Fart, fart, and fart, she writes, then erases, then writes again. She takes out a tiny mirror and begins to examine her face. The teeth, nose, eyes and eyebrows. She plays with her hair, combs it into different styles. Stretches her skin with her fingers, making different expressions. She likes her face. The way it is reflected in the mirror. It looks prettier in the mirror than on the screen. She wonders why she didn't look as pretty on camera. Her thoughts skip. She wonders what's happening to Tang Nah and Yu Qiwei. And what they will think when they learn that she is Madame Mao.
The thought brings her delight and makes her go back to the draft. She works until Mao wakes. Her heart beats gaily as she hears him reciting a wake-up poem of the Han dynasty:
The spring woke my hibernation
The sun is on my buttocks hurrying me up
She gets up from her chair to pour him tea. She then goes back to the desk and waits. He comes to her. She shows him the draft. He leans toward the light to read. His hands go under her shirt.
Sounds like a letter of protest, he laughs. She says that she doesn't know how to write otherwise. She is unable to bend herself any lower. He comforts her. You shouldn't go to a monk and ask to borrow a comb—you should be kind with my colleagues' shortcomings. After all they are peasants. As for himself, he appreciates her sacrifice. A letter of promise is only a piece of paper. It is up to us to honor it. The truth is that the letter is only going to be used to clamp the lips of those scorpion-mouthed wives.
She is convinced. Laughing in tears. Holding her hand he revises the draft. I want you to pillow-talk me now. I want you to harvest me. Oh, yes. Right here, sign Sincerely, Lan Ping.
***
The wedding day. The wind sculpts clouds into the shapes of giant fruits. It is in Mao's new cave—he has moved from Phoenix Hill to the Yang Family Grove. It is a three-room cave located on the side of the mountain, about fifty feet in depth. The back wall is made of stone and the front, of wood. The windows are covered with paper. In front of the cave is a bit of flat ground. There are stone stools and a vegetable patch.
Mao gets up early and works in the garden. Peppers, garlic, tomatoes, yams, beans and squash—all are in good spirits. Mao carries a shoulder pole with two buckets of water on each end. He walks through the narrow paths watering each plant patiently. He tilts his shoulders and lifts the string of the bucket to pour. He looks content and relaxed.
The bride stands in front of the cave and watches her lover. She watches him nibble off the tips of the cotton plants. She remembers that he once told her that his mind worked best when his hands got busy with soil and roots. What is on his mind now? She wonders if he compares her with his ex-wives. You are the girl who carries your own sunshine, he has told her. Your gaiety is my soul's health and Zi-zhen's sadness its poison.
To me, he is a father figure. He is all I have ever wanted in a man. As a father he is wise, loving and formidable. When I asked why he decided to marry me he replied that I have the ability to make a rooster produce eggs. I take the remark as a compliment. I assume that he means that I bring out the best in him. But I am not sure. Sometimes I feel that he is too great for me to understand. His mind is forever unattainable. He is a frightening spectacle. To his comrades, opponents or enemies, he can be intoxicating and terrifying. I love him but fear for myself. In front of him I give up comprehension. I surrender. I long for him to want me, the true me, not the actress. Sometimes I feel that he wants to have my body near but my soul at a distance. He wants to keep the myth of me.
Later on, after many years, I discover that he prefers to live with the counterfeit rather than the human. But as a young woman I am simple and enthusiastic. I don't need to understand everything about this god whose essence is out of my reach. I sleep soundly on the question of the unknown. What's the hurry when I shall have the rest of my life to figure him out? I don't compare myself with Zi-zhen. I am not like Zi-zhen, who preserves herself in the bottle of misery and seals the lid with a wrench. If there is such a bottle in front of me I will smash it. I have a passion for stimulation and challenge. I see my future promising nothing but that.
But why am I having these doubts on my wedding day?
Eight o'clock. The sunshine bursts out of the clouds. After setting up a table outside I go back to the cave to get dressed. I am a little disappointed that Mao has only invited a small group of people. He has turned down my wish to invite a crowd. His reason was that he didn't want to attract Chiang Kai-shek's attention—he doesn't want to be bombed on his wedding day.
I take out the eyebrow pincers. I fix and paint my eyebrows the way I used to in Shanghai. I powder my sunburned skin. There is no dress. I promised Mao to respect the revolutionary fashion, which is to have no fashion. I wear a faded gray uniform and a belt over it.
When I come out, everyone turns toward me and suddenly the men begin to talk about the sky. Its color. A watermelon with a layer of green in the bottom, yellow in the middle and pink-red on the top.
There is a sudden quietness. Mao tries to hide his elation. He says to his bride, Peanuts! The bride begins to serve around a basket of peanuts. The guests ask the groom to offer tips on romance. Mao sits back down and stretches his arms and shoulders. A tornado blew off my hat—how should I put it?—it landed and caught me a golden bird.
Details! the men cry, passing the boss a cigarette. Smiling, Mao inhales deeply. There are really two tips: One, you have to be a dog and ask to borrow a bone. And two, you have to always be aware that you are holding a dangerous pose, like sticking your head over the stove to dry your hair.
She takes a good look at the guests as Mao introduces them one by one. They are his men. Men she needs to impress. If possible, she begins to think, make them her men in the future. She already knows that the possibility exists in Kang Sheng. She can't forget their first conversation. May I find safety under your wing, Comrade Kang Sheng? If under your wing I may find the same, Miss Lan Ping.
She hears Kang Sheng's false laugh. A disgusting sound. He is flattering his boss. They don't really chat, but there is intimacy. A secret code exists between Kang Sheng and Mao. Somehow she feels that she will never be able break the code. A strange pair of friends, she thinks. Mao once jokingly described Kang Sheng as a small temple that produces witch-wind. Kang Sheng knows exactly what Mao wants and offers it to him. It can be to destroy a political rival or arrange a night with a mistress.
She is satisfied with the moment. For that she honors herself. For it is she who has finally earned the role of the leading lady.
A peacock among hens. She smiles.
I speak Mandarin. I slow down to make his friends understand me. I ask about the guests' health, their family members, animals and the crops. I am learning my husband's business. I discover that his heart is not here for the wedding. Actually he has little interest in the ceremony. He uses the time to gather information. On battles, his colleagues, the white territories.
There is a man Kang Sheng brings to my husband. His name is Old Fish. He has the face of a tamed dog with long ears hanging on the sides. His Western suit shines with grease around the belly, collar and elbows. The sewing stitches are visible. It looks like an army of ants. His pockets bulge with notebooks and papers. The man reports on the white territories. The name Liu Shao-qi is constantly repeated. Old Fish praises Liu as a man of great capability who started out as a striker but doesn't fight just to destroy. He negotiates with factory owners and is able to have the workers' conditions met every time.
Comrade Liu Shao-qi is our Party's treasure, my husband comments. It's terribly important that we win over the workers.
There is not the slightest tone of jealousy in Mao's words, but the seed of Liu Shao-qi as a potential rival is planted in his heart right at this moment. No one in China ever imagined that Mao would be capable of mass destruction simply over his jealousy of someone's talent. No one ever understood Mao's fears. Thirty years later, Mao launches the so-called Great Proletarian Cultural Revoluti
on in which millions of lives are lost in order to pave his way.
There is a trick Madame Mao never manages to learn from Mao: not only does he escape criticism for his responsibility in the crime of the century, he also engages his public, even after his death, to defend, worship and bless his goodness.
The record player is on. The piece is "The Night of Fire in the Capital." The record player was a gift from Mao's foreign admirer, Agnes Smedley. The bride goes and turns down the volume. She then walks around trying to join the conversations. She listens and picks moments to insert her remarks. She asks about the Fascists in Europe. She wants to know when Chiang Kai-shek may attack again. She asks, How long will Chiang Kai-shek's supplies last? How much money are the Westerners willing to pour into Chiang Kai-shek's bottomless pit? Isn't it obvious that Chiang Kai-shek is a dog without a spinal cord? Can we get the Western world on our side? Should Mao launch a media campaign to help tell the world that his action counts? What's going on between the Russians and the Japanese? Shouldn't Stalin be convinced by now of Mao's ability to rule China?
She amazes Mao and the guests with her desire to learn. She is twenty-four years old and the fire in her chest is burning high. Her energy works its charm on some, but others find her naive and presumptuous. She is too excited to notice one way or the other. She witnesses the way Mao plays godfather to his army. She sees what she can achieve through the marriage—she is shown the very best example.
He tells the girl a story on the wedding night. A story that inspires him and teaches him the secret of ruling. During the Dynasty of Spring and Autumn a prince bought soldiers. To prevent their escape he brought in a tattoo man. The prince ordered the man to tattoo his name on both cheeks of every soldier. When the job is done the prince felt their loyalty was secured. He took the soldiers to a distant battle. Before the troops traveled far, the soldiers began to disappear. There was no way to trace them—the soldiers had bribed the tattoo man. The tattoos on their cheeks were so thin that they washed off.
It's the mind you ought to tattoo! my lover concludes when finishing the story.
I feel that my mind was tattooed at that moment. Otherwise how can I explain the reason I answer his every call? He instills himself—the voice of a god—in me and his nation.
The Book of Chang itself, she calls him.
By the time the guests leave the couple is exhausted. The floor is covered with peanut shells, sunflower seeds and cigarette butts. Mao doesn't ask his bride's opinion of the guests. He knows she is irritated by their manners. It's obvious that she can't stand it when they spit on the floor, stick their fingers in their mouths to pick out food while talking, and worse, fart shamelessly.
I am a dress made out of a verdict
— every thread is linked to a bloody crime
Mao makes his bride give up cleaning and takes her into the bedroom while singing an old opera aria happily.
Like a drought-land clam
I wouldn't open my mouth...
She is amused and joins his singing.
A mouse is given an assignment
to guard the grain storage
And the goat is put to watch the vegetable garden
— what a pleasurable thing to do...
12
JIANG CHING IS MY NEW NAME. It is a thoughtful gift from my husband. I am no longer Lan Ping—Blue Apple. The new characters have straight lines like a boat sailing in full wind— Jiang as River and Ching as Green. Jiang Ching summarizes a traditional saying: Green comes out of blue but is richer than blue.
I have parted from my old role. I come out of blue and enter the richer color green. I am a butterfly out of the cocoon, spring belongs to me. My name has become part of my lover's poetry.
There aren't any photographs hanging on my wall. No books or reviews either. No souvenirs. Not even a poster of me as Nora. It's not that I wouldn't like to be reminded of my old days, my new role simply demands a different setting. I face a different audience.
I need to color my history red. This is what gives one true rights in Yenan. My future enemies hold an invisible mirror. It is said to reflect my political "birth defects." In the mirror they see a demon who has come to steal Mao's essence. They have already begun a war with me by trying to block my marriage.
The rumors and false accusations begin to spread the day Mao and I wed. I have broken many hearts. During and after the ceremony, a number of comrades and our guests of honor, including my husband's ex-brother-in-law Xia Zhen-nong, begin to gossip about Mao's "declining health." It is loud. Look at the Chairman, he has come to depend on liquor to boost his energy.
I am beginning to realize that I don't stand much chance to defend myself here in Yenan. Mao's divorce is considered a betrayal under my influence. What frightens me is that hatred for the actress is in the air before the play opens. It is a show people don't want to see but to which they are forced to come. Every line pricks their ears and every scene burns their eyes.
I am never able to reverse the image of a white-boned demon. Many envisioned my burial the moment I entered Mao's cave. The hatred deepens as the years wear on. So does my anger. The ancient saying goes, Ten thousand people's spit can make a well deep enough to sink a person. Well, I am in that well.
I am determined to carry on my show in hope of finding my true audience. Some of my critics say that I make them sick to their stomach. But the truth is that they can't take their eyes off me while giving me bad names. They are doing everything they can to ruin me.
In my costume I am the leading lady. I am described by Mao's visitors as pleasant, sweet and friendly. Yes, I have every reason in the world to be content and grateful, and I am. Inside, however, the sea is never calm. I have to watch myself, to make sure that I appear proper, obedient and tamed. I love Mao enough to leave behind a big part of myself, including my passion for drama and movies. I believe Mao's business is more important and I am trying to make it mine too.
Over the next six months Mao produces the most famous writings of his life. Among them are Basic Battle Tactics—Thoughts on Guerrilla Warfare and On the Protracted War. Mao's views fascinate and captivate the nation; as a result, the number of Red Army recruits increases dramatically. Enraged, Chiang Kai-shek secretly contacts Adolf Hitler for military advisors and orders the complete elimination of the Communists.
It is at this time that Madame Mao Jiang Ching gives birth to a daughter, Nah. She disappears from the public scene completely. As the new host of the family, she enthusiastically receives the members of Mao's previous families: two sons, Anyin and Anqing, from Mao's marriage to Kai-hui, and a daughter, Ming, from his marriage to Zi-zhen. Jiang Ching spends her days nursing the baby and making clothes and sweaters. Through Kang Sheng she learns that Zi-zhen has secretly returned from Russia with her illness worsened. Mao has arranged for Zi-zhen to live in a private mental hospital in a southern city.
The village tailor comes often to help Jiang Ching with the housework. The tailor brings news and gossip. Jiang Ching learns that her friend Sesame has been killed in a battle near Gan-jiang River. Another name that often surfaces is Fairlynn. Fairlynn has become the star of feminism and liberalism in Yenan. Her novels and essays are widely published and she is idolized by the nation's youth.
Fairlynn is working on a new novel when I knock on her door. I don't know why I've come here. I don't like Fairlynn. I guess I simply have to satisfy my curiosity. She is surprised to see me and greets me delightedly. Holding out her arms, the first thing she says to me is, Look, the mother hen is here!
What's her name? she asks.
Nah. I open my basket to reveal my daughter.
Nah? What do you mean, Nah?
She didn't say, "Don't tell me it's from Tang Nah" but I get the idea.
It is pure coincidence, I explain. My husband doesn't give a damn whom I married in the past. The name comes from Confucius's teaching on behavior. Nah for self-cultivation. It is all Mao's idea.
Welcome to the red base,
little soldier! Fairlynn bends to touch Nah, then turns toward me. You look like you are loaded again.
You're nasty, as always, Fairlynn. I smile and sit down. You like to make me feel bad. You know you love to do that to me.
Oh, Lan Ping, you hate me just the same. We already knew that when we met.
Any progress in your personal life, Fairlynn? How old are you anyway?
She lights a cigarette. Thirty-six. I'm too busy.
It's a familiar excuse for those who can't attract. I laugh. Come on, get yourself a husband before it's too late.
A husband? Fairlynn puffs the smoke. I would rather flirt with a chimpanzee!
She throws a half-eaten yam into her mouth. By the way, how does it feel to be Madame Mao?
A dream come true.
Very clever, Miss Lan Ping.
No, Comrade Jiang Ching.
Very well, Comrade Jiang Ching.
The world is yours if you have the talent, Fairlynn. This is what my husband says to me: The street is filled with gold, but not everyone has eyes to see it.
Fairlynn smiles. Good. Get more babies and practice sewing.
You can't stop biting, can you? I think the problem is your Shakespeare hairstyle. I am sure it turns men off. I'll be happy to give you a new haircut.
Lan Ping, you can't make me feel unattractive.
Jiang Ching, please—Jiang as River and Ching as Green. You have no idea how wonderful it is to have children. Look at Nah, she is smiling at you. Come on, girl, go to Aunt Fairlynn.