Bro, Your Car Matters More Than Your Face

Autumn in Beijing was crisp and dry, with a sharp bite to the air. The old locust trees in the hutongs were neither fully yellow nor green. Whenever the wind blew, their leaves rustled down in layers, carpeting the blue-gray brick pavement. Deep in the winding hutongs stood a large courtyard with peeling red lacquer and a plaque that read “Guofeng Opera Academy.” From inside came the wavering scales of vocal practice, punctuated now and then by the crisp crack of bamboo clappers and a teacher’s stern reprimands.

“Your waist! Sink it! And your eyes? Where are you looking? You’re singing an old-man role, not staring at the ceiling!” A middle-aged teacher in a faded practice outfit, his hair combed neatly into place, paced among a group of children, his hands behind his back. He pointed his cane at them, and the very air seemed to tense.

The child he singled out was about eleven or twelve. His nickname was Leizi, and his full name was Chen Dalei. He was holding his breath, trying hard to sink his waist, but his back seemed determined to defy him, stiff as a board. He had regular features, thick brows, large eyes, and a straight nose. But his gaze held a stubborn defiance, along with a trace of… how to put it? Irritation at the dull, repetitive exercise before him.