Manhattan's Upper West Side, Metropolitan Opera House.
After the final rehearsal in the morning, evening quickly arrived.
The Guofeng Art Troupe's Book of Songs themed performance began at 7 p.m., and with only ten minutes to go before the curtain rose, the theater was nearly full. Many audience members were using the last few minutes to flip through the beautifully bound program booklet included with their tickets. Presented in both Chinese and English, with ink wash backgrounds evocative of Chinese aesthetics, the booklet provided an overview of the Book of Songs' historical significance in Chinese culture and descriptions of the twelve dances to be performed that night.
Michael Morton, a theater critic for The New York Times, sat in an excellent central seat with a perfect view. As he skimmed the program in front of him, he couldn't help but eavesdrop on the playful banter of a young couple seated behind him.
"I just don't understand why you wanted to come to this, Winnie," the man said. "I've looked into it, and these tickets are way more expensive than usual. Sure, I get it—this dance troupe is supposedly Simon Westeros's personal creation, but classical dance from China? What are they going to do, kung fu on stage?"
"Jack, besides kung fu, what else do you even know about China?" the woman shot back.
"Chinese food is pretty good."
"I'm increasingly convinced I was tricked into marrying you. I should never have said yes."
"Hey, too late now."
"Fine. I know Simon makes all of you men feel inferior, so just keep your mouth shut."
"Well, no matter how much you like Westeros, you're not going to turn into the next Jennifer Bray. Honestly, that girl hit the jackpot—going from a starstruck fan to a $400-million fortune. It's practically a miracle."
"Shut up!"
"Okay."
Michael Morton didn't turn around but, being familiar with the media world and its gossip, couldn't help but think: Actually, the woman's odds might not be so bad. In fact, being married might even increase her chances—Westeros's preferences for certain types of women weren't exactly a secret.
This slightly sarcastic thought passed quickly, and Morton refocused on the performance ahead.
Compared to the younger couple behind him, who likely didn't attend the opera regularly, Morton had a clearer sense of just how expensive the tickets were for tonight's show. The prices were indeed exorbitant—at least 50% higher than usual. While the program booklet was nice, it didn't remotely justify the extra expense.
And this time, he had paid for the ticket himself.
If not for the fact that this dance troupe had been created by Simon Westeros, Morton wouldn't have bothered to attend a performance of Chinese classical dance, something he had little interest in. Like many Westerners, his impression of China was limited to kung fu, Chinese food, and perhaps poverty and backwardness.
As a fairly prominent theater critic, Morton expected the evening's performance to live up to the hype, given that he had spent his own money. If it didn't, his review the next day wouldn't hold back, even if Simon Westeros's name was attached.
However, upon reflecting on the ticket prices, Morton realized that no matter how scathing his critique might be, the young billionaire probably wouldn't care.
With that thought, the time quickly approached 7 p.m.
The theater lights dimmed, and moments later, the curtain rose to reveal a stage backdrop featuring a row of standing bamboo slips inscribed with elegant ancient Chinese script.
Soft, balanced music began to play.
Unlike Western symphonies, the sound had a distinct metallic quality—delicate, resonant, and unfamiliar to most of the audience. Only those in the upper balconies, looking down into the orchestra pit, could see the Chinese musicians dressed in traditional costumes playing an arrangement of bianzhong (bronze bells).
As the ethereal voice of a female vocalist floated through the hall, two rows of women dressed in elegant and dignified ancient Chinese attire slowly entered the stage.
Even though the cultures were worlds apart, the combination of music, singing, and the graceful presence of the performers created a universal impression that Morton couldn't deny: beauty.
In fact, this was likely the first impression of nearly all 4,000 audience members, who had been eagerly anticipating the show.
Many years later, the idea that "art knows no borders" might be considered naive, but at this moment, the thousand-year cultural depth of China's aesthetic tradition transcended boundaries and resonated deeply.
Backstage at the theater.
The rest of the troupe, fully prepared for their parts, could hear the music and singing from the stage. Their hearts raced with nervous anticipation, their confidence wavering.
Many felt the program booklet given to the audience wasn't enough. During the planning phase, some had suggested reciting the corresponding poem before each dance to help the audience better understand the performance. However, such suggestions had been dismissed outright by a certain someone—without explanation.
It was obvious that person didn't particularly care whether the show succeeded or failed.
And the ticket pricing! When they learned that Simon himself had insisted on raising the average price by 50%, many of the performers felt he might secretly be hoping they'd fail.
At her dressing table, Wei Chenci stood stiffly, her arms slightly outstretched as Ms. Wang, one of the instructors, checked her makeup. Sensing her student's tension, Wang Dongyue tried to reassure her. "Relax a little. You're only in the group dance for now. If you're still this nervous when it's time for your solo in Jianjia, that won't be good."
"I can't help it—I'm nervous," Wei Chenci admitted, attempting to change the subject to distract herself. "By the way, Ms. Wang, Simon said earlier today that we could go back to China for the New Year."
Ms. Wang nodded slightly, responding with a soft "Mm-hmm."
Noticing the instructor's subdued reaction, Wei Chenci guessed the reason. "Ms. Wang, aren't you about to get your green card? Once you have it, you should be able to bring your uncle and child to the U.S., right?"
Ms. Wang hesitated, then looked at the girl with some uncertainty. After a moment, she said, "Chenci, I wonder… could you ask Mr. Westeros about it?"
The girl paused, recalling Simon's indifferent reaction earlier in the day when she had brought up another matter. He had been cold, dismissive even. Still, after a moment of hesitation, she said, "Okay, Ms. Wang, but I can't promise anything."
"Just mentioning it would help," Ms. Wang replied quickly.
This was ultimately about immigration.
Unlike the younger, unattached girls in the troupe, the instructors who had come along six months ago generally had families. For them, life with the Guofeng Art Troupe felt like a dream compared to the struggles many immigrants faced. The pay and conditions were not only in line with what they had envisioned but exceeded expectations, making them naturally eager to bring their families over as well.
Of course, the troupe wasn't in the business of charity, so achieving this goal largely depended on their own efforts.
It wasn't easy.
With the subject dropped, Wei Chenci felt a bit more relaxed. Hearing the applause for the first dance, Guan Ju, gave her a boost of confidence. Among the twelve pieces in the program, Guan Ju was considered one of the more conventional dances. It had been chosen as the opener simply because it was the opening poem of the Book of Songs. The truly captivating pieces were yet to come.
As Simon had described it, the performance was meant to "build momentum."
If the opening piece had already elicited enthusiastic applause, the audience's reactions would likely only grow stronger.
Indeed, Wei Chenci's instincts proved correct.
The performance lasted 100 minutes, featuring 12 dances, each based on a poem from the Book of Songs.
With a strong start, subsequent performances like Wei Chenci's solo in Jianjia and Simon's personally choreographed Cai Wei drew even more fervent applause.
When the final dance concluded and the entire troupe took the stage for the curtain call, many in the audience were surprised to realize that 100 minutes had flown by. Some were so moved that they lingered, hoping to meet the performers who had brought such a visual feast to life.
Although most of these attempts were politely blocked, a few well-connected individuals managed to gain access.
Michael Morton, as a critic for The New York Times, was among the lucky ones. He was personally escorted backstage by the theater's general manager, Joseph Volpe, along with a few other distinguished guests. This sight left the young couple who had been seated behind Morton envious, as they too had tried to get backstage after the show.
"First of all, congratulations, Joseph," Morton said as they walked. "You've been wanting to bring some fresh ideas to the theater, and tonight's performance is bound to make waves."
Joseph Volpe smiled wryly. "You know, Mike, this is just a one-off. To be honest, it's lucky the show was a success and that the remaining performances will likely sell out as well. Otherwise... well, I wouldn't even know what to say."
The young billionaire's unconventional approach had been nerve-wracking, to say the least.
For example, Simon's insistence on raising ticket prices had been something Volpe strongly opposed. But as a professional manager, there was only so much he could do against the will of someone like Westeros.
In the end, though, the gamble had paid off.
In fact, Volpe secretly hoped this success
might inspire broader changes.
Traditional opera at the Metropolitan Opera House, much like Beijing opera in China, was considered a national treasure. Yet, both faced the same challenge: an increasingly niche audience. These days, most opera attendees were either tourists catching a show during their visit to New York or silver-haired seniors—young people were a rarity.
Tonight's performance was a striking exception, largely thanks to Simon Westeros's influence.
Before the show, Volpe had discreetly observed the crowd of nearly 4,000. The large proportion of young attendees stood out, drawn by the association with Westeros.
If such trends could continue—higher ticket prices coupled with a rejuvenated audience—Volpe could only dream of the possibilities.
Unfortunately, he knew it was just that: a dream.
This performance was scheduled for only nine shows between December and January, during the theater's peak season. While it could be seen as a promising start, it would end there. Volpe had no suitable follow-up programs, and Simon had no intention of making the troupe a permanent fixture. After this, the theater would simply return to its usual schedule.
A fleeting miracle.
As the group reached the backstage area, they found it bustling but orderly. Staff were efficiently helping the performers remove their makeup and tidy up props.
Some members of the media were eager to get a closer look at the traditional Chinese instruments used in the performance, only to find them already packed away in specialized cases. Even the general manager could only offer a wry smile in explanation.
The reason was simple: they were incredibly valuable.
Not just the instruments, but also the performers' costumes, jewelry, and props were all extremely expensive. The troupe even insisted on handling everything themselves rather than leaving it to the theater staff.
Joseph Volpe couldn't help but feel a pang of envy and resentment.
As the theater manager, he was responsible for budgeting productions. This season, he had faced criticism from the board for spending $190,000 on sets and props for an original opera. Meanwhile, the Guofeng Art Troupe had brought in items like an authentic antique guqin reportedly worth over $300,000—just one example of the show's extravagant production values.
With such an investment of resources and effort, it was no surprise the performance was a sensation.
Unsurprisingly, the next day, news of the Guofeng Art Troupe's performance spread rapidly.
In his column for The New York Times, Michael Morton hailed the performance as "a flawless, masterful, enchanting, and elegant visual feast."
Other major outlets, including The New York Post, The Daily News, and even regional papers like The Boston Globe, followed suit with glowing coverage. A Broadway critic with a large Facebook following even posted a message declaring his "envy of Simon Westeros for having such a talented troupe." The post, which highlighted the troupe's background, was not censored but promoted, further amplifying the group's fame.
The news quickly made its way back to China.
The success of the Guofeng Art Troupe's Book of Songs performance at the Metropolitan Opera House made headlines in a prominent Chinese newspaper and caught the attention of CCTV. This time, unlike the low-profile interview coordinated by Chen Qing for Jian Xin and another member, CCTV proactively expressed interest and assigned their New York correspondent to cover the story.
As the troupe's reputation grew, tickets for the remaining shows became even harder to come by, turning them into a hot commodity for Broadway scalpers.
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