Becoming Madame Mao (35 page)

The northern wind rustles through the courtyard at night. Two tall but leafless ancient trees in the quadrangle stand like madmen having an argument. What is on Liu's mind? His wife has been sentenced to death. His eldest son, Liu Yong-bing, has been beaten to death at a rally. His three daughters are either in prison or have been forced into exile. His partner and best friend, Deng Xiao-ping, has been sent away to a remote labor camp.

Liu doesn't want to believe that the republic he helped build has denounced him. He doesn't want to believe that Mao has ordered his murder. In darkness, he spends his last twenty-some days.

The morning of November n, he opens his eyes for the last time. He stares at the spider-webbed ceiling, at the insects trapped in the webs, sucked dry.

The last image the Chinese people have of Vice Chairman Liu Shao-qi is of him holding a book and trying to explain law to the students of Qinghua University. The students laugh and mock. They think him a foolish man. They push him around, making fun of his Book of Law.

Chairman Mao's teaching is law! the youths shout.

Liu knows that his time has come. His body decides to give up before his mind. He is not ready to exit life. Not ready without having a word with Wang Guang-mei and the children, not without embracing the ash-box of his son Yong-bing.

The sadness hardens him by minutes.

November 12, 1969, 6:45
A.M
. Vice Chairman Liu's face suddenly glows. The wrinkles begin to stretch and his facial muscles relax. Eternity settles in. There is almost a smile when the great heart stops beating.

In the extreme quietness, the snow begins to descend. The wind stops wailing and the old trees stop shaking.

China lies still.

***

The Maos are sitting in the morning sun enjoying chrysanthemum tea while Fang, Mao's new secretary and mistress, passes him the report on Liu's death. Mao opens a page as he lights a cigarette. His eyes move through the lines.

Madame Mao leans over and takes a glance.

It's Premier Zhou's handwriting.
Ninety-four hours of nonstop interrogation ... Separated from his family ... severely beaten and wounded ... His bladder infection worsened ... Fever persisted. His body gave up control ... bed was constantly wet. He
was shut in a small room with no food or water. The medical treatment I sent was blocked ... His weight came down to sixty-five pounds ... died of pneumonia with complications.

Mao exhales smoke.

Madame Mao knows that he feels safe again.

They move on to other reports. By the time Mao reaches the news of Marshal Peng De-huai's death he is tired.

What is Lin Biao doing? he suddenly asks her. Did you know that factions in Wuhan are out of control? The steel workers are manufacturing machine guns themselves. I'm sure a bloody civil war is on the way. Would you tell Lin Biao to do something about it?

I don't know what Lin Biao does as the minister of national defense. It seems that his only job is to flatter Mao. He uses military jets to fly in live lobsters for Mao's kitchen. He sends platoons into the mountains to seek the best ginseng root for Mao. Lin Biao is working toward his own future. He has illusions about Mao and himself.

Unlike Lin I don't have any illusions about Mao. I prepare for Mao's unexpected change. It is a fantasy and also a tragedy that I am Mao's wife. If I were Wang Guang-mei, I might have settled down to be a good housewife. I hate to admit that after all I envy Wang Guang-mei—she had a woman's biggest wish fulfilled. But, then again, I'm not sure I would have settled for pearls.

O
NE MORNING IN THE NATIONAL PRISON,
Fairlynn's name is called. She is to be taken to witness an execution as part of a torture program.

The sound of heavy boots. Guards appear. The prisoners are escorted to an open truck. Fairlynn doesn't know that she is only to be a witness. She believes that this is the last day for her on earth. She weeps uncontrollably and starts to shout Mao's name. Shouts her story with him. A guard comes and blindfolds her with a piece of cloth.

Fairlynn regrets that she ever bothered to write to Mao. Mao doesn't care about her, not anymore. Yet Fairlynn can't stop thinking of him. She has a hard time believing that Mao's affection had been insincere. She remembers the last time they departed from one another. "Let us last," he whispered in her ear. She wonders if she offended him by pointing out his mistakes in 1957. He wouldn't admit that his Great Leap Forward was in fact a great leap backward. She was only speaking her conscience as a writer. She asks herself, Was it not her truthfulness and frankness that gained his respect and adoration in Yenan in the first place? Shouldn't he know all her criticisms came from a wish to consolidate his power? She believed that they had understood each other.

It must be Jiang Ching, then, Fairlynn concludes. Her evil hand must be behind this curtain.

***

This is not a fantasy, I tell the leading actress of my opera. The heroine is real. She has come through hardship. I want you to treat the red paint on your chest as a real wound. Feel its burn. Feel its consuming power. You are being eaten alive and are crying without being heard. Project your voice to its fullest range.

I come to the studio and meet my chief, Yu. I work with him closely on the filming. I am pleased with the progress. The details especially. The color of a patch on the protagonist's pants. The shape of her eyebrows. I like the sound quality of the drums in the background and the orchestra. I have gathered the top artists of the nation. I enjoy every expression on my favorite actress Lily Fong's face and I like the way they light her. I have told the crew that I will allow no imperfection. I order retakes. Endless retakes. I don't pass them until the footage is flawless. At the moment three thousand cultural workers are laboring on my projects. The cafeteria is open twenty-four hours a day. Yu finds me catching myself from falling asleep during my own speech. I am too tired.

Can I stop? It is a bloody battle with invisible swords. The choice is life or death. The other day I visited Mao and witnessed the deterioration of his health—he can no longer get himself out of the rattan chair without assistance. This frightened me. A house won't stay if the center beam falls. But I hide my fear. I have to. The nation and my enemies are watching my performance. I face a scary audience.

I phone Yu. Let's discuss how to make the political message in the operas exciting to the working class. We are courting the youth—it is crucial to my survival that they identify with my heroine. The loving and caring goddess who selflessly sacrifices herself for the people.

Yu picks actresses who resemble my look to play the lead. He comforts me.

I come to the set after conducting the day's affairs. I feel at home in the studios. That has always been the case. The lights soothe me. Mao has gone south again on his train. I have no idea where he is. He keeps his schedule a secret. And changes his mind often. I am trying to mind my own business. I am trying to think of the good Mao has done for me and must remind myself constantly to be grateful.

Indeed, I should be content about how things have finally worked out for me. With Dee commandeering the set, my films are coming out. The silent bullets that lie in the chambers of his soldiers' guns speak louder than my voice ever could.

On October 1, 1969,
Taking the Tiger Mountain by Wit
is released and is a hit. Within weeks, I hear its arias being sung on the streets. To make the script available to the public, I order it published in its entirety in
People's Daily
and the
Liberation Army Daily.
It takes up the whole paper and there is no space for other news or events.

In the next few months
Story of a Red Lantern
is completed and released to theaters nationwide. It is followed by two three-hour ballet films,
The Women of the Red Detachment
and
The White-Haired Girl,
and the opera films
The Harbor, The Sha Family Pond
and
Raid the White Tiger Division.

What a feeling! I can't go anywhere without being congratulated.

Story of a Red Lantern
is so popular that Mao expresses his desire to view it. I take it as an honor and accompany him to his private viewing booth. He likes everything except the ending where the heroine and the hero are shot.

It's too depressing, he complains. He suggests that I make it a happy ending. I disagree but promise to consider his remarks and tell him that I shall try my best to make the change.

The fact is that I am determined to do nothing about it. I won't touch the ending. It is symbolic. It is how I feel about life. The flying bullets are in the air. It's my life. So many times I have been shot.

***

It is an open space. Man-high wooden poles stand three feet apart against the gray sky. Twenty of them. Weeds are waist high. The wind is harsh. The prisoners are kicked out of the truck and tied to the poles. Blinders are removed. Colorless faces, some with towels stuffed in their mouths. The chief executioner shouts an order. Some prisoners begin to lose consciousness. Their heads drop to their chests as if they have already been shot.

Fairlynn is shaking hard. She struggles to breathe. Suddenly her legs start to walk by themselves. She walks toward the wooden pole involuntarily. She wails, Chairman Mao!

The chief executioner comes and pulls Fairlynn up by the collar. He drags her to the side. Fairlynn's mind is paralyzed. She feels as if she were a cooked fish lying on a plate with its spine taken out.

The soldiers raise their guns. The sound of the wind can be heard. One female prisoner turns around. Her eyes seek Fairlynn. It is Fairlynn's cellmate, Lotus. Fairlynn rolls on the ground and then rises up on her knees. Suddenly she sees Lotus wave her hands, punching her fists toward the sky. Lotus's mouth opens, shouting
Down with Communism! Down with Mao!

The woman stops punching her fists toward the sky—she is hit by a bullet. But her mouth keeps moving.

In terror Fairlynn lifts her head and crawls toward Lotus. Her surroundings spin. The earth is upside down. Her ears begin to buzz. Suddenly everything starts to float soundlessly in front of her eyes.

The prisoners fall, scattered in all directions. Some of them bounce off the wooden poles. Shot-broken ropes drop to the ground. Lotus runs toward Fairlynn. She wags her body with her chin toward the sky. Behind her, the clouds have fallen to the earth, rolling like giant cotton balls.

The chief executioner shouts his last order. In extreme silence, Fairlynn witnesses Lotus's face break. The splattered blood paints a blooming chrysanthemum.

Chimpanzee experiment! Fairlynn passes out.

Although Fairlynn survives the Cultural Revolution, the moment Lotus's face became a bloody chrysanthemum, an important compartment in her own conscience bursts as well, as her memoir suggests (written in 1985 and published by South Coast China Publishing in 1997).

True, Chairman Mao has his weaknesses. They seem more poignant during the last few years of his life. I think it is all right to write about it. But under the circumstances I refuse to reveal more than what's known. There are people who intend to deny Mao's great contributions and heroic deeds. They not only want to smear his name but also want to have him nailed as a demon, and I will not allow that. No matter how wrongful the treatment I was made to endure in the past, I will not use my pen to write any word attacking Mao.

In later chapters the seventy-nine-year-old legend lingers on an encounter with Mao in a tone of elation:

It was in Yenan. I visited Mao's cave quite often. Almost every time I went he would give me a poem of his own or by others as a gift. All presented in his beautiful calligraphy on rice paper. Once Mao asked me, Do you agree that Yenan is like a small imperial court, Fairlynn?

I was sure that he was joking, so I answered, No, for there
isn't a board of one hundred advisors. He laughed and said, That's easy, Just make a board. Let's draw up a list. He took out a pen and pulled a sheet of paper and said, Come on, you produce the candidates and I'll grant them titles.

I pronounced the names that came to my mind as he wrote them down. We were having such fun. He wrote ancient titles next to the names. Li-bu-shang-shu—Judge of the Supreme Court, Bing-bu-shang-shu—Minister of National Defense. There were others, like prime ministers and secretaries of state. After that he asked me, What about wives and concubines? I laughed. Come on, Fairlynn, names!

On that of course I retreated because I want no more trouble with Jiang Ching.

***

It's New Year's Eve. The snow has turned the Forbidden City into a frozen beauty. Yet I am in no mood to visit my favorite plum flowers. On the surface I have achieved a dream—I have walked out from the shadow of an imperial concubine and have established myself as the ruler-to-be. And yet, to my discontent, I've once again lost my way to Mao's door—he has declined my invitation to spend New Year's Eve with me.

It has, I am sure, a lot to do with the success of my opera and ballet films—he believes that my popularity has diminished his name. He feels damaged. What will happen? I don't have to look far—this was the reason he removed Liu.

I feel as lonely as ever, yet I can't stop doing what I have been doing. Like a moth I am destined to chase after light. To escape depression I plan my own New Year's Eve party in the Grand Hall of the People. I invite my creative team and crew members, three hundred in all. Comrade Jiang Ching would like to honor everyone by spending New Year's Eve with you.

After a cup of wine my tears begin to spill. To beat this, I ask my bodyguards to bring out firecrackers. They are surprised at first—they all know I have an aversion to loud noise and heavy smoke. It's true my nerves have been weak. But I am desperate to hide my feelings and to get rid of the public's suspicion that I am falling from Mao's grace.