My little friend Jane came over again tonight during my dinner break to play with and cuddle my bunny, Momo. It may be one of the stranger friendships I have struck while here in China.
My friend Marcelo from my Bible study told me he had a student in his English class who was completely mad about bunnies and he had told her about my bunny and showed her pictures of him. He said she needed a bit of cheering up, and asked whether she could come visit my bunny.
Why not, I thought. I am still flush in the new joy of having a bunny and have been showing him off at every opportunity, and if I could bring someone a little happiness, that’s nothing to sniff at. So naturally we got connected on Wechat, and set up a date for her to visit me.
According to Marcelo, Jane was a high school girl, and when she arrived at my doorstep I instantly understood why he had been mistaken. Even though she is really in university, Jane dresses and acts like a high school kid. She’s tiny, has Chinadoll bangs, hides behind her glasses and has a habit of sticking her tongue out whenever she feels awkward – which is almost at the end of every sentence.
Her bunny mania was also readily apparent – she had cartoon bunnies embroidered on her jeans, a bunny on her backpack and even her water bottle was shaped like a carrot. She came bearing three large carrots as a gift for Momo. Each carrot was larger than the bunny itself.
The moment she got into my apartment, she instantly leapt towards the bunny, eager to pet it. She cooed at how soft and cute it was, and longed for it to stay still to let her scoop it up. As we fussed over the bunny, I got to know a bit more about her.
She is studying at Minzu University of China, the ethnic minorities university in Beijing, and her major is erhu, that most difficult of traditional Chinese instruments, named for its two strings from which any melody may be coaxed with a bow.
She is Tibetan – her Chinese name is Hua Dan Zhuo Mei – and has been playing the erhu from the time she was a preschooler. But she lamented that it was difficult to make enough money playing the erhu. Whereas Western music lessons were in high demand, traditional Chinese instrument lessons were less than half the price, at about 200 yuan per lesson (of which half goes to the music school). And it was fiercely competitive to get into an orchestra, so most music students have to make a living as a teacher.
I begged her to bring her erhu the next time she visited, and she did. After fussing over how my bunny had grown and following him around my apartment for twenty minutes, she sat down and pulled the little instrument out.
It was as diminutive as she was, and rustic looking. Its body was made out of python skin. She had mentioned that her father made erhus, and had even sold some when the family was a little worse off, but she said this one was bought from an instrument store. The little instrument looked humble and unimpressive, but the moment she drew her bow across it, it began to sing in the most winsome of ways.
There was something aching, something yearning about the strains that came from those two strings. As a lilting Chinese melody filled my apartment, the shy little girl swayed with confidence and grace as she drew the bow horizontally across the strings.
There was something exquisitely elegant about her movements now, something bold and abstract. The music vibrated the air around us, the air within us, speaking of something both far away and incredibly close.
The moment the last strains of music ended, Jane rounded her shoulders and instantly stuck out her tongue, the bashful little girl once again.
The bunny, who was in my arms throughout her performance, was completely relaxed except for his ears, which were extended fully. His eyes were wide and alert, and I whispered to him that he was probably the most privileged bunny in China, to have a private erhu recital performed especially for him.