Geistergrab einer buddhistischen Pagode

Kapitel 8

The Himalayas—who knew it would be so hot to travel there? Who knew Benny would hang this photo at her funeral as a woman's "most beautiful" image? And who would have thought that silly funeral director would give me the exact same hairstyle and paint my skin as dark as a Brokpa girl's? Now, the image people have of me is completely different, like a shrunken, wrinkled mango.

Watching one's own funeral (3)

I don't expect people to say, "Oh, I remember Bibi, she was beautiful." That's not what I mean. I understood what beauty was even in my teenage years. I know my flaws: I'm short, my legs aren't long, like a wild Mongolian horse; my hands and feet are stiff like an unread book; my nose is too long; my face is too pointed. Every single one of these is just barely acceptable; it's genetic from my mother's family, congenital deficiencies that can never be remedied.

I didn't care about my looks, especially when I was a child, but as I reached puberty, I realized how important a woman's charm is. I drew my already thick eyebrows even darker, wore rings on my bony fingers, and dyed my messy hair various colors, braiding it into a large plait that cascaded down my back. I used striking colors to adorn myself, sharp and powerful like swords, yet with delicate textures. I wore a pendant and a large medal. My shoes were my own design, made by a leatherworker in Santa Fe.

"Have you ever seen traditional Persian slippers with the toes rolled up like that?" I prompted those who had been staring at my shoes for a long time, "Do you think the Persians did that?"

"To show that they were of the upper class."

"Let their feet point to the sky?"

"To hide the rolled-up short sword."

I finally answered with pride: "The answer isn't so appealing. Their palace has long, carpeted halls, and the upturned toes of their shoes can lift the hem of their long skirts so they don't trip over their own skirts when they meet the king. You see, it's all for practicality."

Whenever I tell this story, it leaves a lasting impression on people, and later when they see me, they say, "I remember you, you were the one with the weird shoes."

At the memorial service, the curator, Zez, said I had a style that was "absolutely memorable, as symbolic as the best portraits in the Sackler collection." A bit of an exaggeration, but it was heartfelt. In my deceased heart, I felt a distinct unease.

At this moment, I can feel the pain of others, and I am just as sad—but strangely, I am also happy.

I have no children, no lovely daughter or dear son to share the pain of losing my mother. But suddenly, this joy and sorrow evaporated, and I fell into deeper contemplation.

No one has ever truly loved me in my entire life. I once thought Stephen Schiffer loved me deeply—yes, Stephen Schiffer, the controversial and famous figure. That was a long time ago, before the pink-skinned congressman declared his paintings “obscene and un-American.”

Want to know my opinion? To be honest, I think Stephen's "Freedom of Choice" series is too meticulous and rigid. One of the paintings depicts an American flag covered with things: dead livestock with USDA (United States Department of Agriculture) stamps, euthanized dogs, and computer monitors—in short, piles of surplus products representing immoral waste.

Stephen Schiffer himself never intended to express these ideas; it was organizations like the First Amendment Members Group that saw a profound meaning in his work: how Americans need the shock of ugliness to recognize their own responsibilities. Later, when Stephen Schiffer's work was criticized, organizations like the First Amendment Members Group stood up to defend him.

In the years that followed, the chaos morphed into global warming and the threat of nuclear weapons, and that's how his fame spread. Posters and postcards featuring his work appeared even in churches and schools, and galleries in major cities were selling his limited-edition silk paintings at tourist attractions, alongside works by Dali, Neiman, and Kinkade.

I should have been proud to have such a man in my life. Socially, we were a classic duet. As for our intimate moments, I admit we had countless wild nights. But I couldn't give up my job to be his foil. He frequently gave paid lectures, attended the New York Council's annual meeting, or frequented upscale establishments, sometimes several a night. When we were together, we liked to tease each other. But we weren't gentle, and we never regretted the things we said in the heat of the moment.

Time passed, flowers withered, and all things inevitably decayed. Without arguments or discussions, we began to ignore each other. To some extent, we maintained a friendship—still pretending to kiss cheeks at parties. Thus, we didn't become the subject of gossip, and we were quite effective at preventing idle chatter.

Stephen is now suffering greatly from age and paralysis, and I was saddened to learn of this. A friend told me he signed a contract to reproduce an antique painting by Gicleçe, which is listed on eBay for $24.99, no pre-order required, and that price includes the frame. As I said, it's truly tragic.

I have other stable male partners, and I like each of them to some extent, but nothing too deeply. Of course, there have been many disappointments, and there have been episodes like tearing my robe in the heat of passion. That robe was worth far more than that man.

But now, I ask myself honestly: Have I ever truly loved? Has anyone ever won my heart, and not just my affections?

To be honest, my love has nothing.

It's my fault, probably because of my nature. I can't let myself become that kind of careless person. Isn't love about losing your mind? You don't care what others think, you can't see the flaws in your loved one—stinginess, neglect, occasional meanness. You don't mind that their social status, education, economic situation, or moral character is lower than yours.

If it's the last point—being morally bankrupt—I think that's the worst.