Mao's Last Dancer - Li Cunxin [26]
Eventually I wander home. My parents have already spread the quilts on the bed and are waiting for me.
“How are your friends?” my niang asks.
“Fine,” I reply. I look at her eyes for the first time that night. They are moist.
“Sixth Brother, can I sleep on your side tonight?” my little brother, Jing Tring, asks.
“Yes,” I reply. I wish I could put him and the rest of my family in my pocket and take them to Beijing with me.
Tonight, as Jing Tring is sleeping, I look at his content and peaceful face. Suddenly I feel a rush of brotherly affection for him. I wish I’d been kinder to him.
My niang has made me a black corduroy jacket to take to Beijing. I know my youngest brother loves that jacket. In the middle of the night, I quietly tuck it inside one of the papiermâché clothes boxes for Jing Tring to find after I’m gone.
The morning finally arrives. I wake with the first sound of the rooster’s call. My dia rose earlier, to pack my belongings in two string bags. They are loosely woven, so you can see clearly what is inside. Many of my relatives, friends, and neighbors have given me presents: souvenirs or some local specialty food such as dried shrimp.
Some of my classmates and friends have chipped in to pay for us to have our photos taken together. They also give me a beautiful diary with many pictures of Chairman Mao. The photo means a lot to me. We have only one other family photo—a black-and-white one of my niang and her seven boys. There is also my niang’s handmade quilt, a thin futonlike mattress, two small hand towels, some clothes, apples, pears, and a Qingdao specialty called “sorghum sweet.” My niang has also packed some dried snakeskin.
After he finishes packing my bags, my dia hands me five yuan. “I wish I could give you more. Be good. Don’t let the Li name down.” He leaves for work, saying he’ll try to make it back for lunch to see me before I leave.
My niang is busy making dumplings this morning, as a special treat to send me on my way. I want to stay with her for every remaining minute, but I can’t. I know if we look at each other we will not be able to control our tears. So I walk around the village, bidding farewell to my friends. I ask several of my niang’s friends to come to our house after lunch to keep her company. I don’t want her to be sad and on her own. I go to my na-na’s grave and to our ancestors’ burial place and kowtow. I want to smell the earth, the air, to remember the surroundings and take everything in. This village has been my life for my whole eleven years. My heart feels as though it is hanging in midair. I return home for lunch.
My niang has made many dumplings and although they are my favorite, I can’t eat even one. A hot ball of emotion is stuck in my throat. All six of my brothers are at the table. I want to say something special to each of them, but few words are spoken. Time seems to run so fast, and it is soon time for me to go. I have to say good-bye.
My brothers take my bags outside. My dia didn’t make it back for lunch. I look at my niang for the first time today and we both burst into tears. We can say nothing. We just hold each other. Then some of her friends arrive, as I had asked them to, and I go quickly into the street.
My oldest brother, Cuncia, is to come with me as far as Qingdao City, and as a special honor our village has provided their only tractor to take us there. The admission letter from the Dance Academy said that all fifteen students chosen from Shandong Province are required to meet at a dormitory to spend the night before our train journey to Beijing. As the tractor pulls away from our house, three of my brothers run after us, crying and shouting good-bye. I sob all the way to the city.
The tractor journey takes over an hour. Finally we reach our gathering place. The dormitory feels