Colors of the Mountain (18 page)

From then on I practiced even harder—much to the annoyance of my family—and I began to hang around the rehearsal hall of our commune’s performing group. In the evenings, I would invite my friends to come with me to the rehearsals at the commune. They went and clung to the windows for a glimpse of the young and pretty actresses and laughed their heads off when those pretty things teased each other and giggled in singsong voices. Yi always sat at the foot of the wall and smoked in silence.

There was an outstanding, arrogant flutist in the troupe from Putien City, who was paid to be the music director of the orchestra. He was a woodwind expert, and could even play the French horn. Every morning he demanded at least five precious eggs. For lunch, a half a chicken. And for dinner, lots of pork and another five eggs. He said playing the French horn and the flute used up all his energy, and he needed the nutrients.
Hungry kids actually trooped by to sniff his French horn, which smelled like eggs.

I copied his techniques and replayed the music by ear. At Yi’s, my friends would listen to my flute and smoke in silence. Do that one or this one again, they would say as they tried to hum along inexpertly. Yi loved a particular piece sung by a very attractive actress in the commune troupe, a young woman who had been selected from a faraway village. He requested it again and again until he could hum the tune when he was alone.

“You really like the actress, don’t you, Yi?” Sen asked him one day when Yi was in the midst of his melody.

“Don’t be silly,” Yi said, embarrassed. He kept his eyes on a doorframe he was planing.

“Something’s going on here,” Sen whispered to me, but he let the subject drop.

One Sunday afternoon when we were smoking and drinking tea at Yi’s, we heard a knock on the door. No one knocked on the door. Either you came in or you didn’t.

Yi opened it.

At the doorway stood the actress with a red scarf around her neck and mouth, protecting her from the cold. We were rendered mute at the sight of this goddess. She looked more alluring up close. Her breasts were full and firm, her eyes big and full of life.

“Aren’t you gonna ask me to come in?” she asked.

Yi stood aside, bowed humbly, and with a red face answered, “Please, come in.”

“Hello, I’ve seen your friends before. Nice to meet you.” She was tall, curvy, poised, and filled with confidence. She smiled and her two sweet dimples deepened.

Who was she? Our hearts pounded: we were dying to know.

“Guys, let me introduce you to this lady,” said Yi, recovering a little from his redness. “Fei is my master carpenter’s daughter.”

The master’s daughter! No wonder our poor little Yi couldn’t stop talking about her. We had thought she was a thin, flat little country girl who smiled with yellow teeth. We had to pinch ourselves to make sure we weren’t dreaming.

“I think we’re going now,” Siang said, poking Mo Gong to move.

“Hey, you don’t have to go on my account. I’m just visiting Yi. In fact, I’d like to invite you all to one of our shows when we’re ready.” She radiated life and energy. Our hearts ached.

“Here, I got these for you, brother Yi.” She opened a bag of broad, yellow tobacco leaves. “I figured you could use them.”

“Those are the ones from the master’s garden!” Yi’s eyes lit up as he pulled a chair over for her. “Since when did you become an actress?”

“I always liked to act, sing, and dance, but Dad would never allow it when he was alive. The whole feudalism thing. Now, I can do it.”

“I’m happy for you. I’m sorry I left you people and came back after master passed on suddenly,” Yi said.

“No, I’m sorry you had to leave.” Fei was blushing now, but she smiled to cover it. She looked at Yi with a touch of sisterly love.

Both became silent for a moment.

“Could you stay for dinner with Grandpa?” Yi asked. “He’d love to see you when he’s back.”

“No, I have to run. Everything at the commune is scheduled. We live by the clock. Tonight is the dress rehearsal and I can’t be late, but I’ll visit you again, brother.” She smiled at us warmly and took off the way she had come, the red scarf around her neck flying in the wind. Yi’s eyes followed her until she disappeared at the end of the narrow street. For the first time, the little hut felt empty.

“I think we’re talking at least engagement, Yi.” Sen broke the silence. “Cigarettes?” He threw each of us a Flying Horse.

“Don’t be silly,” Yi said, shaking his head.

“What’s the matter?” Mo Gong said. “I’d marry the girl tomorrow. She’s the most”—he searched for words—“delicious girl I’ve ever seen.”

“She’s not the same girl anymore,” Yi replied coolly.

“What do you mean?” Sen asked.

“She has a bright future as an actress. Maybe soon she’ll be a professional in our county’s performing troupe. The sons of party leaders will be flocking around her. I’m only a no-good carpenter.” He stretched his hands out and laughed. “Feel them. She’d run away at my touch. In fact, I’d run away at my own touch, my hands are so fucking rough.”

“But she was promised to you by your dead master, her very own father,” I said.

“That was then, and now is now.” Yi was talking like an old man again. “I respected her father, so I’ll never embarrass her. It’s sad enough that her dad passed away. I should help her, not trouble her.”

Two weeks later, Fei came again and dropped off five tickets to the theater near the commune. Yi, dressed up nicely in a new coat, asked us not to joke too much when we saw her. We sat through the show like five sullen adults and talked in an awkward, serious manner about the performance. Fei was a heart-stealer. She would soon be a big star. We could tell from the audience’s reaction.

After the show, we waited outside as Yi went to say good night to Fei. They took a long time.

When we got home, Yi brought out two bottles of liquor and said, “I feel like drinking.” It wasn’t a noisy celebration. We drank quietly, savoring the burning sensation and dull throbbing at the temples. Everyone felt good, but we refused to admit out loud that our hearts had been touched by an angel. Silently, we wished her success.

AS MY INTEREST
in music grew, I became fascinated with the violin. The first time I heard one, I was picking grains of rice from the muddy rice fields under a summer sun. The commune had set up a crackling loudspeaker at the edge of the fields and played a simple violin solo through it. The music was supposed to cheer the farmers, and I fell head over heels in love with it. It was sensuous and tender, and caressed my soul in a way that no instrument had done before. I stood there holding the dripping rice, lost in the beauty of the music.

“Go to work,” a farmer’s voice behind me urged. She was the opposite of what a violin was. I bent down again and went on working, the melody resonating deep in my soul.

I wanted to learn that instrument, but how? For the next few days, I locked myself in my room and daydreamed. I thought of writing to a national newspaper, asking for a donation for a poor boy who didn’t even know what a violin looked like. Maybe my letter would be published and someone would send me a violin.

“How’s it going with the letter, dreamer?” Sen asked, seeing me with my head in my hands.

“Not good,” I said.

“Why don’t you ask Yi to make one for you? Just go find a maple tree. I’ll help file and chip it,” Sen said earnestly.

“Sen, that’s a joke. I can’t make an instrument. I make doors and chairs and tables. It’s a western instrument. Americans play it,” Yi said.

I agonized for days over a piece of blank paper. It was harder than a love letter. I gave up the idea.

Dad started a campaign to find a used violin for me. Word spread among his friends and patients. One day, an old man with a long beard dropped off a bag and told Dad that it contained a peanut-shaped wooden box with a long neck.

“That sounds like a violin to me. Where did you get it?” Dad asked him.

“My son brought it back from the navy. It used to have a case but his brother uses it as a pillow.”

Dad thanked him and offered to pay for it. The old man pointed at his leg and shook his head. “I have to pay you, Doc. You cured my pain down there.”

I was thrilled. The only problem was that there were no strings on the thing. Dad asked another friend to send some from Fuzhou. I waited day and night while Yi and I made a square box for the instrument. After a month, the strings finally came: thus the first violin was born in the town of Yellow Stone, many years before its destined time. Neighbors and friends marveled at the strange instrument, shaking their heads. No one knew anything about it, much less how to play it.

Once again, Dad came through like a champ. This time he contacted a young man named Soong, originally from the city of Putien. He was the son of a Christian dentist who had died in jail. The family had been labeled as counterrevolutionaries because of their dogged belief in God and had been sent to live in exile in a tiny village near Yellow Stone.

Dad had heard of him on one of his house visits to a patient who was a neighbor of Soong’s and who had complained often about the strange, foreign music the young man played at night.

Having met with Soong, Dad reported that the young man had
readily agreed to teach me the basics if I was willing to walk there every day during the summer vacation.

The fifth grade finished without the expected finals and report cards. Everyone graduated. But whether I was going to high school remained a mystery. Politics was in; grades were out. My fate stood undecided, wavering in the wind like a blade of grass along the Dong Jing River.

A VIOLIN, A
straw hat, a pair of shorts, a cutoff shirt, and dirty bare feet. I was dressed for my first violin lesson in the village of Heng Tang. It would be an hour-long journey if I ran a little and didn’t stop to play with the geese that swam by the Dong Jing.

The narrow dirt road simmered under the summer sun, and my toughened feet curled on contact with the burning earth. I tiptoed in the patchy grass on the roadside and dipped my feet once in a while into the river’s cool water. As they headed for the market, occasional bikers whistled by me, carrying tall piles of vegetables on their backseats. An old goose farmer waved to me as he smoked his bamboo pipe and dangled his feet over the riverbank. He cast a bag of tiny, dried fish into the water, and hundreds of white geese glided in, chasing after the food with a vengeance.

As I passed a deserted temple, overgrown with weeds and wild sunflowers, my superstitious nature got the better of me. I stopped and looked over my shoulder. There wasn’t a soul within half a mile except for a stray dog sniffing gingerly at a pile of manure along the roadside. I took out a Flying Horse cigarette, lit it, puffed on it a few times, then held it between my hands and pretended it was incense. I got on my knees, facing the torn-down entrance of the temple, closed my eyes, and rapidly murmured the words of prayer I’d learned from Mom. I begged for a bright future as a musician. I paused and puffed on the cigarette to keep it going, then begged for good health for the entire family.

I checked behind me again. It would have been quite embarrassing to be caught hitting one’s head against the baking ground, here out in the middle of nowhere. Assured that no one was around, I gave the Buddha inside three deep kowtows.

Heng Tang was nestled at the foot of Hu Gong Mountain. When the sky was overcast, the village floated like a mirage among the clouds. When it rained, it totally disappeared. During the summer, it was hidden under the thick foliage of persimmon trees, but in spring the village blossomed like a wild garden.

I finally arrived at Mr. Soong’s dental office, located in an old temple at the edge of the village.

“Da, right?” Soong greeted me warmly, taking off his surgical mask. He had just finished with a teary-eyed young boy who was being comforted by his mom.

“Mr. Soong. How did you know it was me?”

“The violin.” He smiled and revealed the whitest teeth I had ever seen. I supposed it came with the business. He shook my hand and invited me into his office. “I like the wooden box. You made it?”

“A good friend made it,” I said, a little embarrassed about its primitive appearance.

“It looks sturdy.” He smiled with his teeth. I smiled back, hiding mine, regretting not having brushed them again before coming. I studied him as he washed his hands and hung up his white coat. He was in his twenties, fair-skinned and good-looking, with long hair that touched his collar. He wore a pair of tight, bell-bottom trousers and a silk shirt. A city dude to the bone.

“A barefooted violinist?” he said, smiling at me. “Let’s see what you’ve got there.”

I took out the violin and he plucked a few notes on it, adjusted the pegs, redid the bridge, tightened the bow, then cradled it between his neck and shoulder. He closed his eyes and a soothing melody flowed out of my instrument. His fingers ran quickly along the strings, up and down, and the bow jumped, making curt sounds. I was amazed at his skill and was falling in love with the music when he stopped suddenly. “You got a great violin here.” He put it down carefully. “Smoke?”

I shook my head.

“Want to be an artist?”

I nodded, not knowing where he was heading.

“Then take one.” He threw me a filtered cigarette and lit it for me with a lighter. I puffed on it and inhaled deeply. “I’m no teacher. Don’t call me
teacher
or anything, but I could use a friend like you.” He
looked out his small window, then at a pile of dentures lying on his messy desk. “It’s boring here. In fact, if you want to be a dentist, I can teach you that as well. I have plenty of time on my hands and all these teeth need to be filed to fit into patients’ mouths.”

“I’ll do the violin first,” I replied, “but I can help with your work during my break.”

“No need, I was joking.”

It didn’t take me long to like him.

The next few days I spent walking around his office, holding my violin between my shoulder and neck and practicing bowing. It was a painful experience that made my neck swell and left my shoulder raw, but he kept saying I was making progress. He showed me pictures of stone busts of Beethoven and Mozart and told me stories about them, amazing stories.