Becoming Madame Mao (21 page)

There will not be two suns shining above the sky of China, Mao says to me on our flight back to Yenan. He sees civil war as unavoidable. I tell him that I admire his bravery. He says, Darling, it is the fear, the blindness toward death that drives me to win.

Angry, Chiang Kai-shek begins to drop his bombs over our roof again. Mao orders the famous Yenan evacuation. The Red Army soldiers and peasants are mobilized to move into remote mountain areas. Mao refuses to see anyone who complains about the abandonment of their homeland. To turn people away he invites Fairlynn to the cave for a discussion and chat.

My husband has been meeting with Fairlynn since the early morning. They chat from politics to literature, from ancient bronze to poetry. Bowl to bowl and pack to pack, the two toast in rice wine and smoke cigarettes. The room is a chimney.

After I put Nah to sleep I come out, making my presence a protest against the intruder. I sit next to my husband.

Fairlynn's spirit is fueled by alcohol. Under Mao's encouragement she is argumentative. She scratches her hair with her fingers. Her Shakespeare hairdo is now a bird's-nest. Her eyes are bloody red. She laughs with all her teeth showing.

Inhaling, Mao stretches out his legs, crossing one foot over another.

The history of China is the history of
yin,
he argues loudly as he pushes the ashtray toward Fairlynn. He then pushes his tea mug. He likes to share tea with women. He did it with Kai-hui, Zi-zhen, Jiang Ching and now Fairlynn. He adds water to the mug, then goes on. Our ancestors invented ammunition to use only for festival decorations. Our fathers smoked opium to avoid thinking. Our nation has been poisoned by Confucius's theories. We have been raped by the nations who are strong in
yang.
"Raped" is the precise word! Mao's fist punches the table. A few peanuts fall on the ground.

Chairman, I don't mean to challenge you. Fairlynn picks up the dropped peanuts. In your writings there is a sense of praising the war itself. I found that extremely interesting, or may I say disturbing? You praised violence itself. You believe in martial law. Your true purpose is to kill the
yin
element in the Chinese, am I right?

Mao nods.

So you kill, Fairlynn presses.

I kill to heal.

Fairlynn shakes her head. Chairman, you are making us the prisoners of your thinking house. You make us bite and chew on each other's flesh in order to exercise your ideal
yang.
Am I allowed to say that you're crazy to give our minds no pleasure to wonder and experience?...Sir, you're stir-frying an overnight dish—you are nothing original—you're copying Hitler!

If this wakes up the nation, I'll bear the shame! Mao pitches his voice like an opera character.

Mao! You are the most outrageous individualist I have ever met. You are fascinated by yourself! But what about the rest? What about their right to be as individualistic as you are? The great thinkers, journalists, novelists, artists, poets and actors?

Comrade Fairlynn, you have been poisoned. Mao laughs confidently. The westerners think that the authors and artists are supermen, but they are only men with animal instincts. The best of them are men with mental illnesses. Their nature is to sell tricks! How can you regard them so religiously? You must have spent a lot for this pair of artificial frog-eyes. Poor thing, you have been robbed!

Two o'clock in the morning and I see no end to the discussion. Mao and Fairlynn are on their third jar of wine. The subject has turned to beauty.

You are not unlike any other male creature on this earth. Look at Comrade Jiang Ching! Beauty of the red base! Mao, I thought you were not one of the Shakespearean characters. But look at what you are doing! You are stuffing Marxism into a flashlight—using it only to examine the others. Don't embarrass me with your so-called knowledge of Western literature. You remind me of the frog who lives in the bottom of a well who thinks the sky is only as big as the ring. You're selling your hot-pepper tricks to illiterate peasants. You are making yourself a fool in front of me. Yes, yes, yes. Sometimes I do think your writings on morality are a joke. After I read them, they lie on the floor of my mind in complete disarray and disorder!

What a pleasure to hear this! How daring that you come to my cave to burn my grains! Water! Hot water! Jiang Ching!

I get up, pick up the teapot and go to the kitchen.

In the kitchen I hear them continue. They laugh and sometimes whisper.

You're irresistible, Fairlynn. If...

Imagine that! The hoarse voice rises, laughing.

You're right, Fairlynn. Beauty does arouse me. It makes me sympathetic toward deformity. However, the drive to save this country makes me a true man. I have only one understanding of politics—it is violence. Revolution is not a tea party, it is violence in its purest form. I worship ancient politics, the politics of simple dictatorship.

Standing in front of the boiling teapot my mind travels to exile. When I return to the living room I find myself empty-handed. I have left the teapot behind. Politely I interrupt the conversation. I mention that I am tired. My husband suggests that I go ahead to bed.

It's the middle of the night, I insist, showing no intention of leaving the room—I am determined to kick Fairlynn out.

I know. He waves a hand.

You must be exhausted, I say to my husband, so must Comrade Fairlynn.

Don't you worry about me! Fairlynn stretches her arms upward. Leaning to the side she places her elbows on the table. I feel as charged as if it were ten o'clock in the morning.

Mao makes a muffled guffaw.

I try to contain myself but my tears betray me.

My husband stands up, goes to the kitchen and brings back the teapot. He then pulls over a chair for me to sit down. I look at Fairlynn in disgust. There will be a day, I promise myself, that I will make her go through what she is making me go through now.

Basking in Fairlynn's admiration my husband elaborates on himself.

Deep in the landscape of my soul, I am covered with the thick fog of the yellow earth. My character carries a fatalistic culture. I have been aware of this since I was a child. I have an instinct and a craving for travel, in the meantime I have an inborn disgust of living. The ancient sages travel in order to gain distance from men. We fight in order to achieve unity. People of the Ching dynasty, before Confucius, were warlords, very strong in
yang.
They fought, possessed and expanded the land. Horseback was their life. They had passion for the sun. In fables, one sun was not enough. Nine suns have to be created so the hero Yi can have a chance to shoot eight of the nine down in order to demonstrate his strength. The goddesses were sent way up, into the Moon Palace, so the males could be challenged.

Ching period is your period, Fairlynn responds.

Yes, and I still feel that I lack the knowledge of it. I'd like to hear the shouts of the Ching soldier lunge and enter the gates of their enemy's cities. I would like to smell the blood on the tip of their swords.

You have a vision seen through the eyes of a madman.

At three o'clock in the morning Mao and Fairlynn get up to part. Jiang Ching stands behind the cave's entrance and watches them.

Our argument has not ended yet, Fairlynn says, buttoning up her gray army coat.

Next time it will be my turn to satisfy you. Mao nods a salute.

The darkness is impenetrable, Fairlynn sighs.

I'm a pearl-seeker, Mao says, looking into the night. I work on the deep and airless ocean bed. I don't come up with treasure every time. Often I come back empty-handed and purple-faced. You have an understanding of that as a writer.

But sometimes I want to be wrapped in darkness.

Well, my point is that it is not easy to live up to what's expected of Mao Tse-tung.

Surely almost everyone is drawn to deception.

The irony, as we all understand, is that magic and illusion has to take place in the dark. Mao smiles.

And certainly with distance. I am with you, Chairman.

March 1947. Mao's force has been in and out of the mountain areas of Shan-xi, Hunan and Sichuan provinces. Mao toys with Chiang Kai-shek's troops. Although Chiang has sent his best man, General Hu Zhong-nan, who commands 230,000 men while Mao has only 20,000, Chiang has not been winning.

Like a war concubine I follow my lover. I abandon everything including my favorite record player. I insist that Nah come with us. We travel with the army. It's hard to believe that we survived. Every day Nah witnesses how the dead are buried.

The village artists paint the walls with pictures of Mao. My lover still has the look of an ancient sage, even more so now. It is because the artists are trained to paint the face of Buddha. They can't paint Mao without making him look like a Buddha. Maybe it is the Buddha they see in Mao. And I'm sure it is Buddha my lover is playing.

Sleep deprivation has weakened Mao. He has caught fever. Under the blanket, he trembles uncontrollably. The guards take turns carrying him on a stretcher. In his sickness my lover continues to conduct battles. This is how I become his secretary and assistant. Now I am the one who writes down Mao's orders and drafts telegrams. I am up when he is up, and keep myself up when he sleeps.

When he is better and sees his business is going well, he wants to play. We have time. But I am not myself. My heart feels no warmth—I can't forget Fairlynn. Although I feel my love for him, I still want to make him pay for humiliating me. He seems to be accepting the punishment. The pockets under his eyes have deepened.

The troops pitch camp in a small village. Mao is asleep. Jiang Ching comes out of the hut for fresh air. She has just finished copying a long document under candlelight. Rubbing her strained eyes, she notices that Little Dragon is standing nearby. Seeing her he salutes. She nods and takes a mouthful of fresh air. In front of her there is a patch of yams and a narrow path that leads to a river. The night is quiet and chilly.

She feels lonely so she walks to the guard and greets him.

Have you heard from your family? she asks the nineteen-year-old.

The man replies that he doesn't have a family.

How so?

My uncle was an underground Communist. Chiang Kai-shek massacred my family for helping him escape.

Do you like working for the Chairman? Will you be loyal to him?

Yes, Madame. The young man lowers his head and looks at his own shadow under the bright moonlight.

Do you hear anything at night? She clears her throat.

Well, a ... a little.

Like what?

N ... Noises.

Suddenly she feels sorry for him. The man who has never in his life tasted the sweetness of a woman. It is not allowed. It is the rule—soldiers are the monks of Mao's temple.

What kind of noises? she asks, almost teasing. Like a noise from an owl? A field rat? Or wind?

The young man becomes tongue-tied and turns away from her.

She gently calls him by name and makes him look back at her.

I don't like myself, Little Dragon says suddenly.

She feels a strange tension rise between them. She finds herself out of words.

Little Dragon swallows a mouthful of saliva.

After a while she asks, Would you like me to ask the Chairman to transfer you?

No, please, Madame. I'd like to serve the Chairman for the rest of my life.

Of course, she murmurs. I understand. And the Chairman needs you too.

The young man stands against the wall, his breath hardens. He is confused by his own reaction toward the woman. The mysterious power clothed under his uniform. She can see sweat glistening on his forehead. He looks intimidated, fraught and defeated. He reminds her of a young gorilla in frustration, the male who is given no chance to win female trophies, the male whose semen is deposited in the dustbin of history. Little Dragon's manhood is chewed up by the bigger, more brawny, aggressive and formidable gorilla, Mao.

December 1947. Mao finally exhausts Chiang Kai-shek's troops. Before the New Year Mao launches a full-scale counterattack. The Red Army soldiers shout as they charge forward:
For Mao Tse-tung and New China!
It doesn't take long for Mao to swallow his enemy completely. As spring turns into summer, the number of Mao's forces draws even with those of Chiang Kai-shek.

Chiang's loss starts to settle in. Mao changes the title of his army from the Red Army to the People's Liberation Army.

I have become the manager of Mao's makeshift office. And have sent Nah and her siblings away to live with villagers. I will miss them terribly but the war has reached its crucial moment. My husband sets up his headquarters once again in our bedroom. I have been sleeping in mule barns. I am bitten by mosquitoes, fleas and lice. One bite under my chin swells so much that it sticks out like a second chin.

To avoid Chiang Kai-shek's air raids, my husband orders the troops to travel after sundown. Long hours of working and lack of nutrition have taken their toll on me. I become sick and can hardly walk. When we advance Mao picks me up to ride with him on the only mule the army has left. Our relationship grows in a strange direction. It has been a long time since we showed affection to one another. The more territories he wins the more I am tormented. Despite all that I have done, all that I have suffered, I have been denied recognition. My nature refuses to live an invisible life. I demand acknowledgment and respect—but I get it from no one.

One day the dog-faced journalist Old Fish comes into my office with an urgent matter. Mao is in the inner room on the phone with Vice Chairman Liu.

I am in charge of the office, I say to Old Fish. But the man pretends that he doesn't hear me. So I try again. I ask if I may help him. He gives a smile but doesn't say anything else. He doesn't let me take care of Mao's business.

It is only my most recent insult. At a Politburo meeting a few days ago Mao encouraged opinions. When I spoke up, Mao was upset. Not only did he tell me to mind my own secretarial work, he ordered me to stay out of the Politburo meetings forever.