A DAY AT THE OPERA
Behind the door was a small courtyard, clean but
sparsely decorated. Then came another door, from which issued the muffled sound
of voices: numbers being chanted in unison by a high-pitched chorus. Behind
that door was an amazing sight: a large, open room in which twenty or so boys
and girls, dressed in identical white and black outfits, filled the hall with a
wild of motion. Some performed martial arts forms in light, coordinated
routines; others practiced somersaults and other acrobatic maneuvers; still
others engaged in mock combat with swords, spears, and sticks.
For a hyperactive young boy brought up on stories of
swashbuckling swordsmen and the warrior-monks of the Shaolin Temple, this was
paradise. My father nodded his head in approval as an older man in a blue robe
and black practice pants approached.
“You must be Mr. Chan,” the man said, shaking my
father’s hand and bowing with graceful precision. “I am Yu Jim-yuen, the master
of his academy.”
“Your fame precedes you, Master Yu,” my father
responded, returning the bow. “I have long wanted to meet you.”
“And this is?” said Master Yu. “A Western cowboy?”
“This is my son, Chan Kong-sang,” Dad said, pushing me
forward. Master Yu leaned down, putting his hands on his knees, and pushed up
the brim of my hat to look at my face.
“Hello, Kong-sang,” he said. “You seem like a healthy
boy.” And then to my father: “Is he fit? Any bad habits?”
“He’s never been ill, and he’s had no major injuries,”
my father said. “As for bad habits, I suppose that’s why we’re here.”
Master Yu nodded silently.
I was paying very little attention to the discussion,
just half listening while staring at the whirling bodies before me. Finally,
the temptation was too much. “Dad!” I said, tugging on his jacket. “Can I go
play too?”
My father looked at me with annoyance. “Can’t you be
still for just one moment?”
Master Yu gazed at me warmly, waving his arms in the
direction of the others. “Go play, young man. I will bring your father to drink
tea.”
Pag. 25
Taking my father’s arm, he assured him I’d all right,
and patted my head as I ran past them toward a set of boys dueling with spears.
I spent the rest of the day with the other children—practicing
kicks, swinging weapons, and trying to copy their elaborate poses and stances. Everyone
was very kind to me, teaching me small things, and laughing without malice when
I made mistakes. The older girls were particularly sweet, remarking on how cute
I was in my little cowboy costume. I liked everyone on sight.
Almost everyone.
There was the teenager who’d met us at the door—the boy
named Yuen Lung, whom everyone addressed as “Big Brother” (when they spoke to
him at all). He moved with authority throughout the room, finding minute faults
and dishing out verbal abuse to those stupid enough to make the same mistake
twice.
Then, while showing me how to do an aerial backflip—a move
that led me to clap my hands and shout with glee—one of the boys crashed into a
pair of girls who were playing an elaborate clapping game nearby. The girls
weren’t, but Yuen Lung’s face still went red with rage. As the boy trembled,
Yuen Lung raised his hand above his head, then looked in my direction and
slowly lowered it to his side. His eyes wet with relief , the boy apologized
repeatedly to the girls and to Big Brother, who grunted at him to be more
careful in the future.
Yuen Lung stepped toward me, scowling. “Listen,
cowboy,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “You may think this is all fun
and games. But this is what we eat,
drink, and dream. This is our lives.”
Reaching back, he executed a perfect backflip, landing neatly on the balls of
his feet.
“You just remember what I said. The next time we meet,
you’re gonna wish those little toy guns were real.” He pointed his two index
fingers at me, as if to go bang bang,
and then turned and stalked away.
I wasn’t stupid.
Yuen Lung, whatever his position here at the academy,
was a force to be reckoned with. And somehow, though all I’d done was watch, I’d
made an enemy.
A very bad enemy indeed.
I ate dinner with the students, sitting at the head of
the table right next to the master, and talking breathlessly about all the
things I’d tried and learned that day. The other children had taken to calling
me “Western boy,” because of my outfit, and some of the older kids passed
around my hat, trying it on and laughing. After dinner, the students were
dismissed to do chores, while I drank tea and ate cookies with Master Yu.
My prediction that this would be the best day of my
entire life had come true. I’d never had so much fun—playing all day, eating as
much as
Pag. 26
I wanted, roughhousing with children my rage. Not a
hand had been raised to spank me, and the darkness and smell of the rubbish
room seemed a million miles away from the open, well-lit practice hall. When my
father finally came to pick me up and bring me home, I almost told him I didn’t
to leave. As Dad and Master Yu exchanged farewells and some other pleasantries,
I jumped around the empty hall, kicking at imaginary enemies.
Outside, in the academy courtyard, my father patted me
on the head with unaccustomed affection.
“So, Ah Pao, did you enjoy yourself today?” he asked.
“Yes!” I shouted, the word echoing in the empty court.
“I want to come back tomorrow. Can I, Dad?”
My father nodded silently to himself as we walked back
through the growing evening crowds of Tsim Sha Tsui.
The next day, it was as if I’d never visited the
school; never spent the day on our big adventure, or met the master and all of
his friendly students. The day was wet and rainy, and the beautiful Peak view obscured
by fog. Sulking and staring at the gray, I sat inside the laundry room as my
mother ironed and hummed.
“Mom, why won’t Dad take me back to the academy?” I
asked, kicking a small metal tub.
My mother stopped her humming and set the iron on its
holder.
“Mom?”
She turned to look at me. “Did you really have so much
fun there, Pao-pao?”
I nodded, and then ran over to her and hugged her
waist. “It was the best time,” I said, “but not as good as being with you, Mom.”
She hugged me back, and sighed.
“I’m sure your father will take you back again soon,
Pao-pao.” She disentangled herself from me and handed me a small pile of
freshly ironed napkins. “Now help your mother fold. And be careful not to drop
them, or I’ll just have to put them back in the wash.”
Mom was right. A week later, my had took me to the
academy again. And then again, a few days after that. And again. Each time I
left, I found myself unwilling to leave, each time, my father asked me, “So,
did you enjoy yourself?” And each time I asked him when I could come back next.
Finally, one morning, I was shaken awake from a deep
and heavy sleep. The light streaming in from the hallway meant that the sun was
already over the horizon, and I realized with horror that I’d slept through dawn.
Visions of garbage danced in my head, and my foggy brain tried to shape an excuse.
Pag. 27
“I’m sorry, Dad…!”
Then I realized that the figure standing next to my
bed wasn’t tall, or angry. Or male.
“Mom?”
My mother sat down on the bunk next to me, smoothing
out the cover with one hand, and tousling my hair with the other. “Did you
sleep well, Pao-pao?”
“Where’s Dad?”
“You father is cooking breakfast. He…” She paused,
folding her hands in her lap. “He thought you could use some extra rest.”
Hearing this was like watching the sun go up in the
west, or seeing cows and pigs soaring through the sky. It was… unnatural.
“Is Dad hurt?”
My mother blinked. “Your father is fine. I told you,
he’s in the kitchen.”
“Did the ambassador get fired?”
“The ambassador is in the sitting room. Everything is
absolutely fine, Pao-pao. Really.” But her cheeks were wet, and I didn’t
believe her. I knew that something was wrong. And if it wasn’t my father, or
the ambassador…
I sat up and hugged my mother tight, my heart
pounding. I was suddenly convinced she was sick, even dying. And here I was
sleeping, when I could have been spending every moment with her. Taking care of
her. Doing anything for her. Making her proud.
And then—
And then I saw the suitcase, sitting next to the bed.
It was a small canvas bag that I recognized as my mother’s. But I knew it wasn’t
packed for her. Because on top of the bag was a small ten-gallon cowboy hat.
I was going somewhere. And there was only one place I
could possibly go: back to the academy. And this time, I wouldn’t be going to
play.
I’d be going to stay.
On the entire trip over, my mother, holding my cowboy
hat in her lap, was silent. My father spent the time explaining to me that he
had to go on a trip and might be away for a long time. To make sure my mother
would not be too tired, I’d to stay with people who could properly take care of
a growing boy.
I was hardly listening. I was so excited I couldn’t
sit still: bouncing in my seat on the bus, dancing in place on line at the
terminal, racing around the seats of the Star Ferry.
No more punishments!
No more chores, no more morning workouts!
No more school, forever!
