Mao's Last Dancer - Li Cunxin [43]
Although Lujun was good at acrobatics, martial arts, and Beijing Opera Movement, he struggled hard at ballet. The way the muscles were used in ballet was so different from the way they were used in martial arts. He told me many times that he wished he could go back to martial arts again. Like me, he felt trapped by duty and there was no way back.
Lujun was nicknamed the “Bandit,” and he liked it so much that the name stuck. One day he bought ten fen worth of sweets: his father often sent him spending money and he would occasionally slip a sweet or two into my hand. This time his class captain found out and told the head teacher. The Bandit was ordered to write three self-criticisms. He dug deep, but he couldn’t think of a single reason why he shouldn’t buy sweets. So I gave him two ideas. The ten fen he’d spent on sweets could have saved someone from starvation. Or his selfish action could corrupt his mind. I didn’t really believe this, but I had to convince him that it was the only way to get him out of trouble. Fortunately, his self-criticism passed the test.
After that incident, the Bandit and I became good friends. To my surprise, he asked me to become his blood brother, a tradition from the kung fu masters’ era and a bond that would last a lifetime. I had six brothers already. I didn’t need another. So I said no. The Bandit was very disappointed. The following Sunday, he invited me to go out. We got permission to leave the academy and went to a small restaurant at the base of a mountain on the outskirts of Beijing. The Bandit ordered a small plate of pig’s head meat, white, and full of lard. Delicious!
After we’d finished, the Bandit took out a small knife, a piece of paper, and a pen. He asked me once again to be his blood brother.
I thought carefully, then told him my real fear: that I couldn’t live up to his expectations. I took my six brothers for granted. I had never considered how best to be a good brother.
Eventually I relented. We cut our fingers, dropped some blood into a cup of rice wine, and shared the same drink together. We then made up a poem. Life at the academy was so lonely and tough, the only thing we had was friendship.
That year, the different academies in our university selected even more students. Our complex wasn’t big enough to accommodate them all, so Madame Mao ordered each academy to go back to the city. We were told to pack our few belongings, because we would be moving out when we returned from our summer holiday, which would be spent with the workers at a garment factory outside Beijing.
Our new city site was much smaller. Boys and girls occupied different sections on the second floor of a three-story building, with eight students in each small room. We would share those tiny little rooms until we graduated.
On the first day in our new academy, we were told we would have a new ballet teacher, Xiao Shuhua, and a new director.
Teacher Xiao was a small man. Other teachers called him by his nickname, Woa Woa, which meant “baby.” “I’m excited to work with you,” he told us. “Although I’m your teacher, I’m also your friend. We will work and learn together, and make our classes fun. Not only will I teach you ballet steps, I’ll try to teach you the appreciation of ballet. Ballet is the most beautiful art form in the world. I hope, by the time I’m finished with you, you’ll have the same appreciation. We should know each other’s strengths and also our weaknesses. For a start, I want all of you to know that your new ballet teacher has the worst pirouettes in the world!”
Teacher Xiao encouraged us to write down our achievements, mistakes, discoveries, even the combination of dance steps, every day in our diaries. He was intolerant of laziness and lack of commitment. He would fume with anger if we didn’t remember the dance combinations. But he was also quick to praise and to demonstrate—he had a breathtakingly enormous jump.
Although Teacher Xiao’s own turning ability was poor, he was determined to help his