Colors of the Mountain (22 page)

In class, serious teachers began to talk about the possibility of restoring our country’s college system. During the Cultural Revolution, all colleges were either closed, or they enrolled only a small number of students from politically correct families through a corrupt system of selection. The teachers would end their speeches by saying that even the musicians had to pass other tests to go to art school. They would cast a look my way.

The more they talked about college, the more I was determined that I wanted to be an artist, because I was doing so badly in school. I was sure I was beyond hope, academically speaking. I had to do something with my life.

One day that winter, Mo Gong ran breathlessly to our home and told me that our county’s performing troupe was holding public auditions for actors and instrument players. I was so excited that the next day I-Fei and I rode his bike and headed for Putien, so that I could sign up for the audition. During the next few days, Dad dug out some old music scores, traditional classics that had been banned for the last twenty years, and said, “The Red Guard music is over. Pick one of these for your audition.” He understood my feelings and appreciated my passion for art. After all, it was he who had inspired me.

His friends had only to make the slightest demand, and he would nudge me into playing a few songs on my violin, which his friends mysteriously called “the western instrument.” He would introduce the violin, explaining the relationship between the four strings, and show off the amazing range of such a tiny instrument by plucking the strings with his fingers. Sometimes he would ask me to tag along on his occasional gigs playing classic Chinese folk music for weddings, which probably made me the first to render the thousand-year-old melodies on such an instrument. At those gigs, traditional instruments—gongs, drums, and flutes—usually drowned out my tiny violin.

Soong had warned me of the temptation to play everything on the violin. Being a purist, he had asked me how I could play that stupid, traditional music on something on which so many magnificent masterpieces had been played. He said it would ruin my style, but I had ignored him. I wanted to make Dad happy. He was proud because I was the only one of his five kids who played an instrument as he had done when he was young. We shared an intimate bond.

Since the classic romantic plays were coming back into fashion as Dad had foretold, I concentrated on my flute, not the western instrument, for the audition. For three days, I practiced only three short classical pieces while Dad listened and coached. It was his territory and he was a master. He knew every fluttering of the finger and softening of breath to capture the true spirit of the piece. He would demonstrate and I would work on it until the melody came naturally to me. I would
never have imagined myself imitating his rougher, stronger, less refined, less flowery style. It reminded me of ancient times, when the emperors were entertained in the luxurious courts by flutes made of jade and when people fought on horseback with long swords. I wished I could play one tenth as well as he did.

On the day of my audition, my sister Si carried me on the bike to Putien at sunrise, where we waited in a long line of self-proclaimed artists, eating our packed breakfast of cold and dried yams. My teeth kept clicking as the line began to move. I had to run to the smelly bathroom every five minutes for a two-second pee. Si saw how nervous I was and said that I was still very young and that if I failed this time, I could always try again. I thought about my friends and about I-Fei. If they had been here, they would have lit a good cigarette for me, kicked me in the butt, and tried to make me smile. I yearned for a cigarette but the thought of having a coughing fit during the performance stopped the terrible urge.

To seek peace, I closed my eyes and said aloud in my head a few words to all the gods that I had kowtowed and prayed to thousands of times before. Now I regretted taking money from my brother and sisters for kowtowing for them. The gods would probably teach me a lesson today, one that I would never forget. I prayed again that they delay punishing me for such greed until later.

When I heard my number called, my sister patted my back and I walked slowly into the hall. It was an old, small theater. As I walked, my footsteps echoed. Before me sat six of the most prominent musical figures in our county.

Teacher Dong, a big fish stranded in a small town, was the only college graduate with a music major from Fuzhou Music Conservatory. He wore his glasses on the tip of his nose and looked at me without an ounce of interest in his drooping eyes. Ding, the famous Putien opera singer, was filing her nails. Flutist Min, the first flute of the county, known for his long breath and unusually large testicles, was slumped low in his armchair. Drummer Jia was reading an old newspaper, and Director Liao, a bearded man, smoked a pipe, fighting the numbing boredom without much success.

I felt small and unworthy.

“What will you do?” Flutist Min asked. “Not another flutist again?”

I hoped he was joking.

I nodded and announced the title of my piece.

“‘A Trip to Gu Su,’” I mumbled. My teeth were still chattering. There were hundreds of people pressing their noses against the windows, watching the contestants. It was hard to conjure up the environment of a scenic lake with sweeping willows on a moonlit night, a mental picture my dad told me I should have when playing this piece. It was a romantic, melodious solo, depicting a lonesome young man strolling beside a lake, seeking love on a beautiful night.

All I could think of was my sister’s worried look as I left her, the fetid public bathroom, the faces at the window, and the sagging eyes of the music teacher. I closed my own eyes and forced the first sound out of my old flute. The flute sounded as if it was crackling and getting dry, so I started again. It was a steep uphill ride. I felt I couldn’t breathe at all. After only a few long bars, I felt my lungs wheezing. My heart pounded like a rat in an iron cage.

From the corner of my eye, I saw an uncomfortable twitching of Flutist Min’s nose. He must be so disgusted. I was sure I had ruined it with the first note. Gradually, I forced my eyes to close and tried to think of the peaceful Dong Jing River by which I had practiced every morning, the green fields that stretched beyond it, and the colors of the mountain at sunrise. Soon the desire to win started to churn within me. I remembered every twist and turn Dad had taught me during the last three days. When the final note had faded away, I opened my eyes to see that all the judges were making busy notes.

Flutist Min was the first to look up. He smiled at me and said, “Well done. It didn’t start out right but you handled the piece unusually well.”

I blushed, not knowing what to say. “Who teaches you?” he asked.

I thought for a second. “My dad,” I answered.

“What is his name?”

“Ar Gang.”

“I have heard of him. An acupuncturist?”

“Yeah.”

“Come here. Let me have a word with you.”

I heard another name being called, and a girl walked in, a ballerina with her feet turned out like a duck’s. I walked over to Min’s chair. “One of my distant cousins was getting treatments from your dad,” he told me. “I heard he was doing a wonderful job. I didn’t know he was also a flutist. Here, let me tell you the truth about this audition. We have enough flutists already. Do you play any other instrument?”

“The violin.”

“No good. We are going back to the old things now—you know, the sort of stuff banned by the Gang of Four. If you are serious about our troupe, try out as an actor.”

“Do you think I’d qualify?”

He stood back and sized me up. “At most, you would be a semi-lead.”

“What’s that?”

“That means you’re not good-looking enough to be a full lead. Have you acted before?”

“Not really.”

“Go home and make up your mind about your career. This is not just for amusement. You need to think and talk to your parents, put your heart into it. If you are still interested, I’ll be happy to talk to you. But no instruments. We only need good actors who have the classic looks to perform all those classic plays. Got that? By the way, I might drop by to see your dad next time I’m there. Arthritis.”

I thanked him and left the hall.

My sister was smiling at me, waiting. She said I did a good job. I told her about the conversation I had had with the flutist.

“Do you want to be an actor?” she asked on our way home, pedaling her bike hard against the afternoon sea breeze.

I was quiet for a while. “I’m not sure.”

“You want to play the violin before thousands of people?”

I nodded.

“You don’t have to be an actor if it’s not something you want.”

I was quiet during the ride back. I wasn’t going to be an artist, nor a carpenter, nor a shoemaker. Definitely not a farmer. For a while I was lost. Time had changed everything for me and I was always behind, it seemed, like chasing my own shadow. What had once been right wasn’t
right anymore. I wished I knew the future, while hoping that the past would not be repeated.

That night, Dad said it would probably be a good time to start being serious about school. He had just heard from my aunt in Shanghai that her son was already preparing for the college entrance examinations that were open to all test-takers, regardless of age, race, or family background. People would be admitted solely on the basis of their scores. He added that I was the only one in our family who was still in school and therefore able to benefit from such great news.

I went to sleep with a heavy heart. I kept thinking about the indifferent way the teachers treated me. I had been acting like a bad student. No, I
was
a bad student. Now I was miles behind everyone. It was unfair. When I was a good student, winning honor for the elementary school with perfect marks, they hadn’t needed high marks. Now when they did want them, I was at the bottom. I wished I had excelled at the day’s audition and could become an artist, then I wouldn’t have to worry about my life. Despite my youth, I would have been able to support my family. I wasn’t sure I should practice my flute anymore. Maybe I should do something else. But what?

Next day, I put away my music, wrapped up the small Beethoven bust that I had kept at my bedside, and stored it under my bed. I loosened the strings on my violin, and locked its wooden box. Then I searched for all the textbooks that I had long since stopped bringing to school. They were new, untouched, and covered with dust. I cleaned them and laid them neatly on the desk beside my bed. Slowly, I leafed through the physics book. It was filled with strange symbols and new formulas, expressed in oddly shaped letters and filled with words I couldn’t understand. It didn’t look like I could just close my eyes and sink my teeth into the subject. The only formula I recognized was H
₂
O. I shut the books with dismay and hopelessness. Time had deserted me, or, rather, I had deserted myself. The knife of regret cut deeply into my soul.

Finally, I opened my English book. On the first page I had drawn the face of my wheezing English teacher, with his dead eyes and stooped back. The sketch had really captured his spirit. I gave a small laugh and turned the page. It listed the twenty-six letters of the English alphabet.
I stood up, closed my bedroom door to make sure no one would hear me, and twisted my tongue and lips trying to pronounce each letter. I could only get as far as
F.
Next to the letter
G
I had drawn a chicken, because the Chinese word for chicken came closest to the sound of the English
G.
The letter
H
became
love paint.
For the rest, the symbols I had drawn and characters I had written next to them didn’t help. It was another dead subject for me. I slammed the book closed and stared at my violin for a long time, until I drifted into a little nap.

“Hey, what’s this?” I-Fei asked jokingly the following morning before class. “Is this a schoolbag, or are my eyes seeing things?”

“We have to do some studying,” I said seriously.

“We have no time for this, Da. Remember, we’re having a major rehearsal this afternoon. You’re looking a little down after the audition.”

“I don’t know. Maybe we shouldn’t be skipping class for the rehearsals anymore.”

“And then what?” He pulled out a filtered cigarette from his pocket and lit it. “Grab one for yourself.” He threw me the whole pack.

“Sit in class and try to learn something. The whole country is talking about college. My cousin in Shanghai is attending a crash course to prepare for the entrance exams.”

“And
you’re
thinking of college?” He looked at me, surprised.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, when was the last time you did your homework?”

“There’s always time.”

“No time can make up for that. We’re two years behind everything. And this is a lousy school to begin with. The teachers are suckers. Good thing I don’t have to depend on them.”

“Right, you can always go and become a driver.”

“I’ll make you a driver, too. I really could try my dad on that one,” he said, smiling. “Here, smoke.”

I pushed his hand away.

The bell rang. The first class was English.

“Let’s go in, I-Fei.”

“You go ahead, let me finish smoking,” he said coolly, a little grumpy at my new attitude.

I threw myself inside through our usual route, the window, and
landed right in my seat. The teacher was leaning against the desk, trying to catch his breath. His glasses slipped to the tip of his nose and his beady eyes were looking around but not seeing anything. Boys and girls were still talking noisily. The teacher commanded no respect. He did not and could not care. He weighed two pieces of chalk in his hands. One he held like a cigarette, the other was to throw at the most badly behaved student in class. You could count on being hit right on the tip of your nose.

“To what do I owe this honor, Mr. Da?” the teacher asked.

I ducked down. I hadn’t been to his class for a long time.

“No rehearsal today?” The teacher threw the chalk at me. It landed on my head.