Puban

In the autumn of 1977, thirteen-year-old Gao Feng was discovered among the cotton fields along the Fen River by Xue Laogen of the county Pu Opera troupe. Later, Wu Junying, who specialized in the leading female role, joined them in the same courtyard, a rundown temple converted into a theater. Beneath the old locust tree, a bearded male lead and a leading lady practiced Cang Zhou face-to-face, tapping out the rhythm. They spent half a year polishing a single line, forging a partnership that would last half a lifetime.

Over the next forty years, Pu Opera gradually faded. Televisions arrived in the villages, and half the earthen stages in the threshing grounds stood empty. The troupe lost its official status, and its eight members scraped by performing at temple fairs and funerals, and for coal miners. Gao Feng once damaged his voice and had no choice but to lower his high notes, singing straight into the hearts of the characters he played. When the provincial troupe staged a new opera, the pair stepped back from center stage to become “consultants,” only to be called back onto the stage after a single kneel.

There is no romance, no dramatic rise or fall. The closest these two ever came in a lifetime was backstage, adjusting each other's headdresses and quietly saying, “Hold steady for the next part.” The real turning points were these: the county demolished the old courtyard and cut down half the locust tree; after the applause died away at a performance in the provincial capital, Gao Feng collapsed backstage, and the first thing he asked when he woke was whether the applause had really been that loud. Later, he carefully unwrapped the black beard Xue Laogen had left behind and handed it to his apprentice, Xiao Man: “Don't kneel to me. Kneel to the opera.”

One performance after another ends, and another begins. Generations take turns onstage, the wind from the Fen River blows year after year, and the clappers still ring out across the plateau.