The Night is Called Gentle - Chapter 1

How can one know the beauty of spring without visiting the garden?

[Beneath the night sky, the grand curtain rises. Love is neither the sole focus nor the ultimate goal; there is also the pursuit of fame, fortune, and power.]

“How can one know the beauty of spring without visiting the garden~”

The lights dimmed, a single beam of light tracing her movements as Du Liniang gracefully appeared.

It was as if she had traversed four centuries to arrive here, each step light as if treading on clouds, delicate and captivating, elegant and poised.

“Yet I find the vibrant blooms have already flourished everywhere. Such fine scenery and delightful weather, yet to no avail. Wasting this splendid springtime.”

The strains of strings and flutes rose, weaving tales of profound emotion and heart-stirring stories, all entrusted to her. Her voice was clear and melodious, her eyes expressive and enchanting.

“Though the spring scenery is lovely, how can one find the heart to appreciate it.”

The music of strings and flutes gradually softened, the melancholic strains of the huqin lingering, evoking deep emotions.

That was the first time Lin Zhixia saw Yan Huaiqing.

On stage, Du Liniang recited her lines, her powdered cheeks and delicate nose complementing her graceful figure as she painted her own portrait before a mirror. Her eyes shimmered with emotion, an unparalleled beauty, an endless charm.

Offstage, in the audience, Lin Zhixia was like a drop of ink dissolving into the dimness, only her eyes exceptionally bright. She sat in the sixth row, near the right aisle.

Her thoughts had long been drawn into the lyrics, unable to distinguish whether Du Liniang had traveled centuries to stand before her or whether she herself had crossed the river of time to encounter Du Liniang.

It is said that in the DNA of every Chinese person lies a switch for appreciating traditional opera, which turns on at a certain age.

This was Lin Zhixia’s first time watching Yue opera, having been dragged along reluctantly. Yet, without a doubt, she had pushed open the door to a new world.

The huqin played on, its melodies unable to fully express the lingering emotions or the weight of time’s vicissitudes, so it simply stopped.

As the opera concluded, the lights brightened once more. The actors took their bows, and the audience surged toward the stage, eager to catch a closer glimpse of the performers.

After three curtain calls, the fans screamed with excitement, still reluctant to leave.

Beauty, like a painted scroll, stirred one’s thoughts.

Lin Zhixia was someone who easily lost herself in a particular mood. She remained dazed, having not uttered a single word throughout the entire 100-plus minutes of the performance. Her eyes had been fixed on only one person, the one on stage, Du Liniang.

At that moment, the fans in the audience screamed her name Yan Huaiqing.

Yan Huai, the name of the second act of The Peony Pavilion, and Qing, meaning “to cherish and adore you, thus ‘my dear,'” a beautiful character.

“Yan Huaiqing.” A lovely name, Lin Zhixia silently repeated it in her heart.

Having watched her grow up, Zhao Jinchu understood Lin Zhixia well. Seeing her lost in thought, she did not rush her. The two sat quietly until most of the crowd had dispersed. Only then did Zhao Jinchu nudge her with an elbow and say, “Come on, I’ll take you backstage for a look.”

The emotions in Lin Zhixia’s heart had already mostly dissipated with the ebb and flow of the departing audience. She let out a soft sigh and stood up to follow Zhao Jinchu.

“Why go backstage?” she asked, her voice slightly hoarse from disuse.

“You just don’t get it,” Zhao Jinchu glanced at her, a mysterious smile playing on her lips. “Only half of the charm of Yue opera lies on the stage.”

Zhao Jinchu, a professor of ancient literature at Jiang University and a devoted Yue opera fan, had dedicated her life to bringing traditional culture to the younger generation. She had also long endeavored to introduce Yue opera to Lin Zhixia, whom she regarded as half a daughter.

Yet she understood better than anyone that the gate to the world of opera must be pushed open by one’s own hand to truly step inside, it cannot be forced.

And so, the two of them made their way toward the backstage against the flow of the crowd.

Lin Zhixia appeared calm on the surface, but in reality, she was intensely curious. Her entire understanding of the backstage of opera performances came from a movie she had watched many years ago.

When the actors took their bows earlier, she had seen many fans go onstage to present flowers. Could one still enter without bringing flowers? She wondered but kept the question to herself.

Truth be told, she really wanted to see the backstage. The less she knew about something, the stronger her curiosity and desire to explore it became.

The theater was newly built, and it was her first time there. Naturally, she didn’t know that Zhao Jinchu, as a seasoned opera enthusiast, was already quite familiar with the staff. After a brief greeting, they easily entered the backstage.

The not-too-narrow corridor was bustling with staff coming and going. Since Yue Opera was performed entirely by female troupes, all the actors onstage whether playing male or female roles, young or old were women. The backstage was no different: the performers were all female, most of the staff were women, and even the fans were predominantly young women.

The lively chatter of women filled the air, and it sounded as though many stories were unfolding around them.

As Lin Zhixia navigated through the crowd, thinking about meeting “Du Liniang” or more precisely, the actress named Yan Huaiqing her heart began to beat a little faster.

Would it be too presumptuous to meet her like this? She slowed her pace slightly.

There are people like this in life: you’ve only heard their name or know of their existence. You might never exchange a single word with them, let alone become friends, yet you still hope to meet them in a more meaningful way like in a movie or a novel.

But Lin Zhixia was an author, and she knew all too well that in many films and novels, the protagonists’ meetings weren’t particularly well-planned or cleverly arranged. It was only the stories that followed that made their encounters seem romantic and timeless.

Her thoughts drifted as she walked along the corridor. She glanced at the walls on either side, which were adorned with stage photos of opera legends. Each one, she imagined, must have been a trailblazer, a formidable figure in their time.

Lin Zhixia didn’t recognize any of them, but she regarded each with deep reverence, meeting their gazes one by one before stepping into a dressing room under their watchful eyes.

As soon as she entered, a hurried figure bumped into her shoulder. A sharp pain shot through her wrist, and she let out a soft groan. At the same time, a heavy camera was thrust into her arms.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, so sorry! Did I hurt you?” The figure stumbled slightly as they retrieved the camera from her grasp.

“Are you alright?” Zhao Jinchu, who had been walking ahead, turned back to ask. She then addressed the flustered figure, “Be careful, it’s crowded in here.”

Having taught for half her life, her tone was always measured, and there was no hint of blame in her words.

But the person seemed even more embarrassed and nodded repeatedly, “Yes, yes, I’ll be careful.” Then, turning back to Lin Zhixia, they continued apologizing, “I’m really sorry. Did I hurt your arm?”

Lin Zhixia withdrew her arm slightly. It did hurt quite a bit, but she smiled reassuringly and said, “I’m fine.” She then turned to Zhao Jinchu and gestured, “Auntie, you go ahead. I’m okay.”

Zhao Jinchu nodded and made her way toward the group of lead performers.

Meanwhile, the person who had bumped into her wrapped the camera strap around their arm and began thanking her profusely, “Thank you, thank you, thank you! If it weren’t for you, my camera would have crashed to the floor. I’m so grateful!”

“Really, it’s no trouble at all. No need to thank me.” Lin Zhixia replied with a smile, her gaze shifting and landing on Yan Huaiqing.

She was taking photos with fans, still in her stage costume, but offstage she carried herself with natural grace and elegance, patiently interacting with each admirer.

The person who had bumped into her followed her gaze and glanced over, then blinked and looked back at her. “Seems like it’s your first time backstage? Are you also a fan of Teacher Yan?”

A fan?

Lin Zhixia withdrew her gaze. The word felt heavy, and she didn’t quite feel worthy of it.

She had been dragged here to watch the opera. If not for her mother, Director Lin, having to perform an emergency surgery and not wanting the ticket to go to waste, she wouldn’t be here at all.

As she was lost in thought, the person spoke again: “I’m Jiang Jing, a professional photographer. I specialize in portraits.”

Jiang Jing, a portrait photographer. It seemed her name didn’t quite match her profession.

Lin Zhixia gave Jiang Jing a once-over. She was tall and slender, standing half a head taller than her, with shoulder-length hair swept back, giving her a delicate and refined appearance. Dressed in a stylish vest and cargo pants, she looked both chic and artistic. Especially when she was fiddling with her camera without speaking, a word involuntarily popped into Lin Zhixia’s mind, jie jie (older sister).

“Oh, hello. I’m Lin Zhixia. This is indeed my first time watching an opera.”

“Not everyone who comes to the opera for the first time gets the chance to come backstage. Here, as a thank you for saving my camera, I’ll help you take a photo with Teacher Yan.”

Jiang Jing adjusted her camera, then suddenly lifted her head slightly and raised an eyebrow, as if encouraging her. “No need to queue.”

Lin Zhixia glanced toward the crowd again, feeling a bit embarrassed. Although they were backstage, there were still quite a few fans waiting to take photos or get autographs from Yan Huaiqing. Cutting in line didn’t feel right.

Besides, she wasn’t a fan or an admirer, she had only come backstage out of curiosity.

Most importantly, she hadn’t brought any flowers.

Jiang Jing noticed her hesitation and added, “I’m the troupe’s official photographer, after all. I’m sure I can take a better photo than they can with their phones.”

She emphasized the word “official,” making it sound like she had some authority.

Just as Lin Zhixia was hesitating, her wrist was grasped, and Jiang Jing pulled her toward Yan Huaiqing.

“Teacher Yan, your little fan here would like to take a photo with you.”

Her voice was rather loud, and everyone heard it, turning their attention toward them.

Being pulled along under everyone’s watchful eyes made Lin Zhixia’s face flush with heat, especially when she met Yan Huaiqing’s gaze in the center of the crowd.

Zhao Jinchu, who had been speaking with Yan Huaiqing, turned at the commotion and asked teasingly, “A fan? Since when did she become a fan?”

Yan Huaiqing finished signing an autograph and looked up, her tone smooth and composed. “Anyone who comes to watch the opera is a fan. And who might this be?”

“Director Lin’s daughter. She had something come up at the hospital and didn’t want the ticket to go to waste, so I dragged her along.” Zhao Jinchu’s tone carried a hint of regret, though a trace of pride was hidden beneath her expression.

Yan Huaiqing gave Lin Zhixia another glance, a faint smile in her eyes. “So you’re Director Lin’s daughter. I can see the resemblance in your eyebrows and eyes.”

Seeing how familiar and at ease Zhao Jinchu and Yan Huaiqing were with each other, a flicker of regret passed through Lin Zhixia’s heart regret that she hadn’t come along sooner. But this faint regret was quickly overshadowed by her current embarrassment, leaving her no room to dwell on it.

“Come here, Xiaoman. Let me introduce you, this is the renowned Yue opera dan role performer of our city, Yan Huaiqing, also known as Boss Yan.” Zhao Jinchu reached out and draped an arm over her shoulder as he made the introduction.

“Hello, Teacher Yan.” Lin Zhixia took two steps forward and nodded in greeting, doing her best to appear poised and natural.

Unexpectedly, Yan Huaiqing, standing directly opposite her, smiled warmly and slowly extended her right hand. “Hello, Xiao~man~?”

Her voice was gentle yet firm, carrying a hint of cool detachment, a stark contrast to the sweet, melodious tones of her stage performances. When she pronounced “Xiaoman,” she paused slightly as if testing the name, causing the listener’s heart to skip a beat in response.

Xiaoman was Lin Zhixia’s childhood nickname. She was born on the very day of the Xiaoman solar term the first solar term following the Beginning of Summer. In the south, it signifies abundant rainfall, while in the north, it marks the plumpness of wheat grains.

“Flowers not yet in full bloom, the moon not yet round; halfway up the mountain, slightly intoxicated, savoring the lingering joy. Why worry over gains and losses? In the end, Xiaoman surpasses perfection.” After reciting these lines of poetry, Zhao Jinchu had settled on her name Lin Zhixia, with the nickname Xiaoman.

Her mother, Dr. Lin, had smiled and tacitly agreed.

However, aside from her family, few outsiders ever called her Xiaoman, and no one had ever pronounced it so beautifully.

“Hello, Teacher Yan.” Lin Zhixia quickly raised her hand to shake Yan Huaiqing’s right hand.

The hand before her had long, slender fingers and distinct knuckles. Her own hand was enveloped in a gentle, half-embracing grip a soft, deliberate pause, neither rushed nor lingering, devoid of forced enthusiasm yet not aloof.

Unassuming and perfectly measured.

For the first time, Lin Zhixia realized that the handshake was a truly brilliant invention, one whose creator deserved a place in the Imperial Ancestral Temple.

“Welcome to the world of opera fans. Didn’t you want a photo? Come here.” After speaking, Yan Huaiqing waited a moment before gently drawing her close.

Even the timing of her pause was just right long enough for Lin Zhixia to briefly clench and then relax her right hand.

Yan Huaiqing’s shoulder was slightly higher, and she tilted her head to look down at Lin Zhixia, her eyes smiling.

At that moment, she was not the self-absorbed “Du Liniang”, she was the cheerful and radiant Yan Huaiqing.

In that fleeting moment of eye contact, Lin Zhixia averted her gaze, inexplicably flustered.

Jiang Jing, standing nearby, had already adjusted the camera, and the shutter clicked repeatedly.

“Taking photos without me? Sneaking around behind my back, cozying up to others again.”

Amid the bustling crowd, another person bounded over, a young male role performer, Yan Huaiqing’s stage partner.

She strode over energetically, her fingers gracefully posed in a lanhuazhi gesture. Using her thumb and index finger, she delicately lifted Yan Huaiqing’s hand from Lin Zhixia’s shoulder, adjusted her long sleeves, and then politely extended her right arm to pull Lin Zhixia closer. “A new opera fan, hello! I’m also quite famous come take a photo with me.”

Her speech was half-infused with the cadence of opera, her tone irresistibly charming. Though slightly flirtatious, it was not off-putting.

“Hello, Teacher.” Lin Zhixia felt it would be impolite to pull away and greeted her politely.

Yan Huaiqing, meanwhile, stepped aside and teased, “You’re everywhere, aren’t you?”

The crowd burst into laughter, with some fans murmuring about how sweet the interaction was and joking about jealousy.

Zhao Jinchu, standing to the side, smiled knowingly and introduced this performer with great familiarity, using a dozen or so idioms before finally releasing Lin Zhixia.

Su Wangyue, one of the most popular Yue opera sheng role performers at the moment and Yan Huaiqing’s official stage partner, was a lively and vibrant person.

The photo session was lively, filled with cheerful banter and laughter.

As the performance came to an end, the crowd gradually dispersed. It felt as though something had happened, yet also as though nothing had.