It was a world of snow and ice on the day a special performance of The Moon Opera was staged for the Armored Division as an expression of gratitude to the troops. Li Xuefen asked to be given the role that day, a reasonable request, when you consider it. She was, after all, the designated understudy. Xiao Yanqiu, on the other hand, was decidedly unreasonable, and she hogged the role from the beginning, not once letting her understudy go on stage. The Chang’e role was a demanding one, with many arias, and Xiao Yanqiu was fond of saying: “I’m young,” “For me it’s not a problem,” “The maiden role requires no acrobatics,” and “I can manage easily.” Truth is, most people had no doubt that, for all her purported reticence, Yanqiu had high ambitions and no intention of sharing the banquet with anyone. Clinging to a growing desire for fame and fortune, she was intent on placing herself ahead of Li Xuefen.
There was no way of reasoning with her, and when the leadership summoned her, her lovely face turned pork-liver purple. They relented by assigning Xuefen the job of “offering the youngster some guidance and advice,” of “giving her a bit of support.” But this time Li Xuefen would not budge. When she starred in Azalea Mountain, she said, they had often staged the opera at military barracks, and, earlier that afternoon, several of the soldiers had spotted her and called out “Ke Xiang.” As the bedrock of her support, the soldiers would not let anyone else take the stage.
Li Xuefen won over the officers and men of the Armored Division, who saw in her portrayal of Chang’e an echo of the commanding presence of Ke Xiang—PLA cap, straw sandals, and pistol in hand—even though on this night Ke Xiang was in traditional costume. Li Xuefen had a booming voice with a crisp, clear tone, one that bespoke passion. Her sonority had evolved and strengthened over a decade or more, until it was widely recognized and dubbed the “Li Xuefen school of operatic singing.” On that basis, she had created a series of heroic women: audiences watched as women warriors fought to the death, they witnessed the valor of female soldiers, they were moved by the lofty sentiments of urban women in the countryside, and they marveled at the sight of female branch secretaries. The emphasis of Li’s performance that night was on the resonant quality of her voice, and the soldiers rewarded her with applause that was both rhythmic and loud, reminiscent of the marching cadence of a military review. No one so much as noticed Xiao Yanqiu, who had appeared halfway through the opera, an army greatcoat draped over her shoulders as she stood aloof in the wings to watch Li Xuefen’s performance. Disaster had already begun to settle around Xiao Yanqiu; it was descending on Li Xuefen too.
The Moon Opera was over. After five curtain calls, Li Xuefen went backstage, trying, but not quite succeeding, to mask her self-satisfaction. There she ran into Xiao Yanqiu; they faced one another, heated excitement rising from one, cold emanating from the other. When Xuefen saw the look on Yanqiu’s face, she went up to greet her, taking both of Yanqiu’s hands in hers. “Were you watching, Yanqiu?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Was it all right?”
Xiao Yanqiu held her tongue.
Others had come up and encircled them.
Li Xuefen shrugged off her army greatcoat and said, “Yanqiu, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. See what you think of this, like this, if we sing the line this way, it’s more moving, don’t you think? Ah, like this.” She curled her fingers, petal-like, arched her eyebrows, and began to sing. Now, entertainers all know that professional rivals are bitter foes, even if one is a master teaching an apprentice. “A teacher would rather teach voice than lyrics, and rather teach lyrics than mood.” But not Li Xuefen. She had taught Xiao Yanqiu everything there was to know about the Li school of operatic singing.
Yanqiu stared at Xuefen and said nothing.
The others stood around, observing the troupe’s two female leads, one high-minded and talented, the other humble and studious, and they sighed with a palpable sense of relief. But a troubling look clouded Xiao Yanqiu’s face, one of disdain. Everyone knew how arrogant the girl was, but now not only did she not feel humble, she did not look it.
Li Xuefen was oblivious.
Following her demonstration, she again sought Xiao Yanqiu’s opinion. “That way you see a laboring woman from the old society. Doing it this way is better, wouldn’t you say?”
Xiao Yanqiu just stared at Li Xuefen, an odd look on her face. “Not bad,” she said with the hint of a smile before Xuefen could continue. “But you forgot two props today.”
Li Xuefen clasped her hands to her chest, and from there to her head. “What did I forget?” she asked anxiously.
Xiao Yanqiu took her time to reply. “A pair of straw sandals and a pistol,” she said at last.
At first everyone was lost, but they, as well as Li Xuefen, soon realized what was happening. This time the upstart had gone too far. Just because she saw the world immodestly was no reason to speak that way. Still smiling, she gazed at Xuefen, watching her passion slowly cool.
“What about you? What kind of Chang’e are you? A bad luck woman, a seductress, a nymphomaniac! Imprisoned on the moon and unable to sell her goods!” Xuefen rose up on her toes, the heat of passion returning.
Now it was Xiao Yanqiu’s turn to cool off. A north wind blew from her nostrils, and snowflakes swirled in her eyes, as if she had been struck by something. A stagehand walked up with a mug of hot water for Li Xuefen to warm her hands. Xiao Yanqiu reached out, took the mug from him, and flung the water in Li Xuefen’s face.
Backstage was suddenly a hornets’ nest. Xiao Yanqiu stood watching with a dazed look as figures darted back and forth, her ears assailed by the chaotic clatter of footsteps. Feet pounded the floor, running from backstage to the hallway, and from there to somewhere outside, where footfalls were replaced by the starting of a car engine. Then she was alone, the abandoned hallway a road to the moon, it seemed. After standing there bewildered for a long moment, she walked down the lonely hallway to her dressing room, where she stood in front of the mirror and, with a startled look, stared at her reflection. Only now did she comprehend what she had done. Gazing absently at her hands, she sat down on the dressing room stool.
Just how hot the water had been no longer mattered. As always, the nature of the act determined the degree of its severity. Xiao Yanqiu’s stalwart supporter, the old troupe leader, was so angry his head looked like it might explode. Wagging two fingers a scant few inches from Xiao Yanqiu’s nose, he sputtered, “You, you, you, you you you you you, why you little!” Words failed him, and he was forced to revert to lines from the operatic repertoire: “You must not forsake your conscience. If fame and fortune cloud your heart, jealousy will bring you to grief.”
“That’s not what it was,” Xiao Yanqiu said.
“Then what was it?”
“Not that,” she said through her tears.
The old troupe leader pounded the table. “Then what was it?”
“I mean it. That’s not what it was.”
Xiao Yanqiu left the stage.
The principal portrayer of Chang’e was demoted to the position of a teacher in the drama academy; her understudy lay in a hospital ward. The Moon Opera closed for the second time. “Buds appear and die in a frost, plum blossoms fall before hailstones.”