The Secret Piano: From Mao's Labor Camps to Bach's Goldberg Variations (17 page)

There was a shortage of books, but the Conservatory professors, the same ones, who just a few years earlier, had been reduced to cleaning toilets, gave us all the courses we wanted for free. They moved mountains for us. I analyzed in detail all of Beethoven’s sonatas with one of the only professors who had trained in Germany.

“You’re going to make it,” she said to me one day.

Her kind words lifted me up. At the Academy, I accompanied the young dancers while reading political science and English books. My mother brought me my lunch so that I would lose as little time as possible. Finally, one of the teachers grasped my situation and sent me home, saying:

“Go and study. We’ll practice without music.”

Every day, Professor Pan gave me a lesson. All my friends, most of whom had abandoned the idea of returning to their studies, supported me.

The day of the competition finally arrived, but I didn’t want to tell my parents. My program included Schumann’s
Fantasie
and
Prelude
, a piece composed by Huang Anlun. He had dedicated it to one of his friends, a
Chushen bu hao
who had been crushed by the Revolution. When Huang Anlun handed me the score for the first time, he said:

“It’s music that describes the rebellion of a caged animal.”

Including this piece in my competition program gave me a feeling of invincibility. It expressed the rage of an entire generation. I put so much energy into it that I broke one of the strings on the Conservatory’s Steinway. Defying the rule that forbade any show of support, the spectators in the upper balcony broke into applause. All of my friends were seated there; they understood the feeling that I was trying to convey, on behalf of us all.

The results were announced the following day. Four names were written on a small slip of red paper on the wall by the entrance to the Conservatory. I drew closer. My name was there, along with three others. I had succeeded. In the end, I was right not to accept the posting I had been offered upon my return from Zhangjiakou. I was right to choose destitution, refusal, and solitary endeavor. My stubbornness meant that I was going to be able to continue my studies. I ran home to break the news to my parents. They hadn’t fallen for my ruse, however—they already knew. In secret, they had gone to the Conservatory themselves. My mother had prepared a feast.

“I’m very proud of you,” my father said.

Finally, one of his daughters was going on to higher education, and had found an honorable place in his country. For him, it was a kind of sweet revenge.

As things slowly normalized in the educational sector, cultural and artistic circles also began to take advantage of the new spirit of openness.

Intellectuals, back from their
Shang shan xia xiang
—the labor camps—came together and published their writings, which often had double meanings. Huang Anlun introduced me to the publishing milieu, where I met Xiaoqin, a young editor, with whom I immediately became friends. She was a poet; she read her poems to me and came to hear me play. Through her, I met intellectuals who were working for democracy. At the time, she was very much in love with a French man; she wanted to marry him and move to France.

Western books slowly began to reappear. Based on the enthusiastic recommendation of a painter friend, I traded two years of piano lessons for a translation of Rodin’s
Art
. Rodin’s subject was the visual arts, but his writings corresponded exactly to my experience of music. When I transposed his meditations to the musical world, they spoke to me: “Really beautiful drawing and style are those that you do not even think of praising because you are so interested in what they express. The same is true of color. There is really no beautiful style, no beautiful drawing, no beautiful color. There is only one beauty, the beauty of truth revealing itself.”

Teng Wenji was working on his first film,
The Sounds of Life
, a courageous look at how music had suffered catastrophically under the influence of Mao’s wife. We saw each other often. He now had a son, a gentle little boy to whom I was giving piano lessons, just as he had wanted at Zhangjiakou. I often talked to Teng Wenji about my desire to leave China.

“Don’t go,” he told me. “There is so much to accomplish right here.”

My other friends said the same thing:

“You have to love your country. Stay here.”

I did love my country, but I felt like it didn’t love me.

After Nixon’s visit, American influence in China increased. Of the few films that we were allowed to see, two had a profound effect on my generation:
Love Story
and
Jonathan Livingston Seagull
. Such love and idealism. They weren’t masterpieces, but they allowed us to dream. The books on which they were based were readily available; we saw the films over and over, and read and reread the books. I was especially moved by the story of Jonathan Livingston, the seagull who didn’t want to live like everyone else, who wanted to fly higher than all the others, to the point of risking his life. The idea of America filled me with lofty feelings and wonderful ideas. People were indeed lucky to live there.

After the Philadelphia Orchestra, it was the Boston Symphony Orchestra’s turn to come to China, with Seiji Ozawa as conductor. He was Japanese, of course, but the public considered him to be Chinese because he was born in Manchuria. He dazzled the audience by conducting contemporary Chinese works from memory. At the end of the concert, he wept when a group of musicians surprised him by playing traditional Chinese instruments in his honor.

In music, American cultural influence reached a peak in 1979, with the visit of the celebrated violinist Isaac Stern. He gave master classes at the Conservatory. A documentary about his visit, entitled
From Mao to Mozart
, was a huge success in the West. Stern was very tough on the Chinese students who played for him; he harshly criticized their way of playing Western music. He couldn’t understand their interpretations and felt an oddness in their emotional responses. But why? It was because the Cultural Revolution had destroyed everything—as proof, only the very youngest students, who had been spared the impact of the Revolution, escaped criticism. When Stern himself performed one of Mozart’s violin concertos, the gulf that separated his interpretation from that of the Chinese students was blindingly apparent. He played as though he were speaking with real emotion. Increasingly, I dreamed of studying with the great Western musicians.

Isaac Stern’s visit was a turning point. It became clear to us that the few Chinese musicians who could find a sponsor would be allowed to study abroad.

I wanted to leave. To go to America, the land of liberty.

The administration at the Conservatory tried to dissuade me. I should stay, they told me, China was putting itself back together; it could not allow its newly-minted graduates to leave. I pressed my case for weeks on end, determined. In vain. I was not going to be allowed to go. Fortunately, a few children of highly placed officials had the same idea, and they were certainly not going to be refused. One day, I was given the green light, along with a group of them. The first obstacle was behind me.

Other hurdles followed, and I cleared them one after another. A cousin of my mother’s who lived in Hong Kong gave me the name of her son, Chen. He was living in Los Angeles and offered to put me up. Then, I obtained the necessary sponsorship to apply for a visa: the California Institute of the Arts. I had managed to send them a recording I had made on the only tape recorder I could find. Then things got bogged down. The authorities in charge of granting me permission began dragging their feet. As the weeks passed, I became so anxious I made myself sick. Then it was the American Embassy’s turn to torment me. Everything ground to a halt, until one day I decided to risk it all.

An Australian friend managed to put me through to the American ambassador to China. Without thinking, I grabbed the receiver and stammered a few words in English:

“Please help me. I have been waiting for weeks. You have refused my visa application several times. I want to come and see you.”

The next day, I was in the ambassador’s office.

“You cannot imagine what my life has been like—”

He cut me off.

“I know everything,” he said in impeccable Chinese. I know what has been going on in this country, and what you have suffered; you don’t need to tell me. You will have your visa immediately.”

When I went home that night, I was filled with an indescribable feeling of relief, a sense of victory that eclipsed everything else. Smiling broadly, I broke the news:

“Mama, I have it! I have my visa! I did it!”

But my mother didn’t smile. She didn’t even answer. She just turned away, wordlessly. And in a split second, I understood. I could have kicked myself—how could I have been so blind? Of course, she had encouraged me to go, she had helped me every step of the way, but the cruel truth was there all along—I had won my freedom, but she was losing her child.

Still, my mind was made up. The New Year was only a few days away, but I couldn’t wait. I wanted to leave immediately, to flee. Forever.

I had my visa, but how was I going to pay for a plane ticket to Los Angeles? And what gifts would I bring my cousins? We had so little money. One evening, as we were in the midst of preparing for my departure, my mother said to me: