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you?"
    "According to the document, she is sixteen."
    The director of the orphanage answered the questions
for me. The strangers-three men and two women-looked
through the document for several minutes. All the men
wore gray jackets in the same style; their appearance gave
them away as government officials. The women's clothes
contrasted sharply with the men's. I'd never seen so many
colors on one person. The older woman wore a light red
silk blouse and a black skirt. Her glasses, with their small,
thin lenses, looked as sharp as her eyes. She held a small
black handbag on her right arm, and all her small accessories seemed to be made for her tiny physique. The other woman wore a simple, light-blue shirt and a gray skirt.
Their outfits didn't match their surroundings at all; I was
curious how they got such clothes.

    The eldest of the men peered at the document through
black, thick-rimmed spectacles. The woman with the red
blouse stood up briskly from her worn-out brown chair. It
was like a small red coil springing from the ground. With
her outfit, I guessed her to be around 40 (though I later
learned she was over 50); her body was still perfectly balanced, still fit. Walking in my direction, she took a good
look at me from top to bottom before grabbing my shoulder
slightly and spinning me around clockwise. Extending my
arms, she said to herself, "Such long arms and legs. Those
will be big advantages."
    "She is too old to learn now. She has never had regular
training in a professional school," the oldest man said, raising his head from my identification papers.
    The woman assessing my body threw her head back,
exclaiming, "What do you know about this field? It's not
too late-she could catch up. We're not looking for a lead
dancer anyway, we just need more dancers. The director
already said she's the best one here, and we saw her performance. What else do we need?"
    Ignoring the man's pout, she turned back to me. She
took several steps back. I was baffled, and felt suddenly naked; my face flushed. She really had sharp eyes: their apple
shape and long slant made them even stronger. Not a strand
of hair stuck out of her ponytail. Seeing her up close, I
thought she looked much older than I had first assumed.
She went back to her seat, and, on sitting down, sighed and
said, "Sing whatever you want."
    I stood up, looking dully at the director of the orphanage and the others in turn. Why would they want to hear my
song? The director had called me to stop by her office after
lunch, only to bring me to the room where these people
were waiting. I was bewildered; I stalled.

    Losing patience, the director stalked over to me and
whispered, "Jia. Sing the song you think is the best for your
voice." She grabbed my left hand and yanked me forward,
in front of them. "She will sing. She's just a little nervous."
She signaled me again, with an urging eye.
    I sang the Third Aria from the opera Girl Selli, Flowers.
As I sang, I remembered I had seen these same people the
previous weekend, at the performance to welcome the government officials on their regular visit. Every year, the orphanage held a performance to entertain visiting officials.
As I voiced the lyrics of the song, I tried to figure out why I
was there. The woman studied me with her hands clasped,
bobbing one of her crossed legs.
    "Okay. That's enough. Show us your dancing." Waving at me, the sharp-eyed woman stopped me in midsong.
"You prepared the audio, right?" she said, turning to the
director.
    The director seemed more nervous than I was. Her stout
body wasn't meant for rushing; she nearly toppled to the
floor in her haste to get to the tape recorder on her desk.
"Which music do you want?" the director asked me softly.
    Before I could ask what music she had, the sharp-eyed
woman interrupted, "No. Don't turn it on." She crossed her
arms. "Show us the dancing part of the song you just sang."
    Whenever we had performances in the