Orange Princess

Author: (German) Natalie Weydenfeldt / Country: Mainland China
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-05-01
Features: Chapter 1
Dad and Mom were hosting a banquet tonight, which meant Dad would once again perform his "farewell to the stage" play. This act came every few years. The guests enjoyed the champagne, and no one loudly discussed the reason for the banquet. Just before serving dessert, accompanied by a few unobvious tears on Mom’s face, Dad raised his glass with emotion and began his speech: "Dear friends." He spoke in a roundabout way for a long time, and finally announced that he had originally planned to end his artistic career but, out of the love of the friends present, he couldn’t bring himself to retire. He would continue performing. He closed his eyes, and the entire room fell silent. A few seconds later, thunderous applause erupted. After the event, the guests often told me, "Your parents are truly remarkable." "Yes, I know," I replied with a smile. I actually really wanted to tell them that everything was planned in advance. But I felt like a circus child and couldn’t reveal the family secret. Moreover, whether I wanted to or not, I had to go along with it. I put on a red silk dress I had brought back from Thailand a few years ago and applied pink Saint Laurent eyeliner, because I knew Mom liked it. Makeup done, I set off for my parents’ house. Today was no ordinary day—Dad Harald was celebrating his 65th birthday. He had invited a group of old friends, all from the music industry, who had been with him through his 40-plus years of musical career. In the 1950s, he had a song that made it onto the pop charts, though I’ve forgotten the name—or rather, I’ve deliberately forgotten it. The song’s name was something like "Kalanba, Zamba Lady." Mom—Lily—insisted it was a great song. Harald often traveled around the world to attend concerts and major performances. On weekends, he would mostly come back, and then he would lift me into the air and spin me around. Or we would play the game of "Orange Princess." The game was about a princess who got lost in the forest and was captured by a witch. The witch locked her in a tower in the forest, where she had to wait for a prince to come and rescue her someday. The story was actually very similar to Sleeping Beauty, except that Sleeping Beauty was awakened by a kiss from a prince, while the Orange Princess was awakened by an orange handed to her by a prince. There was only one possible way to assign roles in the game—I played the Orange Princess, Dad played the prince, and Mom played the witch—this seemed like a variation of the Oedipus complex, and Dr. Freud might have secretly enjoyed this role assignment. I loved playing the Orange Princess, so I coaxed my parents for many years to play the game with me. The game we played actually had only two plots. One plot was the Orange Princess walking alone in the pitch-black forest, with the terrifying witch chasing her. The key to playing this was for the witch to act frightening and laugh loudly. Mom never played it well, I guessed, because she had grown tired of always playing the scary witch. "Louder! Louder!" I shouted at her, because I thought she wasn’t scary enough. The other plot was the prince walking over to me and handing me an orange, and then I woke up. Dad always peeled the orange beautifully, like a blooming lotus flower. At some point, Mom refused to play the scary witch anymore, and the Orange Princess game had to end because there were no more actors. Dad was an excellent entertainer. He sang, told stories, and kept everyone laughing. He had an entire bookshelf full of humorous stories at home. Unlike him, I never told jokes. Maybe because I knew I would never be his match. Once, I almost challenged him to a joke-off. I memorized a joke and practiced it every morning on the way to school, but in the end, I didn’t say it. I’ve forgotten the exact reason, but it was something about Dad wanting to sing alone. That song was a huge success, but whenever the radio played it, I would turn it off. My parents loved to turn private events into public occasions. From wedding anniversaries and the birthdays of the cats they kept to the start of menopause—everything was, without exception, used as an excuse to throw a celebration banquet. Naturally, Dad would give another speech, and Mom would justifiably let a tear roll down her cheek. Under the spotlight, they were a perfectly matched pair. I have to admit, they were amazing. I mean, they weren’t manipulative liars; they were just naturally fond of being the center of attention. Now I understand all this, but as a child, I hated their hobby, especially their banquets. I would rather stay in bed, but they insisted on making me attend, because I was their most loyal audience and their most reliable witness. P1-3