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SMALL FORTUNES
In the small world in which we traveled, we Fortunes
were stars. Not only were we the academy’s elite, acknowledged by all as the
best and the brightest, but we also bore the responsibility of keeping the
school alive, because it was our performances that generated the academy’s only
revenue. And so, being selected for the troupe was an unquestionable honor, a
status that carried no negative—unlike being the master’s godson and prince of
the school.
Over the years, the ranks of the Seven Little Fortunes
constantly changed. Students came and students left, and Master filled the
absences according to his whims. Soon after we were chosen, Master quickly selected
seven students as alternates, who would fill in for our roles when we were sick
or when we formed a traveling company. (Unspoken, but understood, was the fact
that if any of us well and truly screwed up, there were always seven eager
bodies right behind us, waiting for their own turn in the spotlight.)
Upon our being named to the Fortunes, a new phase in
our training began. All of our practice and working out was just the raw material
of our art—a basic foundation. We had learned very little about opera itself
and had never been given parts to play or roles to inhabit. But even as we
sweated out our exercises, Master and the other instructors had been observing
us carefully, noting subtleties in style and form, evaluating our body types,
and imagining the result that puberty might have on our voices. A husky student
like Yuen Lung was destined to portray kings and warriors, like the great
General Kwan Kung. My moderate build and agile reflexes made me a natural for roles
like Sun Wu Kong, the Monkey King. And a thin, delicate boy like Yuen Biao
might be doomed to play female roles, which historically had always been filled
by men. Times had changed; though there were still many more boys than girls at
the academy, the days when women were considered a curse and banned from the
stage were gone, and Master had accepted progress with relatively good grace. However,
boys still had to be girls when necessary, since the Fortune were chosen for
our talents rather than our gender. With his bulk, Biggest Brother would have
made a ridiculous—or rather, terrifying—girl, so
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he dodged the bullet. And my voice, though considered
one of the better ones at the school, was luckily of the wrong range for female
songs. We mercilessly teased Yuen Biao and others who were stuck with feminine
parts, telling them how pretty and sexy they were until they cried or threw
fists.
The truth was, though, that the chance to play any
starring role—even in woman’s clothing—was a thrill that exceeded anything we’d
experienced to date. But there were other fringe benefits to being a Fortune.
On days when had pleased Master with a particularly outstanding rehearsal, he
would take us out for a meal of dim sum. For those of you who don’t know
Chinese food, dim sum, which means “a little bit of heart,” is a wonderful way
of eating. Instead of ordering food from menus, you sit at your table watching
as silver carts roll by, loaded with small dishes, dumplings, cakes, sweet buns,
and bowls of mixed delicacies. If you see something you like you simply point,
and it’s placed on your—no mess, no fuss, no waiting. It’s a glutton’s
paradise: immediate gratification of your appetite, without even having to move
from your seat. The food comes to you, you pick it, you eat it. It’s that simple.
And compared to the bland stuff served at the academy,
anything different was as good as a feast. Of course, anything we did with
Master, even dim sum, had its own set of disciplines and rituals. The first
time Master treated us, we sat enthralled at the sight of the rolling food,
eager to grab anything that came within range. But when Yuen Kwai reached out
his hand to point to a tasty-looking dish of dumplings, Master dew his chopsticks
like a sword and rapped him lightly on the knuckles. “I will order for you,” he
said.
Yuen Kwai winced and sat back, subdued.
Master waved a waiter over and told him to bring seven
bowls of roast pork over rice. The waiter nodded and glided off to the kitchen.
Meanwhile, Master began selecting his own meal from the splendid array of dim
sum specialties that paraded by us, a look-but-don’t-touch vision.
We knew better than to complain, and roast pork with
rice was better than nothing at all—a lot better, because as far as I’m
concerned, Chinese roast pork is one of the great culinary treasures of the
world. Marinated in barbecue sauce and five special spices and roasted in long
strips, it comes out of the oven moist and flavorful, with a deliciously sweet
red glaze. We never got it at the academy, where meat was as rare as a day
without practice.
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of pork aside, preferring to eat the rice, rich as it
was with inherited flavor, before consuming the delicacy. Then, a slice at a
time, we ate the pork, savoring each chew as if it were the most precious of
gourmet foods.
As usual, there was never enough. And through the
remainder of lunch, we were expected to sit quietly, drinking tea and watching
Master eat his fill. My belly was outraged that I had stopped putting food into
it, and I stared glumly at my empty bowl, wishing for a miracle. Then I
realized that a miracle wasn’t necessary: after all, I was in a restaurant. And
even if Master wouldn’t let me order any of the treats that continued to circle
us so temptingly, he couldn’t possibly object to my getting another bowl of
rice. At the school, the prepared dishes were gone by the time they reached the
littlest of our brothers and sisters, but rice was the one thing that never
stopped flowing. It wasn’t uncommon for us to make a meal out of just steamed
white rice and soy sauce.
And so I did something that seemed very normal at the
time. I raised my hand and signaled a waiter, pointing to my empty rice bowl.
The other students looked at me like I was crazy, but Master said nothing as the
waiter came and padded a large, fluffy scoop of rice into my bowl. I mixed the
rice up carefully, to soak up any last bits of roast pork gravy, and ate it
quickly and happily. Yuen Lung and the others looked on with envy, but none of
them had the guts to ask for their bowls to be filled, too. As a result, I was
the only one to go home to the academy with my hunger satisfied and my stomach
full.
“You little pig,” said Yuen Lung, as we prepared for
afternoon practice. “I can’t believe you ate two bowls.”
“Ah, you just wish you’d had the balls to ask for
seconds yourself,” I said.
“Screw off,” Biggest Brother said, throwing a punch in
my direction. I weaved past him, laughing. Things could have gotten uglier, but
Master had arrived at the practice hall, and we hastily separated, running to
our assigned positions.
The workout that day was grueling. Master ran us
through every routine in our repertoire, throwing in sudden “freezes” or
calling for us to practice at double time, then triple time. There were no
breaks, and every group of moves we completed led immediately to a new and more
difficult set of commands. Finally, Master waved his cane, signaling the end of
the workout.
“Damn, that was crazy,” said Yuen Kwai, breathing
heavily. Yuen Biao slumped to the floor cross-legged, too tired even to talk.
I, meanwhile, had built up a raging appetite, despite my double portion at
lunch. Diner awaited; there was no time for rest or idle conversation.
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Then Master tapped me briskly on the shoulder with his
rod. “Yuen Lo, you continue practicing,” he said. “After all, you ate more at
lunch, and so now you should be stronger than the others. Everyone else, join me
at the dinner table.”
I gasped. The other Fortunes smacked me on the back as
they passed. “Food’s gonna taste great after all that sweating,” shouted Yuen
Tai.
“More for the rest of us,” said Yuen Kwai.
They were heartless.
“Yuen Lo, I would like to see some high kicks. Begin,”
said Master as he took his seat at the head of the table.
And then he turned to the cook, who was laying plates
of food down and arranging chopsticks, and said, “Please make sure there is
plenty of rice.”
Heartless!
If there’s one thing you can say about Master’s brand
of discipline, it’s that at least you were rarely tempted to make the same
mistake twice. But it wasn’t as easy to learn from example. If it was difficult
enough for me to resist temptation when so much food was around, for Yuen Biao,
the dim sum outings were like extended torture. He would watch the carts pass
with the eyes of a drowning man catching sight of land, or a dying desert
survivor spotting an oasis. In particular he was tormented by the trays of
pastries and other sweets, so close and yet so far.
One day it all became too much: as cart loaded with
sponge cake passed, he involuntarily yelled out an order. The waiter placed the
cake on the table and moved on, as all of us, even Master, looked at Yuen Biao in
shock. Realizing the enormity of what he had done, he burst into uncontrollable
tears and wouldn’t stop even when we returned to the academy, despite the fact
that the cake sat at table uneaten. For a change, Master didn’t even have the
heart to punish him.
As Yuen Biao sniffled, sitting by himself in the
corner, Yuen Kwai shrugged without sympathy. “He should have at least eaten the
cake,” he said. I punched him in the shoulder and went to comfort Little Brother.
But as I mentioned before, the best thing about being
part of the Fortunes was simply getting the opportunity to perform—to revel in
the joy of the spotlight and drink in the appreciation of the audience.
Because my voice was fairly good, after a few
performances in which I took supporting roles, I soon began training for my
first lead part: a star turn in an opera performed only on special occasions,
such as weddings or birthdays. It was a showcase role, and one that I learned
with relish,
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since when I performed it, all of the other stars in
the troupe were forced to act as my subordinates. Even Biggest Brother and Yuen
Tai were just soldiers in my army, while Yuen Wah played the squire who held my
horse.
Because this opera was performed so rarely, it was a
while before I had the chance to do it live. When the day finally came, Master
told me that I shouldn’t feel nervous, that I was very well prepared for my
debut, and that the audience was sure to be appreciative. I didn’t need him to
tell me that. My entire body was charged with excitement; the lines blazed in my
head like letters of fire, and my voice sounded strong and loud as I warmed up
backstage. I was so deep in character that I took to gesturing importantly at
my servants, demanding my robes and my headpiece and admonishing Yuen Kwai for
not finishing his makeup earlier. Yuen
Lung, adjusting his armor, looked like he was considering clobbering me with his
spear, but the backstage of an opera is crowded and busy, and the curtain was
about to rise. There wasn’t time or room to beat me properly; that would have
to wait until after the show.
And then Master stage-whispered the order to be
silent. My big turn, my premiere as the king of the theater, was about to begin.
Holding the hem of my robe to my hip, I marched out of the wings, my other arm
before me in a martial stance, and walked out before the lights.
I sang, and the audience roared. I ordered my armies
to charge, and all the big sisters and brothers rolled from the wings in
response, obeying without question. When I shouted “Halt!” they stood in
formation, shouting “Yes, sir!” in unison. And when I reviewed my troops, they
bowed down before me, me, the king of the theater. Whatever I did, people clapped
and cheered. I was a hit!
And then I looked offstage, and saw Master standing
stiffly in the wings, his cane in hand, an expression of mute disapproval on
his face.
What did
I do wrong? I thought to myself. Suddenly, I didn’t want to leave
the stage—not just because I was enjoying myself so much, but because I knew
that Master had found fault with me, and as soon as the curtain went down, I
would pay for whatever error I’d made. But I couldn’t delay the inevitable, and
after I’d sung my last note, and the armies at my command rode off into the
sunset, the curtain came down.
The king of the theater was gone. Long live the once
and future king, my master.
“Come here, Yuen Lo,” he said, his voice icy.
“You’re gonna get it now, Big Nose,” said Yuen Lung,
poking me with the butt of his spear as he passed. I winced and walked over to
Master.
“Hands out, palms up,” he said. And then he hit me,
five sharp blows.
“Master, what did I do wrong?” I said plaintively,
reviewing my performance in my mind.
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“Nothing,” he said. “You were very good. But I want
you always to remember this: no matter how well you perform, you must never
become too proud. There are others on the stage with you, and you are as
dependent on their abilities as you are on your own.”
And with that, he left me standing, still in costume,
to direct the breakdown of the set and the storage of our props.
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