For months, Reslie joined Yomei whenever he could. He seemed to want to show others that they were dating seriously, but she was ambivalent about this relationship, unsure of her future. What’s more, she couldn’t dispel from her mind Kulygin, the wimpy and nondescript character that Reslie had played. For a long time she had been mystified by this unpleasant impression left by Reslie in her mind; then she realized that actually he must be an excellent actor if he could overcome his fear to show the audience a somewhat negative character who was quite different from him. Only an accomplished actor could be that dedicated and brave. With such a realization, Yomei felt closer to Reslie. She tried to be kind and warm to him and often reminded herself that he had helped her so much when she practiced for the role of Masha.
Early in the summer, Reslie was finally recruited by the Red Army. Thanks to his skills in German, he was assigned to become a radio monitor, following the communications among the enemy forces to gather information. He joined a radio company of the Eighth Guards Motor Rifle Division, which had come west from the Kyrgyz Republic. He was happy about his conscription, even though he had to go to the Demyansk front in the northwest. One afternoon, he came to break the news to Yomei. She brewed jasmine tea for him and then placed a saucer holding a few cubes of sugar next to his cup. His gray eyes blazed at the sight of the sugar, which was a rarity nowadays. She was able to pay a high price for it, which she could afford because she drew a small salary from the Comintern besides her scholarship from the theater institute.
It was midafternoon, and Lily wasn’t back yet. Yomei and Reslie were sitting at their dining table. She said she was happy for him, while he was so excited that his plain face shone with reddish patches. He said, “I’m sorry, Yomei, but duty is calling, and I have to go to the front.” Reslie managed a smile as a frosty sparkle flashed from his eyes. He was acting as though they had already gone steady, so even his departure mustn’t break off their relationship, although it might break his heart.
She exhaled a feeble sigh, then added, “I understand. I would do the same if I could join up.”
“I’ll write to you.”
“Please do. But what if our letters go astray? You know letters get lost easily in times like these.”
Her earnest voice seemed to faze him a bit. He lowered his mop of auburn curls and said, “I have an idea.” He took out a pen and wrote on his tiny spiral notebook. “I am leaving with you my parents’ address in Kansk. You can write them directly if we lose touch. I’ll let them know who you are.” He ripped off the page and handed it to her.
She carefully folded the sheet into fourths and slipped it into her shirt pocket. Despite her uneasy feeling about his passionate interest in her, she ventured to ask, “If I go back to China in the future, will you really go there too?”
“I’ll follow you wherever you are.”
He said those words solemnly, as if making a promise, which touched her. She realized that at a minimum she must treat him as a good friend.
At this point, Lily came back, so Reslie rose to leave—he had intuitively felt that Lily wasn’t supportive of their relationship. Yomei went out with him. It was hot outside, the sun intense, while cicadas droned from the tops of young maples that lined the wide street, every one of the tree trunks lime-painted three feet up from the root to prevent the attack of insects. When Reslie and Yomei got close to a plaza, a flock of white-breasted swallows appeared, darting back and forth, catching gnats and midges. Their wings were fluttering and whistling faintly. The moment the two of them neared a man-made fountain, a tram arrived noiselessly. Reslie turned and hugged her, saying, “I’ll miss you, Yomei. Remember, I’ll always love you.”
“I’ll miss you too, Reslie. Don’t forget to write.”
“Of course I won’t,” he said.
Then he turned and leaped onto the tram, which went rolling away with its bell ringing. He waved and blew her a kiss.
She returned him one. As she watched his cream-colored shirt fade into the bustling thoroughfare, her throat tightened and her eyes misted over. It was always hard to see someone close to her leaving, and she was unsure if she would ever see him again.
Soon after Reslie Mironov left for Demyansk, Professor Gorchakov came back to the theater institute. In less than two years, he had aged considerably, his hair half-grizzled and his face marked with deeper lines. But he was still in buoyant spirits, his eyes sparkling when he laughed. One afternoon he called Yomei into his office for a conference.
Seated behind his hardwood desk, he asked about her life and experiences over the past year. She said she had an unforgettable time at the Party school outside Ufa and felt enriched by the sojourn into the regions of the Ural Mountains. She was greatly impressed by the openness and vastness of the Russian land. Above all, her participation in Three Sisters seemed to mark a new phase of her professional development.
“Actually, that’s what I’d like to talk with you about,” Gorchakov said in his deep voice. “All the teachers and students have praised your performance. Beyond question, you are a quite brilliant burgeoning actress. Tell me, what’s your plan after graduation?”
The question took her by surprise, though once in a while she had wrestled with the same issue. Even if she was certain she’d go back to China afterward, she wasn’t sure where she could have an acting career; at most, that might be feasible if she settled down in one of the major cities. Another question kept nagging her in secret as well. What if she fell in love with a foreign man before her return? To date, she had tried to prevent emotional entanglements, but she wasn’t certain she could always keep hold of herself. She said to Professor Gorchakov, “Anything might happen in one’s life. I still have three years to go before graduation. At this point, I believe I will return to my motherland.”
His green eyes lit up. “I too hope you will go back to China and become an influential figure in the spoken drama circle there. At this point in your career as an aspiring theater artist, you should think about your concentration, which should be part of your lifelong plan too. To be frank, if you live in Russia, you might be able to keep acting and ultimately become a fine actress, but bear in mind that even though you’re brilliant and beautiful, you might not grow into a preeminent actress in Russia, given that you are not a native speaker and there might be unexpected obstacles to you. But if you go back to China, you might have a different career altogether.”
What Gorchakov said made her wonder if he was representing some official power in speaking with her like this. This was nothing untoward, as she was already accustomed to arrangements by the Party and by her superiors. She smiled and said almost naughtily, “I guess I can still act after I go back to China. I can be a decent actress after my education here.”
“No doubt about that, but we, I mean our institute, would want you to be more useful in China.”
“Can you expand on that please?”
“Let me put it this way: a successful actor is at most a flame that can illuminate a stage, but a director can become a torch that brings new light to the field. You should concentrate on directing instead of acting in our school. We hope that someday you can bring the Stanislavski method back to China. That will be a great contribution you can make to your country.”
His words made her heart swell with a surge of emotion. She said, “I will think about what you said. But do you think I can become a good director?”
“Why not? We’ve all witnessed the progress you’ve made. You’re observant and sensitive and have a distinct sensibility, which is usually innate, not something that can be taught. To be frank, if you specialize in directing, I can see a bright future ahead of you in the field of spoken drama in China—your work might become more significant in Chinese theater.”
“Thank you for having such confidence in me.”
“My teacher, the late Stanislavski, used to say that the director was a midwife who becomes more experienced and even like a sorceress as she grows older. Later he revised this analogy and said the director was also like a thoughtful teacher, having to make the audience ponder the issues of their time. What I’m trying to convey is that a director can have a lifelong career—the older you are, the better you’ll become.”
“I want a directorial career then,” she said. “I appreciate what you just told me.”
He waved his slim, almost feminine, hand, indicating this was part of his job. “Do let me know what you think, so that we can design your curriculum.”
“I will soon.”
Yomei talked with Lily about Gorchakov’s suggestion, which her friend urged her to follow. Lily even added her own spin, saying that actors, however talented, usually had a short stage life, after which only a small number of them could manage to transform themselves into directors. “Unless you hanker for stardom, you’d better focus on directing from the outset,” Lily concluded.
“I know myself,” said Yomei. “I cannot become a great actress. Also, a woman loses her looks in a matter of a few years, but artistic beauty in a play can be renewed if not everlasting.”
The exchange with Lily helped Yomei cement her resolve, and she informed Mr. Gorchakov that she would concentrate on directing. The professor was delighted to hear that. She enrolled in his directing class, and from that point whenever he worked on a play, she became an assistant on his directorial team.