by Li Cunxin
We went on, arguing philosophically for a while about wars and communism and politics. “All right,” he said, “who do you think will be our next leader?”
“I don’t know. Who do you think?” I asked.
“Hua Guofeng, Chairman Mao’s chosen successor, who else?” he replied.
I laughed. “I think someone with stronger military backing will be China’s next leader!”
“You don’t think Hua Guofeng has military backing? Don’t you think Chairman Mao would have secured military backing for him before he died?”
“I don’t know. Hua Guofeng came from nowhere. He doesn’t have a military history.”
We talked about which leader in the central government did have a military history. We thought of three. Suddenly I shouted, “What about Deng Xiaoping?”
“Shh!” The Bandit looked around and made sure there was no one close who could have heard. “Are you crazy? He has just been disgraced! His reputation is damaged forever. Besides, if Chairman Mao didn’t like him, we shouldn’t either.”
Both of us sank into our own thoughts. I knew what he said made some sense, but I didn’t agree with him entirely. “Deng Xiaoping did very well with the economy while he was managing it, and he has a military history,” I said.
“How do you know he did well with the economy?” he asked.
“The standard of living improved in my hometown.”
This was true. My family’s living standard had gradually improved under Deng’s leadership, and some of the seasonal planning decisions had been handed back to the peasants.
“Do you think Madame Mao will become our next leader?” the Bandit asked.
I shook my head. “Haven’t you heard the rumors about her male concubines?”
“Do you believe them?”
“No, but if there are rumors like this in Madame Mao’s own academy, just think what people are hearing all over China.”
A month after Mao’s death, on 6 October 1976, our academy received another enormous shock. The news came casually. Madame Mao was arrested along with the other members of the Gang of Four. I felt like an abandoned child.
The Gang of Four were removed quickly and easily. Neither the military nor the police backed them. At our academy we carried on our normal routines, except when the political heads were removed, which meant no more political studies and more time to practice our dancing.
Hua Guofeng made no attempts to change the direction that Chairman Mao had set for the country. For the first six months of his government, it was business as usual. But everyone could feel that change was inevitable. The military may have adopted a low profile but few people knew what was really going on.
In the meantime, my dancing had caught Vice Director Zhang Ce’s attention. All of a sudden, not only was I Teacher Xiao and Zhang Shu’s targeted student, but now Zhang Ce’s favorite. The end-of-year exam was so enjoyable that I could have done it again and again, even with all the future uncertainties in China. I had found my confidence at last.
15
THE MANGO
I was nearly sixteen by now. It was the time when our academy doctor told me that I had to have my tonsils removed. I’d had repeated infections over the years, so I was placed on a three-month waiting list.
On the day I went to hospital I was not allowed to eat or drink anything. The scheduled time for the operation was 9 a.m., but the doctor didn’t see me until noon. Then a nurse poked some acupuncture needles into my body—the Chinese anesthetic. I had no idea what to expect.
During the hourlong operation I could feel the pain, the cutting sensation, and I lay there as the blood gushed down my throat. It felt as though the doctor was using a very dull knife. I thought of the poor pigs in my hometown and how I used to watch them being slaughtered on my way to and from school.
I was exhausted when I was wheeled out of the operating room. I could not talk, and my throat was so swollen that it felt as if there was a big hot ball stuffed down it.
The nurse took me back to my room where the Bandit, Fu Xijun and Xiongjun were waiting for me. They’d sneaked out of the academy to visit me, and they’d brought me two thermoses full of popsicles. I loved popsicles, but I didn’t feel like eating them that day. My throat throbbed relentlessly. Still, the Bandit insisted I eat at least two to keep the swelling down. He’d had his tonsils out the year before, and he said I should be thankful—both medical technology and doctors’ skills had improved significantly since last year, he said.
What significantly improved technologies? The useless needles? The dull knife? I couldn’t imagine anything worse than what I’d just been through. But I didn’t say anything—it was too painful to talk.
That night I couldn’t sleep. The pain was excruciating, and there weren’t any painkillers. How I wished my niang was there to comfort me.
July 1977: our sixth year at the Beijing Dance Academy. We were allowed to go home for our three-week midterm summer holiday this year, but we had a choice: we could stay back and practice if we wanted to.
I wrote to my parents and told them I had decided to stay. Of course I dearly wanted to see my family, and I missed them: the thought of the cricket sounds, catching dragonflies, eating my niang’s dumplings all seemed so tempting, but this was the first time I felt happy staying on.
During these three weeks a campaign to apprehend the followers of the Gang of Four started. The vice minister for Culture along with all other key cultural ministers were arrested. Our vice director, Zhang Ce, and Director Xiao of our academy were also apprehended. I will never forget Zhang Ce’s desperate face as he walked out of the academy gate. He had done nothing wrong except be appointed by one of Madame Mao’s followers. Now he was disgraced. Tension and uncertainty floated in the air.
I was determined, however, not to let these events distract me from my practice. I had to concentrate. Zhang Shu and several other teachers stayed back at the academy, too, and I asked them to coach me.
One day Teacher Xiao suddenly appeared in the studio when I was practicing my turns. “How are you, Cunxin?” he asked.
“Fine. I thought you wouldn’t be here this holiday.”
“I just thought of something that might help you with your pirouettes,” he said. I was still working on five consecutive pirouettes and was having tremendous problems breaking this crucial barrier. Teacher Xiao knew I was going to work on it throughout the holidays, but after less than half an hour of practice, my pirouettes were getting worse and I was getting increasingly frustrated.
“Why am I so stupid! Why can’t I do five?” I slumped onto the floor.
“If five pirouettes were that easy to achieve, wouldn’t every dancer in the world be doing it? Cunxin, have you ever tasted a mango?”
“No.” I wondered what he was talking about this time.
“Mango is the most wonderful fruit with the most unique taste! One can only get it in certain parts of the world and only for a short season. I want you to treat pirouettes like a mango. If I gave you a mango now, what would you do with it?” he asked.
“Eat it,” I replied.
He laughed. “You deprived boy!”
“Why? Wouldn’t you?” I asked.
“Why so impatient? I can understand that you want to taste the mango eagerly, but the fun is in the process. First I would admire the unique shape, notice the color, enjoy the smell. I would feel the weight, cut the skin and savor the fragrance. Perhaps I would taste the skin and even the nut if I were daring. Now comes the ultimate satisfaction, the pulp. Yes, you need to enjoy every step of the process, taste the many layers of the fruit and enjoy it for its full value. I want you to treat pirouettes in the same way. Be daring! Discover the secret and essence of pirouettes. If you don’t go all the way and taste the pulp, someone else will. I dare you!”
Teacher Xiao and his mango triggered my imagination, and I challenged myself to go a step further, to experiment with new feelings. I poured my passion into it, and I started to enjoy ea
ch step of the process.
This was the first time I had three weeks to myself at the academy. I spent most of my time practicing, slept late some mornings, skipped breakfast often; I went to Taoranting Park, ran around the lake and watched people practicing tai chi. I played Chinese chess and card games with a few other remaining students, and I visited the Chongs. I even had the shower room all to myself for a whole half an hour one day.
The three weeks allowed me time to think about the future and to reflect on the past. Now I laughed at the image of that sad, introverted little boy who’d been so afraid to stand on his toes all day in a pair of pointe shoes. I couldn’t believe that now, less than six years later, I was the vice captain of our class and one of the heads of the Communist Youth Party. Now I pursued excellence in my dancing. I took pride in my own challenges.
The three weeks passed quickly. I enjoyed every minute. I couldn’t wait for the second half of the year because I had set myself even higher hurdles now, and I was desperate for the chance to try to overcome them.
The rest of the students returned from the holidays, and our study resumed as normal. Later that term a former graduate of the Beijing Dance Academy and a close friend of Teacher Xiao’s, Yu Fangmei, returned from Japan and brought back a television, a video player (something so new that we’d never even heard of one before) and some videotapes as gifts to the ballet department. There were videos of Baryshnikov, Nureyev, Margot Fonteyn, even two American-trained dancers including Gelsey Kirkland. At first these videotapes were shown to the academy officials and teachers as “reference” only. Students were not allowed to be exposed to such bad Western influences.
I passed Teacher Xiao in the hallway one day shortly after Yu Fangmei’s visit. “I wish you could see Baryshnikov dancing one day!” said Teacher Xiao eagerly.
I had heard a little about this Russian ballet star. He was the ballet world’s new phenomenon. “Is he better than Vasiliev?” I asked.
“Yes! Yes, from the technical point of view. I have never witnessed a more spectacular dancer!” Teacher Xiao said, and he shook his head with amazement.
“Is there any way I can get to see those videos?” I asked hopefully.
“We’ve discussed this already,” Teacher Xiao replied. “The officials are worried about capitalist influences. Let me speak to Teacher Zhang again.”
A couple of days later, during an afternoon rehearsal, all the senior students were called to a studio on the third floor. I immediately noticed the television and video player sitting on a bench in front of the mirrors.
Zhang Shu waited for the excitement to calm down.
“Baryshnikov is probably the most outstanding ballet dancer in the world today. The sole purpose of watching these tapes is for you to learn from him, to make you understand what today’s world dancing standard is. This is not, I repeat, this is not for you to learn about the Western world’s lifestyle! By watching Baryshnikov, you will realize how hard you have to work to reach this same standard of dancing. Today, we’ll show you Baryshnikov’s own production of Nutcracker and The Turning Point.
I was captivated with Baryshnikov. I had never seen anything like Nutcracker before. I couldn’t believe how beautiful the music was. Baryshnikov and his partner, Gelsey Kirkland, danced to a standard far beyond what I thought any dancer was capable of. During the five-minute break between videos, not one of us left the room: everyone was afraid of losing his spot. How could anything rival Nutcracker? I thought. But I was wrong. The video of The Turning Point totally blew me away. I was mesmerized. I couldn’t take my eyes off Baryshnikov. My heart leaped with each one of his astonishing jumps and accelerating turns. His movement was graceful, his execution brilliant. For the first time in my life I saw how truly exquisite ballet could be.
From that moment on I loved ballet with a passion. I dared to believe that if Baryshnikov could dance like that, then so could I. I was sixteen years old, but I was impatient. I felt a new sense of urgency. I scrapped my previous standards and set new ones. This was how I could make not only my parents but also the whole of China proud.
Now I raced through my meals so I could get back to the studio to practice my jumps. I woke at five every morning. I strapped sandbags to my ankles and hopped up and down the four flights of stairs in our studio building. I practiced my leaps, covering every inch of whichever studio was vacant. I was obsessed. I wanted to fly like the beautiful birds and dragonflies, so I wrote the word “fly” on my ballet shoes to remind myself of my goals. I embarked on endless sit-ups and exercises everywhere I could find a flat surface and a few minutes to spare. People thought I had gone mad, but I didn’t care. I had only one desire now—to dance like Baryshnikov.
By the end of 1977, my sixth year, after all of my exercises, practice and determination, my jumping ability had improved, but I still wasn’t the best. I knew there was a long way to go. It was then that Teacher Xiao started to challenge me with my turns.
I couldn’t turn naturally, but my newfound inspiration with my jumps made me work harder and harder. I set impossible goals for myself. One night I had an idea. When everybody was asleep I went to the studio, with a candle and a box of matches. I put the lighted candle at one end of the studio and started to practice my turns. The candle threw only a faint light in front of me. It was hard, but I thought if I could turn in the dark, then turning in the light would be easy. I couldn’t take the risk of turning the light on, of my teachers catching me staying up so late, but I continued, night after night, relentlessly. By the end of the term I had left shallow indentations in the studio floor where I had endlessly, repeatedly, turned.
Many people were very surprised to see my rapid improvement, but not Teacher Xiao. One night, he did catch me practicing my turns. It was way past lights-out time and I thought he would be very angry, but instead he said he wasn’t surprised and he kept my nighttime practice sessions a secret between us.
I realized too, around the same time, that I couldn’t do a perfect split either and knowing the importance of being able to have that flexibility I worked hard on my hamstrings. I once fell asleep in bed in the split position and when I woke I had to be helped up by my classmates because I couldn’t feel my legs at all. One of the teachers told me then that I had big thighs and that I would never do principal roles with thighs like mine. I was depressed for so long about this. I even wrapped plastic around my thighs so they would sweat and become thinner.
By now I was practicing in those studios five times a day compared to the usual once-a-day routine of the other students. I practiced when I first got up. I practiced before class, at nap time, at afternoon rehearsals and after dinner just before bedtime. When I ran out of dry T-shirts, I would practice bare chested. Even my ballet shoes would be soaking with sweat. “I thought I worked hard as a student—I practiced three times a day, but five times is unheard of!” Teacher Xiao said, amazed. Then, more seriously: “Please look after your health. I want to see you last the distance.”
By this time, Mao’s chosen successor, Hua Guofeng, was under house arrest, and Deng Xiaoping became the leader of China. I felt a dramatic change of attitude within the Beijing Dance Academy. Previously, Deng Xiaoping had been denounced for his slogan about the cat: but now this idea came back in full force. He didn’t care which system China used as long as it worked for China.
We had a new academy director too, Chen Jingqing, who decided that our six-year course of study would be extended for another year. We wouldn’t graduate now until February of 1979. We’d wasted too much time, she said, studying politics instead of dance. Director Chen believed that another year was needed to concentrate on the pursuit of technical excellence alone.
So even by the beginning of 1978 I could feel the real impact of Deng Xiaoping’s reforms. He was the first person who had dared to say that to follow Mao’s every word was wrong and that the political campaigns and studies must be stopped. Some Communist Party members were skeptical and so were many others. The Cultu
ral Revolution had left such horrifying memories. Why should they believe new policies now? China was unsure, and too numb to act quickly.
It was during our last year at the academy that we began to openly practice our art form without being accused of being an unbalanced student. Political pressure waned. Selected Western books, films and performing groups began to appear in China. Getting hold of a foreign book or watching a foreign “colored film” soon became an obsession. We were desperate for Western knowledge. If we came across a book with sex scenes in it we’d secretly copy it, every word by hand, under our blankets, in flashlight, and pass the copies around. How thirsty we were for foreign literature and how fascinated we had become about the Western world!
Deng Xiaoping’s new policy created a breath of fresh air within our academy, but it was strangely foreign at first. The required biweekly Communist Youth Party meetings were reduced to once a month, and no one questioned it. My conflict between attending meetings and practicing ballet was resolved. The Communist Party’s pursuit of new membership slowed, and political party leaders no longer had the same influence. The pursuit of material things, that capitalist tumor, began to take on a different meaning. Maybe it was because the Beijing Dance Academy was one of Madame Mao’s strongholds and her influence was so deep for so long, but it took awhile before we started to embrace Deng’s new policies wholeheartedly. For me, however, this extra year of study turned out to be my best yet. We started to watch some old Russian ballet films such as The Stone Flower, Swan Lake and Spartacus. We saw famous ballet stars like Galina Ulanova, Maya Plisetskaya and of course Vladimir Vasiliev. We were even allowed to watch that famous Russian defector Rudolf Nureyev dancing with one of the Western world’s most respected ballerinas, Margot Fonteyn. Images of these extraordinary, inspiring dancers stayed in my mind for many, many weeks.