"What's wrong. Big Brother?" It was Yuen Biao, noticing my black expression.

"Nothing," I said.

"It's not nothing," he countered.

I sighed and filled him in.

"So you think he might be taking you away?" said Yuen Biao.

I nodded.

"I Vkish my parents would come and take me away," he said somberly.

I AM JACKIE CHAN • 65

Still one of the youngest kids at the school. And he really missed his parents; they hardly ever visited, although they showered him with presents and hugs whenever they did.

When I first realized that my life with Master wasn't going to be the easy ride I'd hoped for, I hated my dad. I resented how he'd tempted me with visits and then trapped me here for good, and I wondered how he could abandon his only son to the wolves.

I understood better as I got older. There was no way Dad could have supported me and Mom if we'd all stayed at the Peak, and he couldn't have afforded to bring us all with him to Australia. The school was what was best for me at the time.

But now—it was a puzzling, mixed-up situation. I didn't know what to think or feel anymore. I understood my father, but I resented him. I dreamed of escape, but I wanted to stay. What would I say when I saw him again? What should I expect from this unexpected reunion, and what would become of me?

All night long I turned these questions over in my head, coming no closer to finding answers. In the morning, I was given leave to prepare for my father's arrival, scrubbing myself clean and putting on my best outfit—no longer my cowboy suit, which I'd long since outgrown, but a pair of faded blue pants and a fresh white T-shirt.

Washed and groomed, I sat at the long, wooden table in the practice hall, waiting with Master for the knock that would announce my parents.

The wait was awful. I could hear Yuen Lung screaming at the other students in the background, and wished I was practicing with them rather than sitting anxiously on the hard wooden bench, afraid even to shift my posture.

There was a soft thumping on the door. Master patted me on the back and led me to the entranceway. I opened the door, and for the first time in years saw the man who'd brought me into the world.

Australia had not changed my father much. He was still the same tall, stern man of my memories, with a few more lines on his face, and a bit more color to his skin. He seemed as awkward in my presence as I was in his, and we stood there staring at one another until Master beckoned my parents in off the stoop. He and my mother stepped inside, and Mom immediately put her arm around me.

We walked to the long table and sat down, as Master signaled for tea. Father sat on one side of me, and Mom on the other, with Master at the head of the table.

"You've grown, Ah Pao," he said, his voice gruff. "Maybe you've even outgrown your name." He was right; now a skinny adolescent, I no longer deserved the baby name "Cannonball." I was more like a rifle: lean, compact, and hard.

66 • I AM JACKIE CHAN

Master looked into my face and nodded in my father's direction. His expression carried a suggestion: I hadn't seen my father for such a long time. Shouldn't I embrace him?

I swallowed and turned to Dad, folding my arms around him in an unfamiliar gesture of affection. My father responded clumsily in kind. He'd never been one for demonstrations of his feelings—the softer ones, anyway—and clearly felt uncomfortable at this display. But Master seemed pleased, and my mother positively beamed at the sight.

My father cleared his throat, as if to change the subject. The tea arrived, giving us something to do with our mouths other than talk. It was a relief.

Mom was the first of us to break the silence. "Kong-sang, how are you doing in your studies?" It was the first time she'd ever called me by my given name, and it sounded strange from her lips. Bemused, I nodded, my expression blank.

"He is doing well," said Master, saving me from having to respond. "He is not our best acrobat, or our best singer, or our best fighter—"

So much for my savior!

"—but he is sufficiently accomplished in all things, and nearly ready to advance to performance. You should be proud of your son."

Master's words were like treasure. I'd never heard him direcdy praise any of us, so hearing him tell my parents that I had been worth all of his effort brought a smile to my face. And the more I thought of it, the more I had to agree with him. All of my brothers and sisters had something in which they excelled—my brother Yuen Wah had good form, litde Yuen Biao was a tremendous acrobat, and Biggest Brother was one of the most powerful fighters. I wasn't the best at anything, but I was good enough at everything. I had no special talent—but that was a blessing in disguise. Because if I had been the best singer, then the teachers would have made me concentrate on singing. If I had been the best actor, then they might have made me specialize in acting. Instead, I got a chance to learn everything and do everything well.

My father looked at me with surprise, as if he'd never expected me to succeed.

"Oh, Kong-sang, we ar^ so very proud of you!" said my mother, squeezing me.

I was pretty proud of myself! Because the master had said something else that I'd nearly missed; he'd suggested that I was nearly ready to perform, to show off my skills in public. And that meant that my dream of the crowd, the audience cheering in the dark, was going to come true. Sometime soon. Unless . . .

Unless my parents took me away. My stomach flip-flopped, and the smile faded from my face. The dream, once so close, now gone forever.

I stared at the soft cloth slippers on my feet, suddenly wishing that the

I AM JACKIE CHAN • 67

day had never begun at all. "May I be excused?" I asked in a subdued voice. Master, deep in conversation with my parents, waved me away, and I slipped from the wooden bench to return to my brothers and sisters. They were taking a breather, their faces red with exertion. Yuen Lung was leaning against the wall, the master's cane at rest against his shoulder.

"So, Big Nose, how are Mommy and Daddy?" he said.

I ignored the sarcastic tone in his voice. "They're fine," I said.

"Are you going away, Big Brother?" piped Yuen Biao, sitting with legs outspread on the practice floor.

"Dunno," I said. "No one's said anything."

Yuen Lung laughed. "Nice knowing you. Big Nose. Don't let the door hit you on the ass when you leave."

I clenched my fists. "I ain't going anywhere." Not yet, I thought to myself.

"Yah, just admit it, you're a washout," he said. "Just like 'Big Brother' Yuen Ting."

Get angry enough, and reason and training go right out the window. Every cell in my body screamed that I couldn't pick a fight with Big Brother, that doing so would be against hundreds of years of tradition. If I so much as raised a hand in anger in his direction, any chance I had at a career in the opera was history.

Then I remembered that it was probably history anyway. So who cared?

"Listen, Yuen Lung," I said, my throat constricting in anger. "I'm not gonna let you push me into doing something stupid right now. You're still my big brother. But I swear to you, the first time I run into you outside of these walls, I'm going to kick your ass."

Yuen Lung pushed himself forward, slamming the rod hard against the wall. "You little—!" he shouted. "Ya better bring an army, shrimp, 'cause you're gonna need one."

"Don't think so," I said, with more courage than I felt.

"Yeah, I think so," said Yuen Lung, his grin suggesting he was looking forward to the opportunity. The rest of the kids gathered in a semicircle around us, horrified and eager at the same time. No one had ever committed the crime of challenging a big brother. Which is also to say, no one had ever had the guts to challenge a big brother. Until now. And so . . . the students wanted blood.

Feeling sick, I suspected they'd get it—only it was going to be mine.

"Students!" said Master, his eyes flicking suspiciously back and forth between Biggest Brother and me. We quickly dropped our hostile expressions and fell in line with the other kids. "I wish to announce a special surprise. Mr. and Mrs. Chan have brought food for a celebration feast. Today, instead of afternoon practice, we will have a going-away party!"

The assembled students screamed their approval. Even Biggest

68 • I AM JACKIE CHAN

Brother, after throwing me a final rude gesture, relaxed his scowl and cheered—food being the ultimate peacemaker at the academy.

Only I stayed quiet.

"Hey, Big Nose, send me a picture of a koala," said Yuen Kwai as he ran past me. "Or better yet—a naked native girl!"

It was all going the way I'd feared.

My opera life was over.

"Big Brother?"

Yuen Biao poked his head into the storage room, to find me sitting in my good pants on the dusty floor, my chin on my knees. I lifted a hand in greeting.

"What's wrong?"

Yuen Biao came in and sat down next to me.

"Have you ever had a dream, Litde Brother?" I said.

He cocked his head, thinking. "Sure," he said. "I dream all the time. Mosdy I have nightmares, though."

"No, I mean like something you really, really want."

Yuen Biao stared at the floor. "I really, really want to go home," he said. "Back to my parents. Like you—^you're so lucky. . . ."

"I don't feel so lucky," I said.

Little Brother looked at me in shock. "You mean, you really want to stay here? Why?"

"'Cause if I go, I won't be able to do opera. Going onstage. The lights, the audience . . . you know. Being a star."

With a strange laugh, Yuen Biao buried his face in his hands. "You think we're really going to be stars?" he said, in a voice that sounded much too c)Tiical coming from such a young mouth. "All we got to look forward to is more practice and more hurting and more screaming from Master, and maybe someday we'll get to perform, but there are dozens, maybe hundreds of kids just like us out there. And they all want to be stars, too. What makes us so special?"

I put my arm around Yuen Biao, who was sobbing gendy. "Hey, Litde Brother, don't cry," I said, trying to sound comforting. Even if I felt like joining him. "You know what makes us special? We're the best, that's what."

Yuen Biao looked up and smiled, wiping his eyes.

"And I don't care what happens. If my parents drag me away, I'll jump off the plane. I'll come back here, find you, and we'll go become stars together."

"I saw some kids doing backflips in the street last time we went to the park," Yuen Biao said. "People were giving them money."

"We're better than them," I asserted. "We could get rich!"

I AM JACKIE CHAN • 69

"No more Master," he said.

"No more Biggest Brother," I responded.

"I guess this is what you'd call a dream, huh, Big Brother?" said Yuen Biao.

I laughed. "Nah, a dream is when you eat until you're sick. And that's what we're gonna do right now." Grabbing Yuen Biao's hand, I pulled him out of the storage room and down the corridor, toward the sound of clicking chopsticks and clattering dishes that signified a party under way.

THE LITTLE PRINCE

hen I went to sit at my usual place in the middle of the long wooden bench, I was led by my father to the head of the table, where I sat next to Master facing my parents. It was the first time I'd been honored this way since my "honeymoon" years before.

The table, usually bare, had been covered with a rich red cloth. The simple dishes of stir-fried vegetables and steamed fish we were used to were nowhere to be seen; you could almost hear the wooden planks groan as they supported platters of roasted duck, huge steaming tureens of tofu-and-watercress soup, pork knuckles braised in soy, and thick yellow noodles in brown sauce. Master had opened a round jug of plum wine and was drinking small cups of it in honor of my mother and my father. In a rare gesture of magnanimity, he even poured tiny amounts in glasses for the big brothers and me, and led us in a toast.

"To our special guests, Mr. and Mrs. Chan, who have so graciously provided this feast," said Master, raising his cup. We drank from our glasses, swallowing the thin brown fluid. Yuen Tai coughed as the deceptively sweet wine burned its way down his throat, and Biggest Brother broke out into hearty laughter as he slapped his choking friend on the back.

Master ignored the faux pas. "And now, we have a special announcement about our brother Yuen Lo," he said, returning to his seat as my father rose from his.

"Master Yu," he said haltingly. "Good students of the China Drama Academy, I thank you for taking care of my son."

He put his hand on my mother's shoulder.

"I have come back to Hong Kong to do something I wish I had been able to do years ago. ..."

I tensed in my seat. This was it.

"I am bringing my wife Lee-lee to Australia."

Master nodded. The students looked at one another in confusion. And I—I found myself unable to breathe. My mother!

Mom was going to leave. I would be alone, truly alone, for the first time. And as much as I'd been embarrassed at the teasing of the other boys when Mom had visited, I couldn't imagine what life would be like without her.

I thought back to my earliest memories, of Mom ironing as I played in

I AM JACKIE CHAN • 71

the washtub. Of being cradled in her arms as she waved away mosquitoes and sang me to sleep. Of her smile, and soft hands, and gentle voice. I pushed away my plate, barely hearing my father as he continued to talk.

Yuen Lung and the other elder students looked at one another. What did this have to do with the academy?

But my father wasn't finished.

"And so. Master Yu, I want to ask a special favor of you," he said. "Since neither I nor my wife will be here in Hong Kong, I would like you to consider adopting our boy as your godson."

I gave a start and looked up. So did the other students. Adoption!

Master looked at my parents and then at me. "Though he is not the best behaved of my students, I think there is potential in this boy," he said. "I will agree to adopt him."

Yuen Lung and Yuen Tai gritted their teeth. Me, the master's godson! This was too much! But there was nothing they could do. Master had made his decision.

My heart was pounding, and my head seemed filled with noise. What could this mean? I began dinner prepared to pack my bags; now, I found myself being given a position of unprecedented honor.

But one thing was certain.

I was here to stay.

We finished dinner in shocked silence. As the dishes were being cleared and the other students drifted away in groups, discussing the weird new state of events. Master took a small red box out of his pocket.

"Yuen Lo, come over here," he said, opening the box. Inside was a glittering gold necklace. I bent my head, and he fastened it around my neck. "From this day on, you are like a son to me," he said solemnly. My parents looked on with unrestrained pride.

I guess I should have been happy. After all, I would have my chance to make it on the stage, to win the applause I knew was mine. And I would do it not as a no-name player, a ragged unknown boy, but as Master's godson—the "prince" of the school. It was a position any of my big brothers would have given their left arms to receive.

But I was beginning to remember the challenge I'd thrown down to Yuen Lung, when I was certain I was on my way out If he had it in for me before, this would be the straw that would break the camel's back—^and possibly my neck.

I looked at Master. I couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"Thanks," I mumbled.

I was doomed.

EVERYTHING HAS ITS PRICE

o there was a black cloud over my head as I set off with my parents for the airport. I knew this would be the last time we'd all be together for many years, but the swift turnarounds of the past few hours had left me—usually known for having a big mouth to go along with my big nose—completely speechless. Dad must have been doing well in Australia, because instead of the bus, we took a taxicab, the three of us squeezing into the backseat.

My mom wanted to tell me how much she would miss me. I wanted to reassure her that I'd be okay, that I'd make her proud. My dad wanted to say something, anything that would seem appropriate, given the situation, but I guess he was as tongue-tied as I was.

Finally, he broke the silence. "Will you be all right alone in Hong Kong?" he asked.

I nodded again.

And then Mom, overcome with emotion, lurched forward and told the cabdriver to stop. With a jerk, he pulled the car over, turning to shout at my mother for scaring him half to death and nearly causing an accident—but she'd already thrown the door open and pushed her way outside. Neither Dad nor I had any idea what she was doing, and after a moment's hesitation, we both made a move to go after her.

Then we saw her weaving back through the crowd, in her light wool coat and cotton dress, her hands weighted down with a red plastic bag of fruit. She struggled to pull it into the cab after her, and then almost shyly presented it to me. I looked at the bag, and at my mother, and it was like a dam broke inside me. I let the bag slip to the floor of the cab and hugged her, squeezing her with all of the force of my thin young arms. I felt a soft pressure on my shoulder, and I knew it was my dad, adding his own restrained display of emotion to the tableau.

The car pulled into the airport, with the three of us still in that pose. Dad paid the driver and sent him off after retrieving Mom's baggage from the trunk. And then there was an endless wait on line, and papers exchanged and passports stamped, and then the parade down the long white corridor to the exit gate. Mom's bags were heavy; after all, they contained everything she owned. I struggled with two of them, while my fa-

lAMJACKIECHAN • 73

ther carried the others, refusing to let my mother trouble herself even with the lightest of her possessions.

"This is it, Kong-sang," my father said, as we reached the queue of strangers bound for Australia. Though some of the passengers were foreigners, many were Chinese: men, women, and even little boys and girls boarding the plane, headed for vacations or new lives in that unusual, unfamiliar place. Mom embraced me one last time, and told me that she would always be thinking of me, to take care of myself and not worry her. Dad patted my head, and then pressed some money into my hand, telling me to use it to buy admittance to the airport viewing platform, where I'd be able to watch their plane take off. He probably suspected I'd just use it to buy candy, but not this time.

I watched as the back of my father's head disappeared through the gate, and saw my mother briefly turn her face and smile, her eyes full of tears. And then I ran like hell down the corridor to make it to the viewing platform, caroming off tourists and knocking businessmen aside in my rush. The man at the turnstile looked at me like I was a dangerous lunatic; still, he took the cash I handed to him, and simply watched as I pounded my way up the spiral staircase.

I was feeling very strange. Like there was a wall of stone in my heart, blocking something significant. I didn't know why, but getting to the platform in time to see my parents' plane take off was suddenly the most important thing in the world.

Breathless and rumpled, I made it to the top of the tower just in time to see my mother and father's plane taxi down the runway. I was alone on the platform, and the thick double-paned glass cut off the sound of the engines and the screech of rubber tires. In utter silence, the plane picked up speed, lifting its nose, and pulled away from the ground, fighting against gravity.

Then, with a roar, it turned and elevated, and disappeared into the clouds.

It was only then I realized that tears were running in uncontrollable streams down my cheeks. In that screaming silver bird were the last ties I had to my blood and my memories, my innocence and my childhood. There was an entire world in that plane. A world I no longer belonged in, and that I'd never see again.

And what did I have instead?

I fingered the gold chain around my neck, lifted the heavy bag of fruit over my shoulder, and headed back down the stairs, back to the only place I could now call home and the only people in Hong Kong that I could call my family.

When I got to the school, Master squeezed my shoulders roughly and welcomed me back. Then he lifted the gold chain from around my neck.

74 • IAMJACKIECHAN

"With you running around so much, you might lose this," he said. "I will keep it in a safe place for you."

And he did. So safe that I never saw it again.

I didn't see my mother for many years after that. Not until I'd reached adulthood, and by then she was older, a litde grayer and more fragile than in her prime, as I'd known her. We kept in touch, through the tapes that she and Dad continued to send, and occasionally through letters. My mother had no education and couldn't read or write. So every time she sent me a letter, I knew it wasn't in her hand. But if anything, that made it even more special to me, because to get that letter written, she'd had to spend her free time cooking or cleaning for other people, doing special favors for people who were better educated than she was. They would write her words, and they would read what I sent back, explaining the characters and describing the scenes I related. I thought of her crying as I told her of the exhausting practices and the struggles I had to gain the skills I needed to succeed. I never told her about the beatings, the discipline I received from Master and from the big brothers, but I knew she knew. And when I read her words, or listened to her voice on tape, sitting in the storage room behind the back staircase that led to Master's quarters, I'd cry too, letting tears run down my face just as I had when I saw her and Dad fly away that day at the airport.

It was always the same. "I miss you," she would say. "But you're a big boy now. Listen to Master. Be good. Make sure you keep clean, and eat well." But the heart in those words shone through, building a bridge that crossed an ocean, a bridge of shared tears.

As I grew older, and more unwilling to lose myself in my emodons, I started to set the taped messages aside, promising I'd listen to them later. The tapes gathered dust and piled up in the storage room. I never found the dme. And one day, I realized they were gone. To this day, I don't know what happened to them. There's a piece of my history with my parents that will always be missing. All my fault, and something I'll always regret.

When I arrived back at the school, I realized that I was stepping across the threshold as a different person from when I left. My master's declaration of my adoption couldn't help but change things somehow. Or would it? Maybe it was just a gesture to comfort my mother before she left. Maybe everything would go back to the way it was before. Like normal— if it could ever have been called normal.

As usual, I was wrong. It was dinnerdme when I arrived, and the long table was lined with expectant faces awaiung the evening meal. We'd eaten so much at our lunch feast that you'd think we wouldn't be hungry

I AM JACKIE CHAN • 75

again so soon, but food was so precious at the academy that we'd eat Hke goldfish, until we died of overstuffing, if we had the opportunity. There were plenty of lean times to make up for the very few chances we had to act like pigs.

All eyes were on me as I walked toward the table, headed for my customary place.

"Yuen Lo," said Master. "Where are you going?"

I stopped in midpace. "To sit down and eat, Master."

"You are now my godson," he said. "From now on, your place is here."

I walked like a zombie to the seat next to Master, as Yuen Lung shifted his weight over and made room.

"Pass Yuen Lo the fish, Yuen Lung," said Master, returning to his meal. Biggest Brother looked like he wanted to dump the dish over my head. If we'd been in a cartoon, there would have been steam shooting out of his ears. But with Master a few feet away, he didn't dare make a move to hurt me as I knew he wanted to—a kick under the table, a stray elbow jab, a chopstick in my eyeball.

This, of course, only made him angrier. It was remarkably fun to see him so frustrated, sitting there like a big fat rice cooker building up steam. As I took the head of the fish—the best part—and started to shovel food into my mouth, I decided that I could get used to this godson thing. I couldn't have gotten deeper under his skin if I'd slapped him across the face.

We were still without a new tutor, so Master declared that, following dinner, we'd have a special practice to make up for what we'd missed during the day. As I stretched in preparation for the workout, Yuen Lung went to take his position at the front of the hall. I felt his foot come down on my toes with crushing weight as he crossed before me. I stifled a yelp.

"So, shall we bow to you now. Your Highness?" he whispered at me under his breath. "Guess you're now the 'Prince.' That's my tribute. Plenty more where that came from."

Not good.

And then training began.

"Today we will focus on forms and positions," said Master. We groaned to ourselves. This was one of the most difficult aspects of Chinese opera: the striking of poses that had to be held with absolute stillness, often for minutes at a time. Sometimes, during practice, if Master thought that we were slacking off, he'd call out "Don't move!"—and, regardless of the position in which we found ourselves, we would have to freeze until he gave us the signal to continue. An unlucky student who moved a limb would instantly pay the price of Master's displeasure, as the cane came out and slapped the errant arm or leg. Stumbling out of position would demand even worse punishment: kneeling at the head of the class, pants down, as

76 • I AM JACKIE CHAN

Master deliberately and harshly applied the rod to the wretched student's backside. And, of course, the rest of us would have to maintain our frozen positions.

We stood quietly in our rows, wary of what the practice would bring.

"Yuen Lung, lead the students in basic forms," Master said, crossing his arms, his eagle eyes ready to spy the tiniest of errors.

"Okay, let's go!" yelled Biggest Brother. "On my count: one, two, three, four!" Punch, sway, turn, punch, kick . . .

"Stop!" shouted Master.

We froze in place, our legs high in the air. Master walked slowly around us, watching for signs of movement. Seconds, then minutes went by, and our brows began to sweat, knees to feel weak. Somehow, everyone managed to stay upright on one leg.

"All right!" he said, finally, "Everyone can move—except Yuen Lo."

The other students collapsed in relief, dropping their legs and panting. I gritted my teeth and remained immobile, my heart pounding and my muscles stiffening. Master stood expressionless before me, ignoring the increasingly desperate look on my face. And then he motioned Yuen Lung over.

"Bring me the teapot, Yuen Lung," he said. Biggest Brother nodded and headed for the kitchen, moving with unusual slowness. By the time he returned, I could feel my stomach beginning to buckle, and my left leg, the one on which I was balancing, was a mass of pain.

Master poured himself a cup of tea, and sipped it, relaxing as his face was framed by steam.

I wanted to scream.

"Now that you are my godson, you have to set an example for the others," he said, finishing the tea and pouring himself a second cup. "When your brothers and sisters train, you will train twice as hard. Everything they learn, you will learn twice as well. You will make me proud, because that is what I expect from my own children."

He then leaned over and carefully balanced the cup of tea on my leg.

"If you spill any tea, you vrill be punished," said Master. "And godson—^when you are punished, you will receive twice as many blows."

Standing to the side with the other students, Yuen Lung suddenly looked like it had turned into the happiest day of his life.

The teacup fell, splashing hot liquid as it shattered.

Master looked at me, shaking his head in disappointment, and making a familiar gesture with his stick.

At least kneeling on the floor gave me a chance to rest my legs.

Things only got worse from there. During handstand practice, Yuen Kwai was caught taking a covert rest, and was hit twice with Master's stick—once for each leg that was leaning against the wall.

IAMJACKIECHAN • 77

Then Master came over to me as I displayed my perfectly erect upside-down form . . . and hit me four times.

"Since you are my godson, his failure is your failure, and his punishment is your punishment," said Master, "h is up to you to set a better example."

Yuen Lung couldn't help but let out a sudden guffaw at my plight, and Master came over and gave him a quick slap with the rod.

And then /got two more slaps.

"Do you see, Yuen Lo?" said Master. "From now on, every time there is punishment, you will be punished . . . only twice as much. I am trying to teach you the merits of responsibility. You must share your brothers' and sisters'joys, and also share their pain. Now, everyone, take a rest."

I knew better by this time than to think that Master's words applied to me. Legs straight, I thought to myself. Arms steady. No wobbling. Legs straight, arms steady . . .

UP IN SMOKE

fter the most excruciating practice of my life finally came to an end, I was completely aware of the fact that my princehood was going to make me miserable. At this rate, would I even survive to graduation? For the first time, I thought seriously about gathering my things and quietly slipping away into the night, as Yuen Ting, the first Biggest Brother, had done years ago. Yuen Biao's suggestion of becoming a street acrobat didn't sound like a bad idea.

I slumped down against the wall of practice hall, exhausted. After the workout, Master had left the school to go meet friends, giving us a rare evening to ourselves. It was hours yet until lights out, so I headed for the storage room to catch some quick shut-eye.

Dazed and stumbling, I almost didn't recognize the rough hand that grabbed my shoulder as I made my way down the corridor.

"What is it?" I mumbled, listlessly turning around. It was Yuen Lung. Oh no, my clouded brain thought. Not now.

But Biggest Brother didn't look like he wanted to fight. Not this time, anyway.

"It's Yuen Biao," he said. "He's sick. You'd better come over."

Out in the courtyard, a crowd of students were crouched around Litde Brother, who had his hands clenched tighdy to his stomach.

"What's wrong, Yuen Biao?" I said, shaking the sleep out of my head.

"My stomach hurts," he said tearfully.

"Ah, you probably just ate too much," said Yuen Tai. "I saw you cramming cookies in your face at lunch."

Yuen Lung gave Second Biggest Brother a punch on the shoulder. "Shut up, moron," he said. "Master and Madame won't be back until late. If the kid croaks, we're gonna be neck deep in crap."

Yuen Tai gulped. "Uh, maybe should we give them a call."

Biggest Brother rolled his eyes. "Yeah, anyone know where they are? Besides, /ain't gonna be the one to interrupt Master on his night out."

I helped Yuen Biao sit up. "What's good for a stomachache?" I asked.

The other students muttered to one another.

"Ice cream?" said Yuen Kwai. Yuen Lung slapped him in the head.

Then Yuen Wah spoke up. He was a thin kid whose mastery of martial arts form had us all in awe. When we did "freeze" practice, he'd still be as

IAMJACKIECHAN • 79

motionless as a statue long after the rest of us collapsed. He could stand on his hands indefinitely. In fact, once when Master told us to take a break, he kept on going, head to the ground, until someone realized that he'd actually fallen asleep upside down.

It was all almost inhuman, and it lent a kind of supernatural air of authority to his words. He didn't speak a lot, but when he did, we listened. Even Biggest Brother. "I heard that smoking cigarettes was a good way to cure an upset stomach," he said. Other kids quickly chimed in that they'd heard that, too.

The problem was that the only cigarettes to be found anywhere at the academy were owned by Master and Madame. And so, to save Yuen Biao's life, someone would have to sneak into their room and steal some smokes!

A discussion began as to who would be the best candidate for the job. Yuen Lung and Yuen Tai refused, on the grounds that such a matter was best handled by juniors. The younger students responded that it was the duty of the elders to take care of them, so they shouldn't be doing it, either.

Meanwhile, Yuen Biao moaned.

"I got it," said Yuen Lung, finally. "Prince Big Nose'll do it."

"What?" I sputtered. "Why me?"

"He's your best friend," said Biggest Brother. "Besides, figure it this way: if anyone else is caught doing it, you're gonna get punished too, right? So why get two people screwed when you can take the heat on your own?"

I had to admit, the logic was inescapable. After some more halfhearted attempts to pass the buck, I threw up my hands and went back inside.

Master and Madame's quarters were in the same building as the school, down the corridor from our complex. My heart was pounding as I crept down the hallway. Opening the door, I went into their bedroom and saw several packs of smokes scattered on Madame's bedside table. One of them was open and half full. I grabbed it like a lifeline, pulled out a few cigarettes, and headed back toward the corridor.

Then I had a revelation: when they got back, Madame would surely realize that cigarettes were missing, and the jig would be up. But what if I took an entire pack? She'd probably just think she'd dropped it on the floor. She probably wouldn't even notice it was gone at all. Feeling clever, I put the pilfered cigarettes back and slid one of the plastic-wrapped packs off the tabletop into my palm. Holding it concealed in my hand, I tiptoed back out of the room, feeling stupid; it's not like there was anyone to witness my crime, so why was I sneaking around like—like a thief?

Even so, I walked down the hall looking over my shoulder, as if at any moment Master was going to jump out of the shadows and whip me silly. When I finally made it downstairs and out to the courtyard, I felt like a

80 • I AM JACKIE CHAN

conquering hero. I'd gone into the lion's den and smuggled smokes out from under his nose.

Well, not really. But I'd certainly done something that even big-shot Biggest Brother was too chicken to do.

"Damn, he did it," said Yuen Lung, seeing me walk forward, the pack held high above my head like a trophy. "Didn't think you had it in you, Big Nose."

It was backhanded praise, but from Biggest Brother it was like honey from a rock. He took the pack from my hand and pulled off the plastic wrapper, tossing it to the ground. Soon, all of us were sitting in a circle in the courtyard puffing on cigarettes, Yuen Biao's troubles mostly forgotten in our eagerness to try out this new vice.

"How's your belly, baby?" said Yuen Lung to Yuen Biao, his lit cigarette dangling from his lower lip. He was the only one of us who managed to make it look kind of cool. As for the rest of us, one of the younger sisters accidentally burned herself and threw her cigarette away, screaming. Yuen Kwai was rolling on the ground coughing and hacking. Yuen Tai couldn't keep his lit, and setded for holding it in the corner of his mouth, hoping that the other big brothers didn't notice he was faking.

To me, the whole experience was like inhaling car exhaust, but I wasn't going to be the only one to say so. Meanwhile, Biggest Sister, comforting the girl who got burned, told me that smoking was a filthy habit.

"Ah, we shouldn't be wasting good smokes on girls anyway," I responded, disgusted that she didn't appreciate the glory of my victory. She picked up Litde Sister and stalked off to put some soy sauce on the injury. They were soon followed by Yuen Biao, whose face had slowly turned green as he sucked on his smoke. It wasn't long before he bolted from our circle and ran indoors, headed for the kitchen sink.

He came back a few minutes later, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "I think I feel better," he said. We broke down in laughter, and he puffed out his cheeks, pouting. "Stop it, guys, I told you I was sick!"

We were all feeling a little queasy by this time, so after declaring that the cigarettes were the smoothest ones we'd ever tasted (not to mention the only ones), we crumpled up the empty pack and carefully picked up stray butts and other evidence of the big smoke-out. "Ahh, nothing like a good smoke before bed," said Yuen Tai.

Yuen Kwai and I looked at each other. "Whatever you say. Big Brother," said Yuen Kwai, stifling a chuckle.

"Lights out in ten minutes," shouted Biggest Brother. And we prepared to setde in for the night.

It was 3 A.M. when we were woken by a pounding on the door to the pracuce hall.

I AM JACKIE CHAN • 81

"Dammit, Big Nose, we're screwed" muttered Yuen Lung, kicking his blanket away. "I thought you said he wasn't gonna figure out we took 'em."

I was in a state of panic. How did Master know? Did we leave something incriminating lying around in the courtyard? My earlier paranoia seemed justified. It was like magic. Master had eyes everywhere.

The door opened and Master walked in, his face blank. "Stand up and form a line, hands out, palms up," he said. We quickly arranged ourselves in order of seniority, Yuen Lung at the head and the littlest brother at the end. Using the tip of his rattan cane. Master flipped over each of our blankets in turn, searching for the missing cigarettes—not knowing, maybe, that all of them had long since been smoked.

He then turned back to us and studied the line, examining our faces, each in turn. There was a half-empty pack of cigarettes in his hand.

"I thought you said you put the loose ones back," whispered Yuen Kwai out of the corner of his mouth, as Master turned his attention to the htdest kids.

"I did!" I whispered back. Didn't I?

Master gazed at the head of the line. "Some of Madame's cigarettes have been stolen," he barked. "There is a thief here. Who is it?"

No one spoke.

Master went to Yuen Lung and looked at him full in the face, tapping his cane against one palm.

And then Yuen Lung, in an act of nicotine-fueled courage, asked Master a question. "Master, how do you know they were stolen? Is it possible they just got lost?"

Master shook the half-full pack and thrust them into Yuen Lung's face. "This is not the way Madame keeps her cigarettes," he said, his voice icy.

I looked out of the corner of my eye at Master's hand and flinched. Several sticks jutted out of the pack. But instead of the familiar tan filters of Madame's fancy American cigarettes, white stubs showed. In my rush to leave the scene of the crime, I'd put the cigarettes back in the pack upside down.

"Now, I will repeat myself. Since you seem so interested in how I take care of my property, perhaps you know what happened to it. Yuen Lung, who stole my cigarettes?"

"I don't know," he responded. Master quickly struck him three times with the cane.

He then went to Yuen Tai, who answered the same. He, too, received three blows.

Next in line was Biggest Sister, who looked furious at being included in this disaster. She was usually the sweetest of girls, always protecting the younger kids and taking care of us when we'd suffered particularly hard beatings. Not this time.

82 • I AM JACKIE CHAN

Master turned to her assuming she, like the others, was not going to talk. But as he lifted his stick, she pulled her hands away. "I know who did it, Master," she said. "It was Yuen Lo." Her finger pointed direcdy at me, halfway down the line. Master's gaze followed the accusing digit, and his brow creased in fury.

Girls! I thought to myself, clenching my fists. Can't trust them worth a damn.

Master walked slowly over to me and grabbed me by the shirt. The others watched as he pulled me across the hall and over to the long wooden dinner table.

"Yuen Lo, which hand did you steal with?" he asked.

I thought quickly. If I was going to lose a hand, it might as well be one I don't use as often. "The . . . the left, Master," I responded.

"Put your left hand on the table," he said.

I complied, trying not to shake. Master raised the cane and hit me hard, five times. Because the back of my hand was against the hard wooden surface of the table, each blow felt like a hammer, bruising my knuckles while simultaneously raising thick red welts on my palm. Somehow, I managed not to scream, or even wince.

WTien the beating was over, I released my breath and rubbed my throbbing hand. I wouldn't even be able to make a fist for days. But I'd gotten off easy. Five blows wasn't even twice what Yuen Lung and Yuen Tai had received.

Master stopped me before I could turn and walk away. "Yuen Lo, which hand did you smoke with?" he said.

I closed my eyes and whispered, "My right." Swallowing, I put my other hand down on the table and took another five blows on that palm.

Master turned and left the hall. The first day of my princehood was over.

Biggest Sister turned out to be right after all.

Smoking really was bad for your health.

THE CHOSEN ONES

guess I deserved what I got. I forgave Biggest Sister later, when she helped me tie strips of cloth soaked in ice water around my hands. But it was a long time before Master let any of us forget the crime. It seemed like he'd figured out that we'd all shared in the ill-gotten gain of my thievery, and so he ran us ragged, extending our practices by hours, pushing us to the very limit of our endurance.

And then, finally, a few months later, he made an announcement over dinner that served partly to explain why he was driving us so hard.

"Students, I have trained you for many years, and your skills have become nearly acceptable," he said. The words were as close to words of praise as Master could come. "But you are not training in order to please me," he said.

We looked at one another in silence. That was news to us.

"No, you are working for a much greater goal, and a much more demanding group of critics," he continued. "The audience! Because when you make a mistake before me, you may suffer punishment, but when you make an error before them, you damage your reputation, and the reputation of the school and its master. This is not something that will heal as easily as a bruise. And that is why you have been working so hard these past few weeks. Because when you step on the stage, even for the first time, you must be perfect. And that time is coming soon."

The dream. Applause, the cheering of the crowd, fame and glory. It was about to come true!

Master told us the date of our first public performance, which would take place at the theater at Lai Yuen Amusement Park—familiar ground. He explained that each of us would play important roles during the show—some of us behind the scenes, working the curtains and shifting props, others assisting with makeup and costumes, and still others in the chorus that would play crowd scenes and fill the ranks during battles.

But a select few—the best and most skilled of us—^would be placed in positions of special honor. They would be the school's stars, performing each opera's heartbreakingly difficult leading roles.

These chosen ones would stand at that grand altar of communion between player and audience: center stage. For the brief space of an opera

84 • I AM JACKIE CHAN

turn, they would command the attention of a mob of rapt worshipers, becoming princes and emperors and heroes—and gods. Upon hearing Master's words, each of us knew in our hearts that this, and only this, was what we wanted, that any other place in the repertory would be second-best, and thus, nothing at all.

We practiced with extra determination that evening, knowing that Master would be announcing his selections in the morning. Each of us tried to catch his eye, although it was unlikely that a single night's work would alter an opinion formed after years of observation. Afterward, we prepared for bed, cursing ourselves for mistakes we remembered from months gone by, or congratulating ourselves for recollected moments when we'd brought a tiny smile to our master's face.

"Lights out!" shouted Yuen Lung on schedule, and we setded into our blankets. But none of us could sleep.

"Hey, Big Nose," whispered Yuen Kwai. "Who do you think got it?"

I knew what my guesses were: Biggest Brother, of course, because he was the school's best fighter, and because he was Biggest Brother. Yuen Tai would probably be selected as well. Yuen Wah, certainly. But I didn't want to say anything for fear of being overheard. Clustered together as we were for warmth, a private conversation was impossible. "I dunno," I said.

"I bet you got it," he said. "You're the prince, right? How could he not pick you?"

I thought for a moment. Was Yuen Kwai right? I was Master's godson. But ever since the cigarette incident, he'd barely spoken to me and treated me with no particular favor. "He'll probably not pick me just to spite me," I said.

I felt a sudden sharp pain in my ankle as something heavy hit me. It was Yuen Lung's foot. "Hell!" he said. "How many times do I have to tell you to shut up when other people are trying to sleep?"

"Sorry, Big Brother."

"Sorry, Big Brother."

We pulled our blankets over our heads and tried to doze off. It took a very long time.

The morning sun seemed especially bright the next day, filling the practice hall with light. We stood in our rows, hands at our sides, listening to Master with undivided attention.

"I will now announce the students who have been selected for our performance troupe, which will be known as the Seven Litde Fortunes," he said.

So there would be seven lucky students. Seven chances to be a star.

"Each of you, as you are called, please come to the front of the room. Yuen Lung!" he said, looking at Biggest Brother. Yuen Lung stepped forward, swaggering like there'd never been any doubt.

I AM JACKIE CHAN • 85

"Yuen Tai!" Again, no surprise.

"Yuen Wah! Yuen Wu!" Our school's reigning king of martial arts stances joined Yuen Lung in line, followed by another older boy who was one of the academy's best singers.

"Yuen Kwai!" Yuen Kwai gave a jump and looked up. Grinning like an idiot, he walked up to join the line. Just two more, I thought. Two more shots.

"Yuen Biao!" As disciplined as we were trying to act, the sound of Yuen Biao's name triggered an involuntary buzz of whispering. Little Brother was one of the youngest of our student body; for him to be selected as one of the stars of the school was outrageous. But, we had to admit, he was a natural acrobat, capable of twisting his small body into positions we could only dream of, as comfortable in the air or upside down as we were upright and on our feet.

There was just one position left, and dozens of qualified candidates. I was sure I'd lost. I was destined for a future of lurking in the wings, or carrying spears. I was going to be a nobody. And all of my father's ambitions for me to become a great man, all of my spodight dreams, were for nothing.

"Quiet!" shouted Master, silencing the muttering. "There is still one more member of our troupe to be named." And we all leaned forward, our mouths slightly open, anticipating the call.

"Yuen Lo, step forward."

My mouth dropped open. Me! He'd picked me!

I bolted from my position and ran forward. Out of sheer ecstasy, I did a forward handspring on my way to the front of the room. Master looked surprised at my impromptu stunt, but smiled benignly.

The seven of us stood proudly by Master, our backs straight, our faces fixed in wide smiles.

"Fortunes, bow to your brothers and sisters," said Master. We bent at the waist and dipped our bodies low. "Students, welcome the Seven Little Fortunes of the China Drama Academy."

And, as disappointed as they were, our siblings broke out into cheers. They were proud of us. They were happy for us.

It was our first moment of applause, but certainly not our last.

SMALL FORTUNES

n the small world in which we traveled, we Fortunes were stars. Not only were we the academy's elite, acknowledged by all as the best and the brightest, but we also bore the responsibility of keeping the school alive, because it was our performances that generated the academy's only revenue. And so, being selected for the troupe was an unquestionable honor, a status that carried no negative stigma—unlike being the master's godson and the prince of the school.

Over the years, the ranks of the Seven Litde Fortunes constandy changed. Students came and students left, and Master filled the absences according to his whims. Soon after we were chosen, Master quickly selected seven students as alternates, who would fill in for our roles when we were sick or when we formed a traveling company. (Unspoken, but understood, was the fact that if any of us well and truly screwed up, there were always seven eager bodies right behind us, waiting for their own turn in the spotlight.)

Upon our being named to the Fortunes, a new phase in our training began. All of our practice and working out was just the raw material of our art—a basic foundation. We had learned very little about opera itself and had never been given parts to play or roles to inhabit. But even as we sweated out our exercises. Master and the other instructors had been observing us carefully, noting subtleties in style and form, evaluating our body types, and imagining the result that puberty might have on our voices. A husky student like Yuen Lung was destined to portray kings and warriors, like the great General Kwan Kung. My moderate build and agile reflexes made me a natural for roles like Sun Wu Kong, the Monkey King. And a thin, delicate boy like Yuen Biao might be doomed to play female roles, which historically had always been filled by men. Times had changed; though there were still many more boys than girls at the academy, the days when women were considered a curse and banned from the stage were gone, and Master had accepted progress with relatively good grace. However, boys still had to be girls when necessary, since the Fortunes were chosen for our talents rather than our gender. With his bulk. Biggest Brother would have made a ridiculous—or rather, terrifying—girl, so

I AM JACKIE CHAN • 87

he dodged the bullet. And my voice, though considered one of the better ones at the school, was luckily of the wrong range for female songs. We mercilessly teased Yuen Biao and others who were stuck with feminine parts, telling them how pretty and sexy they were until they cried or threw fists.

The truth was, though, that the chance to play any starring role— even in woman's clothing—was a thrill that exceeded anything we'd experienced to date. But there were other fringe benefits to being a Fortune. On days when we had pleased Master with a particularly outstanding rehearsal, he would take us out for a meal of dim sum. For those of you who don't know Chinese food, dim sum, which means "a little bit of heart," is a wonderful way of eating. Instead of ordering food from menus, you sit at your table watching as silver carts roll by, loaded with small dishes, dumplings, cakes, sweet buns, and bowls of mixed delicacies. If you see something you like you simply point, and it's placed on your table—no mess, no fuss, no waiting. It's a glutton's paradise: immediate gratification of your appetite, without even having to move from your seat. The food comes to you, you pick it, you eat it. It's that simple.

And compared to the bland stuff served at the academy, anything different was as good as a feast. Of course, anything we did with Master, even dim sum, had its own set of disciplines and rituals. The first time Master treated us, we sat enthralled at the sight of the rolling food, eager to grab anything that came within range. But when Yuen Kwai reached out his hand to point to a tasty-looking dish of dumplings, Master drew his chopsticks like a sword and rapped him lightly on the knuckles. "I will order for you," he said.

Yuen Kwai winced and sat back, subdued.

Master waved a waiter over and told him to bring seven bowls of roast pork over rice. The waiter nodded and glided off to the kitchen. Meanwhile, Master began selecting his own meal from the splendid array of dim sum specialties that paraded by us, a look-but-don't-touch vision.

We knew better than to complain, and roast pork with rice was better than nothing at all—a lot better, because as far as I'm concerned, Chinese roast pork is one of the great culinary treasures of the world. Marinated in barbecue sauce and five special spices and roasted in long strips, it comes out of the oven moist and flavorful, with a deliciously sweet red glaze. We never got it at the academy, where meat was as rare as a day without practice.

So when we got our heaping bowls of steamed rice, crisscrossed wdth slices of pork, lightly crisp on the edges and so tender inside, our mouths watered. We took our chopsticks and lightly set the pieces

88 • I AM JACKIE CHAN

of pork aside, preferring to eat the rice, rich as it was with inherited flavor, before consuming the dehcacy. Then, a sHce at a time, we ate the pork, savoring each chew as if it were the most precious of gourmet foods.

As usual, there was never enough. And through the remainder of lunch, we were expected to sit quietly, drinking tea and watching Master eat his fill. My belly was outraged that I had stopped putting food into it, and I stared glumly at my empty bowl, wishing for a miracle. Then I realized that a miracle wasn't necessary: after all, I was in a restaurant. And even if Master wouldn't let me order any of the treats that continued to circle us so temptingly, he couldn't possibly object to my getting another bowl of rice. At the school, the prepared dishes were gone by the time they reached the littlest of our brothers and sisters, but rice was the one thing that never stopped flowing. It wasn't uncommon for us to make a meal out of just steamed white rice and soy sauce.

And so I did something that seemed very normal at the time. I raised my hand and signaled a waiter, pointing to my empty rice bowl. The other students looked at me like I was crazy, but Master said nothing as the waiter came and padded a large, fluffy scoop of rice into my bowl. I mixed the rice up carefully, to soak up any last bits of roast pork gravy, and ate it quickly and happily. Yuen Lung and the others looked on with envy, but none of them had the guts to ask for their bowls to be filled, too. As a result, I was the only one to go home to the academy with my hunger satisfied and my stomach full.

"You litde pig," said Yuen Lung, as we prepared for afternoon practice. "I can't believe you ate two bowls."

"Ah, you just wish you'd had the balls to ask for seconds yourself," I said.

"Screw off," Biggest Brother said, throwing a punch in my direction. I weaved past him, laughing. Things could have gotten uglier, but Master had arrived at the practice hall, and we hastily separated, running to our assigned positions.

The workout that day was grueling. Master ran us through every routine in our repertoire, throwing in sudden "freezes" or calling for us to practice at double time, then triple time. There were no breaks, and every group of moves we completed led immediately to a new and more difficult set of commands. Finally, Master waved his cane, signaling the end of the workout.

"Damn, that was crazy," said Yuen Kwai, breathing heavily. Yuen Biao slumped to the floor cross-legged, too tired even to talk. I, meanwhile, had built up a raging appetite, despite my double portion at lunch. Dinner awaited; there was no time for rest or idle conversation.

"^^^^^^^B ''^ ** f^

^

^,^ #

1^

-U^'

,mK

GROWING UP ON THE GROUNDS OF THE FRENCH AMBASSADOR'S MANSION ON VICTORIA PEAK.

I'm fourth from the right, posing with the rest of the Seven Little Fortunes.

I'm in the second row, far left,

with three other members of

the Seven Little Forttmes:

(from left) Yuen Biao, Ytien

Mun, and Ytien Bo, and two

vmidentified female fans.

Here I am (second row, center) smiling for the camera during my Chinese opera school days.

With four of my fellow bald-headed (Chinese opera school classmates: (from left) Me, Yuen Wah, Yuen Mini, \uen Tai, and \nen Mo.

<VJk

44^

Posing witli my Big Brother, actor/directt)r Samo Hung.

Till with an identically attired Yuen Kwai. Known also as Corey Yuen, he would later become a famf)iis action director.

A cool pose.

Theater owner and philanthropist Sir Tang Siu Kin presenting to me a momento after Fearless Hye?ui broke all-time box office records in Hong Kong.

Here'^ an early "glamour" magazine shot of me. I look like 1 should be disco dancing instead of kung fu fighting.

Some of my favorite scenes from one of my first big hits:

Drunken MasUr.

t^-:'

With The Young Master, my first film for Golden Hanest, I took the things we'd

worked on in Siiake in Eagle's Shadow and Drunken Master to their limit.

After that, it was dme for something new: a jotirney to the West. . . .

WELCOME JACKIE/

A TOHO-TOWA PRESENTATION

Battle Creek Brawl

PRESS CONFERENCE

My first two attempts at making it in America were disasters. I may be smiling in this photo—taken at a publicity event for Battle Creek Brawl —but I was screaming on the inside.

Years later. The Protector,

my second tiy at the big time

Stateside, was no better. It

did give me inspiration for

my greatest action successes,

though— Police Story and

Checking out a shot—the "Bun P\'raniid Fight" seqtience—on the set of Dragon Lord with WiUie.

f

h

Ready for success! This plioto

was taken around the time of my

first attempt to break into the

American movie market.

n

i

Another shot from Dragon Lord.

IAMJACKIECHAN • 89

Then Master tapped me briskly on the shoulder with his rod. "Yuen Lo, you continue practicing," he said. "After all, you ate more at lunch, and so now you should be stronger than the others. Everyone else, join me at the dinner table."

I gasped. The other Fortunes smacked me on the back as they passed. "Food's gonna taste great after all that sweating," shouted Yuen Tai.

"More for the rest of us," said Yuen Kwai.

They were heardess.

"Yuen Lo, I would like to see some high kicks. Begin," said Master as he took his seat at the head of the table.

And then he turned to the cook, who was laying plates of food down and arranging chopsticks, and said, "Please make sure there is plenty of rice."

Heartless!

If there's one thing you can say about Master's brand of discipline, it's that at least you were rarely tempted to make the same mistake twice. But it wasn't as easy to learn from example. If it was difficult enough for me to resist temptation when so much food was around, for Yuen Biao, the dim sum outings were like extended torture. He would watch the carts pass with the eyes of a drowning man catching sight of land, or a dying desert survivor spotting an oasis. In particular he was tormented by the trays of pastries and other sweets, so close and yet so far.

One day it all became too much: as a cart loaded with sponge cake passed, he involuntarily yelled out an order. The waiter placed the cake on the table and moved on, as all of us, even Master, looked at Yuen Biao in shock. Realizing the enormity of what he had done, he burst into uncontrollable tears and wouldn't stop even when we returned to the academy, despite the fact that the cake sat at the table uneaten. For a change. Master didn't even have the heart to punish him.

As Yuen Biao sniffled, sitting by himself in the corner, Yuen Kwai shrugged without sympathy. "He should have at least eaten the cake," he said. I punched him in the shoulder and went to comfort Little Brother.

But as I mentioned before, the best thing about being part of the Fortunes was simply getting the opportunity to perform—to revel in the joy of the spotiight and drink in the appreciation of the audience.

Because my voice was fairly good, after a few performances in which I took supporting roles, I soon began training for my first lead part: a star turn in an opera performed only on special occasions, such as weddings or birthdays. It was a showcase role, and one that I learned with relish.

90 • I AMJACKIECHAN

since when I performed it, all of the other stars in the troupe were forced to act as my subordinates. Even Biggest Brother and Yuen Tai were just soldiers in my army, while Yuen Wah played the squire who held my horse.

Because this opera was performed so rarely, it was a while before I had the chance to do it live. When the day finally came. Master told me that I shouldn't feel nervous, that I was very well prepared for my debut, and that the audience was sure to be appreciative. I didn't need him to tell me that. My entire body was charged with excitement; the lines blazed in my head like letters of fire, and my voice sounded strong and loud as I warmed up backstage. I was so deep in character that I took to gesturing importantly at my servants, demanding my robes and my headpiece and admonishing Yuen Kwai for not finishing his makeup earlier. Yuen Lung, adjusting his armor, looked like he was considering clobbering me with his spear, but the backstage of an opera is crowded and busy, and the curtain was about to rise. There wasn't time or room to beat me properly; that would have to wait until after the show.

And then Master stage-whispered the order to be silent. My big turn, my premiere as the king of the theater, was about to begin. Holding the hem of my robe to my hip, I marched out of the wings, my other arm before me in a martial stance, and walked out before the lights.

I sang, and the audience roared. I ordered my armies to charge, and all the big sisters and brothers rolled from the wings in response, obeying without question. When I shouted "Halt!" they stood in formation, shouting "Yes, sir!" in unison. And when I reviewed my troops, they bowed down before me, me, the king of the theater. Whatever I did, people clapped and cheered. I was a hit!

And then I looked offstage, and saw Master standing stiffly in the wings, his cane in hand, an expression of mute disapproval on his face.

What did I do wrongl I thought to myself. Suddenly, I didn't want to leave the stage—not just because I was enjoying myself so much, but because I knew that Master had found fault with me, and as soon as the curtain went down, I would pay for whatever error I'd made. But I couldn't delay the inevitable, and after I'd sung my last note, and the armies at my command rode off into the sunset, the curtain came down.

The king of the theater was gone. Long live the once and future king, my master.

"Come here, Yuen Lo," he said, his voice icy.

"You're gonna get it now. Big Nose," said Yuen Lung, poking me with the butt of his spear as he passed. I winced and walked over to Master.

"Hands out, palms up," he said. And then he hit me, five sharp blows.

"Master, what did I do wrong?" I said plaintively, reviewing my performance in my mind.

I AM JACKIE CHAN • 91

"Nothing," he said. "You were very good. But I want you always to remember this: no matter how well you perform, you must never become too proud. There are others on the stage with you, and you are as dependent on their abilities as you are on your own."

And with that, he left me standing, still in costume, to direct the breakdown of the set and the storage of our props.

MY UNLUCKY STARS

esides the occasions on which we were hired to perform off-site, usually in odd locations and with makeshift stages, we put on most of our shows at the stage where we'd had our first taste of the opera, the theater at Lai Yuen Amusement Park. After a few months of performing, we had gained enough of a following that we would occasionally be recognized in public—pointed to on the street, or even approached by fans. This would always put Master in a terrific mood, and didn't hurt our egos either, though after the incident after my debut, all of us were careful not to show our pride too much.

But it is Chinese tradition that every period of good fortune is always followed by an equal and opposite stretch of bad. Our months of seemingly effordess perfection lulled us into a false sense of confidence. Chinese opera is so complex that there are literally thousands of things that can go wrong. Well, several months into our show business careers, it seemed like all of them began going wrong at once.

I remember when the bad luck started. I'm not the most superstitious guy in the world, but I have to say, I began to believe in spirits—and their temperamental natures—after our miserable run began.

And of course, it all turned out to be my fault.

One of the chores we did at the school was the tending of the ancestor shrine. The shrine, which contained tablets and statues dedicated to relatives of Master Yu, as well as opera performers long past, was in a position of honor at the far end of the practice hall. Before each performance, Master would have us bow and shake incense before the shrine, appealing to the ancestral ghosts to look favorably upon our efforts and to give us luck and skill and easily impressed audiences.

Taking care of the shrine was an honorable duty, but a painstaking one. There were dozens of small icons to dust, and old incense to dispose of, and offerings to place in properly respectful position. Everything had to be arranged just so, or there would literally be hell to pay. Because I'd been adopted by Master, he soon decided that it should be my special responsibility to care for the shrine; as he reminded me, these were my ancestors too, even more so than the rest of my brothers and sisters.

I knew I should have felt fortunate, but the truth was, I thought that the entire job was a pain in the ass. The tablets and statues and incense

I AM JACKIE CHAN • 93

pots were sacred items, and it was essential that they be treated with appropriate reverence. But after sitting for a week or so in the practice hall, they were inevitably covered with dust, and to clean them properly meant getting on your knees, leaning down, and brushing them off gendy with a feather duster.

As the rest of the students were ordered to go clean up the courtyard— it was a nice sunny day, so outdoor duty was almost a pleasure—I was left on my own in the hall, duster in hand, and facing a task that would take hours to complete.

I sighed, and evaluated the job at hand. My attitude toward the objects in the shrine was a practical one. Sure, they were sacred and everything, but they were also dirty, and they needed to be made clean. There was a quicker way of getting this done, and I wouldn't have to break my back or bruise my knees to do it, either.

I headed for the kitchen and got a damp rag, and then carefully removed all of the icons from the shrine and stacked them in a pile on the floor. WTiistling while I worked, I gave each statue a good scrubbing down, spit-shining them to a polished gleam. And then I heard footsteps behind me. It was our new tutor, arriving early at the school to discuss our progress with Master.

"What are you doing?" he shrieked, seeing me sitting cross-legged on the floor, wiping an ancestral tablet like it was an old pot or pan. "Put those down at once!"

I nearly dropped the tablet, then set it down next to me and scrambled to my feet. "I didn't mean it!" I said, looking wildly around for signs of spiritual disapproval. For some reason, the shock in his voice had triggered a flood of guilt in my conscience. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

The teacher began lecturing me on the need for respect, while looking nervously out of one eye at the scattered statues and tablets. I dropped to my knees and began putting the icons back in place.

"Teacher, please don't tell Master," I said to the tutor in a frightened voice. It was bad enough to have heaven and hell angry at me; I didn't want the powers of Earth on my back, too.

The tutor agreed, wanting to get away from the shrine as soon as possible. Once the icons were back in place, I made a deep and heartfelt bow to the shrine. Accept my apologies and forgive me for treating you with such disrespect, I pleaded silendy. And please don't let Master find out, or I could be joining you up there a lot sooner than you'd like.

Teacher made good on his word and didn't tell Master, but the ways of the spirit world are mysterious and subtie; the ancestors found other means of expressing their displeasure.

Ironically, in our next performance, I was assigned to play one of a set

94 • I AM JACKIE CHAN

of five ghosts—a small but crowd-pleasing supporting role. Makeup alone wasn't enough to express properly the ghastliness of the undead, so each of us had to wear a wooden mask that completely covered our faces. The problem was, the masks were really made for adult performers, not young prodigies like us. They fit loosely on our heads, no matter how tighdy we tried to Ue them, and the tiny eyeholes were set a litde too widely apart for us to see properly. When the performance was already under way, and our cue was about to come, I was still fiddling with my mask, trying to get it to stay in place.

"Sheesh, Big Nose, what's your problem? Stop screwing with your face and get over here!" said Yuen Lung, standing with the other four ghosts at the entrance to the stage. The music that signaled our supernatural arrival began, and I scrambled to my place in line, willing the mask to hold.

No such luck. As we walked out into the lights, our arms extended, I realized that the mask was slipping dov^Ti—completely blocking my vision. I couldn't adjust the mask while onstage, so I whispered a brief prayer to whatever stage gods there might be that I'd be able to perform the scene blind. And for the first few steps in our routine, everything seemed to be going okay, until a move in which all of us ghosts were supposed to turn around and jump forward in unison.

The leap seemed to take longer than expected, and I nearly fell over as my feet hit the ground. I heard muffled gasps around me, and I realized in horror that I'd jumped entirely off the stage, almost into the laps of the front row of the audience.

Adjusting my mask with one hand, I quickly scrambled back up, hoping against hope that Master had not noticed.

On our way offstage, the other ghosts refused even to look in my direction, and even after the performance they wouldn't talk to me. I understood the reasons: not only had I messed up a perfectiy good scene, but I'd broken our string of performances without errors. I'd snapped the good-luck chain. No one wanted to get too close to me, because my aura of misfortune might rub off, infecting the entire troupe. Even Yuen Biao seemed scared to get too close to me, though he whispered a word or two of sympathy from several arms' lengths away.

Besides, standing between me and Master's eventual explosion of rage was probably unhealthy. Each night, after our performance. Master would tell us to sit on the edge of the stage as he discussed the evening's show with any of his friends who had attended. This was a nerve-racking time for us, since any offlianded mention of a flaw in the program would result in Master pushing back his chair, ordering the sinner into his presence, and instandy delivering retribution with his cane, with the number and severity of the strokes proportional to the degree of the crime.

Falling off the stage was about as big a mistake as one could make, so I sat alone on the end of the line of students, my heart in my throat, wait-

I AM JACKIE CHAN • 95

ing for the moment when Master would throw back his chair and call out my name.

Surprisingly, it never came. Master's friends had nothing but compliments to offer about our show, and so, after bidding them farewell. Master contentedly told us to line up and march back to the bus station.

No one would sit next to me on the bus, so I was left to puzzle out what had happened on my own. I'd never escaped punishment for a mistake before. It seemed like a stroke of good luck, but I knew better. A feeling of dread came over me as we took the long ride home.

Something awful was about to hit. And I was right there, at ground zero.

By the time we set off for the amusement park the next afternoon, I was a mass of anxiety. Would the bus drive off the road, or explode? Maybe I'd be struck down by a falling set, or take a mistimed leap onto someone's outstretched spear. There seemed to be a shadow over everything I did. The spirits were toying with me now, but their ultimate revenge was sure to come sometime soon.

Well, that day's opera featured me in only a very small role—a one-line cameo, in which I would enter, shout a command to the troops, and then exit grandly offstage. Maybe I'd dodge the bullet again.

Once I got backstage, just to make sure that my performance would be perfect, I prepared everything in advance. There would be no mistakes tonight, if I could possibly help it.

My part was small, but my costume was complex: an ancient and splendid set of robes, embroidered with dragons. Once I'd put them on, they were difficult to take off. So, a good hour before the show began, I went and relieved myself, and began the arduous process of getting into character. I carefully shook out the robes, counted the pieces, and checked for stains and funny smells. I stretched myself out and examined my ears and teeth. And I painted my face carefully, making sure there were no stray streaks or unusual splotches.

Satisfied that everything was in order, I got into my robes and headdress. The only thing I didn't put on was the elaborate beard that completed the costume, because it was so hot and itchy.

Finally ready, I sat stiffly in a chair, waiting for the show to begin. Just one line. What could go wrong?

And then there was a tap on my shoulder. I shook my head, realizing that I'd fallen asleep. I hadn't gotten to bed until late the night before, worrying about the state of my soul. The heat and pressing weight of the heavy robes must have put me out like a light. I looked up, and saw Yuen Tai, fully dressed for his entrance, his eyes wide with panic in his painted face. "The curtain is open, dammit!" he whispered through gritted teeth. "Get out there!"

I struggled upright and calmed my nerves, and then strode regally

96 • I AM JACKIE CHAN

onto the stage. "Go!" I shouted in a deep, warlike voice. "Kill them!" And I spun on my heel to make my exit, stroking my beard for effect.

My beard? There was nothing there! I'd forgotten the beard backstage!

Sweating profusely beneath my robes, I lifted the hem and husded off into the wings.

This time I'll be pounded for sure, I thought. It was almost a relief.

But once again, after the performance. Master failed to pull me out of line.

Worse luck yet! I'd escaped two beatings in a row. It was clear that disaster was looming, somewhere right around the corner.

"Students, today we will premiere a new opera: one that you have practiced often, but never had a chance to perform in public," said Master, his voice booming through the practice hall. "Yuen Lo—"

I froze at the sound of my name.

"—this will be your chance to impress us all!" he finished, smiling in my direction.

Oh no! We were going to be performing an opera about the God of Justice, the judge whose wisdom was so great that his decisions were sought out by god, devil, and man alike.

It was a wonderful opera.

And it starred me.

Justice was indeed at hand, and there was no doubt in my mind that the spirits had been waiting for this moment of maximum irony to strike.

Well, I resolved, I'd show them! Just because they were dead didn't mean they could push me around. I'd somehow manage to escape their vengeance, even if it killed me.

All the way over to the theater, I recited my lines to myself and reviewed the preparations I'd have to make. The outfit worn by the God of Justice was even more complicated than the one I'd had to put on the day before. In addition to the heavy robes and thick face paint, the costume included four pennants attached to my back on stiff rods. These pennants made it almost impossible to sit down once the costume was put on. It was a blessing in disguise; there'd be no sleeping on the job this time.

As I struggled into my outfit, Yuen Lung grabbed me and swung me around. "Listen, asshole," he growled. "You'd better not screw up tonight. I don't know how you got to be so lucky, the last two days. But if you make another mistake, I won't wait for Master to give you your medicine. I'll doctor your ass myself."

I couldn't deal with his threats at that moment, and so I impatiendy waved him away with one hand as I applied makeup to myself. When I was finished with my paint and my costume, I put my hands on my hips and looked at myself in the full-length backstage mirror. I looked fear-

I AM JACKIE CHAN • 97

some, my pennants streaming behind me, my face perfectly painted, and my thick black beard lending my face an appropriately impressive demeanor. The final touch was my tablet of office, a carved slab of wood carried in one hand that indicated my status as a high-level scholar.

I was convinced. Tonight would be perfect; I would avoid my fate after all. And with that, I carefully removed my beard and placed it back in the properties box, setting the tablet down near the stage entrance, where I wouldn't misplace it.

I had two major scenes in the opera, the first of which was a long song of fifteen minutes, followed by a half-hour break in which other stuff was happening onstage, and then a climactic final scene in which, with my tablet of office, I, as God of Justice, would render a wise decision to end the conflict. I had had trouble with the first song in the past, so I used the time before the play began to review the lines in my mind.

"Yuen Lo, curtain's up. It's your cue," whispered Yuen Biao, shaking me fi"om my reverie. Prepared and refusing to rush, I walked toward the stage door, remembering to retrieve my beard from the prop box first. As I entered the wings, I pulled the thick clump of hair around my face, adjusting it so as not to block my mouth, and hooking the earpieces behind my ears.

The spotlight came on, and I raised my hands and began to sing. But the front-row audience looked puzzled. What was wrong?

Beginning to perspire, I surreptitiously reached for the front of my costume, and suffered a minor heart attack. It was the beard! Somehow, while sitting in the prop box, it had gotten tangled with a second beard, with the result that the combined length of facial hair stretched almost to my knees.

Worse yet, the part I'd actually placed over my face wasn't the carefully cleaned and groomed one I'd chosen before the performance; it was an old and unclean one, carrying the horrible stink of dried saliva. Every note I sang brought more of the stench into my lungs, and I had to use all of my self-control not to gag onstage.

When the scene ended, I marched offstage and nearly collapsed. I tried untangling the beards, but they were knotted tight, and the other fake beards were all being used. I would have to finish the show wearing an absurd length of facial hair.

Yuen Lung and Yuen Tai gaped at my long-bearded face as they marched onstage in their soldier outfits. "Oh, man," I heard Yuen Tai whisper to Biggest Brother. "He's done."

Onstage, the battie commenced. Unable to sit down because of my pennants, I leaned against the prop shelves to catch my breath and attempt to calm my tattered nerves. Somewhere in the distance, I imagined I could hear the vengeful laughter of ancestor ghosts.

But I had litde time to ponder the perversity of the spirit world; the

98 • I AM JACKIE CHAN

battle was finished, and it was once again my cue. All eyes would soon be on me, the God of Justice, as I brought peace to the bloody field of war.

What else could possibly go wrong? I sighed to myself.

I picked up my wooden tablet and adjusted my ridiculous beard, and then walked as solemnly and magnificently onto the stage as I was able. As soon as I reached the lights, I began to make my pronouncement, raising one arm dramatically in the air.

And then I dropped my tablet.

It fell to the stage with a heavy wooden thunk. The noise seemed to echo around the theater. For a performer, there is no more horrible sound than absolute silence. It generally means something has gone terribly wrong. Embarrassingly wrong.

But that wasn't the end of the matter. I leaned over with as much grace as I could muster to pick up the fallen tablet, only to hear a sudden explosion of laughter.

What was going on? My mistake was tragic, but not particularly funny. Peering upward at the crowd, I caught a glimpse of something waving out of the corner of my eye. It was hanging down over my shoulder, and its size and color made it clear that it wasn't part of my costume.

I stifled a scream. Somehow, while I'd been leaning against the prop shelves, one of my pennants had hooked a pair of jeans, which was now flapping idiotically behind my back.

There was no avoiding it now. Tonight, I knew I would get the beating of my life. And undead justice would finally be served.

I thought I'd seen Master angry before, but I hadn't seen anything yet. As soon as I bolted offstage, I nearly ran into him, his body coiled like a giant spring, and his face so red that he looked like he was wearing opera makeup. He'd not been so humiliated in many years, and as a result, he'd never been so infuriated.

He didn't bother sitting us on the stage or talking to his friends. There was no need. This was simply the most catastrophic performance any lover of Chinese opera had ever seen, and the audience had cleared out of the theater long before Master emerged from the wings.

Once I was back in my street clothes, the other students gave me a wide, wide berth. I couldn't have been less popular if I were radioactive and stank of piss. Yuen Lung and Yuen Tai could barely restrain their laughter.

"Everyone on the bus!" Master shouted, waving his cane wildly around him. The ride back was utterly silent, though the gleeful grins of the big brothers made it clear that they couldn't wait to see what would happen next. When we got back to the school, Master grabbed me by the ear, threw open the academy doors, and walked directly to the ancestor shrine, shaking with fury.

I didn't struggle. I'd decided to face my doom like a man.

I AM JACKIE CHAN • 99

"Ghosts of my ancestors!" shouted Master. "Do you see this pile of dog excrement here before you? This absurd mockery of an opera performer?"

I winced as he twisted my ear between his thumb and forefinger.

"This useless trash is my godson!" he roared. "I present him to you, to do with what you will."

Jerking me down, he made me stumble to my knees.

"Recount your sins," he said, waving to the shrine.

I swallowed. "The tablet," I said. "And my beard . . . and the pants . . ."

The students behind me burst out in laughter.

Master looked toward the shrine, which somehow seemed unsatisfied. "Is that all?" he thundered.

There was no helping it. You couldn't lie in front of the ancestors.

"Well . . . yesterday, I forgot my beard completely," I admitted. "And the day before that, I fell off the stage."

Master raised his eyebrows. "Oh, you did, did you?" he said. "I missed diat."

I squirmed. So much for honesty.

Master motioned me forward. "Bow down before your ancestors."

I let my body drop into a prone position before the shrine. Master yanked down my pants. "Begin apologizing!" he said, lifting his cane.

I started offering up pleas for forgiveness. "I'm sorry." Whack! "I'm sorry!" Whack!''Vm sorry . . . !"

After twenty strokes. Master turned away, bowed to the shrine, and left the hall.

"Get to bed," he shouted out behind him, and turned off the lights. "Tomorrow we practice without meals, since it is obvious you have all become too satisfied with your skills."

We groaned. But the tide of bad luck had been broken—across my butt—and the fearful wall that had stood between me and my brothers and sisters was now gone. Once again I was one of many. And finally getting what was coming to me took a load of worry off of my mind.

As I shifted on the floor, attempting to find a sleeping position that didn't cause me pain, I sent a short mental message in the direction of the ancestor shrine: Now, we're even. Right?

As sleep closed my eyes, I thought I could see the statues gleam.

A MIDNIGHT RAID

y years at the China Drama Academy went by with surprising speed. I went from boy to teenager, barely noticing as I added J birthdays, inches, and pounds. Though I'd gotten bigger and taller, I hadn't changed much in personality. I was a mischief-loving boy, and I became a spirited and rowdy adolescent, always popular among the younger boys and still the nemesis of the older ones.

And life at the academy, formerly just a series of long, dull days spent in practice and short nights spent in exhausted sleep, had gotten much more exciting since we'd begun performing. It seemed like a day didn't go by when we didn't have some sort of adventure, with me generally right in the middle.

Not that our life had become too complicated. The joys we had continued to be small ones—bits of spare time spent playing marbles or other games, until we were interrupted by one of the instructors; surreptitious catnaps taken during lessons, with one eye open in case Master suddenly made his presence known; and, of course, food, always food.

As we grew up, we were increasingly given our independence. Often, we'd be sent to perform at the amusement park on our own, while Master taught the younger students at the academy. When we got this kind of freedom, we took advantage of it to indulge ourselves in the best way we knew how: by filling our stomachs. The snacks that were denied to us when Master was around were ours for the buying when he was away, and before our shows, we'd gorge ourselves on the best delights the amusement park had to offer.

The problem was that, after our long and strenuous performances, we'd always be hungry again. Even if we still had any money, all of the glorious food stalls were usually closed before we'd hnished changing and cleaning our faces. So we walked through the deserted park discouraged, with nothing to look forward to but a long bus trip and then the hard practice room floor, since the kitchen cabinets were always locked tight against our prying fingers.

"Damn, I'm starved," moaned Yuen Kwai. "I can't believe the stores are closed! I'm dying for a bean bun." Yuen Tai chimed in his own food

IAMJACKIECHAN • 101

wish, lotus seed cake, followed by Yuen Biao's plaintive expression of lust for sponge cake, and Yuen Wah's rhetorical inquiry regarding roast pork buns.

"God, will you guys cut it out?" groaned Yuen Lung. "All this food talk is killing me. I'm never gonna make it to breakfast."

Yuen Kwai suggested something that Yuen Lung could eat, which led Biggest Brother to roar with indignation and chase him around the empty park. The chase didn't last long; both pursuer and prey were too weak with hunger.

I eyed the shuttered stalls, my stomach grumbling as loudly as those of my brothers. The stalls were ramshackle contraptions; just clapboard walls, chicken-wire windows, and an open roof—when it was wet, the vendors would provide scant temporary cover against the rain by draping plastic sheets across the tops of the walls.

We'd worked hard that day, and our performance had brought plenty of people into the park. We deserved better than bed without supper. And since there didn't seem to be anyone around . . .

Without a word, I ran over to the nearest stall, a baked goods vendor, and peered through its chicken-wire window. "Hey, Yuen Kwai—give me a boost," I shouted, leaping up and grabbing the upper edge of the wall by the fingertips.

"What the hell do you guys think you're doing?" said Yuen Lung nervously.

His eyes scanning the horizon for cops, Yuen Kwai moved over to my hanging legs and grunted as he pushed me up and over the stall wall. I landed lightly on the inside of the stall, and began searching around for anything that might be considered edible.

Despite their fear of being caught, the call of the belly was more than the other Fortunes could resist, and soon their faces were pressed up against the wire, watching me search.

The owner of the stall had done a good job of cleaning it out; everything of any resale value had been locked up or taken home.

"Look over there," said Yuen Lung, pointing through the screen at an alcove set into the back of the structure. It was a rubbish storage area. Considering where I spent a good part of my childhood, I probably should have recognized it immediately.

Well, no harm in checking. I poked my head into the storage bin and found a small brown paper sack. "Yahoo!" I shouted, hoisting the bag up over my head. It was full of bread crusts, too hard and stale to be sold, but not more than a day or so old.

To us, this was like finding buried treasure. Throwing the sack over the wall, I leaped up onto a counter, scrambled my way back to the top of the stall, and leaped down into the waiting arms of my brothers.

102 • I AM JACKIE CHAN

"What are we gonna do with this bread?" asked Yuen Tai. "I mean, it's as hard as a rock."

"Hey, food is food," said Yuen Kwai, hiding the bag under his shirt. "You give me something edible, I'll find a way to eat it."

All the way back to the academy we whispered different ideas on how to eat the bread.

"Maybe we could toast it," said Yuen Biao.

"Yeah, right, you already could break your teeth on this stuff, and you want to toast it?" snorted Yuen Tai. "We're trying to make food, not pottery."

"I think we should just toss it," said Yuen Wah. "Who knows how old it is?"

"Aw, it can't be that old; they throw trash out every day at that place," said Yuen Lung, thinking with his stomach. "Hey, I just thought of a great way to cook this stuff."

Back at the academy, we crept through the hallway on tiptoe and sneaked our way into the darkened kitchen. There, Biggest Brother began boiling a pot of water, into which he poured a double handful of sugar. After a short time, the water began to boil, thickening to a syrupy consistency. Then he threw in the bread crusts, which absorbed the sugar water and puffed up into a kind of sweet bread pudding.

I gathered some bowls and set them out next to the stove, inhaling the sweet aroma of the boiling bread. Soon Yuen Lung pronounced his dish done. The finished delicacy was ladled into bowls, and we greedily consumed the results of our nighttime scavenging.

"Hey, this ain't half bad," said Yuen Kwai.

Yuen Biao smiled and held out his empty bowl. "More!"

After a strenuous day, the soft, delicate pudding was soothing, and more important, filling. And the adventure of breaking into a locked stall to harvest the bread crusts gave the dish a special zing. I still remember that meal as being one of the best I've ever had.

We each had several helpings, laughing to ourselves and imagining we were conquering warriors, raiding helpless villages for our food. Today it was bread crusts; tomorrow, the world.

And then the kitchen lights came on. It was Master, awake, and as usual, enraged.

"What are you eating?" he said.

"Bread and sugar water, sir," said Yuen Biao, nearly dropping his bowl.

"And where did you get the bread?"

All of us fell silent.

"We didn't steal it, we found it!" I said defensively. "It was going to be thrown out anyway."

Master tapped his cane against one foot. "Whether it was going to

IAMJACKIECHAN • 103

be thrown out or not doesn't matter. Do you think I want people to believe I don't feed you? That you have to go through garbage bins to eat?" he shouted. "How much shame do you want me to feel?"

That night, each of us received five hard strokes of the cane, except for me; I got ten because I was the "prince."

But you know what? The next night, and for many nights after, we returned to the scene of the crime. Only, from then on, we made sure we didn't get caught.

TAKEN FOR A RIDE

f^T^ f course, we didn't always have to steal leftovers to fill our stomachs. Sometimes our performances ended early, giving us the chance to V_y wander through the park, spending our bus money on the wide array of goodies available. Of course, this meant that we would have to walk six miles back to the academy—but for the treat of a sweet bean bun or sugar rice cake, it was worth it.

One day, one of our more friendly instructors, a hearty middle-aged man who taught us martial arts, told us a secret: his son worked as a driver at the bus company. If we ever found ourselves in need of a ride, we could say that our father was "Tsui Luk, employee number 1033," and the ticket vendor would let us on the bus for free as a family member.

We looked at one another in glee. All the snacks we wanted, and we'd never have to walk again!

The following afternoon we gorged, confident that we would ride home in luxury, courtesy of the bus company.

"You sure this is going to work. Biggest Brother?" I asked, a litde dubious.

"Of course, dumbass," he said. "Teacher wouldn't screw us over. You just make sure you remember what to say." And when the bus arrived, Yuen Lung stepped smardy into the stairwell, nodded his close-cropped head at the ticket taker, and told him that his father was Tsui Luk, employee number 1033.

The vendor looked up and down at Biggest Brother, appraising him. Finally he nodded back and sent him into the interior of the bus.

It worked. Our hearts leapt in our chests. Free fares, anywhere we wanted, anytime we chose!

Then it was Yuen Tai's turn. "My father is Tsui Luk, employee number 1033." He, too, was allowed in.

But the ticket taker was beginning to get suspicious. By the time Yuen Biao, last in line, stammered his "father's" name and number and boarded, it was clear that something was wrong. No driver as young as Tsui Luk could have so many kids, all boys, and all with their heads shaved clean!

Cursing his own gullibility, the ticket taker stomped toward the back

IAMJACKIECHAN • 105

of the bus, shouting for us, the bald-headed kids, to come down and pay our fares. Of course, we'd long since eaten our fares, not to mention any other spare pocket change we happened to be carrying.

"Hey, you can't do that! We'll tell our father on you!" shouted Yuen Lung in desperation.

"Driver!" the ticket taker barked. "There are illegal riders on this bus! Take us to the police station!"

Yuen Biao began to whimper. The police station! Though none of us were afraid of cops, we didn't dare to imagine what Master would do when he found out we were in police custody. Jail—even execution— would probably be merciful by comparison.

"Let us off the bus," pleaded Biggest Brother. "We were just playing around."

By then, the ticker taker was too incensed to listen, and told the driver to go faster. I looked at Yuen Kwai and he nodded back. Charging toward the front of the bus, we pushed the ticket taker over, and then ran up the stairs to the second level of the double-decker bus, followed close behind by the other five Fortunes.

"Why the hell did we come up here?" shouted Yuen Lung. "We're trapped!"

Yuen Tai pulled open a window.

"Are you crazy?" shouted Yuen Wah. "We'll all be killed!"

"One way or another," said Yuen Tai, as the enraged ticket taker burst out of the stairwell. He stuck his legs out of the window, holding on to the metal frame, and then let go, falling eight feet into the roadside shrubbery. "Outta the way," shouted Yuen Lung, who followed his junior, grunting as he passed his heavy body through the narrow opening. Yuen Wu and Yuen Kwai followed in quick succession, and then, whispering a quick prayer to himself, Yuen Wah.

While I held back the ticket taker, who was screaming obscenities and nearly foaming at the mouth, Yuen Biao froze by the window, staring terrified at the scenery rushing past.

"Go!" I shouted.

"I'm scared!" screamed Yuen Biao.

I gave the ticket taker a shove that nearly sent him falling back down the stairs, picked up Yuen Biao and threw him out the window, then leaped after him, headfirst.

Forget everything I've done since then; that first "stunt" was the most terrifying thing I've ever done. The bushes we'd been passing just moments before had dwindled into scrub, and I saw the ground rushing at me at a painful speed. I had time for just one thought before I hit the ground: Why did I jump out the window headfirst?

The only thing that saved me and Yuen Biao from broken necks was

106 • I AM JACKIE CHAN

the rigorousness of Master's training. We'd done somersaults and acrobatic rolls so many times that we could—and, in the case of Yuen Wah, did —do them in our sleep. Out of sheer reflex, we tucked our bodies properly and cushioned our falls to the hard, unyielding ground.

We could still hear the ticket taker's screams as the bus disappeared into the distance. We'd gotten off lucky; besides a couple of scrapes and minor bruises, less than we'd get in an ordinary day of practice, none of us were hurt.

But we were nowhere near a bus staUon and didn't have money for fares even if we had been. And, since the police station was in the opposite direction of the school, the walk we faced had expanded from six miles to seven.

"Whose stupid idea was this?" yelled Yuen Lung, stomping down the road in the general direction of the school. The rest of us just marched on after him, wisely keeping silent.

THE BIG BRAWL

fter so many months of working and performing together, we Fortunes built a special kind of bond. Even Yuen Lung and I learned to depend on each other—we had to, after all, on the stage— although we still argued more than we agreed, and I still went out of my way to irritate him, just as he went out of his way to push me down.

But the relationships that existed among us, and between us and the other students at the academy, were far from simple.

Imagine a family with thirty siblings, ranging in age from toddlers to teenagers. When we were out in the real world, nothing could separate us from one another; it was all for one and one for all, like we were the Thirty Musketeers. But when we were alone at the school, all bets were off. Under Master's intense pressure to perform and compete, we formed ties that one day could be stronger than steel, and the next a half-forgotten memory. For instance, one day I might vow that another student was my blood brother, my friend forever. The next day we'd fight and swear never to talk to one another again. And then the day after that, we'd find a reason to renew our vows of eternal brotherhood.

The only thing you could depend on at the school was that no one could be depended on, except yourself. Even Yuen Biao, whom I always protected and took care of, occasionally strayed to other "best friends"— if they treated him to food.

I mentioned to you that Yuen Kwai was one of my best friends at the school. He was not only a fellow Fortune, he was also nearly my size, my age, and my match when it came to making trouble. We often competed for roles, for food, and for attention. Sometimes we'd mix it up, but we'd always find a way to cool down before things got too serious.

Until the day that Yuen Biao's parents made a rare visit to the academy. Along with a sack of edible treats, they brought a new amusement into our midst: a stack of comic books. As Yuen Biao gleefully flipped through the stack, we all gathered around, staring with curiosity and envy at the brightly colored pages. They depicted martial artists and swordsmen testing their superhuman might against devious monsters and madmen. In short, they were the stuff that boys' dreams are made of, and Yuen Biao was instantly the most popular student at school.

108 • I AM JACKIE CHAN

At the time, however, Yuen Biao's newest blood brother was none other than Yuen Kwai, who announced that he would read every single one before anyone else would be allowed to touch them. No performance was scheduled for that evening, so we had a few hours of free time before lessons began. Ignoring our pleas and protests, Yuen Kwai and Yuen Biao spread the comics out on the training room floor and began reading.

Yuen Biao was my blood brother too, so I figured Yuen Kwai's stupid decree didn't apply to me. Making myself comfortable on the ground next to them, I picked up a comic and began to pore voraciously over its lurid visions of heroic fantasy. Then Yuen Kwai looked up from the book he was reading and noticed my intrusion into his turf.

"Hey, you can't read that until we're done," he said sharply. "These are Yuen Biao's and mine."

"You're not reading it," I said, absorbed in the book.

"Doesn't matter, it ain't yours," said Yuen Kwai. Reaching over, he grabbed the comic out of my hands. Irritated, I slapped at Yuen Kwai's fist, and the book tumbled to the ground.

Sensing tension in the air, the other students drifted into a sloppy ring around us. Meanwhile, Yuen Biao quickly gathered the rest of his treasured books and fled for less dangerous ground.

Yuen Kwai, his eyes flashing, bent down to pick up the fallen comic. "Asshole!" he said. "Who you trying to mess with?"

Mad enough to spit, I kicked out one of my feet and snapped the comic away. It slid away along the polished wooden floor.

Head down, Yuen Kwai stood still for a moment, as the crowd around us murmured nervously. With a howl, he launched himself at me, blood in his eyes.

Now, I was the fastest kid in school. When I had room to move, no one— no one —could touch me. In fact, the only people in school who were ever able to beat me up were Yuen Lung and Yuen Tai, and that was just because I couldn't hit them back.

Yuen Kwai, just a bit bigger than me but quite a lot slower, was no challenge at all. As he charged, I stepped aside, ducked a wild swing, balled my fist, and punched him hard in the face.

The room went silent. Then Yuen Kwai screamed bloody murder and grabbed his nose. In my overconfidence, I'd forgotten the cardinal rule of fighting in the school: it officially wasn't allowed, but if it ever happened—and everyone knew it happened—^you were wct;^-supposed to hit a fellow student in the face.

Our faces were an important part of our livelihood. Even when Master administered a beating, it was always on the hands or buttocks. Body injuries could be hidden, but a blackened eye, swollen lip, or broken nose

I AM JACKIE CHAN • 109

would defeat all efforts at disguise with makeup, and might put a performer out of commission for days. And to be unable to perform was something that neither Master nor the students wanted. It was the worst punishment imaginable.

Yuen Kwai ran to the mirror and examined his face. His nose was bleeding. "If my nose swells up, you're really going to get it," he snarled.

Yuen Biao, who'd run up to me upon hearing Yuen Kwai scream, was horrified. "Big Brother, you didn't have to hit him in the face!" he said.

Realizing that I'd made a big mistake, I dug my toe into the ground and wondered what to do next. Meanwhile, Yuen Kwai's nose was blooming like a rose. It was indeed swelling, becoming grotesquely huge. Bigger even than mine.

I couldn't resist. "Now who you gonna call Big Nose?" I taunted.

With a speed that I hadn't realized he had, Yuen Kwai swung out and caught me with a punch to the jaw, then threw me to the ground. Soon we were pummeling each other like bar brawlers, while the other students cheered us on.

As if on cue, it was at that very moment that Master walked into the hall to call us to evening lessons. He was incredulous. Of all the many ways that we'd managed to screw up over the years, he'd never seen anything like this scene before: two of his best students openly beating each other to a pulp, while the others laughed and made guesses as to who would be the winner.

"STOP!" he shouted.

Instandy, Yuen Kwai and I froze, my arm around his head in a hammer-lock, his knee about to smash into my groin.

Master walked into the ring of students, looking from one to the next with a chilly expression on his face. "So, you like fighdng, do you?"

No one dared to answer.

"All right, then," he said, pushing at us with his toe. "Get up and fight."

We pulled ourselves up, looking at him without comprehension.

"I S3.idfightl" yelled Master.

Yuen Kwai punched me weakly on the shoulder.

Master slapped him with his cane. "You can do better than that!"

Yuen Kwai hit me harder. Much harder. Then Master waved his cane toward me, and I punched Yuen Kwai back. Directed by Master, the two of us kept hitting and kicking one another, our blows landing solidly without defense, long after we were too tired to fight, and long after the reason for the fight had been forgotten. Our faces became bloody and swollen. Our fists and feet felt like lead. Our bodies ached everywhere. Still Master urged us on, until finally we collapsed on each other's shoulders and begged for mercy.

110 • I AM JACKIE CHAN

"You should have asked for mercy from each other before all of this happened," he said. "Keep going."

And so the fight, if you could call it that, continued for hours, sodden blow after sodden blow. By the time we were allowed to stop, we had no strength left for anything but sleep—and even that was difficult, as sore as we were. In fact, we were too beaten up to practice the next day, and our injuries kept us from performing for weeks. During that time. Master coolly substituted two alternates into our places in the Seven Little Fortunes. When we'd healed sufficiendy to get back to work, he made us beg him for our roles back.

After that experience, Yuen Kwai and I never hit each other again.

At least not in a way that left any evidence.

THE SECRET

he Great Comic Book Battle had an unexpected side effect—one whose importance I didn't realize until much later.

See, the fight was the first time that Yuen Kwai and I were really put out of commission. Neither of us had ever suffered a real illness before, and so we chafed under the restriction we suddenly faced: no working out, no running around, lie in bed, don't talk, don't make trouble. The only nice thing about being grounded by our injuries was that Biggest Sister and two of the other girls took it upon themselves to take care of me, putting ice on my bruises, giving me their extra food, and otherwise pampering me in a way I hadn't experienced since my mother left for Australia. Yuen Kwai got similar treatment. Suddenly, we found ourselves thinking weird new thoughts.

"Hey, Yuen Kwai, d'you ever think about how boys and girls are different?" I asked.

Yuen Kwai sat up and shifted a pillow behind him, breathing sharply as he stretched a muscle that still hurt. We'd been put temporarily in a side room meant for guests while we recovered. There were even real beds in it, and it was right next to the big sisters' room, the private area of the older girls. For some reason, Madame demanded that Master put sisters over a certain age in a room by themselves.

"Sure, Big Nose," he said, after some thought. "Number one: boys hit harder. Number two: boys eat faster. Number three: girls apologize and boys don't. And number four: girls share snacks without fighting."

"That's not what I mean, you idiot," I said. "I mean, have you ever seen what a girl looks like, you know, without clothes?"

"You mean naked?"

"What else does without clothes mean?"

"Of course I have," he said, trying to sound cool and world-weary. "All the time."

"Yeah, right!" I said, wounded. "If you know so much, how are they different from us then?"

Yuen Kwai turned red. "They don't have 'litde boys,' " he said.

"What?" I said.

"Penis. No penises," he said.

112 • I AM JACKIE CHAN

I laughed. "How do they pee then?"

Yuen Kwai threw a pillow at my head, "Ahh, shut the hell up, I don't know!" he said.

Since we had nothing better to do, we decided that we'd find out for sure. It would take a litde effort, but the answer to the Great Big Secret of Girls was close at hand.

You might think we were naive, not knowing anything about men and women and sexual things. After all, back then, most kids had a pretty good idea of how their bodies worked by the age of twelve. But we didn't go to school. We didn't have much time to play around. And who was going to explain to us, anyway? Master? Madame? If we'd even asked them an innocent question, we'd probably have been whipped within an inch of our lives.

So that pretty much left it up to us to figure things out for ourselves. And that was harder than you might imagine. For us, boys and girls were pretty much the same. That is, we knew that girls and boys acted differendy—but until age thirteen or so, all of us were in the same boat, training together, getting punished together, even sleeping in the same room, side by side. About the only thing we didn't do was go to the bathroom and shower together.

In most of our social activities, we naturally divided ourselves into brothers and sisters, but we boys basically thought of the girls sort of as weaker versions of ourselves. They cried too much—more than Yuen Biao, even—frankly, they weren't really very interesting.

But now I was determined to get to the bottom of this whole boy-girl thing. After the other students got back from the day's performance, Yuen Kwai and I grabbed together some of our fellow junior brothers and oudined our plan. We didn't let Yuen Lung or the other older students know, mostiy because we realized they'd tease us mercilessly for being so socially retarded.

The plan went like this: the girls' shower was outside, on a balcony across the hall. It was a somewhat badly constructed facility, and it regularly leaked, leaving large and very deep puddles in the area. Though Master had forbidden boys to hang around the open entranceway to the shower, I'd noticed that the puddles, when viewed from the proper angle, gave a pretty precise view of what was going on inside.

The older sisters usually took their showers last, after the younger girls had finished their washing up. Skipping our own showers, we quiedy made our way to the edge of the balcony, to a place where the light from the shower turned the dark pools of liquid into mirrors.

"No noise," I whispered to Yuen Biao and the other litde kids. The water was running in the shower. In just a moment, whoever was inside

lAMJACKIECHAN • 113

would step into the spray, putting her girl stuff on display. There was a flash of pink, and we all held our breath—and then released it. The girl was facing the wrong way!

"Aw, c'mon, turn around" said Yuen Kwai, jockeying for better position in case she did. I pushed him back into place, but not before he got a quick glimpse of the bather's face.

"Oh, my god, that's Madamel" he whispered to us in terror. The litdest brother let out a squeal and bolted, followed quickly by Yuen Biao and our other curious companions, and then, almost as an afterthought, by me and Yuen Kwai.

Unfortunately, Madame heard the noise of us attempting to make ourselves scarce. And screamed.

Just as we reached the doorway. Master burst outside, nearly running us down.

The next day, Yuen Kwai and I went back to practice. Not because our bruises were completely healed, but because it hurt so much to sit down.

After the failure of our litde exploration of the gender gap, it was a long time before we dared experiment with the opposite sex again. Although we were surrounded by girls our age, the shared hardships of life at the academy encouraged us to see our different-sex peers as siblings, not as potential mates or sexual partners. And we rarely if ever had any contact with boys and girls from outside the academy. Besides, when all was said and done, we simply didn't have the time or energy to indulge in more than curiosity.

And so, after the burst of excitement that came with the onset of adolescence and the beginning of our performing careers, our teenage years went by in relatively constant fashion, one day rolling into the next. There were meals to be eaten, skills to be practiced, and operas to be performed. Occasionally, the cycle would be broken by some excitement, usually ending in punishment. But even the punishment became routine. And actually, as time went on, and both we students and Master got older, beatings became less frequent—probably because delivering physical discipline to thirty-odd wayward boys and girls was almost a full-time profession in its own right.

Of course, every so often, new students came and others went. But the faces and names were mosdy forgettable, and none were close enough friends for me really to miss them. As for me and the other Fortunes, leaving school was something we'd pretty much put out of our minds.

Until Biggest Brother had the accident.

THE TRAGIC FALL

t should probably be clear by now that injuries were not particularly rare at the school. And, as I mentioned before, when they did happen, no one—least of all Master—gave them too much concern. So when Yuen Lung hurt his ankle, Master merely told him to get up and move to the side, away from the training area, as usual.

It was a silly accident, a freak mislanding on a simple handspring. Someone as big and strong as Yuen Lung should have just laughed at it and gone on, and usually when such things happened, he did.

This time he just sat on the floor, his face pale. "Master, I can't," he said, his voice straining. "It... it hurts too much."

Master stiffened. "Help him up," he ordered to Yuen Tai and Yuen Kwai.

The two complied, wincing in involuntary sympathy as Biggest Brother sucked in a breath of agony upon being pulled to his feet. They brought him into an unoccupied corner and then resumed their positions in practice.

But several hours later, we noticed Yuen Lung had not moved. Yuen Tai went over to him, concerned, and then called out to Master.

"Biggest Brother is out cold!" he said. Yuen Lung's ankle had swollen to monstrous size, v^th the edges of his soft-soled training shoe cutting deeply into his flesh.

Recruiting several of us to help him, Yuen Tai moved Yuen Lung onto a cot in the small side room, as Master—for the first time since I'd been at the school—called for a physician.

The doctor came quickly, and his diagnosis was simple: Biggest Brother had broken his ankle. Though it would eventually heal, he'd have to be in the hospital for weeks, and forbidden to walk, much less work out, for months. Master frowned, but the doctor raised a finger.

"He absolutely can't perform for at least two months," said the physician. "If he strains this ankle too much before it's healed, he'll be pardy lame for life."

There was no helping it. Master called for a car, and he and Madame took Biggest Brother to the hospital.

"I guess I'm Biggest Brother for now," said Yuen Tai. "Okay, back to

I AM JACKIE CHAN • 115

practice." But Yuen Tai's heart wasn't in it; he was worried about the boy who'd been his closest friend since he'd arrived at school.

I didn't much like Yuen Lung. In fact, usually I hated him. But this time—well, I understood what was probably going through his head.

The only thing he and I had in common was that we both loved what we did. We loved performing. We loved martial arts. We loved the control we had over our bodies, the ability to jump and roll and dive and balance in ways that shocked and awed normal people. If I'd been told that I had to stop performing for two months, I would probably have gone insane.

He would have hated to hear it, but ... I felt sorry for Biggest Brother. Sorry and sad.

For the next two weeks, Yuen Lung sulked. He was trapped in bed in the hospital, without anything to do besides look at the ceiling. Like the rest of us, he couldn't read very well, and his room—a dingy multibed ward—didn't have a TV. He was bored. And restless. He couldn't practice and he couldn't even go to the bathroom v^thout help.

Every day, a different group of students was assigned to go visit him; each one was met with a scowl and a nasty tongue-lashing. "I don't want your pity," he'd say, throwing whatever was close by.

The nurses learned to take away his bedpan immediately after it had been used.

When it was finally my turn to pay him a visit, I brought v^th me a bag of snacks that his grandfather had sent to him.

"Hope you're feeling better. Biggest Brother," I said, trying to keep things light.

He looked at me with an expression of bitter anger.

"I bet you think you're great now," he said. "Big Brother can't walk. Big Brother can't perform. But the prince still lords over everyone."

I set down the bag, looking at Yuen Lung in silence. This was the worst thing that could happen to one of us, so used to days of endless, exhausting activity.

"I'm really sorry, Biggest Brother," I said finally, having nothing else to say.

Yuen Lung reached out for the bag and made a pushing gesture with his hand. "Get the hell out of here."

I turned and left the room.

After a few weeks in the hospital, Biggest Brother was deemed well enough to be taken back to the academy. As soon as he returned, he limped over to the main hall, where he sat in a corner and watched us practice.

116 • I AM JACKIE CHAN

Occasionally, when Master left on errands or to meet friends, Yuen Lung would still be given the responsibility of leading us in drills, but without the ability to punish us, the aura of authority and fear that Biggest Brother was once able to project was gone.

Biggest Brother's grandfather continued to send treats for his ailing grandson, and Yuen Lung, mad at the world, refused to share them with anyone. This high-calorie diet of snacks, combined with his complete lack of activity, soon led to him ballooning in size. He was always a stocky lad, but now he was out-and-out fat.

Despite Master's disapproval, Yuen Lung would not stop his frustration-driven consumption. The result was tragic. Even after Biggest Brother's ankle had healed enough for him to return to active duty, Master forbade him to take part in performances.

"You are too fat!" said Master. "How can I put you onstage with the others? You'd better lose that weight!"

And Yuen Lung, shamed by his banishment from the Fortunes, said nothing. But Master's decision ate at him—and this, in turn, only led him to eat more.

Finally, there was just one decision that Biggest Brother could ultimately make. His pride, which was always proportionate in size with his girth, couldn't take going from Big Brother to bit player and backstage hand. Despite his weight gain, his martial arts hadn't diminished, and he was remarkably graceful for a fat guy. He'd already done some work as a movie stuntman—something that we younger kids were looking forward to—and he knew that he'd find a demand for his exemplary fighting skills. He had nothing left to gain from staying at the academy, and everything to lose.

We Fortunes and some of the older students gathered around him as he packed his small bag of personal belongings to leave. Coming to the decision seemed to have lifted the cloud from Yuen Lung's brow; he was nearly back to his old self, joking and snapping at his fellow big brothers, and even making predictions as to the brightness of his future.

"The movies, that's the deal," he said, thumping his thigh. "The age of the opera is over. Look at the crowds you've been getting recently"— already he thought of us, his schoolmates, as "you"—"barely half the theater, and all old guys, too. What happens when they kick the bucket, eh, chums? Got to go where the excitement is, that's where I'll make my fortune."

Now, all of us had done work in movies—not as stuntmen, but as extras and kiddie props. We'd even had some of our opera scenes put on camera, though we'd never seen the results. We tried to reconcile what Yuen Lung was saying with the reality we'd experienced: shoddy sets, minuscule budgets, and lots of bellowing fat men shouting at us to get into

I AM JACKIE CHAN • 117

position. True, we'd gotten the chance to work with real movies stars like Li Li-hua. And while we were filming movies, we didn't have to do any practice; in fact, most of each shooting day was spent just sitting around. Which wasn't a bad deal. All in all, though, the film industry hardly seemed like a world of glamour.

Then again, what did we know? We were small potatoes; we'd never done stuff as important as stunt work. And we certainly hadn't been movie stars.

"Listen, kiddies," said Yuen Lung, lifting his bag onto his shoulder. "When you decide to get out of here, look me up. /'// get you into the business, and not the small stuff that Master has you working, either."

He clapped a glum Yuen Tai on the shoulder.

"After all, what's a Big Brother for?" he said.

And with that, he was out the door, and gone.

GROWING UP

/'TTN ne thing Yuen Lung had said was clearly true: the audiences for Chinese opera were dwindling, and though Master said nothing,

V J the school was clearly suffering. Increasingly, Master lent us out as

film extras and—as martial arts films became more popular—as stunt-men, because, powered by the resources of the Shaw Brothers movie empire, kung fu cinema was turning into an internadonal phenomenon.

An unintended effect of all of this loaning was that we started to see a whole lot more of the real world than we'd known growing up at the academy. Hanging out with stuntmen, we were thrust into an adult world—one considerably more adult than most, in fact, full of drinking and gambling and fast living. Stuntmen, who risked their lives daily for just a few dollars a scene, were philosophical people. If you might die tomorrow, why not live as much as you can today? Get everything you can out of life, because it's much too short, and never as sweet as you'd like it to be.

Our exposure to these tough, incredible individuals changed us dra-madcally. It made us realize that we could have lives outside of Master's shadow, and that we should take control of those lives as soon as we could. Besides, we were stardng to meet girls. And learning a lot about the difference between "sisters" and girls. Real girls.

One day, Yuen Tai, who was now Biggest Brother at the school, called a meeting of the older boys.

"The fact is, were the ones making the money," he said, leaning back against the wall of our meeting spot, a deserted alley behind the academy. Several of the other seniors nodded their heads, but some also looked troubled.

"I think Master's in trouble," said Yuen Biao. "I mean, I've never seen him like this."

"Maybe he's sick. He hasn't hit anyone in days" said Yuen Kwai, who then burst out laughing at the absurdity of his statement.

But it was true. Master had grown a lot softer in his discipline recentiy—almost as if he were losing his heart for it.

"Well, we're still the ones who are sticking out our necks," said Yuen Tai. "I think we should be getting a bigger share of our earnings. Not everything, but, you know, more."

I AM JACKIE CHAN • 119

"Yeah, we got expenses," said another older brother, looking self-righteous.

I was torn. On the one hand, the HK$5 we got out of every HK$75 we earned was almost insulting; for a younger child, it was a handful of candies, but for an older boy, it was a joke.

On the other hand, it was clear that the school was not what it used to be; no new kids were coming in, and the number of students at the academy was gradually dwindling as the older ones left, one by one.

And though we hated to admit it, it was obvious that Master himself was getting older.

After some further discussion, we came up with a plan: Biggest Brother would ask Master for a meeting, and explain our request. But each of us other brothers, in turn, would speak a sentence, too. This way, as a group, we could say what no single one of us dared. So we practiced our lines and gathered our courage, and then we knocked on the door to Master's room.

Master answered, his face emotionless. "Hello, boys. Come in."

We filed into his room, suddenly unsure of ourselves. Then, Yuen Tai finally screwed up the courage to speak.

"Master, we—we've been talking. . . ." he said, his voice choking. "It's about our wages . . . now that we're older, we don't have enough money—"

Master turned away, hiding his face from us. "I understand."

The room was silent for several minutes, as we felt the sickening burden of our request sink onto our shoulders. All of us had forgotten the lines we were supposed to say.

Then Master turned back toward us. "You're grown men now," he said. "You've grown wings. You can fly." There were tears in his eyes.

As of that day, he told us, we would get HK$35 out of the HK$75 we earned for each film.

Grateful, we thanked him and shuffled out of the room. The door closed behind us.

"Thirty-five dollars!" crowed Yuen Tai. "That's almost half! That was a lot easier than I thought."

The others began talking about what they'd do with their newfound riches. But something was troubling me.

I don't know why, but as soon as Master had closed his bedroom door, it felt like a chapter of our lives, and perhaps history, had ended.

MY THIRD GOOD-BYE

y feeling proved to be correct. The era of opera was over. Yuen Lung had pointed out the trend, but with the collapse of Master's authority, I had felt the passing. Opera had transformed from the core of Chinese popular culture into a quaint traditional art, enjoyed only by connoisseurs and old men and women. There was not room for schools like Master Yu's in modern Hong Kong. The training methods the China Drama Academy used were increasingly seen as archaic, even barbaric. And in the fast-paced, future-forward lifestyle that the new Hong Kong was inventing for itself, real numbers-and-words education was becoming a necessary trait for survival.

Our generation of students was the last to be raised within the opera, the last to have nothing but our martial arts and our performance skills between us and the streets. I can't say that I regret the end of that era. I look at young people today and I see what they are able to do today, and I think to myself, if I'd been born twenty years later, that might be me. As it is, I know how to use a camera, how to direct and edit a scene. But as for 3-D animation, digital effects—all the things that make up a Hollywood blockbuster—well, a boy who barely learned his math will grow up into a man who doesn't know how to use computers.

The only way I know how to do it is the way I learned it: for real, with my life and my reputation on the line. I console myself by thinking, one of these days I might learn how to use computer graphics.

But Hollywood directors will never learn how to drop one hundred feet to a concrete floor—and survive.

As students left one by one and the academy faded away, there was no putting off the inevitable. The old performing gigs that Master had been able to rely on—the weddings, the festivals, even the Lai Yuen Amusement Park—^were disappearing one by one. Other schools were closing, and professional opera troupes were disbanding; the trained and talented men and women who found themselves cut loose from their art had nowhere else to go but the movies. Me and the remaining older brothers had been working for several years at Shaw Brothers and other studios as junior stuntmen. But the dumping of so many experienced

IAMJACKIECHAN • 121

opera performers into the film industry meant that there was suddenly much more competition for every job. The work had once been steady. Now Master found himself scrambling to keep us employed. And despite all our promise and ability, none of us had yet managed to rise to prominence. It seemed as if the Fortunes, stars in our small and shrinking world, were doomed to fade away completely in the much larger and faster world of the cinema.

As much as I owed Master, I decided that I had to leave the school. I knew I could do better than the miserable jobs that he was getting us. I knew my destiny was to be more than just a crowd extra or an anonymous stunt performer. And if I didn't leave right away, I realized I'd lose any chance of breaking out of the pack—there were so many of us now, all fighdng for the same increasingly elusive opportunities.

I didn't waste any words in telling Master. I knew he wouldn't respect anything but the straight and honest truth. Most of my fellow Fortunes, the ones I'd grown up with, had already gone. I'd stuck around out of loyalty to Master, and because I didn't want to abandon Yuen Biao. But he was big now, too. And Master had to face the facts as much as any of the rest of us.

Master took the news of my decision with weary acceptance. He pulled a cigarette from a worn and rumpled pack, lit it, and drew a long drag. "Would you like a cigarette, Yuen Lo?"

I shifted uncomfortably on my feet, shaking my head.

"I remember when you enjoyed my cigarettes very much, very much. . . ." he said, his voice drifting off. "Well, once the mind is set, the body must follow. I wish you well."

I'd spent a decade with this man, this distant and domineering figure, and never received more kindness than a dry smile or a pat on the head. I was telling him I was leaving, perhaps never to see him again, and he was acting like I was only going out for a walk in the courtyard.

I felt no pain, and had no tears at our parting. But still, this stiff ending, this hollow good-bye—it somehow left me feeling a deep and unquenchable sense of loss. I didn't want to stay around any longer. I hoisted my bag onto my shoulder.

"Good-bye, Master," I said, turning to go.

Master stood in the doorway, watching me depart.

"Good-bye, son," he said.

And then the door closed, with only a faint blue curl of cigarette smoke to indicate that Master had ever been there.

THE OLD MASTER

did see Master Yu again. By that time, our roles had changed: he was aged and feeble; I was a man in the prime of my youth and career. He had moved to the United States with his family. He lived in Los Angeles, and taught martial arts and classical opera at the community center. In Hong Kong, he left behind a daughter, Yu So-chau, who became one of the great actresses of the early Cantonese cinema—famous enough that it was once said that there was no one over the age of twenty-five who didn't know her name, and few who hadn't seen her image on the silver screen.

In 1988, on the occasion of his birthday, he came back to Hong Kong, and all of his students threw him a party. At the party, he was in high spirits, still as active and sharp as he'd been when he'd terrorized us as children.

After he returned to America, however, we didn't hear from him for years. His Alzheimer's disease came on suddenly and he degenerated rapidly.

And on September 8, 1997, old age and the ravages of time finally took him from our world.

But about that party in 1988: gathered together as we all were, it was amazing to see how many of us were in the film world—and how many of us were thriving at the top. These days, if you look carefully, you will find a "Yuen" nearly everywhere in Hong Kong cinema.

And so it could be said that Master Yu wasn't just my godfather, but one of the godfathers of the Cantonese movie industry.

Not a bad legacy, wouldn't you say?

BREAKING IN

nd so for the first time in my life, I found myself alone—and free. I was seventeen years old, in the prime of my youth. I was determined to make a life for myself, and a name, and maybe even fame, in the wild, beautiful city of Hong Kong.

But first I had to deal with some loose ends.

You see, when I was thinking of leaving the school, I'd called my parents, to tell them that my ten-year contract with Master was ending soon. My father immediately told me I should join him and my mother down under.

Well, I'd lived under the eyes of adults all my life, and I wasn't going to pass up the chance to finally kick up some dust.

"Kong-sang, you will like it here," said my father, his gruff voice broken by the static of a bad international connection. "I'm sure we will be able to find you a job, and of course you can stay with us until a flat is available."

"I can't hear you. Dad," I said, even though I could hear him quite well.

"Kong-sang?" he shouted. I held the phone away from my ear and winced.

"Dad, I'm not going."

"The line is bad; I thought I heard you say you are not coming."

"I'm not."

"You certainly are," he said, his voice taking on a familiar edge. "Your contract is up, there is no more opera company for you to join, and you are old enough to begin earning a living for yourself. There are many jobs here in Australia, much opportunity."

"I'm working already. Dad," I retorted. "I'm doing movies. I'm a stuntman."

"How much do you think you can make doing movies?" he said.

I realized that I had absolutely no idea. All of my movie fees went direcdy to Master, and the amount he gave us as our spending money was barely enough for snacks. Could I live on a stuntman's pay? Maybe I was crazy.

"There is no way you can survive," said my father, breaking into my thoughts.

124 • I AM JACKIE CHAN

Nothing makes me more determined to succeed than someone telling me something's impossible.

"Of course I can, Dad!" 1 said. "In fact—"

I gulped, because 1 suddenly knew exactly what would force my father to let me to stay, if that was what I really wanted. And it was. Right?

"In fact, the reason I have to stay in Hong Kong is that I've signed a contract with a movie studio. I'll be working for them all the time now. A contract," I said.

There was silence on the other end of the line. I mentioned before that my father is from Shandong. Well, the people of Shandong are known for two things: they always face death without fear, and they always live up to their word. A contract, even a verbal agreement, is unbreakable, no matter how unfair it is, or how terrible the price of keeping it. That's why my father had kept me in the school, even though he could have afforded to bring me to Australia years earlier. No matter what happened to me, even if I'd been crippled or worse, I was committed to stay there by the contract he'd signed with Master—and if I'd run away and somehow managed to join them in Australia, well, he might have killed me himself. No son of Shandong could live with such humiliation, and no Shandong father could bear to have such a cowardly son.

So if I'd signed a contract, I was untouchable. I was bound to fulfill its terms.

"How long is the contract for, Kong-sang?" said my father, after a long pause.

I told him the first number that came to mind. "Two years. Dad."

"And where will you live for these two years?"

"I—uh . . ."

He had me there. I couldn't stay at the school, and with most of its students leaving or already gone, the school wouldn't be around much longer anyway. We'd often overheard Master discussing the possibility of leaving Hong Kong, to start over in a place so culturally backward it had barely even been exposed to Chinese opera: Los Angeles, in the United States.

"Kong-sang, it would be shameful for you to dishonor an agreement that you have already made," he said. "But it would be even more shameful for a son of mine to be living on the streets."

I knew it. He was going to demand that I give up Hong Kong and my last chance at freedom.

"I suppose," he continued, "that I have no choice but to buy you an apartment."

"But Dad, if I go to Australia—^what?" I reevaluated what he'd just said through the static. "I'm sorry, the line is bad. ... I thought I just heard you say you were going to buy me an apartment."

I AM JACKIE CHAN • 125

"I did," he said.

"You aren't!"

"I certainly am," he said, and I swear I could hear him smiling. "You may consider it a graduation gift."

So on the day when I finally walked out the door of the academy, I had somewhere to go: my own apartment. It was very small, and not in very good shape, but it was mine, and it was home. My first home. I'd spent my entire life in other people's houses, and while I lived under their roof I had to obey their rules. But in my tiny seventeenth-floor flat on Xing Pu Jiang, I was the king, and I could stay up as long as I wanted, and sleep as late as I chose.

That apartment cost my father HK$40,000—a huge amount for him to spend at the time. It's the nicest thing he's ever done for me, and something I can never forget.

In fact, I still own the place. I've thought about selling it, but my father told me that the fengshui oi xhe place must be very good, since I've had so much luck since then. Maybe he's right, maybe he isn't. I'm not a very sentimental or superstitious person, so even though I never went through with a deal, I had a real estate agent come and look at the flat. She said that if I sold it, I could get more than HK$3 million. Which should tell you something about how much Hong Kong has changed over the past three decades.

(It's gotten a lot more expensive, for one thing.)

A CITY VIEW

hat first night in my new place was very strange.

I had no furniture, so I lay down on the floor—but I was used to that. The thing I wasn't ready for was the feeling of being alone in the dark. Without the muffled noises of other bodies, the snoring of Biggest Brother, and the creak of the old wooden floor as it moved under our shifting weight, the night seemed terribly empty.

I couldn't sleep. I got up and walked across the room to the window that faced out into the street. The glass was faded with old dust, but I could still see the lights of the city beneath me: blinking neon and the occasional flare of automobile headlights.

I pushed at the window, grunting as I struggled against the layers of rust and old paint that stuck it to its frame. When I finally got it loose, the night came alive with noise. Even as high in the air as I was, I could hear the sounds of Kowloon after dark.

Hong Kong had always been crowded; now it was a permanent mob. It had always been fast, but now it swarmed with constant motion. There was action in the streets, the kind of action young men were told to stay away from if they wanted to grow up into old men—^women, drink, drugs, fighting, and gambling, always gambling.

This was the early '70s, when Hong Kong was just beginning to turn into a real economic power, one of Asia's "Little Dragons." The postwar wave of refugees had fueled the growth of the island's industry with their labor, first pouring out their sweat in tiny basement workshops, and then in big factories, making garments and toys and plastics.

Some people had become very rich. But even those who hadn't—from shop owners to businessmen to the hawkers in the streets—believed that, with enough determination and hard work, they could, too.

The city I was named after was growing up, and so was I. We would grow big enough to take on the world together. There wasn't a doubt in my heart.

That night, there in the air above the streets of Kowloon, I made a vow. I was Chan Kong-sang, man of Shandong, son of Hong Kong. I would survive. I would succeed. And all of them—my ancestors, my city, my father—I would someday make them proud.

I AM JACKIE CHAN • 127

And with that thought in my mind, I shut the window, curled back up on the floor of my new home, and slept.

So there I was, a teenage dreamer with an empty apartment and no job. As one of the last older kids to leave the school, I'd lost track of many of my brothers who'd "graduated" before me. The word would get out that I was around, and eventually we would connect; the Hong Kong movie world was still small enough that everyone knew everyone. Until then, though, I didn't have much to do but wait. I spent my first few days of freedom building furniture—tables, chairs, shelves—out of stray wood I'd begged from the building manager.

The manager was a kind old gendeman, and he would somedmes ask me down to his apartment for tea, where he would tell me stories about his youth and lecture me in grandfatherly tones.

"Hong Kong is a bad place for a young man now, Kong-sang," he would warn me. "You must try hard to stay away from troublesome people."

To him, "troublesome people" meant everyone from street punks to flower girls to tenants who were slow paying their rent. I suppose if I followed his ad\ice, I'd just stay in my apartment all night, talking to the un-troublesome cockroaches.

That wasn't my style.

Besides, I had a reason to go out now—a better one than I'd ever had in my life.

Her name was Oh Chang.

WOMEN, AND OTHER MYSTERIOUS THINGS

p. \ h Chang had come into my life just as I was thinking of leaving the school. In fact, if it hadn't been for her, I might have stayed—

V J stayed until it faded completely away, as it did just months after I set

out on my own.

She was my first girlfriend, my first love, and my sweetest memory of those early days on my own.

I mentioned before that it took a while for me to get interested in girls. Well, not just me; all of us boys at the academy were slow to learn that the soft, nice-smelling people known as women were not the same as us—and that that was a good thing.