The Understudy No One Applauded

The first time Liang came to the community choir, his cup leaked.

Water spread across my attendance book, turning the word “absent” into a blue cloud. He bought me a new book with a gold-stamped cover. I never used it. The old one held three years of records; replacing it felt like throwing those years away.

Everyone liked him. He sang in tune, stacked chairs quickly, and always produced a spare score when someone forgot theirs. Only I knew the extras came from the cupboard's second shelf, where I had sorted every page.

I knew, and said nothing. Saying it would sound petty.

On Friday, the conductor asked me to print the program. Liang's name appeared beside the solo. The understudy space was blank. I knew the song too. I had learned it two years earlier.

Just before the print shop closed, he sent a message: he might not make it. In the attached photograph, an extra evening shift had appeared beside his name.

I placed the cursor after “Liang” and pressed delete. The page looked surprisingly spacious without it.

He came to rehearsal anyway, wearing his gray work jacket, dust still caught around the cuffs. He had obtained forty minutes off and would have to return immediately afterward.

“You're no longer on the program,” I said.

He looked. “Who's singing?”

“I am.”

He nodded and handed me his score. Three breaths were marked in red. A tiny circle sat beneath one word.

“Don't rush that one. The accompaniment will wait.”

I had prepared an explanation. None of it was needed.

During the sound check, a speaker failed. People gathered around the cables. Liang crouched, then pulled his hand back.

“I don't know how this works. Better leave it alone. I'll find the caretaker.”

Relief passed through me so sharply I almost laughed. There was something he could not do. Watching him cross the empty rows, however, made my satisfaction feel small, like a crumpled receipt in a pocket.

The caretaker took too long. The concert had to be shortened. The conductor removed the solo section; we would sing together throughout. I would replace nobody. Nobody would wait for my entrance.

Liang checked the time and headed for the door. Halfway there he turned back, slipping his score into my old attendance book.

“Give it to Han. He keeps losing the second harmony.”

“Those spare scores,” I said. “I was the one sorting them.”

“I know. I took an extra set so you wouldn't have to sort everything again each time.”

The door closed. No grander thanks arrived. I had no opportunity to list the work of three years.

Before the opening, Han asked why the solo had disappeared. I explained the time limit. He asked what to do about the programs.

On the back, I wrote the change, then added: Scores organized by Xu Cheng.

My name. It did not look so ugly on the page.

Beneath it I wrote: Spare scores supplied by Liang.

The pen paused. I added Han's name, followed by “Return scores to cupboard.” He read the line and took the key.

There was no solo for me that evening. At the circled word I waited half a beat for the accompaniment. Beside me, Han waited too, then came in with me.

Afterward, I asked him to help collect the scores. The attendance book lay open on the table, its blue cloud still visible. He turned to a fresh page.

“Who's arriving first next week?”

“Me,” I said. “But if you're early, open the cupboard for me.”