The Moon Opera (3 page)

Xiao Yanqiu emerged from the room into bright sunlight. She walked to the top of the stairs, stopped beside the handrail, and turned back in time to see the old troupe leader heave a sigh of relief. He nodded, and she responded with a smile that turned into a laugh. Then she lost it completely, letting out loud belly-laughs, her shoulders rising and falling like a bearded clown laughing wildly on the opera stage. Everyone nearby heard this unusual racket and stuck their heads out of the wards to gape at Xiao Yanqiu. But she kept laughing, uncontrollably, until her knees buckled and she fell headlong to the landing between the fourth and third floors. People rushed to her side, where she lay on the concrete floor within earshot of the troupe leader, who explained to anyone who would listen, “Her attitude isn’t bad. She still has a good attitude.”

That was twenty years ago. Now, Xiao Yanqiu registered to see a doctor in the urology department. Once she had her prescription filled, she walked out behind the hospital. Twenty years. From a distance, she could see people entering and leaving the in-patient building. It had changed, with mosaic tiles on the exterior walls, but the roof, the windows, and the corridors still looked the same, so maybe it wasn’t that different. Standing there, she realized that, contrary to what people say, life does not reach into the future; rather, it points to the past, at least in terms of its framework and structure.

She arrived home an hour later than usual and saw that her daughter was slouching over the dining room table doing her homework. Her husband was slumped on the sofa, watching TV with the sound off. She leaned against the door frame, grasping her prescription bag from People’s Hospital as she observed her husband with a sense of fatigue. He could tell that something was wrong, so he got up and walked over to her. She handed him the prescription, went to the bedroom, and shut the door behind her. He turned his gaze from her to the bag, from which he took out a box and examined it, filled with uncertainty. The printing was in a foreign language, indecipherable to him, which only worsened the situation.

With a sense of impending doom, he followed her into the bedroom. No sooner had he stepped through the door than she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him to her until their bodies were crushed together, tighter and tighter. He knew at once that she was struggling to bear up under an assault of crippling sadness. The prescription fell from his hand. He stepped backward and banged the door, slamming it shut, and as he held her in his arms, destructive thoughts raced through his mind. Finally she cried out, “Miangua, I’m going back on the stage.”

As if not comprehending what she had just said, he lifted her head to look more closely, a mixture of relief and doubt in his eyes. “I can be on the stage again,” she said. Shoving her away, in a state of shock, he blurted out, “That’s it? That’s what this is all about?”

She stole an embarrassed look at him and smiled. “I feel sad, that’s all,” she muttered through an onset of tears.

He turned and opened the door to go warm up her dinner, only to discover their daughter standing there timidly. Even his bones felt lighter, now that he had escaped the possibility of calamity, but he frowned and said roughly, “Go do your homework!”

Xiao Yanqiu pulled her husband back into the room and waved to her daughter to come in and sit beside her so she could get a good look at her. Born with a large frame and a square face, she did not take after her mother; she was, in fact, a carbon copy of her father. But on this night, to Xiao Yanqiu her daughter seemed prettier than ever, and a more detailed examination revealed that the girl looked like her, after all, just one size bigger. Miangua turned to go into the kitchen, but Yanqiu said, “No need. I’m on a diet.”

He stopped and stood in the doorway, puzzled. “What for? Have I complained that you’re getting fat?”

Laying her hand on her daughter’s head, Yanqiu said, “You may not care if I’m overweight, but no audience would ever accept a fat Chang’e.”

Now when good fortune has smiled on a couple, the first order of business is to put the children to bed. Once the youngsters are asleep, the adults can head to their bed for the celebration ceremony. In this way a happy night is as quiet as water yet lights up like fireworks. The promise of unanticipated delights had Miangua running around the flat, busying himself in one room and another, not quite knowing what to do.

A traffic policeman who had served in the army, he was rough around the edges, insensitive, and devoid of tact. Where marriage was concerned, the best he had hoped for was to find a worker in a government-run factory. Never, not in his wildest dreams, had the possibility entered his head that a famed beauty, that Chang’e herself, would become his wife. That’s what it had felt like, a dream.

The process had been old-fashioned, nothing new. A matchmaker had introduced them beside a willow tree in the park, and they had begun dating. After doing this for a while, they hurried into the “bridal chamber.”

Back in those days, Xiao Yanqiu had been an ice queen. On the cobblestone path in the park, she looked more like a sleepwalker, a zombie who had lost her soul, than an ordinary pedestrian. Yet rather than diminish a woman’s beauty, that sort of look often makes her more alluring. For it enriches her with an ephemeral grace that makes a man’s heart skip a beat and in turn instills in him a desire to love and protect her. When Miangua first laid eyes upon Yanqiu, his hands went cold, and the chill reached down to the pit of his stomach. She was shrouded in a frigid air, like a glass sculpture, and his immediate reaction was to feel unworthy. He silently cursed the matchmaker, for no matter how you looked at it, such a sparkling beauty was way out of his league. He walked gingerly down the cobblestone path with her, not daring to speak because she was so quiet. For him the early days of their relationship were not so much dating as unimaginable torture. But the torment was mixed with an indescribable sweetness. She remained cold and stern, her eyes unfocused, as if her soul had truly left her. At first he thought she didn’t care for him, but she always arrived on time, though looking unwell, when he asked her to go for a walk. Clearly, he had known nothing of her state of mind, for in fact she was possessed by the desire to marry herself off, the sooner the better. As inept at dating as he was, she walked with him, never saying a word. In her presence, Miangua’s self-esteem was in tatters, and he hadn’t an ounce of imagination. The park’s path was where they had met, so that was invariably where their dates could and, in fact, must take place. Focused on her singular goal, she never asked him anything, and was a shadow that went where he went, which was the same place day after day; he didn’t know where else to go. They walked down the same path, headed in the same direction, turned and rested at the same spots. Then they parted at the same place, where he would say the same thing, settling on a day and time for their next meeting.

But one day everything changed—by accident, of course. That day she tripped and fell. She had been gazing at the moon and the heel of her shoe caught in a crack between cobblestones, turning her ankle and sending her tumbling to the ground. Miangua was so horrified his face turned whiter than the moon. Slow by nature, he was a man who could saunter along even if his head were on fire. But not this time; this time he was scared witless, so flustered he didn’t know what to do. Finally, he picked her up and carried her to the hospital; then, in the same flustered state, he took her home. Her ankle was swollen, black and blue, and she had skinned her elbow.

Unlike Miangua, Xiao Yanqiu was unconcerned about her injuries, almost as if she’d seen someone else fall and get hurt. That lack of concern gave the impression that if someone were to cut off her head and place it on a table, she’d still be composed, calmly blinking her eyes.

Miangua was the one who felt the pain. It hurt him to see her like that, and he stared at her ankle, not daring to look her in the eye. Eventually, he glanced at her, but quickly looked away. “Does it still hurt?” he asked in a tiny voice barely loud enough for her to hear. At that moment, she was not so much a glass sculpture, but a block of ice. Her glacial demeanor remained unchanged, as if she had become petrified. What she could not tolerate, not now, not here, was warmth. Even the lingering warmth from someone’s hand would be enough to crumble her exterior and make her melt away.

Rather woodenly, he said in a pained voice, “Let’s not go out again. See how it made you fall and hurt yourself.” She stared at him, while he reproached himself foolishly. If chiding himself in that jumbled, clumsy way of his wasn’t a sign of concern and tenderness, what was it? Yanqiu felt a surge of emotion, and all past hurts and injuries came rushing back to her. Drop by drop, the ice began to melt, dripping away faster and faster. It was too late to stop the process; she was losing control and could not recapture her coldness. She clasped Miangua’s hands and wanted to say his name, but couldn’t, for she had begun to wail. She howled at the top of her lungs, shamefully loud, but didn’t care. Miangua, on the other hand, was so perplexed he felt like bolting; but he couldn’t, for she was holding on to him for dear life. He could not and did not get away.

Neither Yanqiu nor Miangua realized the significance of her momentous wails. There are times when a woman seems to have been born to belong to the person for whom she cries.

So Xiao Yanqiu, a teacher at the drama academy, hastily married herself off. She was adrift in a vast ocean, and Miangua was her lifeboat. For her, this union was her only chance; there would be no future prospects. What pleased her about Miangua was that he was a man with whom one could live a normal life; he cared about family and was steady, considerate, hardworking, even a tiny bit selfish. What else could she ask for? Hadn’t she wanted a man with whom she could spend the rest of her life? He had one flaw though: he was greedy in bed, like a ravenous child who refuses to leave the table until he can no longer straighten up from all the food. But was that really a flaw? What she found puzzling was how a man could derive so much enjoyment from the same few jerky motions every time. He wore himself out, as if engaged in hard work. But he loved her, and one night, after he had finished, he said absurdly, “If we never have a daughter, you’ll be my daughter.” She pondered his preposterous comment for a week. While she wasn’t particularly fond of lovemaking, she could still recall times when she actually enjoyed it.

Yanqiu was the one who ordered their daughter to bed that night, and from the way she let her lashes droop, Miangua could guess that the night would end with a splendid finale. In all their years of marriage, he had always had to beg for sex. This was a new experience. She stood by their daughter’s bedroom and called out softly. Hearing no response, Miangua, who had stayed in the living room, rubbed his hands expectantly. Yanqiu went into the bedroom, undressed in silence before slipping under the covers, then reached out an arm and laid it on top of the bedding.

“Miangua,” she said, “come here.”

Xiao Yanqiu was a wanton woman that night, determined to please him, catering to his every whim. Like a leaf in a summer windstorm, she opened up and laid herself out, rolling and rocking in wild abandon. She talked the whole time, and some of what she said was quite racy; she had to keep her voice low, but every word sizzled. Panting hard, she pleaded with him, her lips touching his ear. “I feel like screaming, Miangua,” she said in a pained voice. “I feel like screaming!” She was a different person, a total stranger, and to him this augured the beginning of the good life. He could not have been happier; lost in pleasure, he forgot everything else. That night, he went crazy; she went even crazier.

A
fter careful calculation, Bingzhang decided to host a banquet for the tobacco factory boss with money from the costume funds. A memorable dinner would not be cheap, but perhaps he could recoup some of that money from the factory. For now, it was essential to please the big man, for only if he was happy would the troupe be happy. In the past, all Bingzhang had needed to care about was making sure the leadership was happy; now that wasn’t enough. As the troupe leader, he had to scratch the backs of the leadership
and
the factory manager, and he needed to do well on both counts. Things began to fall into place once he sent invitations to the factory manager and several high-ranking guests, plus a few reporters. The more people, the livelier the event. So long as he had a full plate of fine ingredients, he could toss everything, meat and vegetables, into the proverbial hot pot. Didn’t Chairman Mao say that revolution is not a dinner party? True enough. But Bingzhang wasn’t remotely interested in starting a revolution; all he wanted was to take care of business. And that’s what a banquet does: it takes care of business.

Naturally, the factory manager was the guest of honor; people like that were born to be the center of attention. Bingzhang spent the night beaming, smiling so much he had to take an occasional bathroom break to massage his cheeks so his smile wouldn’t look stiff or forced. Fake goods were being sold everywhere these days, and since this event was so important to him, Bingzhang’s smile and expressions also had to be faked.

He had hoped that once he got his hands on the costume money, he could relax a bit. But no, he was more nervous, more anxious than ever. It had been years since the troupe had put on a performance, time that had passed with nothing to show for it. A drama troupe differs from an association of artists or writers, whose members, though perhaps old and alone at home, can collect a salary just by keeping their arms and legs moving: designing a few signs, painting some winter plums or bunches of grapes, or attacking someone in the evening paper. In a word, their value can increase with age. A drama troupe is nothing like that. No matter how good they are, opera performers cannot stay home and put on a play. Of course, in order to get a good housing assignment or a promotion, outside of sucking up to troupe leaders, the good ones must play all the roles – the
Sheng
,
Dan
,
Jing
,
Mo
, and
Chou
. Peking Opera is like no other art form. Whether they are speaking, singing, reading, tumbling, or playing an instrument, though they are touted as “artists,” the performers rely on the strength of their bodies; it is how they make their living. Their bodies are worn out by the time they reach a certain age, and then they are like a desert—pour water on sand, and it disappears without a sizzle. Not only do they bring in no revenue, but they require double the investment, unlike a seasoned warrior, who is the equal of two men.