Mao's Last Dancer - Li Cunxin [32]
I couldn’t believe what I’d heard. French? I had enough problems understanding Chen Lueng’s Mandarin.1 But I had to think of some way to remember the ballet terms, so when Chen Lueng started talking about the French word tendu, I immediately thought of the Chinese sounds Ton Jiu, which means “nine pieces of lollies” backward. For penché I thought of Pong Xie, which means “crab.” But for some words I couldn’t find any Chinese equivalent. Eventually I tried to write the words in a diary I’d been given, but my Chinese vocabulary was completely inadequate. So I drew little pictures instead. I was too embarrassed to ask for help. I was afraid they would laugh at me, this uneducated peasant boy.
During that first ballet class I couldn’t feel my toes at all in the freezing-cold weather and those tight, tiny shoes. Chen Lueng told us to stand with our feet turned out in all sorts of funny ways—he called them first, second, third, fourth, and fifth positions. It felt ridiculous. I had such difficulty getting my feet to cooperate.
The studio was damp and dusty and smelled of sweat and mildew. The old wooden floor was splintered, and for our feet to get some grip Chen Lueng showed us how to sprinkle water over it, using a metal pot like a watering can.
Everything felt weird in that very first class. We had to extend our arms to the side, palms facing forward, just below shoulder height, while Chen Lueng walked among us, pushing our arms down and asking us to resist him with all our strength. This was to develop our arm strength, so that our arms would look soft, never strained. This was not dancing, I thought. Where were the leaps and skips? How could I possibly suffer this agony for six years? My feet felt so cramped. I couldn’t imagine how bad it must be for the girls standing on their toes in pointe shoes.
That first class lasted two hours. I couldn’t wait for the bell to ring so I could take those horrible shoes off and let my toes stretch out. I thought about running in the streets in my commune. I didn’t want to dance. I wanted to go outside to make a snowman and throw snowballs.
Our second class that morning was Beijing Opera Movement. Our teacher was Gao Dakun. “Hurry up, you’re late!” he shouted. “Spread out around the barre! Beijing Opera movements are all about flexibility and suppleness. Do you understand?”
We all nodded, terrified.
“Good, let’s start with your legs up on the barre,” he said.
I looked at the barre in front of me. It was as high as my chest.
“What are you waiting for? Didn’t you hear me? Your leg on the barre!”
I tried to put my leg up but the barre was just too high.
Without another word Gao walked over to me and lifted my leg. I felt a tinge of pain in my hamstring and automatically bent my knee.
“Keep your knee straight!” He pushed my knee down on the barre. “Now bend your body forward and try to touch your toes with your head. Don’t get up until I tell you!”
The pain was excruciating.
“Keep your knees straight!” Gao shouted at Zhu Yaoping, the small boy from Shanghai who’d spoken to me at dinner the night before. “Keep your head down!” he told Fu Xijun, another boy from Qingdao. “Now, let’s change legs!”
My right leg was in such pain that I had trouble even lifting it off the barre. I quickly glanced at the other students. I wasn’t the only one suffering.
When I lifted my other leg onto the barre, I knew what to expect this time. So I started to count. I wondered if I was the only one counting as a way of coping with such agony, until I heard the boy next to me counting too.
Each time, from that first class on, I prepared myself for the worst. I decided I needed to be mentally strong enough to last through at least a hundred slow counts. But if Gao left the classroom for any reason, then