The National Centre for the Performing Arts is hailed as one of the new capital's sixteen sights. From afar, the hemispherical building looks like a yellow-cypress leaf floating and slightly arched on the water. It was designed by French architect Paul, and it doesn't look flashy, but it's the world's largest domed structure.
Inside, there are seven sections: the Opera House, the Small Theater, the Drama Theater, the Concert Hall, the Fine Arts Promenade, the Fifth Space, and the art galleries on both wings.
The 75th Anniversary Celebration of China and Russia's diplomatic ties was a sensation, held in the Concert Hall. There were more than 1,500 seats, top-tier acoustics, a tortoiseshell ceiling of reflectors, and contoured walls calculated to spread sound.
Everything screamed four characters, expensive as hell.
"This hall has China's largest pipe organ, a ridiculous ninety-four stops and sixty-five hundred pipes. It's a custom Klair organ, it's insanely pricey," said lyric tenor Li Weiwen, clicking his tongue in awe.
In the backstage holding hall, guests clustered in small knots. Even artists have circles, and familiarity means a few easy words.
There was Mongolian dance master Li Degejin, members of the Liaoning Song and Dance Troupe bringing the Nongak Dance, classical-dance star Lin Shanyue with her "Feathered Garments," the principal of the China Dance Company, and more. Not just dance, either.
The music heavyweights included bel canto and folk singers. Chu Zhi had done this rodeo, so he stayed calm. Nights like this are always folk and bel canto territory, and he was the only pop act on the bill.
By age, Chu Zhi stood out too, though the Emperor Beast kept it low-key. He just isn't the high-profile type.
He spotted a few acquaintances: the perpetually lost Li Weiwen, the Dai opera team captain Tong Ri from that last exchange, and a couple more artists thanks to Uncle Li's introductions.
Chu Zhi's social game is elite, especially with the forty-to-fifty crowd.
"I remember the last time the Berlin Philharmonic came to China. I sat out front, and it was a feast," said Li Degejin.
He wore a gold goatee with the haircut of a conquering general and spoke in a bold boom. A Central Minzu University grad, he's known as the Prairie Immortal of Dance.
"The audience is close to the stage, but what's on stage is a different world," said Lin Shanyue, a woman with exquisite poise. "Tonight the first leader of Russia and our top leader are both in the house. It's a bit of pressure."
"You don't look pressured at all," Li Weiwen said.
"I'm calm on the outside. Inside I'm freaking out," Lin Shanyue laughed softly.
Temperament really is everything. Her features were ordinary, but every shift of brow and smile turned beautiful. Dance lifts your aura. Being a master changes it entirely.
"Pressure's the best fuel," said Li Degejin. If he hadn't clenched his fist, it would've sounded more convincing.
Truth is, everyone felt the pressure, except maybe Chu Zhi. The first three rows were all leaders from both countries.
The next rows weren't lightweights either. The head of the East China Normal University Russia Research Center, the One Belt One Road Industry Association office director, and the head of the national broadcaster's Russian-language channel, among others.
"Xiao Jiu looks pretty chill," Lin Shanyue glanced over.
"I'm actually nervous inside," he replied, politely pretending to be nervous.
A friend from Moscow had gifted him Rossiya Tabai 72-proof vodka. He'd been thirsty before entering the venue and took two sips. Right now he was seven-tenths drunk. What was there to fear?
"Teacher Chu, your songs are huge on our grasslands," said Li Degejin. "But a lot of them are hard to sing. I tried 'Chapter Seven of the Night' at KTV."
His Mandarin was pitch perfect, but that didn't help with range.
The chat drifted to everyone's signature pieces. Lin Shanyue had several classical dances that blew up online. Just a few days ago, National Celebration had soft-viral'd in private circles.
The side-chatter eased everyone's nerves. They were all veterans who could handle almost any stage, so why be nervous? The bigger reason was the unknown. Would the audience love it, and would they themselves hold up under pressure?
"That young kid is Chu Zhi," He Rongrong said.
Chen Enfeng answered, "Don't treat Chu Zhi as some junior. What he's done far outstrips our generation."
"I know the kid's formidable," He Rongrong nodded. "Among the young stars, he's outstanding."
"At the very least, none of us can influence trade between nations," Chen Enfeng said.
He Rongrong is the king of Shaanxi folk, who once sang "Lan Huahua" on the Spring Festival Gala. He's a representative voice of today's folk scene, mellow and untamed, a physical marvel.
Chen Enfeng is the head of the Shaanxi Broadcasting National Orchestra. "Great" fits. He's sung more than thirty thousand charity numbers and gave his voice to the country. That isn't just talk.
Tree wants calm, wind won't stop. Even when he kept his head down, Chu Zhi drew the room's focus.
The fog of nerves didn't just cover the Chinese performers. The Russian guests felt it too.
In the west holding hall, some were warming up, some jogging in place, shaking it out.
"Dear Mila, why are you so restless," Ninell asked.
"This is the Russia, China anniversary gala. We can't make mistakes. We're representing the country," Lyudmila said again. No mistakes allowed.
"Good job, Mila, now you've made me nervous," Ninell said.
Lyudmila replied, "Don't be. Your act's a chorus with Chinese artists."
"Kalinka and 'My Hometown Has the Songhua River'," Lyudmila said. "Don't tell me you can't even find the courage to sing 'Kalinka' well."
"Of course I can," Ninell shot back. "Dear Mila, can you promise you'll sing 'Opera 2' well?"
Lyudmila inhaled deeply and balled his fists. From his look, you'd think he was about to wrestle a bear.
"I'm confident. Totally confident," he said.
The program began, and the hall filled to the last seat.
First up, the Chinese orchestra played "Celebration March," a fine opening move.
The lineup alternated and doubled back, one set from each side, then a collaboration. It was much better than the Ho Chi Minh City run, at least there weren't those awkward leadership speeches cutting things in half.
Much Russian folk carries a tragic hue, tied to national character. They're good at sorrow.
Take "Очи чёрные," "Black Eyes." The lyrics say, "Those black eyes, scalding and alluring. I'm obsessed with you, but I'm afraid I'll never see you again."
It's a love song, but the opening sax didn't sound like "I love you," it sounded like "I'm about to die for you."
The crowd kept it polite. No matter the quality, there was a wave of friendly applause.
The two heads of state shared occasional smiles. In the first three rows, the expressions were standardized. You couldn't tell real fondness from formal manners.
The mid and back rows were more honest about what they liked.
"Incredible. Russian art's no slouch," Chu Zhi said from near the back. What floored him was the ballet La Bayadère.
The final tableau was stunning, the Shades, thirty-two corps ballerinas and three soloists. No wonder it's a cornerstone.
After a giant piece comes a group one. The Liaoning troupe took the stage in formation. Men wore short white tops and billowy harem pants. Women wore long white skirts and pointe shoes. The rhythm was in twelves, with twelve instruments. Some dancers held gongs, some small cymbals, some big drums. The lead wore a huge mask, like a bobble-headed doll from afar. They played clerks, hunters, stewards, and danced with easy joy.
As a traditional dance, it didn't click visually for Russians. Ballet prince Vasily didn't get the beauty, but he felt the celebration.
"Dance and song both extend emotion. The body extends in dance, language in song. This dance is a total success," he said.
"China's classical costumes are endless. The outfits change every single act," said Aleksei, head of Russia's external cultural exchange bureau. His eye went straight to wardrobe.
"There's not a single young face in this exchange," sighed Ulyana, number two in the culture ministry. She's a little face-obsessed, so she wasn't thrilled.
Next on was Shaanxi's song king, He Rongrong. One big yangge tune filled the hall.
"What a voice, it's like a crafted artwork," Ninell said.
"This Chinese singer's voice is a Siberian steppe wolf, untamable," Lyudmila said, a physical monster recognizing another.
He hadn't expected another high-note freak besides Chu Zhi. He muttered to himself.
Then came the conference regulars. China's Li Weiwen and Chen Enfeng, Russia's Pavel and Aleksei.
Rock steady, not lacking in brilliance, but well within expectations.
Li Weiwen's lyric tenor still dazzled. Pavel's machine-gun patter on a virtuoso baritone aria was thrilling.
Act after act, the audience started to tire.
"Come on, let me see what you've got," Aleksei said. He handled exchanges and knew the program. He trusted Lyudmila's chops.
Lyudmila walked out.
The emcee's intro raised plenty of eyebrows. He was about to sing it in front of the original.
"Opera 2, right," Li Weiwen remembered St. Petersburg's cultural forum. Everyone thought Chu Zhi was there to make up numbers, then he shocked the room.
"It's like showing off a broadsword at Guan Yu's doorstep," he sighed.
Lyudmila held the pressure and opened with a full-power strike.
🎵 "Дом мой достроен, Но я в нём один…" 🎵
🎵 "My house is finished, but I'm alone inside…" 🎵
When she finished, the applause swelled, louder than before.
"This is my 'Opera 2'," Lyudmila said, looking straight at Chu Zhi.
Maybe it was the organizers' mischievous streak, like drawing Iran and the U.S. in the same World Cup group.
Chu Zhi was slotted right after Lyudmila, the second-to-last act of the night.
In stage terms, that's a true anchor entrance for Chu Zhi.
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"Очи чёрные" (Ochi Chyornye), "Black Eyes" — Traditional Russian romance.
"Kalinka" — Russian folk song, used here as a choral number with "My Hometown Has the Songhua River."
"我的家乡有松花江" (Wǒ de Jiāxiāng Yǒu Sōnghuājiāng), "My Hometown Has the Songhua River."
"歌剧2" (Gējù Èr), "Opera 2." Russian original popularized by Vitas; in this narrative, Chu Zhi's composition bearing that title is being covered on stage. Quoted line: 🎵"Дом мой достроен, Но я в нём один"🎵, reading Dom moy dostroyen, no ya v nyom odin, English "My house is finished, but I'm alone inside."