I made my debut in the Chinese Opera after sightseeing in Chengdu city in Sichuan, China. I met a certain Mr. Lee. For a small charge, he could not only arrange a ticket for an opera, but also a backstage tour. "I know the director," he confided in me. And then Mr. Lee offered me a chance to appear on stage. "At no extra cost," he added quickly, taking my arm.
        "Every visitor to China sees the fabulous Chinese Opera," said the diminutive Mr. Lee. "Singing, dancing, la pantomime, even acrobatics!" We sat together in the Flower Garden Restaurant as he spoke enthusiastically about the Opera. "Classics like `Picking Up a Jade Bracelet,' or `Su San, A Wronged Prostitute.'"
        "Let me get this straight," I said, "I could actually appear in the opera?" Mr. Lee nodded vigorously. "But I can't sing in Chinese," I protested. That didn't seem to matter, so I added, "I'm only visiting Chengdu for a few days." That didn't seem to matter, either, so at last I capitulated, and handed over a few dollars. "I can do a pretty fair handstand," I suggested.
        Several acquaintances staying at my hotel joined me for a matinee performance at a crumbling third-rate operahouse. The toilets were in a red brick outhouse in the yard. Inside the theatre, 300 to 400 patrons in quilted jackets were already seated. Or perhaps I should say already snoring, because most of the audience were pensioners, and they had slumped over in their chairs and were sound asleep. They were sheltering from the wind outside, as much as they were there to see opera. I thought the lighting in the theatre was dim. The floorboards creaked and the stage was covered in a tattered, patched blue curtain. It was a very modest venue.
        However, there is a glamour to every theatre, and so with this one. Once I had tread on that threadbare stage, the threshold between the actors and their audience, the magic began. The actors had drifted backstage in grey street clothes, and poorly cut jackets, and the women in navy blazers, black trousers, and cloth shoes. But then their transformation began. They put on make-up. Old women lost their wrinkles. Plain women acquired flushed cheeks, and rosebud lips. Thin-faced young men gained lines of character, and experience. Paunchy, middle-aged men with doughy features acquired square jaws, and grand, trumpeting eyebrows.
        "You are all going to be in the opera," announced Mr. Lee as we sat behind the curtain. His arms were behind his back. He paced back and forth before us. "You will all be made up."
        Would I ever get another chance to appear in a Chinese Opera? So how could I refuse the opportunity? I was joined by an Australian elementary school teacher, and a Japanese salaryman visiting China from Tokyo. The three of us were made up.
        One of the actresses smeared a kind of colourless grease onto my face, then white, black, and pink pigment, with a cherry red for my lips. With my thick black eyebrows, and moustache, I imagined that I'd look like some kind of fierce Japanese kabuki-style actor. I could hardly wait to see myself in a mirror. But on first glance, I looked a trifle effeminate. Such pink cheeks and red lips! And a mark on my cheek looked suspiciously like a beauty spot. What exactly was I going to be playing here?
        Nervously, I watched the stage hands prepare to raise the curtain. Mr. Lee sat chatting amicably with the director. I interrupted them. "What do I do here?" I asked.
        "You?" said Mr. Lee. "You will play a soldier." He turned to the other foreigners, "You will all play soldiers." He gave us no idea of what we were supposed to do but he marched across the stage in a quick pantomime of how we were to enter.
        "But what do I do on stage?" I asked in exasperation.
        "Why, nothing," said Mr. Lee. "You just stand there."
        I thought I could do that well enough so I spent the next few minutes practicing my entrance. I bowed formally, and ceremonially, at centre stage, as do all characters entering the stage in an opera piece. Then I assumed a martial stance at a position beside the throne at centre-stage. The actor playing the Prime Minister in the piece was to be seated on the throne with his army and servants lined up neatly on either side of him.
        I soon found the Prime Minister. He was a snaggle-toothed little man with a monkey's face. Rolling his hips, he was performing an elaborate little dance before a few of the other male actors. I marched past with another soldier. I am sure he winked at me. I thought about switching armies.
        Then all of a sudden, there was a last minute change in the parts we were going to play. I lost my part! The blonde Australian school teacher got it. She and the Japanese salaryman would play the soldiers because they were the same height. Oh, that darn Chinese preoccupation with symmetry! I thought to myself.
        "What about me?" I asked. "What do I play, Mr. Lee?--Captain of the guard?" I suggested hopefully.
        "You?" said Mr. Lee. "You will be a servant."
        "A servant!" I said. So much for my debut. I considered pulling out of the show or striking for a better role among the actors. But then only they knew how to remove my make-up. And I certainly didn't want to walk the streets like this. I consoled myself with the thought that I would be a high-ranking servant in the Imperial court. Or if I wasn't really of high rank, I would imagine myself to be of high rank.
        The actors and actresses in the company began pulling down these huge trunks of costumes from shelves backstage. Although the theatre might be very a humble one, the costumes we were to wear were magnificent. In Chinese theatre, the leading actors and actresses get the most beautiful robes. So the Prime Minister got a splendid silk gown with dragons on it. The general, a roly-poly old man with a loose set of false teeth, who was standing there in his undershirt, got a fine helmet, and a matching gown with padded shoulders, and black boots with lifts in them. When he'd put on his costume, he suddenly looked tall and handsome, even fierce, and war-like.
        The two other tourists got rich-looking royal blue gowns with gold dragons on them. Did I say all the costumes were magnificent? Just when my hopes were up, I was handed a flimsy blue wrap. It looked like a cotton bathrobe. In compensation perhaps, I was also given one of those remarkable opera hats that look like coal scuttles with Christmas bulbs sticking from them. Next, I received a horsehair tassel. Was it to ward off the flies settling on the Prime Minister?
        With minutes left before curtain time, we still didn't know what the play was that we were supposed to be doing. At the very last moment, Mr. Lee told us the play was about an old emperor who was tricked into giving up his position to an ambitious, and unscrupulous Prime Minister. Good casting, I thought to myself. I didn't trust the Prime Minister, either.
        It seemed to me that the story was going to be pretty simple. My time on stage would be spent listening to somebody express his emotions at the awful turn of events. Sort of like the Greek plays I had read in high school. One long tragedy. But what was beginning to worry me was that I'd heard of Chinese operas lasting as long as six hours.
        "Just exactly how long are we supposed to be onstage, Mr. Lee?" I asked. I expected a cameo role like the walk-on parts for bit players in the Western Theatre.
        "For the whole performance."
        I'd forgotten that I'd often heard of huge casts onstage in Chinese Operas. Now I understood why. There are no sets in a Chinese opera so the fifteen of us onstage had to represent the Emperor's entire palace. In practice, this meant that all the Imperial supernumeraries, maids-in-waiting, lieutenants, captains, soldiers, and yes, even servants--stood on the stage for the whole performance. Too late to leave now!
        The curtain rose. We appeared. In walked the Imperial court and the principals. The Prime Minister, and the fierce General, drew a ripple of polite applause. I believe that much of the audience was still asleep. Still, like the other foreigners who filed onto the stage, I was taking my role very seriously. I'd even taken off my glasses to look like a more authentic court retainer. I took a deep bow. A crackle of laughter swept the audience. Regrettably, I'd forgotten to take off my running shoes.
        Actually, I wish I could say that I kept them rolling in the aisles for the entire performance. Or for that matter, even awake. But a minute later, they'd slumped back into their seats in the crowded theatre. Lit cigarettes flickered in few dozen places. Several people were eating apples. I suspect that someone had a transistor radio. But I think that most of the audience had fallen back asleep.
        Soon I wished I could have fallen asleep myself. The opera piece seemed interminable. The old emperor, doddering across the stage, sang some sad old song that every pensioner in the audience apparently knew. Some were even joining in. The ageing actor who played the part couldn't do any of the usual opera acrobatics. Instead of flips and somersaults to express great emotion, he only managed a few squats on the stage. All the same, he had every sympathy from the audience. The greater he tried, and the less he did, the more he was appreciated. The pensioners in the audience knew what it meant to grow old, to lose their jobs.
        Meanwhile the performance was beginning to seem like an endurance test. I was finding it very hard to stand still for so long. I tried shifting my weight from one foot to another. But it didn't really help. I felt badly about ruining the performance until I noticed that several of the Chinese actors in minor parts were either coughing during the emperor's long speech or even leaving the stage to spit. Then the Australian teacher got dizzy, left the entourage, and fainted offstage.
        The only credible performer among us seemed to be the Japanese salaryman. "I hate Tokyo," he'd said to me earlier. So I guess he was used to suffering. I imagine he also was used to standing at staff meeting and listening to long harangues from company directors. In any case, there he stood, as mute, and expressionless, as if he were carved of wood.
        I tried to take my mind off things by considering whether an actor in the Chinese theatre approached his part as did a Western method actor. In other words, should I have "an attitude" towards the old emperor? And should my attitude be expressed physically. Well, I was standing beside the Prime Minister so I was supposed to be on his side. I gave the Emperor a hard look. This part was easy because I was getting so tired of standing onstage--Hurry up, and die, you old fool, I said to myself. Not surprisingly, I began to appreciate the Prime Minister for qualities I hadn't appreciated earlier. Yes, I thought to myself, what this empire needs is a new broom. We need a younger man with new ideas. At the very least, we need somebody who can get things done more quickly.
        It was at this point that the general, wearing this magnificent helmet with two long ostrich plumes, began speaking, strutting up and down on the stage before me. He was upstaging me terribly. The other foreigners in our party were sitting in the front row and they began wildly snapping photographs of me.
        It got worse than being upstaged. One of the general's feathers was bent and whenever he turned to make some remark to the Prime Minister, his crooked feather poked me in the face. The general kept waving his arms and clomping across the stage in his boots and I kept getting poked in the face. I tried squeezing my eyes shut. Then I tried tilting my head a bit to one side. It wasn't much good. Soon I began dipping from one side to the other. My friends in the audience started giggling. I tried to dodge the general's feather, inconspicuously, but I was failing miserably. It had got to the point where I was almost doing calisthenics. Mr. Li and my friends in the audience were sitting in the front row and laughing uproariously.
        Was it an hour? Or was it two? At last, the general switched sides, the ailing emperor collapsed, and the prime minister took the Imperial seal. There was an applause and we trooped off stage. All the cast agreed afterward that the Japanese tourist had made the best actor. He'd been able to remain motionless for the entire performance. "I hate Tokyo," he said to me again backstage. I'd like to report that he was offered a permanent part with the opera troupe. But like the rest of us, his robes were whisked away. The curtain had fallen and a few singers had already taken our places for a boy-meets-girl story.
        Mr. Lee led us out of the theatre and into a brick-strewn alley where there was a concrete water trough. Before we bent over to wash off our make-up, we looked at each other's faces and we laughed.

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