The Moon Opera

3

After 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.

Bingzhang worried about money all the time. As he saw it, in addition to being in charge of a drama troupe, he was well on his way to becoming a merchant, waiting for the capital to roll in. He was reminded of a phrase he’d heard at a political study group, one made famous by a high-ranking official: Capital came into the world dripping blood and filth from head to toe. How true. Capital does drip blood; whether it’s filthy or not is a topic for another day. The troupe was waiting for that blood to drip, counting on it to produce and produce more, and expand to produce even more. Its life was on the line. Bingzhang couldn’t wait for The Moon Opera to be staged; the sooner the better. The longer the night, the more the dreams; things happen. Money’s the key, only money.

The banquet reached its climactic moment when the factory boss met Xiao Yanqiu, which is to say, the banquet was one long climactic moment. Before the food was served, Bingzhang led Yanqiu into the room ceremoniously and, with the same degree of formality, introduced her to the guest of honor. For him, the meeting was a social event, perhaps even entertainment, but for Xiao Yanqiu it was a critical moment in her life; it would determine what the second half of that life would be like. When first notified of the banquet, rather than being overjoyed, she had been overwhelmed by enormous dread, immediately reminded of the famous Qingyi of an earlier generation, Li Xuefen’s teacher, Liu Ruobing. Liu, who had been the most famous beauty on the 1950s stage, was also the first celebrated actress to fall when the Cultural Revolution was launched.

The story of Liu’s life up to the day of her death was well known in the drama troupe. In 1971, an aficionado who had risen to the position of deputy army commander took it upon himself to find out what had happened to his opera idol. He had his guards crawl under a stage and drag Liu Ruobing out. She was demonically ugly, with dried excrement and menstrual blood caked on her pant legs. The deputy commander stood off to the side, took one look, and climbed back into his military Jeep, leaving behind a line for the ages: “One must not soil oneself just to sleep with a famous person.”

With Bingzhang’s invitation in hand, Xiao Yanqiu’s thoughts were of Liu Ruobing, although she could not say why. She spent half of her monthly wages in a beauty shop, where she sat in front of a full-length mirror to be made up as attractively as possible. The beautician’s fingers were soft, but they hurt. To Xiao Yanqiu, this was less a beauty treatment than self-inflicted torture. Men fight other men, but women spend their whole lives fighting themselves.

The factory manager did not put on any airs, and was actually humble in Xiao Yanqiu’s presence. Calling her “Teacher,” he politely and repeatedly invited her to take the seat of honor. Dismissive of the Cultural Bureau directors at the banquet, he had the highest regard for art and for artists. Essentially hijacked, Yanqiu was forced to sit between the Bureau Chief and the factory manager, directly across from her troupe leader. Sandwiched between luminaries who would determine her fate, she was justifiably nervous. Remaining faithful to her diet, she ate little, which made her seem intimidated by her surroundings, lacking the mannerisms appropriate for an actress who, twenty years before, had been the top Qingyi. Luckily for her, the guest of honor did not seem to want her to say much, for he talked the whole time. He spoke quietly but animatedly about the past, and said that he was a great admirer of “Teacher” Xiao Yanqiu and had been a diehard fan back then. Smiling politely, she twisted the hair behind her ear with her pinkie, a sure sign of modesty and humility. Then he began to describe performances of The Moon Opera, telling her that back when he was still living in the countryside, an idle, bored young man, he had followed the troupe as it made the rounds throughout the province. He even recounted an anecdote: Once, when Xiao Yanqiu was suffering from a cold, she coughed during her third performance. Rather than boo, the audience showered her with applause. The banquet table went quiet. The factory boss turned to her and said, “I was part of that.” Everyone laughed and clapped, including the factory manager himself. The applause was joyful and rallying, an implication that there was more to come, and that it was a pity they hadn’t met earlier, but that it was wonderful they were sharing a good time now. They raised their glasses in a toast.

The factory manager talked on, in a confidential tone, about a broad range of issues, including international affairs, the WTO, Kosovo, Chechnya, Hong Kong, Macao, reforms and liberalization, the future and its obstacles, the marketing and production of drama, and people’s popular tastes. He was good. The guests nodded and reflected somberly, as if these were things that had been on their minds all along, an important part of their daily life, like cooking oil, salt, soy sauce, and vinegar, and as if they had been racking their brains over these very things, but finding no solutions. And now, at last, the water had receded and the riverbed stones were exposed, all highways led to heaven, answers had been found and solutions formed. They downed another cup, experiencing relief for the future of humanity, for the nation, and for drama.

Bingzhang had been watching the factory manager all night. While grateful for what the man was doing, from their first meeting he had harbored a measure of disdain toward him. Now all that had changed. He was seeing the man in a different light, for not only was he a successful entrepreneur, he was also a sophisticated thinker and diplomat. In wartime, he might well have been a top military strategist and field commander. In a word, a great man. Obviously affected by the man’s talk, Bingzhang said illogically, “You’ve got my vote when the People’s Congress selects our next mayor!” The manager did not respond; lighting a cigarette, he made an ambiguous gesture and turned the dinner table conversation back to Xiao Yanqiu.

He was clever, witty, and creative, especially when Xiao Yanqiu was the topic. They were about the same age, but he seemed so much older and wiser, a man who infused his concern, respect, and affection with the airs of a revered elder. Yet, he was also full of energy, and his masculine, worldly manner of placing himself on equal footing with the common people made him seem even more personable, and thus more her equal. Feeling like a woman caressed by a spring breeze, Yanqiu grew increasingly confident and more relaxed. Then once she began to feel at ease with herself, she engaged the guest of honor in conversation, and before long, his forehead glowed and his eyes lit up. Never taking them off her, he began talking faster, all the while accepting toasts from other guests. Not once since the banquet began had he stopped drinking; he accepted every toast, and by then had probably downed a quart of hard liquor. Oblivious of others around them, he talked exclusively with Yanqiu.

Bingzhang found all this drinking worrisome, given his familiarity with successful banquets that had been wrecked by a few too many glasses of liquor or a few too many words from a pretty woman. He was hoping his guest knew his limit. How many times had he witnessed a successful, even dignified man cross the line, thanks to alcohol, with a beautiful actress? He was concerned that his guest might say something inappropriate, or actually do something rash, and was worried sick, knowing that many great men had erred in the final phase of an event, for which they then paid a high price. Increasingly fearful that the banquet would not end well for his guest, Bingzhang made a show of checking the time on his wristwatch. But the factory manager turned a blind eye to this ploy and took out a cigarette, which he offered to Yanqiu, an unseemly action by almost anyone’s standard.

Bingzhang gulped, certain that his guest was losing control. So, with his eyes fixed on the wine glass in front of him, he nervously sought a way to end the affair, one that would send his guest home feeling good about the experience, but that would also allow Xiao Yanqiu to come away in one piece. Apparently, his thoughts were transparent, even to Yanqiu, who smiled and said, “I don’t smoke.” The man nodded and lit it for himself. “Too bad. I was hoping you’d do an ad for me, featuring you on the moon.” The guests were momentarily confused, but were quick to laugh, even though his comment wasn’t particularly funny. Sometimes nonsense spouted by a great man can pass for humor.

They were still laughing when the factory manager stood up and said, “I had a wonderful time tonight,” thus bringing the festivities to an end. He then signaled to his driver. “It’s getting late,” he said. “Drive Miss Xiao home.” This came as a surprise. Bingzhang had been worried that the man would try to get something going with Xiao Yanqiu. But he didn’t. In fact, he had conducted himself with such decorum and conversed with such carefree politeness that one might have thought he hadn’t so much as touched his glass, as if the quart or so of hard liquor had been poured not down his gullet but into his pants pocket. Obviously a master banquet-goer, he was blessed with an admirable capacity for alcohol and a keen sense of when to stop. Bingzhang had put on a good show, supplying plates of phoenix head, pork belly, and leopard tail, the alpha to omega of any successful banquet.

But poor Xiao Yanqiu, caught unprepared for such a speedy end to the meal, found herself tongue-tied. Finally, she sputtered, “I’ve got my bike.”

“A great artist cannot be made to ride a bike,” the factory manager replied as he gestured for his driver to escort her to the car. Left with no good option, and with a final glance at her dinner partner, Yanqiu fell in behind the driver. As she neared the door, she sensed that all eyes were on her; with rapt concentration on each step, and feeling hopelessly awkward, she nearly forgot how to walk. But no one could tell. They just stared at her back, her value having shot up a hundredfold. The woman now had herself a powerful backer.

The guest of honor turned to chat briefly with the Bureau Chief, inviting him to visit his factory. “You’re quite the drinker!” Bingzhang cut in. “Like a sponge!” He repeated himself four or five times. Now why in the world had he tried to suck up to the man that way? He sounded either like a man with a complex or one who’d been given quite a scare. There was no response from the factory manager, who just smiled and, as he stubbed out his cigarette, changed the subject yet again.