"Troops . . . Withdraw!"

Vanquished Leader Chou Yu stands like a beaten fighting-cock, his former heroic poise transformed into an image of injured wrath. In spite of meticulous planning he has failed to take Ching Chou, and instead fallen for the trap set by his enemies, at the Yellow Crane Pavilion. It is as if the life has been taken right out of him.

The stage-lights dim, the crashing sound of percussion swells and subsides. Tension is building up . . . the drama is almost at its climax, and the audience seems to hold its breath. But sitting in its midst, I am unmoved.

My father is in the wings pounding the drums. All the energy in his body seems to be poured into the beat, sending wave after wave of sound through the drumskins. Gongs and cymbals resound in successive bursts, getting ever louder. His look is that of a monarch at the head of an army of thousands. Meanwhile center-stage, my mother as Chou Yu, after gulping down a large glass of water, lets the "blood" issue slowly from the corner of her lips in time with the surging percussive crescendo. The audience is disturbed yet entranced. For myself however, there is no nostalgia in watching opera, nor am I in awe of Luan-t'an Chiao. In over twenty years on and around the stage, I have learned not to differentiate between the legendary young hero Chou Yu, and my own flesh and blood mother.

I have known life on the road with my mother ever since a child, having grown up in a family of folk opera performers, and remember us having to find temples to spend the night in. In those days, temporarily erected performance tents were the stage on which my mother shone. But when the music stopped and the crowd went home, the tent became the place we ate and slept, changed clothes and hung out our washing. The travelling stage was our whole livelihood. As a child, I did not know what the ravages of scorching summer's heat or icy winter's chill meant to the company. All I was concerned with was my own fun, and the temptations of food stalls, and so I roamed happily in a world of temple fairs and motley arts.

Once I started school, vacations would sometimes bring back those happiest days, but if teachers or classmates asked what my parents did I could hardly answer. The idea of artists, actors and performers of all kinds filled me with an inexplicable shame, and made me feel like never again stepping into the stage tent.

My mother was always an expert in the hsiao-sheng (young male) roles, particularly in the opera Yellow Crane Pavilion. The boldness and vigor of Chou Yu, the successful young hero in the story, depends entirely on my mother's appearance and expression in the role, as on her bearing and agility. Each time crouching before the stage to watch the show, I would be one part entranced, and one part proudly awaiting the next gasp of admiration from the audience. But shifting my gaze away from the stage I would become aware of the many imperfections: the battered percussion instruments, the actors' casual dress and their rushed performance. Clothes hanging out to dry in the wings, and the musicians hawking phlegm or taking a doze. It was this image that became firmly implanted in my mind over the years. Little did I ever imagine back then that one day Pei-kuan, in the same way as Peking opera before it, would be smartened up and brought in from the cold like a potted bonsai tree.

Our society is changing however. The vital bond between the opera and temple festivities has gradually fallen apart. Traditional drama is irresistibly moving indoors, into the theaters. But during the course of some forty years, Pei-kuan has waxed and waned without the benefit of outside help. So who is there to give it a hand now, and help brush it up a little?

In recent years we have seen the Kwangtung, Shaohsing, and Honan styles of opera all effect the transition to indoor theater. Even our very own home-grown Taiwanese opera is earning a theater audience. Dazzled by all this, and encouraged by the variety of international arts events springing up around the world, I began to have an irresistible idea. Couldn't we do the same for Pei-kuan?

I always greatly enjoyed seeing Chu An's troupe in performance. Chu himself plays the hu-ch'in fiddle, while his wife acts the hsiao-sheng roles, their daughter sings hsiaotan (female role) and their son plays the ch'in. The whole family is involved in the show. Thinking of them put me in mind of my own family: My grandparents were celebrated performers and players of Pei-kuan round about the time of the war; my father currently rates as one of the top backstage organizers in the country, as well as being a leading instrumentalist; mother is widely considered Taiwan"s best hsiao-sheng performer and is known as Luan-t'an Chiao; my aunt is called "opera's number one;" and my uncle is a director of Taiwanese opera and a well-known actor of ching (painted face) roles. Put them all together and what do we have if not a drama troupe?

Last year after much thinking, I formed the theater company. It was something of a gamble, and our first test was public performance in the annual national Arts Festival, which was really nerve-wracking. The appearance in the Festival, run by the Council for Cultural Planning and Development, was something of a breakthrough for Pei-kuan, and its arrival on a regular theater stage was a first in forty years. We did it without relying on help from academics, just myself, my parents, family and everyone else in the company.

A script for Yellow Crane Pavilion was finally produced after much debate, and the cast set about memorizing lines, rehearsing and doing blocking, while arrangements were made for lighting, scenery and so on. "You musn't start chatting together during your performance, and don't let your glance wander or stop to pick something up. Remember you are artists, be totally absorbed in the part." Though the actors were all old hands, theatrical performance of this type was quite new to them. Worrying that they might forget my instructions to them, mother would tell them over and over, word by word. Everyone was fully charged right up until the opening beats of the opera broke on stage. Then Chou Yu stepped forward, resplendent in dazzling robes of office, flanked by generals, amid the resounding crash of drums and gongs. . . .

That was on November 21, 1990, the "Luan-t'an Chiao Pei-kuan Troupe" in performance at the Chinese Armed Forces Curtural Activity Center. The sight of friends and well-wishers waiting by the stage clutching bouquets, and the audience full of enthusiasm, brought the tears to my eyes. Never in my life had I seen my mother on such a stage, while at her dazzling best as Chou Yu! The dream had at last come true.

The phone rang. Mother put down the bowl of rice soup she was eating, and picked up the receiver. A moment later she looked stunned. Hanging up the phone she grabbed her keys and rushed out to the scooter, calling out as she left: "Your brother's had a car accident!" Seeing her disappear into the distance, I thought to myself that constant toil must be her lot in life. As far back as I can remember, she never had time to herself. When Pei-kuan was on the decline, she ran a grocery store, and spent the whole day placing orders and making sales, weighing out produce for customers, and so on. I especially remember her gutting and scaling fish. She also ran a knitwear workshop at home, and for years was surrounded by the paraphernalia of the textile trade.

Eventually it seemed that mother, still bursting with drive and enthusiasm, had once and for all done with acting, her hard-learned profession. But some time later, with business slumping, she accepted the very generous terms of a Taichung-based Pei-kuan company, the Tai-ping Troupe, and we moved south with her to make a new home in an unfamiliar setting, where we had an oven, a cooker and a rain-tub, but no toilet. While mother was going out on performance with the opera troupe, she still took care of the household. The day started with a trip to the market to buy food, then she was back at home washing clothes and cooking. When lunch was finished she got on her old 80cc Suzuki and set off to perform. That little motorbike was her economy transportation for ten years, carrying her wherever the opera took her, through rain and typhoon.

Even during lean months for opera, mother was kept busy. Farms nearby had peanuts that had to be picked, and lychees to be boxed up. Temporary work was also to be had in a small shoe factory, anything that could help scrape together a little money.

After several years of this, word went round that some cheap housing was to be built in the fields nearby. By selling off the only valuables in the family, and casting about for every possible bit of cash, mother raised enough for a deposit, and so after several more years of delays we finally came to have our own house.

Currently, my youngest brother is still at university, but the other four of us are all grown up and independent. We may not be doctors, lawyers or politicians, but we do at least have our own careers, and can take the pressure off mother so that she does not need to rush around in pursuit of work. As a matter of fact, we had hoped that mother could start to take it easy at home, but the revival in the traditional arts and the increasing prominence of folk artists means that life has far from quietened down for her. Pei-kuan training organized jointly by the Council for Cultural Planning and Development and the Ministry of Education are under her charge. Also she teaches at the Hsichih Cultural Center, and performs at official events like the Arts Festival, and the Festival of Traditional Arts.

Apart from having gained recognition for her abilities, my mother is nowadays also recognized as a performer by people living nearby who never knew that side of her before--thanks to frequent reports in the media. Amazed neighbors at first began asking things like: "Auntie Chiao, wasn't that you we saw on TV last night?" and "It looked a lot like you, but so agile, flourishing a sword about . . . was it really you?" After seeing her around as a regular local for more than ten years, it was hard to think of her as an opera actress.

Yet she remains the mainstay of the family, looking after her mother-in-law and taking care of the grandchildren when necessary, even as she is called on to perform at important cultural events. In this, mother has to face the dilemma of family demands versus the opera. The way that my brother and his wife see it, the children represent the family's hopes for the future, while Pei-kuan is simply a job that mother does, and will remain so until the authorities can guarantee performers a decent standard of living. It is a question of priorities, that has become a point of contention within the family.

Playing with the grandchildren must be the very image of contentment in retirement, but the stage holds such fabulous appeal for performers that they are often loath to forsake it. I know that my mother's first love is for opera, because her life belongs to the stage, and to Pei-kuan.

On a rainy evening, mother and I are out walking slowly, mulling over the words we have just heard a fortune-teller speak: "Ah . . . the Emperor! Playing the emperor on stage. You are an outstanding actress . . . You musn't rest. There are at least seven very bright years ahead. You can let your talent shine on stage. . ."

After the years of waiting and despondency, these are words that mother, trusting in fate, can believe in more than promises from the authorities. Seven years will not be enough to create a new era for Pei-kuan, but it will bring back some of the warmth of the great days gone by. So as we walk on, mother breaks into a smile.

[Picture Caption]

The Luan-t'an Chiao Pei-kuan Troupe performing Yellow Crane Pavilion in the 1990 national Arts Festival. Luan-t'an Chiao (center) as Chou Yu, a role she has practical ly made her own. (photo by Lin Kuo-chang)

With a decline in available opera talent, Luan-t'an Chiao also plays (female) ch'ing-yi roles, in addition to the (young male) hsiao-sheng characters which are her specialty.

Once in costume the actress radiates courage and splendor, no matter how tough life gets for her offstage.

"Life resembles drama, drama resembles life." Luan-t'an Chiao gives everything to her part, whether onstage or off. (photo by Lin kuo-chang)

Her children give full support and encouragement at every performance. With her in the picture is daughter Chiu Ting, author of the article.

Luan-t'an Chiao can always depend on the onstage support of her musician husband. In their case, "where the wife sings the husband follows" is admirably true.

Luan-t'an Chiao holding the Chinese Folk Arts Heritage Award she received in 1990 for her forty-year stage career.

With a decline in available opera talent, Luan-t'an Chiao also plays （female） ch'ing-yi roles, in addition to the （young male） hsiao-sheng characters which are her specialty.

Once in costume the actress radiates courage and splendor, no matter how tough life gets for her offstage.

"Life resembles drama, drama resembles life." Luan-t'an Chiao gives everything to her part, whether onstage or off. （photo by Lin kuo-chang）

Her children give full support and encouragement at every performance. With her in the picture is daughter Chiu Ting, author of the article.

Luan-t'an Chiao can always depend on the onstage support of her musician husband. In their case, "where the wife sings the husband follows" is admirably true.

Luan-t'an Chiao holding the Chinese Folk Arts Heritage Award she received in 1990 for her forty-year stage career.