“Fine,” she said. She was trembling. He had switched gears as smoothly as a bird circling, as unequivocally as a madman. “Since you like it so much.”
When he left, she had picked up her violin again. How had he dared? But a giddy, shameful pleasure had swelled inside her. Why had she allowed him?
Now she reached the stone gates of the Conservatory where hundreds of students were milling about the courtyard, reminding her of a fire crackling. Zhuli went straight to her political study class, she was nearly an hour early but still she was the last to take her seat. One of her classmates, wearing a crimson armband, made a show of taking down her name. The girl, also a violinist, was sincerely single-minded. Last summer, she had been one of the students sent out to the countryside. He Luting had refused to stop classes, and so only a limited number, the children of cadres, had been permitted to go. Most of them, including Kai, had lived in the barest shelters. Some of them had clearly never touched dirt before but, still, they came back as heroes.
Back at the Conservatory, they showed their newfound knowledge by continuously questioning their teachers, their parents and music itself. “We must take responsibility for our minds!” this girl had proclaimed. “To change our consciousness, we must change our conditions!” The teacher was barred from the room. Zhuli and her classmates wrote essays on discarded newspapers and butcher paper and pasted them up on the north wall. “Are we gifted?” the essays asked. “If so, who cares?” “What good is this music, these empty enchantments, that only entrench the bourgeoisie and isolate the poor?” “If it is beauty against ugliness, then choose ugliness!” “Comrades, the Revolution depends on us!”
Now the class turned their attention to the playwright, Wu, and the poet, Guo. Both men, once celebrated, had been discovered to be enemies of the People.
“Guo claims he hasn’t studied Mao Zedong thought properly, he says we should burn all his books, he claims he is reformed but we know him, Comrades, don’t we? The snake lies. How long has he been a Party member? How long has he been a hidden traitor?”
“And yet the authorities do nothing!”
“We women must be at the forefront of violent class struggle, we must make it our nature. Nobody can struggle for you. Nobody can wash your face for you! Revolution is not just writing an essay or playing ‘Song of the Guerrillas’…”
“Exactly, the older generation used the Revolution to protect their status. They’ve betrayed us.”
The students began offering criticisms of themselves and each other, and the girl next to her, an erhu major, mocked Zhuli for favouring music in the “negative” and “pessimistic” key of E-flat minor, and continuing to play sonatas by revisionist Soviet composers, including the disgraced formalist, Prokofiev. Zhuli rebuked herself fiercely, vowed to embrace the optimism of the C and G major keys, and ended her self-criticism with, “Long live the Great Revolution to create a proletarian culture, long live the Republic, long live Chairman Mao!” Had she been critical enough, too critical? Their faces, their gestures, their eyes were cold. They knew that, in the moment of speaking, she believed what she said, but as soon as class ended, clarity fell apart. All her thoughts kept intruding on each other.
By the end of the study session, her hands sat on her knees like stones. Standing, she could feel her dress glued with sweat to her back and legs. Embarrassed, she sat down again, dropped her eyes and busied herself with her books.
After the class had disbanded, she wandered up one hallway and down the other, arriving at Room 103 as if at the home of a confidant. She found Kai there with her cousin. Sparrow was leaning against the far wall and when he lifted his rapt face and smiled at her, she thought his eyes had the saddest light. Kai grinned at her. She closed the door behind her and felt as if she had stepped into outer space. Bach’s Goldberg Variation No. 21 gave way to a joyous, bold and imperious No. 22. Kai played as if he were juggling a dozen silver knives, and all the edges flickered and shone.
Kai, she thought, you are as lost as I am. You have no idea where this beauty comes from and you know better than to think that such clarity could come from your own heart. Maybe, like Sparrow, Kai was terrified that one day the sound would shut off, his mind would go mute, and all the notes would disappear. Dear Kai. Ah, she thought, quickly correcting herself, the word “dear” was stupid with sentimentality and had been struck from permissible usage. What should she call him then? Her eyes threatened to fill. Jiang Kai was so much like her and yet…in the dramatic flashing of his hands, he played every note as if it belonged to him alone. He was all capriciousness and beauty and sophisticated performance; she thought he would be better suited to the hot-headed genius of Beethoven or Rachmaninoff or even the modernist high-rises of Stravinsky. Bach, she’d always thought, was a coded man, a strange fish, a composer who loved God and devoted himself to the numeric order of the world, but whose heart was fragmented. He existed outside of time. One day, Kai would play Bach with all the ardour that the composer called forth, but not yet. Kai was still too young, too certain.
At her insistence, Sparrow played the first movement of his unfinished Symphony No. 3 while she and Kai leaned against the wall. The opening slid from the key of E-flat major to an unexpectedly luminous B minor. She heard atonality etched into a falsely harmonious surface, she heard brittle ruptures and time speeding up like a wheel spinning ever faster. For all her talent, and for all of Kai’s, it was Sparrow, she knew, who had the truest gift. His music made her turn away from the never-possible and the almost-here, away from an unmade, untested future. The present, Sparrow seemed to say, is all we have, yet it is the one thing we will never learn to hold in our hands.
While others in the Conservatory gave poetic names to their work (“Young Soldier’s Joy” or “Thirty Miles to the Courier Station”) Sparrow, as usual, gave only a number. Yet Zhuli imagined she could hear her father’s presence in the music just as clearly as if Wen the Dreamer’s name was written on the page. Could his name be written there in secret? Bach, for instance, had encrypted the four letters of his name into a single motif. These four notes, where in the German system B is B-flat and H is B-natural, served as his signature, surfacing through the music. And hadn’t Schumann encoded the town where his lover was born? It would be just like her cousin to speak without speaking. Zhuli’s left hand was playing an invisible violin, and when she noticed herself doing this, she abruptly stopped. Still, she heard a recurring pattern inside Sparrow’s new work, as if they were the very footsteps of Wen the Dreamer. At night, her father walked across her own dreams, too. Since escaping the camp, where could he possibly hide? Last month, Zhuli had overheard her mother saying that the bodies of those who died in the desert camps were left to decompose in the sand dunes. Scientists and teachers, longtime Party members, doctors, soldiers, paper-pushers and engineers, more than enough to build a better China in the underworld.
“Careful. Even ghosts are illegal here,” Big Mother had said.
“The lie is too big. I can’t pretend, I don’t wish to.”
Big Mother Knife said that another purge was coming, there were rumours in her unit.
“I’m a stupid fool,” Swirl said. “I was a fool.”
In what way had she been a fool, Zhuli wondered. What did she mean?
Big Mother had dissolved the melancholy with a long, rumbling burp. “If you can’t pretend to be a Communist, the only answer is–”
Abruptly, Sparrow stopped playing. “It’s unfinished,” he said. “I can’t go on.”
“But it’s extraordinary,” Kai exclaimed. “It’s your masterpiece.”