This is what I want to see in your eyes, he said. A million bulls rushing down a hill with their tails on fire.
He waved his hand. The room turned dark. I want to show you one of my favorite movies, he said into my ear. I asked what the movie was called. It is The Battle of Ancient Rome. I said I do not understand foreign languages. He said that was why he was sitting next to me. He wanted to be an interpreter for me.
The film began to roll. The projectionist adjusted the lens. The blurred image came into focus. The round starting cue looked like a huge eye spying on me from behind. The Supervisor’s face was inches away. I could smell his perfume. He began his translation. His voice reminded me of bushes shivering in the wind.
The voice of the Supervisor mixed with the sound track of the movie. His voice filled with sorrow as he interpreted the ending of the story. It was about the fall of an empire and the suicide of its princess. The music was tragically austere. I saw the glittering in his bright almond eyes. Pearls dripped slowly down his cheeks like a broken necklace. His interpretation became fragmented and then his breath came harder. He stopped, unable to continue as the movie went on.
I received a document with red characters on the cover. The characters said “Top Secret Instructions.” It was an order from the Supervisor. I was ordered to view one of the stage versions of Red Azalea. I was sent to see a local theater troupe which had been playing Red Azalea for years. The troupe rehearsed the play without being given a date of performance. The actress who played Red Azalea was three inches shorter than I and did not wish to talk to me. It seemed that all the troupe members knew who had sent me. Behind their politeness was distance and cold feelings.
Every morning at eight o’clock the actors began reading aloud from their memories. The play had no energy. The actresses brought knitting to the set and the actors smoked packs of cigarettes. At lunchtime I asked a troupe member why everything seemed so slow. He asked if I would allow him to escape from Red Azalea for a second. I was confused by his attitude. He nodded at me and then asked me to listen when he turned on his radio. He turned the dial back and forth, exploring every station. It was opera, opera and opera. The operas we knew by heart for years. Kids in the street joined in the music, singing. The man said, smiling bitterly, The revolutionary operas are what we breathe. He spat on the ground and wiped his nose with his fingers. I turned away. Excuse me, he said drowsily. He drifted off to his nap, leaving the radio on. It was boredom he exhaled.
I was not bored by the operas, nor bored with Red Azalea. I paid a price at Red Fire Farm to get to play the role. Yan and millions of youths were still struggling with leeches. Just to think of it sent a chill through me. I no longer cared whether other people would enjoy Comrade Jiang Ching’s opera heroines. Red Azalea had become my life.
I put on a respectful face each morning. I stepped into the rehearsal hall elegantly and sat down modestly. At lunch I ate a bowl of rice topped with a few pieces of preserved sour vegetables. I did character studies. I ran through the lines until I could recite them by heart. I continued my waiting.
The Supervisor sent for me. He sent for me with a set of new army uniforms he wanted me to wear. Later in the afternoon I went to him in a new outfit. He smiled. He was a peony. He was in uniform as well. A piece of long hair lingered on his face. He greeted me by the gate, and suggested that we take a long walk in his garden. We dipped ourselves in the green, into parks of peonies. We arrived at a stone boat beside a lake. He told me the fable of the stone boat. It was the gift of a son to his mother. The son was an emperor. He asked his mother what she wanted for her ninetieth birthday. The mother said she had always been fascinated by boating but was afraid of water. The son built the boat in stone right by the dock so the mother could be on a boat without water. The mother enjoyed her birthday boating party immensely, and the fable spread through the nation as an example of piety.
We sat in the stone boat. I watched the reflections in the water. You should be thinking about the big picture—the Supervisor suddenly interrupted my scattering thoughts. The life of a true hero is like acrobatic dancers on a tightrope. You can never be fully prepared.
The sun dropped and the sky looked like a golden fan. The rosy clouds, as if painted with ink and water, were glowing and tinting the sky. We are the hands that should be writing history, he said, standing up and walking toward the edge of the stone boat. He stared into the water. The water had changed color from dark green to deep black. I am not afraid of water, he said as he lifted his chin, gazing far into the sky. I looked at this gaze. I saw pure devotion. The gaze condensed the evening fog into dew. He asked me to abandon my old self to live up to the Party’s expectations. Mao asked his people to forget the self totally. He told me that sacrificing one’s life for the people’s ideals expands one’s life. He said that he wanted me to kill a devil in me. The devil that makes you yield to your emotional need, he said. He asked me to forget about my little self. He said he was asking for a full commitment. His religious tone scared me. I could not understand what he was talking about. Even though he loved me, and loved me partly for the independence of my mind, he wanted me to sacrifice my old self to his—and my—ambition for the film.
He asked me please not to disappoint him. He said he had been counting on me so much that his mission would not be complete without me. He said he had never learned to take rejection well. He asked me to be on guard. All his life he had been taught to hate individuality, even while he was attracted to it. He asked me to keep him from becoming harmful to me, because no matter how much he loved me he would not let me stand in the way of his dreams. He would replace me if he had to. He asked me to obey him, because to obey him was to obey my own ambition. Because he and I were inseparable now.
The Supervisor took me back to Shanghai. He said he would have had too much difficulty filming Red Azalea in Beijing. There was a political current that was against him, against the greatest standard-bearer, Comrade Jiang Ching. Shanghai was a better place, he said. In Shanghai, Comrade Jiang Ching’s operas were daily spiritual meals. Radios all around the neighborhood played operas. The Wu-Lee Hardware Workshop downstairs had their radio on all day. Most women sang along with the radio as they welded wires together.
The insurrection after the harvest was a violent storm.
The beacon lightened,
Lightened my heart.
It made me understand that
To liberate our country we must depend on weapons.
The only way to gain good life
Is to join the Red Army and the Party.
On the flight he told me that one day I would remember him as a genius.
I was living at the film-studio guesthouse during shooting and was allowed to visit my parents once every few days. I was fascinated with my costume—the Red Army uniform and coat—so I visited home wearing it. When I walked through the alleys, I knew my neighbors were looking at me through windows. Now they dared not speak with me. I had become too big.
When we did run into each other, they would speak in a flattering tone. They would say, Oh, we knew a long time ago that you were going to be somebody someday. We knew that since you moved into this district.
I found that I could not say much because I still remembered the days when I was called Flea.
I spoke with Little Coffin when I saw her come to visit her parents. She had become a factory worker and had married a colleague and moved away. Little Coffin never flattered me. She just looked at me with admiration. I knew she was proud of me and I told her, I’ll make you more proud.
From this moment on, I want you to forget your family name. You are Red Azalea now, said the Supervisor. Let me hear your name, please. I shivered and pronounced it loudly: I am Red Azalea. He nodded with satisfaction. I want you to be aware of what you are creating, he continued. You are creating an image which will soon dominate China’s ideology. You are creating history, the proletarian’s history. We are giving history back its original face. In a few
months, when the movie is all over the country, you will be the idol of revolutionary youths. I want you to memorize Chairman Mao’s teaching, “The power of a good example is infinite.”
Are you prepared? His eyes were red from lack of sleep; his voice carried a smell of burnt earth. We have begun our battle, he said. Comrade Jiang Ching is with us. It is a battle of life and death. A political power struggle. I nodded as if I understood what he’d said. He moved toward me, stopped and used his middle finger to tilt my chin up. He inspected me. He was a dragon coming through the window of my eyes and permeating my body with a silent force. Show me your determination, he murmured. I stared into his eyes. Yes, beautiful. You see, we are going to go through a forest of guns and a rain of bullets to pay respect to our mothers. Mothers who, for thousands of years, lived their lives in shame, died with shame, were buried and rotted in shame. We are going to tell them, Now it is a new world. A world where being born female merits celebration and salute. A world where a woman who is forced to marry a pig can have an affair. He suddenly stopped. He stared at me, narrowing his eyes. Well, enough for now. He pressed a bell button on the table and a pleasant-faced young man stepped in. Take her to the makeup room.
It was my first time posing. The photographer said printing machines in factories were waiting for this picture; the poster was to be out in three days. It was a political assignment from Comrade Jiang Ching. Red Azalea must live up to her earnest expectations.
I stared into the light bulb before me. I thought of Cheering Spear and Soviet Wong’s hatred of me. I told the photographer I was ready. The sound of the clicks was unreal. I felt Yan under my skin.
The crew reshot the scenes. The ones who had served Cheering Spear now were made to serve me. Cheering Spear and Soviet Wong were excluded. No one mentioned them. The shooting went smoothly until one day when we were instructed to revise certain lines in the script. Red Azalea must not be too poignant. Her screen time must yield; meaning the male hero must appear dominant. The Supervisor made the changes. He was called back to Beijing several times. Each time he came back, he looked frustrated. He smoked four packs of cigarettes a day. His fingers had turned brown from holding cigarettes all the time. He explained nothing. He shot three versions of one scene with different lines. In the first one I was told to say, No, you can’t take my dream away from me. In the second I was told to say, No, he is China’s hope, you can never take that hope away from me. In the third I was to say, I’d sacrifice my life to follow him because he is the savior of the world’s proletariat. This was how the Supervisor fought with his opponents in Beijing. If the first one did not work, he would lay out the second or the third version. He negotiated. He fought for every inch of the film.
My face was painted. The costume designer dressed me up in a grayish Red Army uniform and straw shoes. My sleeves were rolled up, hair braided. A wide belt cinched my waist. Someone was binding a long piece of cloth on my leg. I rehearsed my lines. A new line had been added by the Supervisor. The line was, “Chairman Mao.”
The Supervisor was sitting on the director’s chair. His concentration ruled the set. An assistant measured the distance between my nose and the lens again and again, murmuring the numbers to himself while marking them down. Red Azalea’s hands were tied back with ropes. She was about to be tortured in public.
Take two, take three. I want a big, big close-up of her eyes, the Supervisor yelled. Frame her face! Camera, move! Closer, closer! The camera crew moved around. Changes had been made. Production assistants began to sweat. One of them murmured his numbers. Four feet and five inches. Five feet and three-quarter inches. A light fixture burned. The wire was smoking. The director of lighting replaced it right away. The makeup man combed my bangs once more.
I was suddenly afraid of not being able to satisfy the Supervisor. I had no feelings for my lines. The makeup man asked if I needed him to put water drops in my eyes. The Supervisor waved him off. The costume designer came and wet my back with water. The Supervisor called, Roll the camera! I spoke my line: “Chairman Mao.” The Supervisor called, Cut! He said, No, maybe it’s the lighting. Yes, the lighting is not right. This is not the light she likes. Comrade Jiang Ching would not approve of this way of lighting. It has to be straight flat light. Comrade Jiang Ching wants to see no shadows under Red Azalea’s nose. Our heroine must have no shadows on her face. Not at all!
The camera rolled again. Everyone held their breath. I repeated my lines carefully. The Supervisor kicked down a light stand. He was frustrated. The camera crew got nervous. Everyone was ready again. The Supervisor raised his head. His almond eyes were brighter than the lights before me. I saw anxiety burning in his eyes. His lips were cracked dry, and his fingers stretched in the air like an eagle’s claws. He closed his eyes and moaned my line, “Chairman Mao.” Opening his eyes, he asked me if I could give him more than the three syllables. Leaning back, he said slowly, Roll the camera.
I failed him. I failed to deliver what he wanted. My acting was surgical. He cut me off. His face twisted. He said, One more minute and you better have it. Now immerse yourself. I took a deep breath and spoke my line. I repeated, “Chairman Mao”; “Chairman Mao.” There was no magic.
The Supervisor called me an idiot. And I called myself an idiot. I could not concentrate. I even found the line funny. Chairman Mao what? You should be shot by the Nationalists, the Supervisor yelled at me. Where is the spirit I once saw in you? I know you have it. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you get the meaning of these three syllables? I thought you had sense. I thought you understood everything.
The makeup man came to repaint the scar on my forehead. The costume designer sprinkled more chicken blood on my chest. I was still not able to say “Chairman Mao” right. The Supervisor threw the main electric switch. The studio went deadly dark. I couldn’t breathe.
I sat by myself in one of the studio’s guesthouses. It was about midnight. The maple branches outside struck my window as if someone were knocking. The whole dormitory was quiet as a graveyard. I had a horrible day. I was almost fired on the set. The lighting men began to speak of Cheering Spear, they spoke of how easily she handled what I could not. They suggested that the Supervisor tell me to go home.
I heard the sound of steps at the end of the long hallway. They were heading in my direction. They stopped in front of my door. Light knocks, like a woodpecker. It’s open, I said. The Supervisor ducked in. He shut the door behind him. He was in a blue Mao jacket. I tried to move a chair for him. He stopped me. He came and sat down by me. He touched my bare shoulders with his hands. He stroked softly. He asked me to trust him. He asked me to have faith in him. He said, Only by having faith will you see the future I see and feel the power I feel.
I said that the new line was awkward. I said I did not know how to put those words in my mouth. He said it was not a matter of awkwardness. The awkwardness served a political purpose. The line had to be in there or there would be no Red Azalea. I said I knew no acting technique to get this right. I was incapable of filling the three syllables with emotion. He said that this was the point—I must have emotion. The syllables themselves carried no significance at all. The significance was beyond the words, beyond Red Azalea itself. I said that I didn’t see it, but I did see that the new line would ruin the movie. I said that people were going to laugh at it. He said, Who do you think people are? They are walking corpses, let me tell you. What do the people know? The only thing they know is fear. That is why they need authority. They need to be told what to do. They need a wise emperor. It’s been this way for five thousand years. They believe what rulers make them believe. That is why there were intellectual formulas. The operas were a way to shape their minds, to keep the minds where they should be. You see? I am showing you what I know. I am giving you my power. You see? Now someone else knows exactly what I know. Someone else is using my power to get what she wants too.
Looking at my confused face, he said, You know I envy you. I really do. I envy your naïveté, your p
ain, and your doubts. Because I do not have them, any of them. I have no doubts, you see? My will is insuperable. Are you listening?
I asked him what made him do what he did. He got up and went to pull the velvet curtains closed. As he turned toward me, he switched off the light. In the dark he grabbed me against his chest. He embraced me. He made me want him. Then he told me in the dark, to my surprise, that he always thought that he knew women no less than I did, because he carried a female part in him as well. It was this persona that drove him to do what he did, to work for Comrade Jiang Ching, who made women heroines; to work for himself. He said by having me play Red Azalea, he could play a woman whom he had been admiring himself.
I felt the spasmodic movement of fury and painlike excitement run through his frame. Let’s be gone, he whispered in my ear. A few moments later as we caught our breath, we heard the sound of steps in the hallway. The sound of wooden sandals. Though I was prepared, I still felt horror. They were the steps of the doorman coming from the end of the hallway, coming closer. The Supervisor switched the light back on and quickly straightened his jacket. He went to open the door a slit and sat back on a chair opposite me. He pulled out a newspaper and pretended to be reading. I grabbed a pen and pretended to take notes. The steps stopped by the door. I looked at the Supervisor. He was as calm as a lake on a windless summer day. The door was pushed open. The doorman’s head popped in. He looked at us, then stepped in. He was carrying a teapot and two enamel mugs. He came by the table and poured the tea into the mugs. He did not say anything. The Supervisor began to say to me, So I want you to memorize these new changes. You must be able to perform well tomorrow.
My pen made scratches on the paper. Yes, I said. I looked at the doorman from the corner of my eye. His face was expressionless. He filled up my hot-water container, then left the room and closed the door. We heard his steps disappear at the end of the hallway.