she wanted to buy something from him.

Mei Ling stared at her. Didn't her grandma understand?

The old man stepped into the shop and told her grandma to take her pick.

"No, no," said Mei Ling's grandma, "I don't want something you've already made?I want to buy some of your dough for my little granddaughter. Give me a nice selection of different colours and charge what you like. Put them on this tray."

Both the hawker and the little girl understood then what was afoot.

The old man gave one of his faint smiles, but the girl was so mortified that she could not look up.

And when her grandma placed the round lacquer tray and its contents in front of her, telling her to give it a try and see if she could create something of her own, she tried to squeeze herself into a little ball, with head bent low, so as to make herself "disappear".

For more than an hour, Mei Ling kept well away from the tray with its six tiny pieces of coloured dough and a few sticks with pointed ends.

Her grandma, gone into the living quarters at the back of the shop, came out briefly a couple of times, but did refer to the untouched dough.

Finally, the girl went to the tray.

There was no choice but to have a go at it. But how, how, how was she going to begin?

She looked at the lifeless lumps of dough, reluctant even to touch them.

Then she asked herself: Of all the old man's little creatures, which one would be easiest thing to make? Perhaps the little yellow chick. But she had never seen him make that.

So what had she seen him make that did not look too difficult?

"The flying bird with the long tail!" she said, brightening up a little.

And with the image in her mind of the old man making his mythical soaring bird, the little girl nipped a bit off one of the little lumps of coloured dough and stuck it round one of the sticks.

About 10 minutes later, her grandmother walked by.

"A long-tail bird...it must be a phoenix," she said, surveying the result, a look of pleasure spreading across her face. "Very nice, really very good."

Mei Ling heard the unmistakable note of pride in her grandma's voice, but despite that, she wondered whether her grandma was just trying to encourage her.

Then, when she had finally finished her long-tailed bird, her grandma came along and took it from her, holding it up by its stick, and twirling it round slowly, admiring it.

The girl followed with her eyes as her grandma carried it with some ceremony to a privileged position on a top shelf and wedged the stick with care in between some books.

"Do you really think it looks nice?"

"Of course," her grandma replied in her confident manner. "What I say I always mean."

That happened to be true. Her grandmother never said anything she did not believe in.

Mei Ling was suffused with joy. Her phoenix seemed different now -- it no longer had a crude and gawky appearance. It looked quite graceful and striking, in fact.

For the rest of that day, the girl felt somehow different, as though stronger and lighter.

For one thing, she wondered less where her father was, or why her mother never came to see her. For another, she found herself smiling and humming quite a lot.

She even broke out into cheerful little snatches of song.

She knew that it was all because of the phoenix she had made.

And although she was only a child, she sensed that it was her grandmother's genuine appreciation that had transported the phoenix, and therefore herself, into a different realm.

Her grandma had given her "magical powers", she told herself.

As a result, she dared not look too long or too closely at the phoenix that was now perched so beautifully on the shelf, in case it should turn out to be really as ugly as she had first imagined.

Two days later, the pedlar came by again, when Mei Ling and her grandma were both in the front of the shop.

"Come in and look at something," Mei Ling heard her grandma calling to the old man.

Please don't do this to me, please don't, the girl pleaded silently, wanting to hide her face.

But the old man accepted the invitation and stepped into the shop. He was soon holding the phoenix by its stick, faintly frowning.

Mei Ling bent her head, afraid to look. She wanted to run away, into the back of the shop, and would have done so, except that her grandma's hand was resting on her shoulder.

Her grandma said cheerfully, "It's really quite good, isn't it?"

"Yes, your granddaughter is very clever," said the old man at last, a little grudgingly.

"Will you sell me some more dough?" asked Mei Ling's grandma.

"Sorry, no more dough for sale."

That was the last Mei Ling and her grandma ever saw of the old man.

Others had seen him, wending his way into other parts of Chinatown, but he never came by the shop in Upper Cross Street again.

The little girl had enough bits of coloured dough left over to make at least two more little creatures, or even a Chinese opera princess, but she did not touch the dough again -- nor did her grandma ask her to.

She was very sorry that the old man was keeping away, but as the days went by, she continued to hum and sing.

Best of all, she wondered less and less about where her father was, and thought less and less about why her mother had abandoned her.