The Dark Becomes Her

A bell dings, and the announcement sounds overhead. “Please make your way into the studio. The show will begin shortly.” My parents come to collect us, and I have to put my phone away. I look around, nervous, trying to see if I can catch sight of where Delia is. I don’t know what she is planning. She was agreeable yesterday when we talked about the plan. To keep a lookout for us, because it takes time to prep the talisman, to put it into the drink. She didn’t mention anything else. I should never have told her that Hope’s in town.

We walk slowly through the double doors and down the hallway, where the lights have been dimmed. In the waiting area, colorful streamers spiral down from the ceiling, sparkling in the lights, creating an optical illusion of spinning. I’ve never been past the receiving room, but we are ushered into the main studio. Light wood floors polished to a shine. Along the length of one wall there are red curtains, and the other wall has floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

We’re seated in the back row, and I’m glad we’re not in the front, because we don’t have to stare at our own reflections so clearly on the opposing wall. I stop Denny from bouncing on the seats, even as he looks around, curious.

“Where’s Tina?” Baba asks as Ma consults the program that we are handed when we entered the space. “Where is she going to sit?”

“We have a seat with the junior troupe for her,” Amy says cheerily. “She’ll be here soon! It will be a wonderful performance. She can’t wait to share it with you.” Amy goes off to take care of her other responsibilities, and all there is to do is wait. I want to take out my phone, to see if Delia’s texted back, but Ma puts her hand on mine, shaking her head.

I look up and around to see there is also a balcony space up top, a catwalk around the entirety of the studio, so there can be an audience watching from above as well. Figures are filling up those seats, but I can’t tell what they look like from here, the lights too bright from up ahead.

The lights dim and the bell rings again. “One minute until the start of the show…” the disembodied voice announces. That’s when I notice there are tables draped in black in front of the mirrors. Three women file in, clad in black floor-length dresses. Sequins adorn their costumes, trailing from their high necklines down their arms, shimmering silver in the light. One of them holds what looks like a pipa.

“A long guitar!” Denny whispers excitedly beside me, even as Ma shushes him.

Another woman pulls off the table covering and unveils an instrument on a beautiful black-and-gold stand with a series of strings. In her hand, she holds thin, red-tipped mallets. She strikes the strings in series, listening. Tuning, I assume. The woman in the back stands before a large drum, and the long stand to her right holds a series of gongs of varying sizes.

I manage to take out my phone again, sneak a photo of the performers to send to Dawn, because I know she would be interested in that particular unique mallet instrument. No updates from Delia. She must be somewhere in this room. The lights are fully dim now as Mrs. Tsai appears under the spotlight in the corner, standing behind a podium.

“I want to start by thanking you all for joining us here today. Whether this is your first time at Soulful Heart or if you have been here many times in the past, we welcome you.” She bows, and a light scattering of applause follows from the audience. “I am so happy to celebrate with you on this day, the first anniversary of the opening of our studio here in the Pacific Dragon Mall. As the director of Soulful Heart, I am so proud to be part of such a vibrant community here in Chinatown, and to support the artistic pursuits of the younger generations.” The applause is louder this time, echoing in the room.

“Tonight, we are pleased to present to you this intimate performance for our studio family first, as we unveil our winter series: White Snow, Wildly Dancing. We have partnered with the Ribbon Ensemble to perform the accompanying music, showcasing traditional Chinese instruments….” With a loud whirring noise, a projection screen emerges in front of the mirrors. The shadows of the musicians stretch out along the wall, then the music begins, as the projector casts the shapes of a stretch of mountains behind them.

The sweet tones of the string instrument fills the space, the sound amplified by a microphone. The dancers then sweep in from the other side of the room behind another set of swinging curtains. They’re dressed in white, like the photos in the displays outside, delicate blue embroidery adorning the hems.

Admittedly, I still know nothing about dance, but I can admire their performance. The control of their bodies to move in sync to the music, to be able to bend themselves in various poses, all sorts of ways that would be impossible for me. They form crescent moons and wind-blown trees, their sleeves rippling in the air similar to the northern lights that dance across the sky. The gong sounds, parting the wave of dancers, then the drumbeat accompanies the sound of their footsteps as they exit the stage.

“Tina! She’s there!” Baba whispers, gesturing at the stage. For someone who doesn’t care much for dance, he seems happy to see her. The row of dancers in the front shed their jackets as they stand from their seats to join the performance. Their hair has been styled, pulled back away from the face and pinned to one side. They must have coordinated it all while we were eating. Ma’s expression is conflicted, watching with pursed lips, but Baba leans over and whispers something in her ear that I can’t hear. She nods in understanding, her frown relaxing for the moment with whatever he said.

Tina is part of the line of dancers in green, and they weave into a complicated formation with the dancers in white, who have returned to join them on the floor. They come together, and then apart, one group moving clockwise, and the other opposing them. I can see Tina in the midst of it all, keeping up with the complex pattern, turning her head this way and that, maintaining the precise movements of her hands and feet. I can see the intensity of her focus as she moves. From the center, a girl emerges, lifted on the hands of the other dancers, shedding the outer layer of her costume and emerging in blue. A white owl mask covers the upper half of her face and her lips are curved into a smile below. They set her down on the stage as the other dancers depart. The rest of the music fades, until only the steady beat of a wood block remains.

The clinking of a small cymbal joins it then, as the other dancers quickly disappear into the edges of the room, melting into the shadows. Her movements are slow in the beginning. She takes deliberate steps forward, crouching, as if looking for something. The spotlight follows her, and on the projection screen, stars seem to dance above her. Then her head snaps back as the pipa strums a lively tune; a shooting star swoops overhead, disappearing. Her body arcs as she throws herself upward, defying gravity. The audience gasps, then she’s off, accompanied by the sprightly sounds of all the instruments joined together.

She flings her mask off and looks up, the light catching her face. I recognize her, even though we’ve never met.

Hope dances with the entirety of her body, from her face to her fingers to the tips of her toes. The corners of her eyes lift, her expression joyous as she throws herself into the choreography. She flies through the air, feet barely touching the ground. The percussionist of the ensemble pulls out finger cymbals, and accompanies her lively steps. The audience catches on, clapping to the beat. Hope spins, her sleeves swirling around her so that she is in the center of a whirlwind. In the final, breathless moment, she falls backward and catches herself with one hand, then sinks to the ground as the final run finishes on the pipa with a flourish. The studio fills with applause and whistles.

One of the dancers emerges from the sidelines to help her up, and then they all line up in two rows. The troupe in green in the front, obviously younger than the dancers in white in the back. All of them beaming at the successful performance, Tina included. They bow, together, drinking in the additional applause. Mrs. Tsai appears again to announce a brief intermission, and the spotlight moves around the room.

As the lights slowly turn on, I look around for Delia again, and even check in the balconies to see if she might have gone up there. But I realize with a seeping sense of dread that the balconies are empty. There are no chairs up there. There are no people coming down the stairs. Then who are the people I saw filling up that space? Who are those figures watching the performance alongside us?

“That was wonderful,” Baba exclaims excitedly while they enter the line for more drinks. Ma dabs at the corner of her eye with a tissue.

“I’m fine,” she says, eyes red-rimmed as she looks down at him with a strained smile. “Just reminded that I used to dance once.”

“What?” I exclaim, too loud, enough that the people waiting before us in line turn around to give us a curious look. I lower my voice, but I can’t help but ask: “You used to dance?” Ma has always been the most vocal about her dislike of dancing. How it leads nowhere in life, an excuse for attention-seeking people to look at them.

“It was ballroom dancing,” Baba says to us, grinning at this shared secret. “She took me a few times to her dance club, but I couldn’t keep up.”

“Psh.” Ma slaps his arm, dismissive. “It was so long ago, I forgot about it!”

“I want more fruit.” Denny tugs on her arm, and Ma leads him away, leaving me to stew on this topic alone.

Me: i went into the performance and i think spirits were watching. is that normal?

Shen: The mall has always been a gathering place for spirits because of the temple. They’re drawn to the yin energy that seeps through the doorway

“Did you see? Did you see?” Tina comes up, eyes shining. Her makeup still glittering at the corners of her eyes. She’s so lively and excited that I can’t help feel that twinge in my heart.

“It was quite the performance,” Baba acknowledges. “Quite the production. Very impressive.” Tina’s expression falls a little. It’s just like our father to comment on the quality of how something appears, rather than pay attention to her and how she performed. Baba turns to speak with a man who greets him with familiarity, and Tina is pulled away by her friends again.

I end up standing in the corner, scrolling on my phone while furtively glancing everywhere to see if Delia is around.

Me: i don’t see her

Shen: Keep looking

The five-minute warning before the show resumes is announced as someone rests their hands on my shoulders.

I turn around, and it’s Delia, standing there grinning like she just won the lottery.