Peking Opera

Zhao Ling’s wedding was set for March 16th. As soon as Tan Yang heard of Zhao Ling’s upcoming marriage, she bought some wool yarn and began knitting a sweater for her. It was Zhao Ling herself who had taught Tan Yang how to knit; now, the skill was being put to use for her own mentor. The cardigan was a deep wine red, festive but not ostentatious, and easy to pair with a qipao. Tan Yang’s hands were deft, and she was extremely meticulous—if her work was even slightly unsatisfactory, she would unravel it and start over. So, when she finished the first sweater, she felt content with her handiwork. Yet, after some thought, she realized that since Sister Ling and Brother Li were so close to her, giving only a sweater as a wedding gift felt a bit meager. But as a student with no income, and as all the rent collected from her family’s land each year was kept by her uncle, she was reluctant to keep asking him for money, lest it seem she was too fixated on her own finances.

Gathering her saved and recently spared pocket money, Tan Yang told Bi Qingtang over the weekend that she wanted to go to a good bookstore. “Are you buying books for your studies?” he asked. “No, Sister Ling’s wedding is next week. I want to buy books as a wedding gift for them.” Bi Qingtang frowned and said in a strange tone, “Who gives books as a wedding gift?” Tan Yang stubbornly replied with an affirmative hum. Turning to the driver, Bi Qingtang said, “Go to the bookstore first; Miss Tan wants to buy books. Then to the clock shop—I need to buy a clock.” He looked at Tan Yang teasingly, “She gives books, I give a clock—what a modern pair we are, ha!” Tan Yang shot him an exasperated glare and looked out the window. Bi Qingtang laughed for a while, then said offhandedly, “You don’t need to worry about these things. I’ll write both our names on my wedding gift to them, and have someone deliver it on their wedding day.”

Hearing this, Tan Yang suddenly felt uneasy. She couldn’t say whether it was because of Bi Qingtang’s thoughtfulness in anticipating her difficulties, or because something about this joint gift felt odd and ambiguous.

The bookstore was nestled in a quiet alley in the busy city center, but stepping inside was like entering another world. It had two floors and was bustling with people. The fine rosewood floor was covered with thick carpets, and a gramophone played Western melodies that drifted languidly through the air, mingling with the scent of ink, and were absorbed by the carpet, leaving no trace. Thus, in the bookstore, the music existed, but it was a different kind of quietness—more nuanced and elegant than complete silence.

Tan Yang searched thoughtfully among the shelves for the books she wanted, and Bi Qingtang did not disturb her, leaning by himself against a bookcase in the corner, idly flipping through a not-too-thick volume, glancing up at Tan Yang now and then. Tan Yang picked out a book, stroking its cover with satisfaction, unaware of her surroundings. At that moment, someone tapped her on the shoulder. Turning around, she found it was two boys from her class. They weren’t particularly close, but meeting here was a surprise, so they exchanged some pleasantries. As the three of them chatted, one of the boys seized the opportunity to ask for Tan Yang’s home telephone number. She laughed and replied that her house didn’t have a phone.

Having observed this from not far away, Bi Qingtang walked over and asked with a smile, “Are these your classmates?” He nodded politely at the two boys, one of whom, looking rather shrewd, bowed respectfully and said, “Hello, sir. We study with your sister. She’s diligent and does very well.” The other quickly echoed his words. When Bi Qingtang heard the phrase ‘your sister,’ his brow furrowed slightly, but before he could reply, the first boy interjected, feigning cleverness, “Sir, we’re about to graduate and might end up at different schools. It would be a shame if we lost touch. Could you give us your family’s address?” As he spoke, he eagerly produced a pen and paper for Bi Qingtang, as if challenging him. Bi Qingtang glanced at Tan Yang and laughed heartily, then, with no pretense of goodwill, took the pen and replied slowly and clearly, “Very well, I’ll give you my home address.”

With sweeping strokes, Bi Qingtang wrote down the address, and then, feigning enthusiasm, added, “Let me give you my company’s phone number as well. Focus on your studies in class, but if you ever need to reach Tan Yang privately, call my number and I’ll pass on your message to my dear sister!” The two boys took the note, gratefully thanked him, and left, especially the one who’d asked for the address, wearing a look of smug satisfaction. As they walked away, Bi Qingtang snorted, “Bah, they haven’t even grown all their feathers yet!”

In the end, Tan Yang bought a hardcover collection of Leo Tolstoy’s novels, since both Zhao Ling and Li He were fond of Russian literature. Once they were back in the car, Tan Yang tilted her head and stretched out her hand. “What is it?” asked Bi Qingtang. “Let me see what book you bought!” Bi Qingtang sat up straight, clamping his book under his arm and ignoring her. Tan Yang laughed and tried to snatch it, using both hands playfully; if she leaned in any closer, she would have tumbled right into Bi Qingtang’s arms. He looked down at her, smiling warmly, and only after a moment did he loosen his hold.

Tan Yang finally got the book and, to her surprise, found it was a collection of famous Peking opera arias. She stared in astonishment. Bi Qingtang crossed his legs nonchalantly. “This sort of thing—how dreadfully dull and old-fashioned, isn’t it?”

Tan Yang rested the book on her lap, stroked her throat with her left hand, poised her right, and began to sing, “The scribe’s words are so coarse, no wonder Huang Zhong bursts with rage…” It was an aria from “Dingjun Mountain,” sung in the style of an old male lead. Her clear, luminous girl’s voice pressed low and deep, bringing a crystalline clarity to the elder’s robust timbre, tinged with the shadowed elegance of a moon behind clouds. Bi Qingtang was astonished. When she finished, she made a graceful sweeping gesture to end the performance. Bi Qingtang placed his hand on his waist, cleared his throat, and responded, “In my hands, the iron-banded bow, fully drawn with its vermillion string…” His enunciation was precise, his breath strong, and his singing exuded both boldness and a uniquely Chinese charm. Uncle Chen’s eyes lit up—he turned to watch them, tapping out the rhythm with professional flair.

Back and forth they went, Bi Qingtang and Tan Yang, and before long, the whole aria from “Dingjun Mountain” was finished. Uncle Chen shook his head, savoring the moment, unwilling for it to end. Tan Yang and Bi Qingtang simply gazed at each other in silence, a wordless understanding between them—an accord that seemed to come from across mountains and rivers, across the ages; words were superfluous, even burdensome. After a while, Uncle Chen, returning to himself, said wistfully, “Back then, when the master and Tan’s father performed together, it was truly a sight! In their leisure, they’d begin singing in the middle of the courtyard, and before twenty lines had been sung, you’d look around—the whole household had gathered! It was as lively as the New Year!” He sighed, resigned to the changes of time. “Their specialty was this very ‘Dingjun Mountain’!”

Tan Yang lowered her head, pressing the opera book to her knees, and said softly, “Ever since I can remember, Father loved to practice his voice in the courtyard every morning. Later, he taught me to sing ‘Dingjun Mountain’ with him. Now, I suppose the parts I sang must have been the ones Uncle Bi always performed?” Bi Qingtang laughed, “Then the part I sang must have been what your father was used to. My father always said my singing was dreadful, an embarrassment to him.” At this, the mood in the car grew still, and everyone fell into their own reverie.

After a while, Bi Qingtang broke the silence, “Little sister, next month Xun Huisheng and Shang Xiaoyun are performing at the Tianchan Theater. Come watch with me!” Tan Yang’s eyes widened in delight, “Really? Those tickets are so hard to get! When I mentioned it to my uncle, he told me not to even dream of it!” “I’ve reserved a private box; originally, I was just going to see it with Uncle Chen. I truly didn’t expect—you’d enjoy it too!” “Of course! I don’t even dare mention it to my classmates; they’d just think I’m old-fashioned.” Bi Qingtang burst out laughing, “Well, then, we’re both old-fashioned together, so neither of us should mind!” He gave Tan Yang a long, meaningful look. She ducked her head, so low it was impossible to read her expression. Bi Qingtang, still smiling, fumbled for a cigarette, even reaching into the wrong pocket—a rare slip, though no one but him noticed.

In a flash, March 16th arrived. Early that morning, Tan Yang told her uncle that a lady teacher of hers was getting married, and she wanted to attend the wedding. “You’re going empty-handed?” her uncle asked. Tan Yang waved her gifts. “I knitted a sweater for my teacher, and bought a book!” Feng Kang tapped his pipe on the edge of the table and scoffed, “You’re not a child anymore. In the countryside, if you weren’t studying, you’d be married by now—how can you still not understand these social niceties? Wait!” He went into his room and, after a moment, returned with a sealed red envelope. “Take this to your teacher! And remember, be sweet-tongued, so she’ll look after you in future!” Tan Yang accepted the envelope with both hands. It was thick. She pouted playfully, “Uncle, this is too much!” Feng Kang picked up his pipe again, all seriousness. “It’s necessary!” Tan Yang stood there, uncertain, until he raised the pipe as if to swat her. “What are you waiting for? Do you expect them to postpone the wedding for you?” Tan Yang tapped the pipe stem mischievously and skipped away. Watching her go, Feng Kang shook his head with a smile, “That child!”

Zhao Ling’s wedding was held at a Christian church on the outskirts of Shanghai. Tan Yang had never attended a Western-style wedding before and was full of curiosity. The ceremony was scheduled for noon, and early guests gathered in groups outside the church, chatting. By mid-March, Shanghai was already growing warm; near noon, the sun poured out the brightness and warmth of late spring, and people’s happiness was tinged with a light sheen of sweat, making everything feel more alive. By the time Bi Qingtang and Tan Yang arrived, it was no longer early. As he stepped out of the car, Bi Qingtang found it hot and left his coat inside.

No sooner had Bi Qingtang and Tan Yang taken their places in front of the church than a loud voice called from behind, “Qingtang! You’re just arriving?” They turned to see an old man in a traditional long robe, full of energy despite his white hair, approaching them. Bi Qingtang went forward eagerly to shake his hand. “My good sir, it’s not right that I arrived after you!” The old man glanced meaningfully behind Bi Qingtang. “Late is good, late is good!” Bi Qingtang made no effort to conceal anything and called Tan Yang over. “Mr. Zou, this is Miss Tan—our families have been close for generations!” Then, turning to Tan Yang, he added, “Mr. Zou is a renowned industrialist here in Shanghai. Li He works under him.” Tan Yang had often heard Li He speak of his admirable boss, so she greeted Mr. Zou with utmost courtesy.

As Bi Qingtang and Mr. Zou began discussing business and current affairs—topics Tan Yang either couldn’t or shouldn’t join—she stood quietly behind Bi Qingtang, content to listen. She didn’t find it dull, but Bi Qingtang worried she might be bored, and with Mr. Zou in high spirits, it was difficult to excuse themselves. Outwardly polite, his mind was elsewhere. During a lull in conversation, he suddenly turned to Tan Yang, “I wonder what time it is. How long until the ceremony? My watch is in my coat, in the car—would you check for me?”

Tan Yang readily agreed and went to the car, retrieving the pocket watch from the coat pocket. Imitating Bi Qingtang’s usual manner, she pressed the latch, and the cover sprang open. Her relaxed expression froze in that instant—the open watch seemed to stop time itself. This stolen moment was a gift from the heavens, a chance for the person in the photograph to savor her sudden joy and overflowing happiness.

She thought, his decision—she understood it now. It was, among all her guesses, the one she had most deeply hoped for in her heart.

After a long while, Tan Yang, her cheeks flushed, quietly returned to stand behind Bi Qingtang. She tried to compose herself, but could not suppress the upward curve of her lips. Bi Qingtang was still talking to Mr. Zou, sometimes nodding, sometimes laughing quietly, sometimes speaking with grand gestures. His upright figure was bathed in the spring sunlight; standing behind him, she felt as if she embraced the whole season.

In the midst of the lively conversation, Mr. Zou glanced at Tan Yang and casually asked, “Miss Tan, what time is it? I forgot my watch today!” Tan Yang was taken aback, then cried out, “Oh! I forgot to check!” She spun around and dashed back toward the car. Mr. Zou, puzzled, stared after her. “Then what was she doing in the car for so long just now?” Bi Qingtang, watching Tan Yang’s flustered retreat, wore a smile exactly like the one that had just lit up Tan Yang’s face.

End of Chapter 14: The Peking Opera Episode.