Cheering Spear often reminded me of Lu. It seemed that I could never escape from Lu. There were Lus all over China. I was reminded of the old saying: “Poverty gives birth to evil personalities.”
Really, I don’t have to mind your business since it has already been taken care of by our Party, Cheering Spear said as she lightly walked away. Her shadow on the ground was extremely long that evening. It remained in my sight for quite a while before it was dragged away. Strangely, I thought of those vultures, the eagles who wended their way up mountain paths and wheeled in the sky looking for a chance to dive and pick up their meals.
The next day a notice was sent to us by One Ounce. It said that the Supervisor had arrived in Shanghai and was scheduled to visit the studio sometime during the week to pick the final actress to play Red Azalea.
Meeting the Supervisor, impressing him, might reverse my future. Soviet Wong told us to pick our own material and prepare ourselves for the competition. Before we began our practice, Cheering Spear came to me and said, I think you are going to be the one who wins. I did not answer her. I did not know how to trust her. She asked, after a while, in a casual tone, what I was going to perform. Would it be “Azalea visits the Red Army headquarters” or “Azalea tells her life story”? Sensing that I did not want to answer her, she smiled and said, I am going to perform “Azalea in jail.”
I looked at Cheering Spear. I felt pity for her. It was hard to believe that she chose this part, the part of Red Azalea in jail, behind bars. The scene had only two lines. I could not believe that she could throw away her chance like this. I looked at her, doubting whether I heard her right. Cheering Spear convinced me. She convinced me that her stupidity was real. She was going to perform “Azalea in jail.” It was her choice. I let out a breath. A secret pleasure filled me. I said, Are you sure? She said, Yes, this is what I am going to do. Then she asked, Which part are you going to do? I said offhandedly, “Azalea tells her story.” I said I chose the scene because it was material which allowed me to show different aspects of the character. She said, Let’s wish each other success. She appeared unusually friendly as we practiced together and gave comments on each other’s performance. She constantly complimented me. I could see my success lay at my feet.
The day arrived when my fate would be decided. It was morning, about nine o’clock. A cloudless day. The sunshine axed into the rehearsal room through the windows. The room was filled with people. Everyone was waiting for the Supervisor. Cheering Spear and I were busy going through our last rehearsal in our heads. We paid no attention to how Firewood, Little Bell, and Bee OhYang were feeling. They were assigned to play the supporting roles. Soviet Wong, Sound of Rain, a group of studio heads and newspaper reporters were already seated. They each had a mug of hot tea in their hands. They waited patiently.
I stood by the window. I was taking deep breaths. Cheering Spear did not look as nervous as I did. She came in late and sat by me. She was wearing a red shirt. The red color reflected on her face. She was in good spirits. She asked me whether I was nervous. I said I was, a little. She said she was not. She shook hands with me as we saw a car drive into the studio gate.
The man called the Supervisor was introduced to us. He was wearing a pair of big sunglasses. No one got to see his face much. He was in a green military uniform. He was a medium-sized man. His hair, combed back, was extremely black. He was not as old as I had imagined. He was about forty. He stepped out of the car and walked toward us with vigorous strides. Soviet Wong and Sound of Rain went running up to greet him. They shook hands. He was guided into the room and seated in the middle seat. The performers—Cheering Spear, Firewood, Little Bell, Bee OhYang and I—gathered at the back corner of the room. Soviet Wong announced the program. The program of two candidates running for Red Azalea. She announced Cheering Spear’s name, then my name. When she went to sit down by the Supervisor, our competition began.
The Supervisor did not look at us. He crossed one leg over the other and lit a cigarette. He did not take off his sunglasses. Cheering Spear marched up to the platform in the center of the room. She had changed into Red Azalea’s costume—a side-buttoned cotton jacket printed with a pattern of red azaleas. She was confident. She began her lines. It shocked me, it knocked me down—she was performing “Azalea tells her story.” She was performing my material. But she did it better. She added good details. I could hear nothing but the sound of a deafening tone in my head. Cheering Spear was doing my piece. I had nothing left to perform. If I performed what she did, everyone would think that I’d imitated her.
I lost my chance to win before the battle. I could not believe that Cheering Spear had done this to me. I could not believe that she was reciting my lines. It was so sudden, so devastating. The Supervisor was looking intensely at Cheering Spear. Soviet Wong was smiling. She looked so pleased.
Cheering Spear ended her performance. She landed her last phrase like a first-class acrobat who landed on tiptoe on the seat of a running bicycle. There was much applause. Cheering Spear bowed to the audience, to the Supervisor. Soviet Wong went up to the platform to congratulate her. The Supervisor looked impressed. He went to shake hands with Cheering Spear. He asked her whether she knew how to ride a horse. When Cheering Spear said yes, he asked whether he could see her perform on a horse in Shanghai Stadium. She said, Of course. When? She said that she had been longing for a horse ride for so long. The Supervisor invited Cheering Spear to sit by him. He talked about arranging a horse ride.
Then came my turn to perform. I had twenty minutes to fight back. I had twenty minutes to convince the Supervisor that I was better than Cheering Spear so he should pick me instead of her. But I was already beaten to the ground. I was bleeding inside. My time was slipping away. I went up to the platform. My legs were shaking. I gave the most stupid performance of my life. I performed “Azalea tells her story.” I recited the lines thinking how I could convince people that I was not imitating Cheering Spear. The audience began to yawn. Then it was finished. I was finished before I began. My limbs were cold.
I was going back to my seat in the audience when I heard Cheering Spear saying to an interviewer that her success was due to Soviet Wong. Soviet Wong had mothered her excellence. The next day the Party newspaper published a big picture of Cheering Spear on a horse led by Soviet Wong.
The revolutionary task needs you to be a set clerk—One Ounce delivered the message to me flatly. I was in my room idling. I had been idling for hours. If you do not like it, the studio would not mind your going back to Red Fire Farm. It took him thirty seconds to announce that order. No one in the room looked surprised. I realized that my good fortune had come to an end. I wanted to ask, Who made that decision? My tongue was so stiff that I could barely make a sound. Feeling a sudden weakness, I went out of the room. I held a maple trunk and sat down on the grass. The Party Committee, of course, One Ounce volunteered. Who exactly are those people? I looked at him. I am sorry I don’t know, he said. I am just a guard delivering the message from the upstairs.
I packed my things and walked out of the room. I was on my way to becoming a set clerk at the studio. It was early morning, around six-thirty. Cheering Spear, Firewood, Little Bell and Bee OhYang were already up doing their routine exercises. Their voices were clearer than usual. As I passed by, they stared at me. Behind the deadpan expressions, I knew they were happy. I kept walking toward the gate. The maples were swaying and birds were flying up and down picking their food under my feet. One Ounce went to open the big wooden gate when he saw me coming out. It’s all right, I can just go through the side door, I said. One Ounce insisted. The bolt was rusted after a few rains. One Ounce rotated the bolt hard. The rusty sound was hard on the ears. After he wrestled with the bolt, the door was pushed open. The birds flew away. One Ounce stretched out his right arm and made a humble gesture to let me pass.
I did not allow myself to feel. Firewood, Cheering Spear, Bee OhYang and Little Bell resumed their voice exercises behind me. They sang:
> Who smashed the fetters for us?
Who saved us from the fiery pit?
Who led us to the golden road?
Oh, the sun above the sky,
Oh, the brightest beacon in the sea,
It is you,
The greatest Chairman Mao and the Party,
You are the savior of our lives.
The next day a producer at the Shanghai Film Studio gave me a big mop, a script, a notebook and a box of chalk. He asked me to memorize the script, which contained 1,042 shots. It was the shooting script of Red Azalea. My eyes hurt when I looked at the title. You see, said the producer, a set clerk is the person who records the set, and this means everything. If there is an ant crawling through the set, a good set clerk will record it. It is a big responsibility, because we shoot scenes in a disorderly fashion. For example, a man opens a gate and steps into the hallway. It may take two scenes to complete the action. We will shoot the outside scene in Hunan and then shoot the inside scene back in Shanghai in the studio two months later. You have to be able to remember exactly what clothes he is wearing, for example, and how he wears them at different locations—for example, was his collar open or closed? If you make a mistake, you will have a person enter with his collar open and all of sudden it is closed. The scene would be wasted, of course. One foot of the film, which costs our peasant a season’s grain, will be salvageable. The wasted film could be food for generations of our peasants. And you know what that means to the country.
I forced myself to listen hard to the producer. He asked me to make thirty copies of his notes to the crew. We have only three days left before shooting, he said. He asked me to put out the shooting board, draw up the shots, check the costumes, the props, and the extras. The floor, the producer pointed his finger down as if reminding me of something important. You should begin by mopping the floor first, he said seriously. When I took a mop, he said, Listen, we don’t need feeble labor. Each carrot has its own patch, or you will be sent back to Red Fire Farm.
I did not raise my head when I mopped the floor. I felt I had no face. There was a rehearsal going on in the recording studio. I heard someone yell repeatedly from a microphone. The voice had a strong Beijing accent. It was the Supervisor’s voice. I remembered this voice.
I finished my job by six o’clock in the evening and went to a back room to smoke. I had started smoking the day I was dismissed from the actor-training class. I sat on a bench. The surroundings were dark and damp. I did not switch on the light. I needed darkness. I came every day and smoked cigarettes in the dark until my lip numbed.
After the break I had to finish mopping the rest of the stairways in the building. The mopping seemed endless. I suddenly remembered an old saying. It said: “It is difficult for a snake to go back to hell once it has tasted heaven.” I was that snake now. Each day I felt worse than the one before. Every morning, the moment I woke up, my body and my soul went to separate places. The soulless body went to mop the floors and the bodiless soul went to the realm of vague hopes. A few times the body and soul joined momentarily when I felt the mop become a machine gun. As I mopped with it, it fired.
I inhaled deeply. I forgot time. Suddenly, a voice, a tender voice, rose from my back. Why do you like to sit in the dark? the voice asked.
I thought I had imagined the voice. I kept still. The voice repeated itself. The sound softer. A Beijing accent. I stood up and was about to switch on the lights. I’d like to smoke in the dark too, the voice said. Can I get a light? I kept still in the dark. Thank you, the voice said. I heard the noise of a person standing up and moving toward me. Who are you? I asked.
I am like you, a set helper, the voice said. How do you do? I saw a cigarette held out to me. I passed him my cigarette. The two cigarettes touched. The smoker inhaled. It was a gentle face that I saw. The face faded back into the dark. My mind went back to its own thinking.
I thought of my parents. I had stopped talking to them. You don’t deserve those dunce caps, my mother said to me over and over. I told her that I was sick of her sense of justice, her fantasy. I told my mother not to interfere with me. I said, Why don’t you ever learn? What’s wrong with you? Is it because your own life hasn’t been miserable enough? My mother said, said in her own logic, I don’t regret a bit about my way of living, because I have been truthful to myself. I could not stand her logic. I said, I don’t want to inherit your life. It is a terrible, terrible and terrible life. I yelled at her. My mother went to take pills. I said, Don’t you see? Can’t you see it’s not working? Your philosophy does not work for me. My mother refused to give up. She said she didn’t believe that evilness should rule. I said, It’s ruling. She said, It’s impossible. I said, I mop floors, don’t you see? She said, What did you do wrong? I said, I wish I knew the answer. My mother started her repetition: Then that shouldn’t have happened to you. I said, It’s happening to me. She said she would like to have a talk with my instructor. I laughed.
The instructors came before my mother gathered her guts to go and confront them. Once again it was Soviet Wong and Sound of Rain who came. They came to put a dunce cap on me. They wanted me to acknowledge a crime I did not commit. They wanted me to say, Yes, I deserve to be kicked out because I am bad. My mother asked, What did my daughter do wrong? You have shielded a wrongdoer, they replied. My mother refused to be confused. She fought to the end. She fought to the last step of the staircase. She said, Tell me what’s wrong with my daughter. They said, Everything. Everything’s wrong with your daughter. She said, Give me an example. They said, We don’t need to. My mother said, Comrade Soviet Wong, I would never ever want my daughter to call you teacher.
My mother followed them out of the lane. She yelled before falling on the cement. She yelled, You can’t make a criminal out of my innocent daughter. My father dragged Mother back upstairs. He said, You are making things worse. Don’t you know they represent the Party? My mother yelled, But I am not guilty. My father pushed her to sit on a chair. My father told my mother the simplest things in the world. The simplest things to make my mother understand the world she was in. My father told her that he himself was just fired by the Shanghai Museum of Natural Science because he disagreed with his Party secretary boss over a technical plan. He was accused of using science to attack the Communist Party. My father told my mother that Coral was forced to become a peasant because I was out of Red Fire Farm. Coral had to become a peasant to meet the Party’s policy. She was working at Red Fire Farm in Company Thirty, the company that had no drinking-water pipe of its own. The Party tells people what to do, not the other way around, my father said. My mother refused to understand her world. She refused to understand the things that did not make sense to her. She shut her senses up because she preferred to live in her own world. She lived with the god of justice. She broke three dishes that night while dishwashing. I woke up in the early morning and found Mother sitting in the kitchen staring at the sinkhole, alone.
Where is your interest? The voice in the dark interrupted my thoughts. I have no interest, I said. I need some comments on a costume I’ve just picked—would you care to give some? the voice said.
The light was switched on. Under the hazy gaslight I saw a man in an ancient red silk robe with an embroidered golden dragon on the chest and silver waves at the bottom. Under a hat decorated with diamonds shone a pair of bright almond eyes. Long and thin eyebrows like the wings of a gliding sea goose. His smooth pale skin shaded mauve on the cheeks. A delicate nose and a tomato-red full mouth. He cited:
Spring river, the moon shines a flowery night.
Autumn maple, the sun hurries a dewy morning.
I stared at the man. I thought, It must be the makeup. The makeup made him look femininely handsome. Who are you? I heard myself say. I have told you I am a set helper like you. Where are you from? Beijing.
He stepped over to shake hands with me. Staring at his painted face, my mind was occupied by a strange thought: Was he a woman or a man? He seemed to be both. He was grotesquel
y beautiful. He lowered his head, then looked away, almost bashfully. Lifting his robe carefully, he walked toward the door like a swinging willow—he was wearing costume boots with four-inch heels.
What are you doing here? I asked. Playing, he said. Don’t you remember Chairman Mao’s teaching “Make the past serve the present”? I am playing with that idea. I asked, What do you supervise here? Everything, he said. By the way, how do you like this costume? I told him that it looked unusual. I had the costume man send it to me, he continued. Isn’t it gorgeous? He told me that he was collecting ideas to create good art for the people. He asked me to give opinions on the model operas. I said, How could anyone have any opinions? The Party’s opinion is the people’s opinion. How dare I have my own opinion? I was eliminated by Soviet Wong because I had opinions.
My words just gushed out of my mouth. My anger made me shake. When I spoke of Soviet Wong I became vicious. I expressed my hatred eagerly. I did not care who was listening at that moment. He waited quietly until I emptied my words. I began to regret my impulse. I said, Nine million people watched nine operas in nine years. It is wonderful. In the tenth year, there would be number ten, Red Azalea. I wanted to pronounce Cheering Spear’s name but I could not continue. It hurt me to pronounce this name. My jealousy was indescribable.
You are not speaking your mind, he said. Of course I am, I said. He said, The model operas were created, let me remind you, by Madam Mao, Comrade Jiang Ching. Did that mean no one was supposed to criticize them? That’s right, I said. He laughed, in a womanish silky voice.