Bi Feiyu: The Moon Opera

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.

There is truth in the saying that good fortune will find a way into your house even if you shut the door. But good fortune seemed to have lost its mystique. Now it was all about money; only money could slip in through a crack in the doorway. What, after all, was so special about a cigarette factory boss? Nowadays, there were more “bosses” on the street than swallows in the spring, than grasshoppers in the fall, than mosquitoes in the summer, or than snowflakes in the winter. This one had money, and since it wasn’t his own, he made it readily available.

Meanwhile, the people in the drama troupe and those at the academy envied not Xiao Yanqiu, but the girl, Chunlai, who had stumbled into great good fortune.

Chunlai, who entered the academy at the age of eleven, had studied under Xiao Yanqiu from grades two through seven. Anyone who knew Yanqiu also knew that Chunlai was more than just her student; she was like a daughter. When she started out, Chunlai had studied for the Huadan role – bold, seductive women – not Qingyi – chaste women and faithful wives. It was Xiao Yanqiu who brazenly took her over. Qingyi and Huadan are very different female roles, but with fewer opera fans these days, the two had been lumped together as Huadan . The confusion was caused in part by a lack of sophistication and knowledge on the part of the audience, but the prime culprit had been modern opera’s greatest performer, Mei Lanfang. Mei had a vast and profound knowledge of Peking Opera, and over the course of his lengthy career blended the singing styles and acting formulae of the two female roles to create a new role, called Huashan . The emergence of Huashan embodied Mei’s desire for innovation and creativity, but wound up creating unnecessary problems for later generations, who were far less concerned about any distinction between the two roles. To cite but one example, the so-called “four famous female leads” was an unfortunate general term, the true description for which should have been “two famous Huadan and two renowned Qingyi .”All forms of drama were in decline, so almost no one cared if people could tell a Qingyi from a Huadan . But for those who studied or performed opera, the distinction had to be maintained. Qingyi was still Qingyi ; Huadan remained Huadan . The differences in singing style, oral narration, costume, stage movements, and performance formulae were legion, like flowers on separate branches, each with its distinct bloom, but which never come together.

Chunlai had her reasons for wanting to study Huadan . A Huadan recites her lines in loud, crisp Beijing Mandarin, while a Qingyi drags out each word. Without translation or subtitles, it is harder to understand a Qingyi than to watch a pirated DVD. In short, a Qingyi speaks a language unknown to man. The differences are even more pronounced in terms of singing. A Huadan sings in a nimble, bright, clear manner, sounding a bit like a pop singer, with a pinched falsetto. Lively and fetching, she cocks her head as she leaps around like a chirpy sparrow. A Qingyi , on the other hand, takes forever to sing a single word, squeaking and creaking, swaying three times with each step, with one hand over her midsection and the other gesturing with a curved pinkie as she hums and croons; you could get up, go to the bathroom, finish your business, wipe yourself front and back, and return to your seat, only to find that she is still on the same word. With the decline of Peking Opera, the only true fans of the Qingyi were older, retired officials. Some of the renowned Qingyi performers had left the stage and changed into shiny black leather jackets to roar like lions in front of a microphone, their hair a fright, or signed up for TV soaps, where they played one man’s concubine or another man’s cutie. Either way, they received a bit of “cultural” coverage in the evening newspapers. No, a Qingyi could never be compared with a Huadan . There were so many variety shows on TV, and comics and pop singers could create as much racket as they wanted, but the national culture had to be actively promoted and the country’s heritage needed to be maintained somehow. So, as they say, after singing “love the beauty more than national sovereignty,” one at least must add “never leave the battlefield until all the jackals are dead.” In the end, the Huadan provided a better future than the Qingyi , which may be why people jokingly referred to a drama troupe as an “Egg (Dan) nest.”