The Peking opera troupe I belong to has a legend about the celebrated performer Qiu Haitang. She became famous throughout the land for her performance of The Ghost’s Lament, but mysteriously took her own life backstage. Now I have taken her place in the role. Then I discover that the special greasepaint passed down through generations is made from her ashes. Whenever I paint on the opera makeup, her resentment and obsession begin to erode my mind. Am I performing onstage, or helping her claim a life?
