For her they were two hours of joy, two hours of sobbing, two hours of exhaustive emotion, two riotously high-flying hours, two intoxicatingly merry hours, two sad and plaintive hours, two unbridled hours, two hours of dazed confusion. It was like two hours spent frolicking in bed. Her body and her heart were opened up, spread out, elongated, moistened, softened, loosened, and filled to the point of near transparency, brimming, as if on the brink of a climax. She felt as if she’d turned into a ripe grape, whose sticky juice would burst from a gentle slit and flow unimpeded, like a wish fulfilled. But the opera was finished. It was all over.
That other woman departed cruelly, leaving Xiao Yanqiu to be just herself again. She had been in perpetual motion, and now she couldn’t stop; her body didn’t want to. It wanted to go on, to sing more and perform more. She could not recall how she’d answered the curtain call, except that the curtain had come down like a dark face, like a man withdrawing just as she is reaching orgasm. She was heartbroken; she wanted to shout to the people below, “Don’t go. Please don’t go. Come back. Come back now.”
The performance was finished and everything was over. For Yanqiu it was less a matter of exhaustion than of nervous energy still waiting to be released. Her anxieties were telling her to do something. Dejected and lost, she walked backstage, where Bingzhang stood waiting for her. He greeted her with open arms. She walked up and, like a mistreated child, threw herself into his arms. As she buried her face in his chest, she began to wail. He patted her on the back, over and over; he understood. He was blinking uncontrollably. But no one could know exactly how she felt, no one could know what she wanted to do at that moment; even she did not know. Chang’e had flown away, leaving Xiao Yanqiu alone in this world. At that moment she wished she could find a man and make passionate love. She looked up abruptly, unnerving Bingzhang with a face that, given the smeared face paint, was more ghostly than human. He did not expect to hear what she said next, and it was clear that he did not understand her after all. Looking at him coolly, she said, “I’m going to sing again tomorrow. Promise me I can sing again tomorrow.”
Xiao Yanqiu gave four performances in a row, and would not yield, not to her student, not even, had they asked, to her own parents. It was no longer a matter of who was whose understudy. She was Chang’e, she was the true Chang’e. Xiao Yanqiu was unconcerned about the change in atmosphere in the troupe during those days, or how people looked at her. She had no time for any of that. When it was time for makeup, she sat calmly in front of the mirror to transform herself into someone else.
Following four days of fair weather, the afternoon sky suddenly turned overcast. The weather forecast was for a late day snowstorm. In the afternoon the wind came, but no snow. Xiao Yanqiu was fatigued, her legs leaden, as if she had been trussed up. She developed a fever a little after three o’clock and was bleeding again, more than usual. It wouldn’t stop. The fever came fast and spiked quickly. Chills ran down her back, while tugging pains developed in her thighs. Worried, she went to the hospital and registered at the gynecology department.
She had it all planned; she’d get a prescription and rush back so as not to miss that night’s performance. But this time the doctor held off on writing a prescription. Instead he asked many questions and put her through several tests. He looked somber, not to alarm her but not wanting to put her mind at ease either; it was as if to say, you’re not about to die, but you do have a problem. Finally he spoke. “Why didn’t you come earlier? Your uterine wall is badly infected. Just look at your blood count.” He added, “You need an operation. I want you to admit yourself as a patient.”
But Xiao Yanqiu was not in a bartering mood. “I’m not staying,” she said firmly. “Can’t it wait?”
The doctor looked at her over the top of his glasses. “The body won’t wait.”
“I’m telling you I won’t stay.”
The doctor picked up his prescription pad, wrote with a flourish, and said, “Let’s at least deal with the infection. No matter how busy you are, you must do that. I’ll arrange for a couple of IV bottles, then we’ll see.”
Yanqiu walked out into the lobby to check the clock. Not much time, but enough. The IV would be finished by five and she’d have time to eat something before getting to the theater around five thirty. She wouldn’t miss anything. It might even be a good idea to rest while she was getting the IV, which meant that, for a while at least, she would stay in the hospital.
Yanqiu never expected to fall into such a deep slumber in the IV room, like the sleep of the dead. At first she’d planned only to close her eyes and rest awhile, but the room was so warm she fell fast asleep. She was so tired, her fever was so high. Besides, the curtain was closed around her, so how would she know from the artificial lighting how fast time was flying? She woke up, feeling better, as if her body had been freed. But when she asked the time, she flew into a panic. Ripping out the needle, she ran to the door, not even stopping to pick up her purse.
Outside it was already dark. Snowflakes, big, dense snowflakes were falling. Distant neon lights blinked on and off in the blanketing snow, turning the flakes into little whores who could worm their way into any spot, whereas the high-rises were towering, whoring men who seemed to sway in the illusory scene. Xiao Yanqiu tried to flag down a taxi, but they were all taken, and the drivers mockingly honked their horns at her. Too anxious to feel sick, she kept on, now revitalized. She ran, yelling and waving her arms.
Chunlai was finished with her makeup when Xiao Yanqiu stormed into the dressing room. Their eyes met, but Chunlai said nothing. In one of the classes Yanqiu had told her that a person disappears from the world after she is made up. You are no longer yourself. You don’t know anyone and you don’t listen to anyone. Yanqiu grabbed the makeup artist, wanting to tell her, wanting to tell everyone, “I am the true Chang’e. Only I can be Chang’e.” But she didn’t. She couldn’t make a sound; all she could do was move her lips. At that moment, she wished that the Queen Mother of the West would descend from heaven and give her an immortality pill. Once she swallowed that, she would be transformed into Chang’e instantaneously, even without the aid of makeup. But there was no Queen Mother of the West, no one to give her an immortality pill. She turned to look at Chunlai, whose face was more beautiful than a fairy’s. Now she was Chang’e. There could be only one Chang’e; anyone who was made up like that became Chang’e.
The drums and gongs sounded. Yanqiu watched as Chunlai went to the door. The curtain went up, and Yanqiu saw the factory manager sitting in the middle of the third row, smiling amiably like a great man, applauding slowly like a great man. The sight of him sitting there strangely calmed her. She knew that this time her Chang’e was dead. Chang’e’s remorse ended on that snowy night in Xiao Yanqiu’s fortieth year, cause of death unknown, at the age of forty-eight thousand.
Xiao Yanqiu returned to the dressing room and sat down wordlessly at the mirror. The applause from the theater made the room seem especially quiet. She stared at herself, her eyes unfocused, like moonlight on an autumn night. She had no idea what she was doing, as, zombie-like, she picked up the dress with water sleeves and draped it over herself. She squeezed flesh-colored foundation into her hand and dabbed it evenly over her face, her neck, and the back of her hands. Then she asked the makeup artist to raise her eyebrows, wrap her head, apply the bangs, and put on the headdress. Lastly, she picked up her flute. All this she did calmly, so eerily quiet that the makeup artist felt a chill, the fine hairs on her back standing up. Terrified, she stared at Xiao Yanqiu with unconcealed apprehension, but Yanqiu stood up without a word, opened the door, and walked out.