On the first of July, 1989, all the dancers were aflutter. Everyone was talking about the World Festival of Youth and Students. TV and radio broadcasters proclaimed its importance and repeated that only a powerful nation could host such a massive festival. We were proud of our country, and respect for our leader grew stronger. The festival opened with a young flush-faced woman and a man lighting a ceremonial torch, installed on the roof of the May Day Stadium for that night. I had never witnessed such a beautiful scene: every street was lit up, and we easily forgot the fatigue of our ceaseless rehearsals. It was fascinating to meet so many different kinds of people.
The performances we had devoted our lives to for a solid year succeeded in capturing the attention of foreigners. When I received a thunderous round of applause as I stood onstage, I felt my life had finally begun.
We were asked to attend the dancing festivals on Restoration Street for several nights, and that was where we first saw foreigners up close. Their dancing didn’t have any rules, it seemed; they just shook their bodies and moved their arms and legs freely, with no sense of order. Watching them made me sweat. When they asked us to dance, we were at a loss for what to do. Without strict training, we didn’t know how to move to the strange musical accompaniment.
The festival felt unreal, completely disconnected from our regular lives. We spent much of the time shouting for joy. When the Great Leader showed up on his special platform, we cried out, waving the flags; his appearance swept us off our feet. His image was so familiar—from my grandparents’ house at the political offenders’ camp to every wall at the orphanage and at the gymnasium, his picture had always followed me. When I had first seen his picture in the orphanage, identical to the one at my grandparents’ house, I had felt a certain attachment to it, but fear as well. It seemed that he was watching over everything that had happened to me, and that he must have known about my past. And now he was standing in front of me! I broke down. But I don’t know why the people around me were crying as well.
He was a part of my life. I had no way to choose otherwise.
It all passed so quickly. Although the festival ended and the foreigners went home, I carried its joy with me, right to the day that Teacher Song called me to her office. On the last day of the festival, Teacher Song was dancing, jumping around and embracing us, like a tiny, ebullient girl.
A few days later, I opened the brown door to her office with a big smile still on my face. “Teacher Song, did you call me?”
I found her sitting on the desk and talking on the phone, her face distorted. “Why is it impossible?” she demanded.
I immediately erased my grin. Slamming the phone down in a rage, she stood; the strict teacher had returned. Her eyes drifted to a picture on the wall of her playing the girl’s role in Girl Selling Flowers. In the picture, she looked much younger than me; she was captured in profile, and the angle highlighted a deep dimple on her cheek. I could imagine her at that age. Nobody dared compete with her passion for dancing.
“Jia, you accomplished your task as well as I expected.” She turned to me and gave a slight, tender smile. She never complimented any student: finally, she had recognized me! I was full of glee.
Teacher Song sat down on the ugly black sofa and winked at me to have a seat before her. It was the first time I’d seen her use the sofa. Cupping her chin in her hands and leaning her elbows on her knees, she looked small.
“The festival is over. As I said a year ago, you have to find another place to stay now. This place will be closed for a while. I tried to put you in a professional university, but it was ‘impossible.’ You’re supposed to go back to the orphanage and wait there until your next home is decided upon. Do you want to go back?” she asked quietly.
My head was reeling. The end of the festival meant the end of my life. I shook my head. “I don’t want to go back to the orphanage!” I cried. All I would do there is take care of kids and cook. To readjust to that life would be too hard—my mind was already far away.
Teacher Song sighed. “Go back to your room, Jia. Let’s figure out what we can do. I’ll file a report with the Party on your achievements in this festival and call you later. But pack your things anyway.”
Despite her reputation, I had become unafraid of Teacher Song. She had devoted her life to dancing and was the most passionate person I had ever met. I wanted to stay with her. There was still so much more to learn from her.
I went back to my room, dejected. The others were restless, halfheartedly packing their things, waiting for their parents to pick them up and talking about their new universities. I sneaked out of the room and sat down on the stairs at the end of the hall. This year had been like a dream that passed too quickly. I felt as if my life had skipped from my childhood on the mountain to the present. I had changed: my arms and legs were much longer; my shirts and pants didn’t cover my limbs. I could hear my heart beating. The more I thought about the orphanage, the more pain I felt. I remembered how happy the director of the orphanage had been when I left to dance under Teacher Song! How strongly she had encouraged me never to return! To go back to that dead world now was more than I could contemplate.
My roommates left, one by one. The building, once boisterous, became as quiet as a mausoleum, and I paced the halls like a restless spirit. At last, I packed my things and waited for the call from Teacher Song. I knew my mother’s parents would not help me, if they remembered me at all. I blamed myself for thinking about them at that moment.
Several days later, Teacher Song stopped by my room. Leaning against the door, she spoke in a soft voice. “You don’t have many choices. The orphanage said they would welcome you if you like to go back.”
I held my backpack tightly to my chest and looked at her with despair. I wanted to say that I would do anything to stay, perform any task.
Teacher Song moved close to me and put her hand on my shoulder. “I asked one of my friends, a government official, to give you a new job, and she found a good place. You can dance over there, too. I didn’t have time to discuss it with you because I had to answer right away. If you’ll take it, we have to leave right now.”
Teacher Song carried my backpack and I followed her, my face glowing with joy. As we walked, side by side, she held my hand and said, “It won’t be so bad there—you can dance and sing and see how professional dancers live. They’ll give you your own house soon, and enough rations, too. But it’ll be a tiring job. I’ll try to find a better one for you, but for now I have no choice but to follow the order from above. Let’s see what happens.” Her hand felt warm and strange. She had been so harsh and cold, always scaring the students. Her head was full of dance steps. We never had time to get to know her or talk to her outside of class. How could I ever thank her enough for opening the door to the real world for me.
When I climbed into the dark-brown van, already waiting for me in front of the building, she let go of my hand. I looked up at her with tearful eyes and gave her a letter I had written. She looked down at the letter and was silent, her eyes filling with tears. I hadn’t expected her to cry for me, but her tears didn’t stop flowing.
She spoke slowly, without wiping her cheeks. “If your mother had seen your performance, she would have been so happy. She was the best student I’ve ever had and you inherited her talent, Jia. When I first saw you on the stage at the orphanage, I knew who you were. I thought my favorite student had returned to me.”
As we drove off, I watched her with widened eyes, trying to keep her in sight, craning my neck as her figure grew smaller and smaller. I didn’t understand why my life couldn’t be my own, why there was always a chain, emerging from deep in the past, stretching into the present, that bound me to my fate.