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Pag. 28

THE BEGINNING OF A BOY

Master Yu was waiting for us when we arrived. As soon as we walked through the door, he greeted my mother and father, put his arm around my shoulder, and ushered us into the hall. “Welcome, Kong-sang. We have enjoyed your visits, and we hope you will enjoy your stay here.”

“Can I really stay, Dad?” I asked, still not believing my fortune.

“As long as you want, Ah Pao,” he said.

On the long table where we all gathered during mealtimes was a scroll of paper. It was covered with writing that I couldn’t read, so I ignored it. But my father immediately picked it up, holding it close to his face. My mother threaded her arm through his and looked over his shoulder.

“I believe it is all in order, Mr. and Mrs. Chan,” said the master, drawing a chair for my father to sit. “All very standard. After you sign, I will have complete responsibility for the boy as long as here. I will feed, clothe, and shelter him at my own expense. I will provide for his care and protection, and I will give him the finest training in the world in an art that surpasses all others: the art of Chinese opera.”

My father sat down. I wandered away to examine the rack of weapons.

“Perhaps he will even become a star,” he added, smiling, as I drew a long tasseled sword, swinging it around my head.

“This agreement says that you have the right to keep any keep any money he earns,” my father said.

“We support the academy with performances,” the master answered. “The students receive the benefit of our teaching, and in turn their skills allow our teaching to continue. This is traditional, and only proper.”

My father picked up the pen as I tripped while running back to the table, dropping the sword with a clatter. The master’s cheek twitched.

“It also says that you may discipline the boy…” my mother said, her voice shaking. “That you may ‘discipline the boy, even to death.’”

“Yes, discipline is the soul of our art,” said Master Yu. “It is said that ‘discipline is at the root of manhood,’ is it not so?”

Dad made a strangled sound at the back of his throat. Some of the other students had come into the room, and I was showing off my sword stances to one of the younger girls, making her laugh.

Pag. 29

“Ah Pao, listen,” he said, interrupting my demonstration.

“What, Dad?”

“How long do you want to stay here?” he asked. “You can stay five years, seven years….”

“Forever!” I shouted.

My mother squeezed my father’s arm so hard that her hands went white.

“The longest term is ten years,” said the master, taking the pen and writing the number on the scroll. My father signed at the bottom. Then the master took his personal seal and made his mark over my father’s name.

The deal was done. I didn’t realize it at the time, but from that day on, and for the next decade of my life, I would be the property of the China Drama Academy and Master Yu Jim-yuen.