Becoming Madame Mao (40 page)

It is a great moment in my life. October 5 in the Hall of Fishermen's Port. The grand passion demonstrated by the great actors. The magic of a stage. Reality is forgotten.

Through my hot tears I see Chun-qiao and his disciple walk into the hall. They call off the party with an emergency message—my enemy has begun their action. Despite Chun-qiao's panic, I take time to say good-bye personally to everyone. I have a feeling that this is the last time.

Hao Liang, I say to the actor, I'd like to thank you for the good work you have done for the film. In the future the films will speak for us. You have brightened my life. Days and nights we have sweated to get the excellence on film. The memory is our gift to each other. I can't offer you enough. But my heart will stay close to you through heaven or hell. The hero you played on stage died in the enemy's hands. Remember me and yourself that way.

At dawn, I call Chun-qiao to touch base. He reports that there have been frequent visits between the old boys and military heads. I ask him to come to my place immediately. Half an hour later he arrives.

Have you spoken with my friends Commander Wu and Commander Chen? I ask. I have cultivated a good relationship with them and they have promised to support me.

You are a fool to think that they will honor the promise they made when Mao was alive. I've checked with them and they don't return my calls.

I am beginning to feel the weight of the sky.

Forget about the army. Chun-qiao grinds his teeth. We have to depend on our own force.

The armed workers in Shanghai?

Yes. But we are short of time.

How long does it take to prepare a takeover? I grab Chun-qiao's hands. We must seize the old boys before they seize us.

At least a few days.

Act now, the ax is dropping! I'm going to Shanghai!

Please, Comrade Jiang Ching, for your safety and health, leave the matter to us.

I don't trust you! she screams. Your pessimistic view disturbs me! The show should be played the other way around, and the characters should be reversed! We are the ones who are holding the ax!

The advancing orders have already been placed. We must leave our faith to Buddha. We must trust ... the people. Chun-qiao's voice suddenly loses its energy.

She wills herself on. She tells her secretary that she is going to Jing Hill Park in the afternoon. Get my photographer. Tell him that I'll be at the Quarters of the Apple Trees.

***

It is a cloudy day. Perfect for pictures. The sky is a natural gauze which helps to even out the light. The park was originally built for emperors of the Sung dynasty. Six hundred years ago Emperor Jing hanged himself here after he had lost his country. I climb to the top of the hill without stopping. Under my eyes is the complete view of the grand imperial city.

The photographer doesn't like the apple trees as the background for my picture. He says that the fruit-laden trees are too distracting. He thinks that I should be by the peonies. But Apple,
Ping,
used to be my name, I tell him. It connects me to my past. Eternity attracts me today because I smell death. This shot is either going to be my mug shot or the one that replaces Mao on the Gate of Heavenly Peace.

Finally the photographer settles down. He pulls my chair away from the trees as far as he can so the apples will be out of focus. Now he is having trouble with my Mao jacket. I have changed my costume during his battle with the apples. He likes me in the dress better but I insist on looking like a soldier. I'd like to be in these clothes when I die. It is to remind people that I have fought like a man.

The photographer screws his eye into the lens. He asks me to smile. He doesn't want to take pictures of death. But I can't get myself to smile. This morning I saw my face in the mirror. My jaw is shallow and my eyes are blank. I haven't been able to sleep much. The sleeping pills don't work.

The sound of clicking continues. Seven rolls. Finally there is one shot he likes. Which one? The one when you kind of drifted off. Did your mind travel far, Madame? There was this gaze, dreamlike. It brought out the young woman in you. The woman I recognize from the picture of you and the Chairman standing side by side in front of the cave in Yenan.

Oh, that was my favorite.

I studied the image when I was a photography student. I'm glad I have caught the heroine in you again. Your expression moved me. I shall develop the negatives and send you the prints in a few days. You'll know what I am talking about here. It is the best picture I have ever taken.

The negative never makes it to the positive.

***

October 5, 1976. The war room of the China military headquarters is packed with marshals and generals. With a picture of Mao hanging above the map, action begins. Around the table sits Commander in Chief Marshal Ye Jian-ying. Next to him is Hua Guo-feng, Vice Premier Li Xian-nian, Chen Xi-lian, plus the newly promoted 8341 Garrison head, Wang Dong-xin.

A phone ring breaks the silence. Wang picks up the receiver. After a few seconds he reports. The enemy has made a move. Navy intelligence by the East China Sea has found out that the Shanghai Jiang-nan ship factory has turned two ships into armed vessels. The workers' force have built a defense around the entire bay. A moment ago they came to claim the army's Wu-song artillery base.

The members in the war room sit back in their seats. The only thing that troubles their minds is the consequence of destroying Madame Mao only twenty-seven days after Mao's death. Will the nation agree with the action? Could it backfire?

***

October 6. Hua Guo-feng calls Jiang Ching to meet at the Hall of Mercy in the evening. Jiang Ching's secretary, Little Moon, asks the reason for the meeting.

The publication of the late Chairman's fifth volume of works. The reply is smooth.

Comrade Jiang Ching will be absent. Little Moon's voice is gentle but clear. Sure, I'll get the message to her as soon as possible.

Madame Mao Jiang Ching appears by the door. She is in a suit with a sand-colored scarf around her neck. My sixty-third birthday is coming, she utters. I've never celebrated my birthdays. There hasn't been much to celebrate. But my life is changing and the people will begin to celebrate my birthday. I trust their judgment.

Like a weed she breaks through the sidewalks.
She extends her arms far out and begins to sing like her opera heroine.
Cracks the patio pavement, and she will pierce the most desolate corner to find air and light!

Evening wraps the room. Little Moon sits by the phone.

Still no answer from Chun-qiao's office? Madame Mao asks.

No.

What about Yao?

No answer either. By the way, Madame, we have also lost touch with Wang.

There is a sudden collision of thoughts in which fear realizes itself. Madame Mao feels the gradual stifling of her breathing. Pictures pass through her head like a movie, which later proves to match what really happened.

The first shot is the clock hanging on the wall of the Hall of Mercy. The time is seven fifty-five in the evening. At the hall's entrance Chun-qiao enters with quick steps. He is in a Mao jacket and looks small and thin as if in a wide-angle lens. Suddenly behind him two guards appear. They hop on his back and press him to the floor. His glasses are taken off. There is no struggle and he is taken away. The time is eight-fifteen.

The set changes. It is now the Hall of the East Wing. Disciple Yao enters. Two guards come out and block his way. He looks around and falls on his knees. Then comes Wang Hong-wen. When Wang sees the guards approaching he turns around to run but doesn't make it to the gate. He puts up a fight but is tied up eventually.

One guard walks toward the camera. There is elation on his face. He stretches out his arm and turns the camera off.

No one is picking up her calls for help. No one is at home. Everybody has "hospitalized" themselves in order to avoid her.

Suddenly she is attacked by a feeling of worthlessness. Her childhood memories rush back to her. The face of her father. The tears of her mother. Pain surfaces. Terror. The water rises, and now is throat deep. She hears her father's yell. Give it up!

Why is it so quiet here? Why are you, Little Moon, looking at me like a wakening soul? Was my guess right? Have the wolves finally infested my land? Stop it! Stop trembling like a coward!...There is ... nothing I can do, I suppose. The military has always been my weak point. The Chairman didn't leave me enough time to manage the warlords. The warlords ... maybe ... I cannot say that the trap was not set by Mao himself ... Come here, Little Moon.

Little Moon rises. Her stick-thin body is stiff and her eyes dwell freezingly.

Come, girl, and sit down by me. Let's chat. Cheer me up. Let me tell you stories of my life. Because in a few minutes it will be a different story. I will be called the White-Boned Demon. Come on, Little Moon, unzip your pursed mouth. It doesn't look attractive when you clench your jaw tight. You are a pretty girl. Why don't you let me fix your eyebrows? Bring me the little scissors. I have to do it now or never. No? What's wrong? Don't stare at me as if you have just swallowed a spoiled egg. Come on, courage!

Little Moon twists her mouth and breathes unevenly.

I'm getting bored listening to the sound of my own voice. Where are the wolves?

Quietly she eats her last meal as Madame Mao. Little Moon is ordered to join her. But the young woman can't make herself eat. She unshells clams with her chopsticks and puts the meat onto Jiang Ching's small side plate.

Thank you. I appreciate your loyalty and I wish you were Nah. It's a mother's foolishness. It seems now ... that she was not unwise ... Ninxia Desert she has escaped ... The realm of laxity ... Anyway, this is to cap my life. It's time to be a martyr, to stick a chopstick into my throat—I am preparing myself. A good actress can handle any scene ... Where is Yu Hui-yong? I need to hear my operas. Yu is a born coward. It wouldn't surprise me if he ends up killing himself. He is too delicate and lives with feelings and fear. That is an artist's problem. We are artists. That is why Yu will kill himself. So would I, I am afraid. Why am I talking about this? Why am I talking about being an artist? Yu's music makes me cry. I already miss him. Chun-qiao is the toughest among us, and that is his luck.

The sound of her silk skirt has stopped
On the marble pavement dust grows
Her empty room is cold and still
Fallen leaves are piled against the doormat

Midnight, October 6. The Garden of Stillness. Along the deep walls come noises. The sound of steps rises behind the gates. Whispers. Someone is talking with the guard. Yes, sir, the guard answers. A tall shadow approaches. A man leaps. It is Zhang Yiao-ci, the second in command of the 8341. The sound of the gate clashes and locks behind. Zhang Yiao-ci freezes at the entrance. After a moment he advances and enters the mansion. He pounds on the door. His fingers tremble.

It's open, the first lady's voice comes.

Zhang Yiao-ci lunges in. His right hand rests on top of the weapon behind his back.

Madame Mao Jiang Ching sits on the sofa, holding a mug of tea. Her calm freezes the man.

The man looks around. Sweat oozing.

A long-legged bird from the painting on the wall stares down.

Madame Mao speaks, then laughs shrilly. I have long anticipated this day! I have spread flowers all the way from my bedroom to the gate.

The man gasps and wills himself to push the syllables out of his mouth: Jiang Ching, the republic's enemy, the Politburo has ordered your arrest.

When the imaginary curtain comes up the actress presses herself forward. She envisions the billion-large audience cheering at the top of their lungs and waving flags. An ocean of red. The color sears her eyes. She smells the warm sun. In the music of her opera she strides. In her head, the drums and trumpets come together. She remembers once how Yu described his feelings when composing on her order: it is the sound of hundreds of train engines puffing smoke and churning their pistons. The notes tighten and twist to the point of breaking. It is as if the composer were choked by the claws of the madness and took each note separately off of his mind's hook and threw them all together into a giant bucket and began to stir.

Then there is a pause. She can hear Yu's sob. It is followed by a silence so complete that she hears the crack of time. A shooting star falls.

Once again, she sees her life as a film. And once again she is a young woman standing on top of a roof overlooking the city of Shanghai and dreaming of her future. She sees the gingko-nut boy and hears his selling drill:
Xiang-u-xiang-lai-nu-u-nu!
The boy's tone is smooth and mindless. Still clear. The midnight wind sweeps through the long dark lane. The boy squats in front of his wok holding an armful of firelight.

She sees herself in the cell of Qin-Cheng national prison where Vice Chairman Liu's wife, Wang Guang-mei, spends a dozen years before her. Madame Mao sits facing the wall. She is ordered to make dolls for export. She has to meet the daily production objective. The dolls will be sold in children's stores all over the world. She sews tiny colorful dresses onto the tiny plastic bodies. Tens, hundreds and thousands of dolls between 1976 and 1991. She embroiders spring on the dresses, draws flowers from her imagination. When guards are not watching, she secretly embroiders her name,
Jiang Ching,
onto the inner edges of the dresses. And then she is found out and is stopped. Nevertheless, it is too late to retrieve the ones that had already been shipped. Baskets of dolls, with her signature. Out of China and into the world. Where would they land? In a child's forgotten bin? Or a display window?

It is time to empty the stage. Remember, you will always come across me in the books about China. Don't be surprised to see my name smeared. There is nothing more they can do to me. And don't forget that I was an actress, a great actress. I acted with passion. For those who are fascinated by me you owe me applause, and for those who are disgusted you may spit.