The Secret Piano: From Mao's Labor Camps to Bach's Goldberg Variations (4 page)

I knew I was poorly dressed. Not long before, when we were rehearsing a play at school, the teacher had said to me:

“Xiao-Mei, you take the role of the beggar-woman. You won’t need a costume.”

I didn’t say anything, but I returned home in tears. My parents tried to convince me that he was only joking, but I didn’t believe them.

I didn’t want to go to the Imperial Palace dressed like a beggar-woman. When I asked my mother to find me something nice to wear, she answered that she couldn’t buy anything, that I was fine the way I was. But I kept pestering her until finally, with a heavy heart, she gave in and approached one of her students, a diplomat’s daughter: could she borrow something for me? I tried on the clothes. The skirt was red, and the white blouse with puffy sleeves was made out of such fine fabric that it was practically transparent. When I went on stage that night I had only one thought: that I looked like a butterfly. I don’t even remember what I played.

My mother didn’t criticize me, but after the concert, when I was in bed, my grandmother spoke to me about the red skirt:

“You’ve upset your mother, Xiao-Mei. It’s so hard for her to keep you dressed correctly. She spends whole evenings mending your clothes.”

There was a brief moment of silence, and then she began again:

“I’m going to tell you an old Chinese story that will help you to understand. It’s about a king who had a very old stable master. This stable master always knew how to choose the best horses for the king. One day, he said, ‘My lord, I would like to stop working. I am too old, and I am no longer able to care for your horses.’

“‘Do you know anyone who might replace you?’ the king answered.

“‘My lord, I have heard of a remarkable young stable master, but I have never met him. Perhaps we could ask him to choose a horse for you and in this way see if he is worthy to serve you?’

“The king accepted and commanded the young stable master to find him a new steed. Three months later, the young stable master presented himself at the king’s court: ‘My lord, I have found a marvelous horse. It is a thorough-bred, calm and light, and it parts the air without a sound.’ The young stable master indicated where it could be found, and hesitated before adding, ‘It is bay-colored, I think.’

“‘Someone bring this horse to me!’ the king proclaimed.

“His servants left and returned two days later, stammering:

“‘My lord, we couldn’t find the bay-colored horse. There was a horse, but it was black.’

“The king turned to his old stable master and said:

“‘You are mocking me! How could your young stable master work for me? He can’t even remember a horse’s color!’

“The old stable master reflected for a few instants, then said to the king:

“‘Now I know for certain that this young stable master is even more talented than I am. He perceives only what is most essential, and forgets all that is secondary.’”

In the spring of 1960, I was admitted to the Beijing Conservatory. As it was a boarding school, I would only see my parents once a week and during vacations, but this did not worry me. Although I was only eleven, I sensed that a gap had opened up between us.

Nineteen sixty was the year that Chairman Mao’s Great Leap Forward, which had been launched three years earlier, went terribly wrong. When implementing it, Mao had stated that the Chinese people were “poor and blank […] but on a blank sheet of paper the freshest and most beautiful pictures can be painted.” Instead of beautiful pictures, there was famine: twenty million Chinese starved to death in the years that followed. Officially, the cause was drought in the north and floods in the south—certainly not Mao’s madness.

But I was not really aware of all this.

When I first saw the Conservatory that September, I had the impression that I was in heaven: its traditional Chinese-style gate, its central courtyard, its majestic trees and fountains, and its five red brick buildings, which were so much larger and more beautiful than our
siheyuan
. The classrooms and practice rooms were located in these low, three-story buildings, as were the library and housing for both professors and students. An annex, an old printing office that had been converted into classrooms, was ten minutes away on foot.

Once the happiness and emotion of the start of the school year were over, I became disillusioned. The workload was exhausting. In addition to intensive music courses, there were general education classes. These were indispensable in case we failed our musical careers and had to return to the regular school system. And then, of course, there were the sessions of denunciation and self-criticism, which had become routine.

We worked at the piano like galley slaves, in little, closed rooms whose doors were fitted with a small, round window. Absorbed in my practicing, I would suddenly feel a presence at my back. When I turned, two eyes behind a pair of glasses would watch me for a moment before disappearing. A monitor.

The school’s leaders also encouraged rivalry between students. The best pupils not only had the right to more classes, but also to better food. Only wind instrumentalists automatically qualified for such meals—it was thought that they needed extra energy to be able to work.

At night, forty of us slept in the same dormitory. Bunk beds were placed one next to the other, leaving just enough space to move around the room. The atmosphere was suffocating. One of the students who suffered most was Aizhen, which means “gentle truth” in Chinese. She was a quiet and somewhat solitary girl, poorly dressed, to whom no one paid much attention. A country girl. Since her parents lived far away in the north of China, she almost never went back to see them. One day, we learned that Aizhen had been taken to the hospital because of respiratory problems. She returned covered in lice, scratching her head from morning to night. After that, no one went near her.

Luckily, there was Mama Zheng. Since the founding of the Conservatory, this old man had looked after the students’ health problems and the daily running of the school. Mama Zheng gave us his all; he never seemed to have time to eat or sleep. You could always see his little round figure bustling about. He had so many appointments during the day that there was a long wait to speak with him. But when you were finally with him, Mama Zheng knew how to be comforting and helpful. “Hot water is the best medicine,” he never tired of saying. This made us laugh, but we all adored him. He was so devoted that, after the infirmary had closed for the day, he continued to give consultations in his little room, which contained only a single bed.

When I went to see him for the first time, I couldn’t keep from exclaiming:

“But, Mama Zheng, where do you eat? You don’t even have a table!”

One evening, when I was standing in line in front of the infirmary, I finally dared to ask one of my classmates:

“Do you know why is he nicknamed ‘Mama’?”

I was told his story.

A long time ago, Mama Zheng had lived in Indonesia and was very wealthy. When Japan invaded China, he left everything in order to serve his native land. The Conservatory was in the process of being established. He donated his entire fortune to it, and then oversaw the first student orchestra—in which the youngest member was only five years old. Everything was in short supply, and he took care of the orchestra as he would have looked after his own children. He caught fish and scoured ponds for lotus roots to feed the students. He sheltered them from all sorts of harm. This is why, in affectionate acknowledgement of what he had done, the Conservatory’s first pupils nicknamed him “Mama,” and it stuck.

As soon as I could, I went to see Mama Zheng. I confided my eleven-year-old fears to him: I was worried that my hands were too small, and that I wouldn’t be admitted to the program’s second year. In addition, my wrists constantly ached. Playing the piano was a torment. He listened to me, massaged my hands, and reassured me.

It was the day of the final examination. With my wrists bandaged, I played my program, and when I was finished, I turned to face the jury. Silence. Stern faces. The atmosphere in the Conservatory’s auditorium was suffocating.

Then the remarks began: all of them unpleasant, disapproving. I stood facing the jury, waiting for it to be over, the sooner the better. Just then a professor, who had been silent up until then, asked to speak. He was a very young man with an athletic build and a thick southern Chinese accent. He gave the impression of someone who was there by mistake.

“Dear colleagues, excuse me, but I do not agree with you,” he said. “I think she plays very well, and more importantly, there is something behind those notes. Let’s talk it over.”

I left the room so they could deliberate.

This professor, who had saved me by taking me into his class, was Pan Yiming. He had just turned twenty-five and a few months earlier had earned his diploma from the Beijing Conservatory. Inspired by some of his professors, he was drawn to the Russian school of piano playing. When you looked at him, you had to ask: was he really a piano professor? He didn’t wear glasses, his hair was not white, and it was said that he was an excellent ice skater. Was it really possible to study seriously with someone like that?

During our first lesson, Professor Pan talked to me about my hands:

“You know, Zhu Xiao-Mei, there are two sides to everything, a positive side and a negative side. Of course, you have small hands, and that’s not going to make it easy to play certain works. But small hands are the swiftest. This works wonders with certain repertoires. You’ll see, the negative can become a positive, just as the positive can also become a negative. I have known a lot of students who, because they had large hands, didn’t bother to practice. To their detriment.”

Was Professor Pan aware that he was opening up an entire world to me? He had shown me that a weakness can be turned into an advantage, and had given me back my confidence. That was the most important thing.

Right away, he diagnosed another of my weak points: I was completely tense.

“Which is the finger that controls all the others?” he asked me.

“I don’t know.”

“It’s your thumb. If it is tense, all the other fingers will be tense, too. If it’s relaxed, the others will follow.”

Then he added:

“Stroke the keyboard, never strike it. It’s not hard, as you seem to think. You don’t have to fight it. In reality, the keyboard is soft and supple. Search out that softness, that flexibility, at the end of your fingers. Try to draw energy from the keyboard, not just transmit energy to it. Imagine you are kneading dough. Ask your mother to knead some, to give you a better idea. It’s the same movement of the hands and wrists. You’ll see, this will entirely change your relationship to the instrument.”

Then he asked me:

“Where do you think the energy comes from when you play?”

“From the shoulders?”

“No.”

“From the whole body?”

“No. It comes from the breath, the place from which life and the spirit originate. Try to breathe correctly, and take care that your feet are placed solidly on the ground and that your diaphragm is steady. You’ll see that you are much less tense. If you are more flexible, in reality you will be stronger.”

Professor Pan had just given me a lesson for life.

After that first encounter, Professor Pan decided to give me a two-hour lesson twice a week, instead of just once, as originally planned. Deep inside, he was opposed to Communist ideas of egalitarianism, according to which everything must be shared.

That was the beginning of two happy years for me, two years that made me forget all the rest: the organized competitions between students, the sessions of self-criticism and denunciation, everything. I lived for Professor Pan’s courses; all week, I thought only of them.

What is more, his teaching went well beyond those four weekly hours of class. According to him, it wasn’t enough to teach one’s students; one also had to live with them. He took us to the mountains, invited us to dinner, gave us books, had us listen to records, and encouraged us to grow beyond the limits of music.

“To become a good musician, Zhu Xiao-Mei, one needs a great deal of culture, sensitivity, and a lot of imagination. I can teach you to play the piano, but I can’t give you everything. Read a lot; experience all you can. You’ll see: it’s essential.”