The Theater on Guanlu Mountain

By HE XIAO

The Theater on Guanlu Mountain

By HE XIAO

MR. Cao hadn’t told anyone his son was visiting today. After lunch, he rested for a while on a bamboo chair and then he and his wife went out arm-in-arm. He pondered the commemorative couplet he was to compose for the theater and how he could concisely convey to his son his experience in offcial circles, which he had meticulously chronicled over the past thirty years since his retirement. His son called to say he could only stay three hours at most, as he had to rush back for a meeting which would decide his future.

It was only half an hour’s leisurely walk from the foot of Guanlu (Deer-Watching) Mountain to the old theater halfway up. The theater was a cultural relic, built in the Qing Dynasty. There it stood, old and solid, on the mountainside, though its wooden sign and carvings were long gone.

The stage was two meters high with a courtyard in front. When there were performances, people came from neighboring villages carrying lanterns and sat on portable stools in front of the stage, together shaping the most glorious moments in Guanlu Mountain’s history. During the performance, everyone wanted to see clearly, so those in front stretched out their necks and those at the back squatted or stood on their stools; but with the differing heights of the stools and of the people themselves, they couldn’t avoid blocking each other. So the audience pushed and shouted, drowning out the performers on stage.

In the village, a theatre troupe was always hired by families to celebrate or commemorate a personal event. Today it was the villagers who had invited a troupe to mark the occasion of Mr. Cao’s 70th birthday.

Though the villagers knew every detail of the Cao family lineage, nobody knew or cared what Mr. Cao’s offcial title had been. Mr. Cao had left home at seventeen, while his parents were still alive. He returned at forty, with a meek woman by his side and a son as high as his shoulders. The villagers did not talk to them much. As they all shared the same ancestry, they did not care much about his achievements but noted his failure to fulfll his flial obligations.

They often saw Mr. Cao and his son strolling in the mountains, talking about their ancestors. Gradually, their attitude changed and they would greet him respectfully when he walked by. At Spring Festival, when the villagers wanted to put up auspicious couplets, they would buy red paper and visit Mr. Cao. Usually it was Mr. Cao who conceived the content while his son wrote on red paper with a brush pen. Cao Junior not only wrote beautifully, but was also an excellent student.

At first, the villagers only knew that Cao Junior had studied in Beijing; but one day, he appeared in the newspaper. The publicity prompted the building of an asphalt road from the city to Guanlu Mountain and installation of electricity and telephone wires. Mr. Cao continued to visit the theater with his wife, and could often be found watching the sunrise or sunset. Cao Junior did not return, and rumours circulated of his rise and fall.

On this day, when Mr. Cao and his wife arrived, the courtyard was already full. The audience stepped aside to allow them forward, but Mr. Cao insisted on sitting at the back. When everyone was seated and the gong and drum players were about to begin, three cars approached at high speed.

Mr. Cao watched his son get out of the car, surrounded by an entourage. Cao Junior perfunctorily greeted his parents and sat beside his father. When the show began, Mr. Cao stared at the stage, but from time to time cast sidelong glances at his son. The old couple had only been invited to visit their son three times: for his wedding; their grandson’s birth; and the funeral of Cao Junior’s father-in-law and boss. In a fash, Cao Junior had become forty years old. Mr. Cao listened to the Sichuan Opera, but the crowd flled his eyes. Suddenly, what to write in the couplet came to him.

After the performance, the village elders brought red paper, brush-pens and ink and asked Mr. Cao and his son to write a couplet like they had done twenty years before. Cao Junior confidently began mixing the ink. Mr. Cao turned and looked at the empty theater, before calmly dictating: “Why didn’t you just listen to the performance if you couldn’t see clearly? No need to push others aside. Stand tall to see far, but never abuse your power by blocking people behind you.”

Mr. Cao turned to fnd Cao Junior’s hand suspended in mid-air, unable to put brush to paper.

HE XIAO is a short-story writer and member of the Sichuan Writers’Union.