The Moon Opera (7 page)

It was a sleepless night. Yanqiu stared wide-eyed into the darkness. One eye looked to her past, the other to her future, but all she could see was darkness. Several times she nearly reached out to rub her husband’s back, but she stopped herself. She was waiting for the day to break; once dawn came, yesterday would be over.

When she wasn’t rehearsing, Chunlai was quiet as a glass of water. During breaks, she’d sit off by herself, her long, curved eyebrows raised, her luminous eyes darting here and there, looking both alluring and at ease. She had a quiet beauty with an easy grace, and her movements gave the impression of a frail willow swaying in the wind. But girls like her could erupt without warning; she could raise a three-foot wave on a windless day, and the news she brought on one particular day was like thunderbolts crackling above Xiao Yanqiu’s head.

Shortly before the sound rehearsal, Bingzhang summoned Xiao Yanqiu to his office. He looked very unhappy. Chunlai was sitting there reading the evening paper. The girl’s presence told Xiao Yanqiu that something had happened.

“She’s leaving,” Bingzhang said.

“Who’s leaving?” Xiao Yanqiu was confused. She glanced at the girl, clearly puzzled. “Where to?”

Chunlai stood up, but was still reluctant to look at her teacher. She stared instead at the tips of her shoes, reminding Xiao Yanqiu of what she herself had been like twenty years before, when she had stood at Li Xuefen’s bedside. But what they were thinking and feeling at each of those moments could not have been more different. After a long pause, Chunlai spoke up. “I’m leaving,” she said, “I’m going to be on TV.”

Xiao Yanqiu heard every word but understood nothing. A discordance existed between those two statements. This was bad news, but just how bad she could not be sure. “You’re going where?”

Finally Chunlai showed her hand. “I don’t want to be an opera singer any longer.”

Now Xiao Yanqiu understood. She sized up her student before inclining her head and asking, “What is it you don’t want to do?”

Again the girl fell silent, leaving Bingzhang to explain things to Yanqiu. “One of the TV stations needed a host, so she applied. That was a month ago. She had her interview, and she got the job.”

Xiao Yanqiu recalled seeing ads placed by the TV station in the evening paper during the narration phase. It had, in fact, been a month, and the girl had, without a word, gone about securing the job. Stunned by the news, Yanqiu swayed, as if being pulled off her feet. Not knowing what she ought to do or say, she reached out for Chunlai’s shoulder, but quickly withdrew her hand. By then she was breathing heavily. “Do you have any idea what you’re saying?”

Chunlai looked out the window, but said nothing.

“Don’t even think about it!” Xiao Yanqiu said, raising her voice.

“I know how much time and energy you’ve spent on me, but I’ve worked very hard to get where I am today. So don’t stand in my way.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Then I’ll quit the academy.”

Yanqiu raised her hands in a meaningless gesture. She looked first at Bingzhang, then at Chunlai. Her hands began to tremble; heartbroken, she grabbed the girl’s lapels. “You can’t,” she said softly. “Don’t you know who you are?”

“Yes, I do,” Chunlai answered, her eyes lowered.

“No, you don’t!” Yanqiu said, shooting pains stabbing her heart. “You don’t know how good a
Qingyi
you are. I ask again, do you know who you are?”

The corners of the girl’s mouth twitched, like an attempted laugh, but there was no sound. “The Chang’e understudy.”

“I’ll go talk to them. You’ll be Chang’e and I’ll be your understudy. Please, you mustn’t leave.”

Chunlai looked away. “I can’t take the role away from my own teacher.”

She sounded as determined as she’d been a moment before, but now seemed to leave a bit of room for negotiation.

Yanqiu grabbed the girl’s hands. “You won’t be taking it from me. You have no idea how wonderful you are, but I do. It’s not every day a
Qingyi
is born. Wasting talent like yours would incur heaven’s wrath! You’ll be Chang’e, and I’ll be your understudy. Promise me.” She covered the girl’s hands with her own and repeated urgently, “Promise me.”

Chunlai raised her head to look at her teacher, something she hadn’t done in a long time. Xiao Yanqiu returned her gaze, studying the look in her student’s eyes; she saw doubt and misgiving, which told her she was prepared to make a fresh start. Yanqiu fixed her attention on the girl, as if the look in Chunlai’s eyes would vanish if her gaze left the girl’s face. Bingzhang, who was also watching the girl, detected a subtle change. He was sure he was right; he now knew exactly what to say to the girl and how to say it. So he gestured for Yanqiu to leave, but she was immobile, trance-like. Not until he laid his hands on her shoulders did she return to reality. On her way out the door she stopped to look back. “Go on, now,” Bingzhang said softly. “Go on.”

Xiao Yanqiu returned to the rehearsal hall, where she stared at the window in Bingzhang’s office. It was now the window to her life. The rehearsal was over and the hall was deserted, leaving her the lone figure in the large, now empty space to wait anxiously. Late afternoon sunlight streamed in, filling the air with a soft orange glow and a filigree of dust motes that lent an uncanny warmth to the hall. Leaves on the potted plants seemed to grow bigger under the setting sun, their outlines blurred. Yanqiu paced up and down, hugging herself; then the window opened to reveal Bingzhang’s head and arm. She could not make out his face, but she saw him wave vigorously. Then he balled up a fist, which was the sign she’d been waiting for. She steadied herself by holding on to the practice bar against the wall, tears wetting her eyes, before she slid to the floor, where she sat and cried. How close she’d come to seeing all her efforts wasted; she felt as if she’d survived a disaster. They were happy, comforting tears. Supporting herself with her hand on a chair to stand up, she then sat down and sobbed, savoring a feeling of consolation. As she dried her eyes she reproached herself for not having been more upfront with Chunlai when the opera cast was formed. If the girl had had a role to play, she’d not have gone looking for other work. Xiao Yanqiu asked herself why she hadn’t handed over the role at the beginning; why, at her age, she was still fighting over a
Qingyi
part. Why had she refused to accept the role of understudy? This was so much better. Now Chunlai could take her place. Chunlai was her second self. As long as Chunlai gained the fame she deserved, Yanqiu’s lifework could be passed down through her. As these thoughts coursed through her mind, she felt she’d shed a heavy burden; the pressure and the gloom in her heart vanished. Give it up, give it up completely. She heaved a long, deep sigh, feeling suddenly reinvigorated.

Dieting is a lot like ilness. Getting well can be like extracting thread from a silkworm cocoon, whereas falling ill is like the toppling of a mountain. Xiao Yanqiu had been off her diet only a few days when the red needle on her scale bounced back, dredging up more than a pound, like a free gift with each purchase. She’d been in a better mood for days, but as her weight returned, so did her regrets. An opportunity she’d fought so hard for was lost almost before she knew it, a realization that led to a new and crippling sadness. She would stare at the needle on her scale, and her mood would plummet if it edged upward. But she knew she mustn’t allow herself to grieve over the results; she had to beat back the sorrow as soon as it began to form, pinch off every last trace of it. At first, she had thought that her promise to give up the Chang’e role would have a calming effect. But no, her desire to be on stage was stronger than ever. Be that as it may, she’d made a promise in front of Bingzhang, and that promise was like a sword that cut her in two. One half remained on the shore, while the other half was submerged in water. When the water self tried to come up for air, the shore self unhesitatingly pushed her down even farther. The shore self could feel the underwater self fighting for air, while the water self witnessed the cold cruelty of murder. The two women’s eyes turned red from anger as they glared at each other. Xiao Yanqiu struggled both in the water and on the shore until she was utterly exhausted. So she decided to gorge herself, like a drowning person gulping down water. Her weight shot up; the regained pounds not only betokened her promise to Chunlai, but effectively stopped her from coveting the role. For the first time in her life Yanqiu realized that she could really eat, that she had an amazing appetite.

Everyone spotted the changes in Xiao Yanqiu, a taciturn woman who had given up dieting just when her efforts were beginning to show results. No one recalled hearing her talk about what she was up to, but they saw her face regain its luster and her voice rediscover its depths. Some assumed she had not recovered from “tattooing” her voice that time, for a proud woman like Xiao Yanqiu did not give up easily. But the abandoned diet was not the greatest change in her. Nearly everyone noticed that she took herself out of the picture once the full cast rehearsal started. For all intents and purposes, Chunlai was the only one rehearsing now, while Xiao Yanqiu sat in a chair facing the girl to prompt and occasionally correct her. Xiao Yanqiu looked happy, too happy, in fact, as if she had snatched the sun out of the sky and stored it in the fridge at home. Given the circumstances, she had no choice but to put on a show, to overact. As she devoted all her energy to Chunlai, she looked less like a performer and more like a director, or, to be more precise, Chunlai’s personal director. No one knew for sure what she was up to; they had no idea what was ripening and flowering in her head.

Every evening she dragged herself home, exhausted. The fatigue lingered, roiled, and flooded through her body, like thick, suffocating smoke from burning leaves after an autumn rain. Even her eyes were tired; they would lock onto something and stay there, too weary to move on. She often stood up straight and breathed in deeply to rid her chest of the imagined smoke and mist. But the air never reached the right spot, so after a while she gave up.

The dazed look in Yanqiu’s eyes did not escape the attention of Miangua, for whom his wife’s lethargy was cause for serious concern. She had rejected him twice in bed already. Once she’d been cold and detached, the second time it was a case of nerves. The way she acted, you’d have thought that he didn’t so much want to make love as to stab and make her bleed. He dropped a hint here and there, and sometimes was quite direct, but she remained oblivious. There had to be something terribly wrong with the woman’s heart, for nothing seemed to touch her.

B
ingzhang came to see Xiao Yanqiu when she was teaching Chunlai how to stand for maximum effect. Striking the right pose entailed not only the conclusion of one dramatic mood, but also the silent beginning of another; it had both its own logic and beauty. The most difficult task was finding the right measure of decorum, for that, ultimately, was what art was all about. Xiao Yanqiu had demonstrated the pose several times, and kept raising her voice until she was nearly shouting. She wanted everyone to take note of her enthusiasm, her even temper, and her willingness to show that she did not feel ill-treated, that she was at peace, as if her mood had been ironed out smooth. She was more than just the most successful performer around; she was also the happiest woman and sweetest wife in the world.

That was when Bingzhang showed up. Rather than step into the rehearsal hall, he waved to her through the window. This time he led her to the conference room, not his office, where they’d had their earlier conversation. The previous talk had been productive, and he hoped this one would be as well. In a pleasant, unhurried manner, he asked how the rehearsal was going, though it was obvious that this was not what he had in mind; unfortunately, beating around the bush was too ingrained a habit for him to do otherwise. For some reason, even though he was in charge of the drama troupe, he could not help being afraid of the woman sitting across from him.

Xiao Yanqiu sat with a single-minded concentration that was exaggerated to the point of borderline hysteria, like a woman waiting to hear sentence pronounced. Noting her demeanor, Bingzhang knew he needed to be careful with what he was about to say.

Finally he got around to the topic of Chunlai, and then came straight to the point. He told Yanqiu that the young woman had previously decided to move on out of concern that she’d be unable to go on the stage and was unsure of her future, not because she’d really wanted to leave. A smile burst onto Xiao Yanqiu’s face. “I have no objection,” she said in full voice. “Really, I have no objection at all.”

Ignoring her comment, Bingzhang continued with what he wanted to say: “I should have spoken to you earlier, but I was kept from doing so by meetings in town.” With a self-deprecating smile, he continued, “My hands are tied, as you know.”

Yanqiu swallowed and repeated herself, “I tell you, I have no objection.”

He gave her a cautious look. “We held two special high-level organizational meetings over what we consider a very serious matter,” he said, “and I want to see what you think—”

Yanqiu jumped to her feet, so fast she even frightened herself. Again she smiled. “Really, I have no objection.”

Bingzhang stood up and asked warily, “Have they spoken to you already?” She stared blankly, not knowing what “they” were supposed to have “spoken” to her about. Biting his lower lip, Bingzhang blinked nervously, filled with things to say, but unable to begin. Finally, he mustered up the courage to stammer, “We held those two meetings, and, we thought—they thought—it would be better for me to talk to you.You will take half the role … though naturally, we’ll understand completely if you think it’s a bad idea. But you will play half, Chunlai will play the other half. Do you think this will …”

She did not hear what came after that, though she had heard every word up till then. At that point, she realized that for days she’d been operating under false assumptions, from which she had been making plans. No one in authority had spoken to her. Putting on an opera was such a huge event, how could she decide which play to perform or who to play which role? Everything had to be finalized by the organization. She’d been thinking too highly of herself and overestimating her authority. One person getting half the role was the sort of decision the organization would inevitably make. That was how they always did it: one role, two performers. She was so happy she broke out in a cold sweat. “I have no objection,” she gushed. “Honest, I have absolutely no objection.”