A Girl Named Faithful Plum (17 page)

Now, in Chinese the expression for being on television uses the same figure of speech as English does. You go
on
television;
you are seen
on
television. But to Zhongmei, who had never watched television before arriving in Beijing, it seemed that the people she saw on television were
in
the television, not on it. And so, innocently, she asked the obvious question: “Why would anybody ever go on a television?”

There was a stunned silence in the studio followed by tittering, followed in turn by knowing looks exchanged among some of the other girls, though, again, when Zhongmei looked up, all she saw was a solid phalanx of goody-two-shoes expressions.

“What kind of question is that?” Teacher Zhu asked finally. “What’s so strange about going on television?”

“You mean some of you do a dance on top of your televisions?” Zhongmei naïvely asked.

That comment was followed by another terrible silence in the room, a silence that seemed to emanate from the darkened countenance of Teacher Zhu.

“You have the temerity to make fun of this class?” Teacher Zhu said angrily. Zhongmei looked up at her. The lenses of her glasses reflected images of hanging fluorescent lights. “Do you think this is some kind of joke?” But it wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.

Zhongmei felt heat on her neck, as if somebody had just pressed an iron there, and then, suddenly, it was as if she had passed through a current of freezing air. Her skin pricked. Her heart seemed to ice up. “No,” she said meekly, understanding that she had done something wrong but not knowing what. “I wasn’t—”

“Do you think the Beijing Dance Academy is a place for disrespect of your teachers?” Teacher Zhu said.

“No,” Zhongmei said, confused because she had meant no disrespect. She was only asking a question.

“How dare you behave this way in my class,” Teacher Zhu roared.

“But I didn’t mean to …”

“You didn’t mean to,” Teacher Zhu said, mimicking Zhongmei’s timid and frightened manner. “Then would you explain your comment, please.”

Zhongmei hesitated, knowing that all she could do was repeat the question that had gotten her into trouble in the first place.

“I just asked why anybody would get on a television,” Zhongmei said finally, having thought of no other way to reply.

“I will not have this!” Teacher Zhu roared, her face red, her mouth contorted in anger and astonishment. “You will get out and stand in the hall and you will stay there until you learn to behave!” she shouted, her voice both harsh and piercing, the reflection in her glasses lurid and terrifying.

There was no tittering now. All the girls stared at the floor, each of them glad it wasn’t she who had aroused Teacher Zhu’s ire, but each of them a little nervous that she might be next. Except for one girl. Zhongmei noticed Xiaolan, Little Orchid, looking at her in what seemed genuine concern, or maybe it was only that she looked sad compared to the other girls, who were making efforts to frown with disapproval.

“But,” said Zhongmei, “I only wanted to know—”

“But nothing!” shrieked Teacher Zhu. “Get out!”

Zhongmei sat for a second, too stunned to obey this extraordinary and unjust command.

“I told you, out of the room,” Teacher Zhu said. “What are you waiting for?”

Zhongmei pulled herself to her feet. Before she turned to the door, she glanced at Xiaolan, who mouthed the words “Don’t worry” in an effort to give Zhongmei some comfort. As Zhongmei walked out of the classroom, Teacher Zhu’s final words followed her like an angry dog nipping at her heels. “Stand outside in the corridor,” she said, “and stay there until class is dismissed. I won’t have anybody showing such disrespect.”

Zhongmei went into the dark and gloomy corridor. A streaked window at the end let in some gray light. A portrait of Chairman Mao looked down at her from the wall and seemed silently to scold her. How could the bright and happy prospect she had felt only minutes before have turned into the misery of this dingy corridor? Zhongmei stared at the worn wooden floor. This was her first day of her dream of attending the Beijing Dance Academy and it had suddenly turned into a nightmare. She held back her tears even as the gray of the Beijing autumn entered into her heart.

That night, Xiaolan stood in front of Zhongmei’s bunk and said, “I’m sorry Teacher Zhu was so mean to you.”

“All I did was ask why that other girl went on a television,” Zhongmei said. “What did I do wrong?”

Xiaolan explained the phrase
on television
and what it meant. “She thought you were mocking her,” Xiaolan said, speaking of Teacher Zhu. “She should have understood that you just didn’t know about television. I understood that, but she didn’t.”

“Now I’ve made her into my enemy,” Zhongmei said. “Now I’ve made her hate me.”

“It’s not your fault,” Xiaolan said. “Don’t worry. She’ll like you when she gets to know you.”

Zhongmei shrugged and sat at the edge of her bed. She was glad that Xiaolan had spoken to her, but also ashamed at having been so stupid, the only girl in the class who didn’t know what it meant to go on television.

“Look,” Xiaolan said brightly. “I have something to show you.”

She walked over to her own bunk, took a book from the small table next to it, and brought it back to Zhongmei. It had black-and-white pictures of a beautiful ballerina in a frilly white costume doing a perfect arabesque, her raised leg pointing diagonally upward, the knee slightly bent, her other foot planted on the ground in perfect pointe position. Her left arm balanced her raised leg. Her fine hand was opened as if she were striving to grasp something just out of reach. It was the most beautiful picture that Zhongmei had ever seen.

“Where did you get it?” she asked Xiaolan, forgetting Teacher Zhu and her worries for the moment.

“I got it from the library,” Xiaolan said.

“The library?”

“Yes, right here. There’s a library on the first floor. We’re allowed to take books to our room.”

Zhongmei held the book in her lap and scrutinized the picture. “What’s her name?”

“That’s Margot Fonteyn,” Xiaolan said, though she pronounced it in the Chinese way so it sounded like
Ma-luo-ge Foh-en-tan
. “She was a great dancer, very famous, everybody loved her. Look, there are more.” She flipped the pages and Zhongmei saw other dancers in poses of perfect loveliness. One especially caught her eye. It showed a girl of the most refined and exquisite features wearing a kind of village costume laced at the front and ending in a fringed skirt that flew wildly around her. One hand was on her hip, the other splayed outward, the fingers parted. The dancer’s hair was bound in a piece of cloth and hung nonchalantly over her shoulder.

“That’s Suzanne Farrell,” Xiaolan said, pronouncing it
Su-sa-nah Fa-er-le
.

“She’s great,” Zhongmei said.

“Someday you’ll be just like her,” Xiaolan said.

“Oh, I don’t think so. Not after today,” Zhongmei said, but her heart was already beating quickly at the hope that, maybe, somehow, Xiaolan might be right.

“
You’ll
be like her,” Zhongmei said, “not me.”

“I hope I will too,” Xiaolan said, “but so will you.”

“How can you know that?” Zhongmei asked, wishing that Xiaolan had a good reason. And she did.

“Because I heard about what you did at your improvisation,”
said Xiaolan, “after they let you try a second time. Everybody said you were amazing.”

“Oh, I wasn’t amazing,” Zhongmei said, deeply flattered. “So many of the other girls were better than me.”

“I can tell just looking at you,” Xiaolan said with conviction. “I can see it in your eyes, and one of these days everybody will see it, even Teacher Zhu.”