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MY UNLUCKY STARS

Besides the occasions on which we were hired to perform off-site, usually in odd locations with makeshift stages, we put on most of our shows at the stage where we’d had our first taste of the opera, the theater at Lai Yuen Amusement Park. After a few months of performing, we had gained enough of a following that we would occasionally be recognized in public—pointed to on the street, or even approached by fans. This would always put Master in a terrific mood, and didn’t hurt our egos either, through after the incident after my debut, all of us were careful not to show our pride too much.

But it is Chinese tradition that every period of good fortune is always followed by an equal and opposite stretch of bad. Our months of seemingly effortless perfection lulled us into a false sense of confidence. Chinese opera is so complex that there are literally thousands of things that can go wrong. Well, several months into our show business careers, it seemed like all of them began going wrong at once.

I remember when the bad luck started. I’m not the most superstitious guy in the world, but I have to say, I began to believe in spirits—and their temperamental—after our miserable run began.

And of course, it all turned out to be my fault.

One of the chores we did at the school was the tending of the ancestor shrine. The shrine, which contained tablets and statues dedicated to relatives of Master Yu, as well as opera performers long past, was in a position of honor at the far end of the practice hall. Before each performance, Master would have us bow and shake incense before the shine, appealing to the ancestral ghosts to look favorably upon our efforts and to give us luck and skill and easily impressed audiences.

Taking care of the shrine was an honorable duty, but a painstaking one. There were dozens of small icons to dust, and old incense to dispose of, and offerings to place in properly respectful position. Everything had to be arranged just so, or there would literally be hell to pay. Because I’d been adopted by Master, he soon decided that it should be my special responsibility to care for the shrine; as he reminded me, these were my ancestors too, even more so than the rest of my brothers and sisters.

I knew I should have felt fortune, but the truth was, I thought that the entire job was a pain in the ass. The tables and statues and incense

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pots were sacred items, and it was essential that they be treated with appropriate reverence. But after sitting for a week or so in the practice hall, they were inevitably covered with dust, and to clean them properly meant getting on your knees, leaning down, and brushing them off gently with a feather duster.

As the of the students were ordered to go clean up the courtyard—it was a nice sunny day, so outdoor duty was almost a pleasure—I was left on my own in the hall, duster in hand, and facing a task that would take hours to complete.

I sighed, and evaluated the job at hand. My attitude toward the objects in the shrine was a practical one. Sure, they were sacred and everything, but they were also dirty, and they needed to be made clean. There was a quicker way of getting this done, and I wouldn’t have to break my back or bruise my knees to do it, either.

I headed for the kitchen and got a damp rag, and then carefully removed all of the icons from the shrine and stacked them in a pile on the floor. Whistling while I worked, I gave each statue a good scrubbing down, spit-shining them to a polished. And then I heard footsteps behind me. It was our new tutor, arriving early at the school to discuss our progress with Master.

“What are you doing?” he shrieked, seeing me sitting cross-legged on the floor, wiping an ancestral tablet like it was an old pot or pan. “Put those down at once!”

I nearly dropped the tablet, then set it down next to me and scrambled to my feet. “I didn’t mean it!” I said, looking wildly around for signs of spiritual disapproval. For some reason, the shock in his voice had triggered a flood of guilt in my conscience. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

The teacher began lecturing me on the need for respect, while looking nervously out of one eye at the scattered statues and tablets. I dropped to my knees and began putting the icons back in place.

“Teacher, please don’t tell Master,” I said to the tutor in a frightened voice. It was bad enough to have heaven and hell angry at me; I didn’t want the powers of Earth on my back, too.

The tutor agreed, wanting to get away from the shrine as soon as possible. Once the icons were back in place, I made a deep and heartfelt bow to the shrine. Accept my apologies and forgive me for treating you with such disrespect, I pleaded silently. And please don’t let Master find out, or I could be joining you up there a lot sooner than you’d like.

Teacher made good on his word and didn’t tell Master, but the ways of the spirit world are mysterious and subtle; the ancestors found other means of expressing their displeasure.

Ironically, in our next performance, I was assigned to play one of a set 

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of five hosts—a small but crowd-pleasing supporting role. Makeup alone wasn’t enough to express properly the ghastliness of the undead, so each of us had to wear a wooden mask that completely covered our faces. The problem was, the masks were really made for adult performers, not young prodigies like us. They fit loosely on our heads, no matter how tightly we tried to tie them, and the tiny eyeholes were set a little too widely apart for us to see properly. When the performance was already under way, and our cue was about to come, I was still fiddling with my mask, trying to get it to stay in place.

“Sheesh, Big Nose, what’s your problem? Stop screwing with your face and get over here!” said Yuen Lung, standing with the other four ghosts at the entrance to the stage. The music that signaled our supernatural arrival began, and I scrambled to my place in line, willing the mask to hold.

No such luck. As we walked out into the lights, our arms extended, I realized that the mask was slipping down—completely blocking my vision. I couldn’t adjust the mask while onstage, so I whispered a brief prayer to whatever stage gods there might be that I’d be able to perform the scene blind. And for the first few steps in our routine, everything seemed to be going okay, until a move in which all of us ghosts were supposed to turn around and jump forward in unison.

The leap seemed to take longer than expected, and I nearly fell over as my feet hit the ground. I heard muffled gasps around me, and I realized in horror that I’d jumped entirely off the stage, almost into the laps of the front row of the audience.

Adjusting my mask with one hand, I quickly scrambled back up, hoping against hope that Master had not noticed.

On our way offstage, the other ghosts refused even to look in my direction, and even after the performance they wouldn’t talk to me. I understood the reasons: not only had I messed up a perfectly good scene, but I’d broken our string of performances without errors. I’d snapped the good-luck chain. No one wanted to get too close to me, because my aura of misfortune might rub off, infecting the entire troupe. Even Yuen Biao seemed scared to get too close to me, though he whispered a word or two of sympathy from several arms’ lengths away.

Besides, standing between me and Master’s eventual explosion of rage was probably unhealthy. Each night, after our performance, Master would tell us to sit on the edge of the stage as he discussed the evening’s show with any of his friends who had attended. This was a nerve-racking time for us, since any offhanded mention of a flaw in the program would result in Master pushing back his chair, ordering the sinner into his presence, and instantly delivering retribution with his cane, with the number and severity of the strokes proportional to the degree of the crime.

Falling off the stage was about as big a mistake as one could make, so I sat alone on the end of the line of students, my heart in my throat, waiting 

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for the moment when Master would back his chair and call out my name.

Surprisingly, it never came. Master‘s friends had nothing but compliments to offer about our show, and so, after bidding them farewell, Master contentedly told us to line up and march back to the bus station.

No one would sit next to me on the bus, so I was left to puzzle out what had happened on my own. I’d never escaped punishment for a mistake before. It seemed like a stroke of good luck, but I knew better. A feeling of dread came over me as we took the long ride home.

Something awful was about to hit. And I was right there, at ground zero.

By the time we set off for the amusement park the next afternoon, I was a mass of anxiety. Would the bus drive off the road, or explore? Maybe I’d struck down by a falling set, or take a mistimed leap onto someone’s outstretched spear. There seemed to be a shadow over everything I did. The spirits were toying with me now, but their ultimate revenge was sure to come sometime soon.

Well, that day’s opera featured me in only a very small role—a one-line cameo, in which I would enter, shout a command to the troops, and then exit grandly offstage. Maybe I’d dodge the bullet again.

Once I got backstage, just to make sure that my performance would be perfect, I prepared everything in advance. There would be no mistakes tonight, if I could possibly help it.

My part was small, but my costume was complex: an ancient and splendid set of robes, embroidered with dragons. Once I’d put them on, they were difficult to take off. So, a good hour before the show began, I went and relieved myself, and began the arduous process of getting into character. I carefully shook out the robes, counted the pieces, and checked for stains and funny smells. I stretched myself out and examined my ears and teeth. And I painted my face carefully, making sure there were no stray streaks or unusual splotches.

Satisfied that everything was in order, I got into my robes and headdress. The only thing I didn’t put on was the elaborate beard that completed the costume, because it was so hot and itchy.

Finally ready, I sat stiffly in a chair, waiting for the show to begin. Just one line. What could go wrong?

And then there was a tap on my shoulder. I shook my head, realizing that I’d fallen asleep. I hadn’t gotten to bed until late the night before, worrying about the state of my soul. The heat and pressing weight of the heavy robes must have put me out like a light. I looked up, and saw Yuen Tai, fully dressed for his entrance, his eyes wide with panic in his painted face. “The curtain is open, dammit!” he whispered through gritted teeth. “Get out there!”

I struggled upright and calmed my nerves, and then strode regally

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onto the stage. “Go!” I shouted in a deep, warlike voice. “Kill them!” And I spun on my heel to make my exit, stroking my beard for effect.

My beard? There was nothing there! I’d forgotten the beard backstage!

Sweating profusely beneath my robes, I lifted the hem and hustled off into the wings.

This time I’ll be pounded for sure, I thought. It was almost a relief.

But once again, after the performance, Master failed to pull me out of line.

Worse luck yet! I’d escaped two beatings in a row. It was clear that disaster was looming, somewhere right around the corner.

“Students, today we will premiere a new opera: one that you have practiced often, but never had a chance to perform in public,” said Master, his voice booming through the practice hall. “Yuen Lo—”

I froze at the sound of my name.

“—this will be your chance to impress us all!” he finished, smiling in my direction.

Oh no! We were going to be performing an opera about the God of Justice, the judge whose wisdom was so great that his decisions were sought out by god, devil, and man alike.

It was a wonderful opera.

And it starred me.

Justice was indeed at hand, and there was no doubt in my mind that the spirits had been waiting for this moment of maximum irony to strike.

Well, I resolved, I’d show them! Just because they were dead didn’t mean they could push me around. I’d somehow manage to escape their vengeance, even if it killed me.

All the way over to the theater, I recited my lines to myself and reviewed the preparations I’d have to make. The outfit worn by the God of Justice was even more complicated than the one I’d had to put on the day before. In addition to the heavy robes and thick face paint, the costume included four pennants attached to my back on stiff rods. These pennants made it almost impossible to sit down once the costume was put on. It was a blessing in disguise; there’d be no sleeping on the job this time. As I struggled into my outfit, Yuen Lung grabbed me and swung me around. “Listen, asshole,” he growled. “You’d better not screw up tonight. I don’t know how you got to be so lucky, the last two days. But if you make another mistake, I won’t wait for Master to give you your medicine. I’ll doctor your ass myself.”

I couldn’t deal with his threats at that moment, and so I impatiently waved him away with one hand as I applied makeup to myself. When I was finished with my paint and my costume, I put my hands on my hips and looked at myself in the full-length backstage mirror. I looked fearsome, 

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my pennants streaming behind me, my face perfectly painted, and my thick black beard lending my face an appropriately impressive demeanor. The final touch was my tablet of office, a carved slab of wood carried in one hand that indicated my status as a high-level scholar.

I was convinced. Tonight would be perfect; I would avoid my fate after all. And with that, I carefully removed my beard and placed it back in the properties box, setting the tablet down near the stage entrance, where I wouldn’t misplace it.

I had two major scenes in the opera, the first of which was a long song of fifteen minutes, followed by a half-hour break in which other stuff was happening onstage, and then a climactic final scene in which, with my tablet of office, I, as God of Justice, would render a wise decision to end the conflict. I had had trouble with the first song in the past, so I used the time before the play began to review the lines in my mind.

“Yuen Lo, curtain’s up. It’s your cue,” whispered Yuen Biao, shaking me from my reverie. Prepared and refusing to rush, I walked toward the stage door, remembering to retrieve my beard from the prop box first. As I entered the wings, I pulled the thick clump of hair around my face, adjusting it so as not to block my mouth, and hooking the earpieces behind my ears.

The spotlight came on, and I raised my hands and began to sing. But the front-row audience looked puzzled. What was wrong?

Beginning to perspire, I surreptitiously reached for the front of my costume, and suffered a minor heart attack. It was the beard! Somehow, while sitting in the prop box, it had gotten tangled with a second beard, with the result that the combined length of facial hair stretched almost to my knees.

Worse yet, the part I’d actually placed over my face wasn’t the  carefully cleaned and groomed one I’d chosen before performance; it was an old and unclean one, carrying the horrible stink of dried saliva. Every note I sang brought more of the stench into my lungs, and I had to use all of my self-control not to gag onstage.

When the scene ended, I marched offstage and nearly collapsed. I tried untangling the beards, but they were knotted tight, and the other fake beards were all being used. I would have to finish the show wearing an absurd length of facial hair.

Yuen Lung and Yuen Tai gaped at my long-bearded face as they marched onstage in their soldier outfits. “Oh, man,” I heard Yuen Tai whisper to Biggest Brother. “He’s done.”

Onstage, the battle commenced. Unable so sit down because of my pennants, I leaned against the prop shelves to catch my breath and attempt to calm my tattered nerves. Somewhere in the distance, I imagined I could hear the vengeful laughter of ancestor ghosts.

But I had little time to ponder the perversity of the spirit world; the 

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battle was finished, and it was once again my cue. All eyes would soon be on me, the God of justice, as I brought peace to the bloody field of war.

What else could possibly go wrong? I sighed to myself.  

I picked up my wooden tablet and adjusted my ridiculous beard, and then walked as solemnly and magnificently onto the stage as I was able. As soon as reached the lights, I began to make my pronouncement, raising one arm dramatically in the air.

And then I dropped my tablet.

It fell to the stage with a heavy wooden thunk. The noise seemed to echo around the theater. For a performer, there is no more horrible sound than absolute silence. It generally means something has gone terribly wrong. Embarrassingly wrong.

But that wasn’t the end of the matter. I leaned over with as much grace as I could muster to pick up the fallen tablet, only to hear a sudden explosion of laughter.

What was going on? My mistake was tragic, but not particularly funny. Peering upward at the crowd, I caught a glimpse of something waving out of the corner of my eye. It was hanging down over my shoulder, and its size and color made it clear that it wasn’t part of my costume.

I stifled a scream. Somehow, while I’d been leaning against the prop shelves, one of my pennants had hooked a pair of jeans, which was now flapping idiotically behind my back.

There was no avoiding it now. Tonight, I knew I would get the beating of my life. And undead justice would finally be served.

I thought I’d seen Master angry before, but I hadn’t seen anything yet. As soon as I bolted offstage, I nearly ran into him, his body coiled like a giant spring, and his face so red that he looked like he was wearing opera makeup. He’d not been so humiliated in many years, and as a result, he’d never been so infuriated.

He didn’t bother sitting us on the stage or talking to his friends. There was no need. This was simply the most catastrophic performance any lover of Chinese opera had ever seen, and the audience had cleared out of the theater long before Master emerged from the wings.

Once I was back in my street clothes, the other students gave me a wide, wide berth. I couldn’t have been less popular if I were radioactive and stank of piss. Yuen Lung and Yuen Tai could barely restrain their laughter.

“Everyone on the bus!” Master shouted, waving his came wildly around him. The ride back was utterly silent, though the gleeful grins of the big brothers made it clear that they couldn’t wait to see what would happen next. When we got back to the school, Master grabbed me by the ear, threw open the academy doors, and walked directly to the ancestor shrine, shaking with fury.

I didn’t struggle. I’d decided to face my doom like a man.

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“Ghosts of my ancestors!” shouted Master. “Do you see this pile of dog excrement here before you? This absurd mockery of an opera performer?”

I winced as he twisted my ear between his thumb and forefinger.

“This useless trash is my godson!” he roared. “I present him to you, to do with what you will.” Jerking me down, he made stumble to my knees.

“Recount your sins,” he said, waving to the shrine.

I swallowed. “The tablet,” I said. “And my beard…and the pants…”

The students behind me burst out in laughter.

Master looked toward the shrine, which somehow seemed unsatisfied. “Is that all?” he thundered.

There was no helping it. You couldn’t lie in front of the ancestors.

“Well…yesterday, I forgot my beard completely,” I admitted. “And the day before that, I fell off the stage.”

Master raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you did, did you?” he said. “I missed that.”

I squirmed. So much for honesty.

Master motioned me forward. “Bow down before your ancestors.”

I let my body drop into a prone position before the shrine. Master yanked down my pants. “Begin apologizing!” he said, lifting his cane.

I started offering up pleas for forgiveness. “I’m sorry.” Whack! “I’m sorry!” Whack! “I’m sorry…!”

After twenty strokes, Master turned away, bowed to the shrine, and left the hall.

“Get to bed,” he shouted out behind him, and turned off the lights. “Tomorrow we practice without meals, since it is obvious you have all become too satisfied with your skills.”

We groaned. But the tide of bad luck had been broken—across my butt—and the fearful wall that had stood between me and my brothers and sisters was now gone. Once again I was one of many. And finally getting what was coming to me took a load of worry off my mind. As I shifted on the floor, attempting to find a sleeping position that didn’t cause me pain, I sent a short mental message in the direction of the ancestor shrine: Now, we’re even. Right?

As sleep closed my eyes, I thought I could see the statues gleam.