In the kitchen I hear them continue. They laugh and sometimes whisper.
You're irresistible, Fairlynn. If...
Imagine that! The hoarse voice rises, laughing.
You're right, Fairlynn. Beauty does arouse me. It makes me sympathetic toward deformity. However, the drive to save this country makes me a true man. I have only one understanding of politics—it is violence. Revolution is not a tea party, it is violence in its purest form. I worship ancient politics, the politics of simple dictatorship.
Standing in front of the boiling teapot my mind travels to exile. When I return to the living room I find myself empty-handed. I have left the teapot behind. Politely I interrupt the conversation. I mention that I am tired. My husband suggests that I go ahead to bed.
It's the middle of the night, I insist, showing no intention of leaving the room—I am determined to kick Fairlynn out.
I know. He waves a hand.
You must be exhausted, I say to my husband, so must Comrade Fairlynn.
Don't you worry about me! Fairlynn stretches her arms upward. Leaning to the side she places her elbows on the table. I feel as charged as if it were ten o'clock in the morning.
Mao makes a muffled guffaw.
I try to contain myself but my tears betray me.
My husband stands up, goes to the kitchen and brings back the teapot. He then pulls over a chair for me to sit down. I look at Fairlynn in disgust. There will be a day, I promise myself, that I will make her go through what she is making me go through now.
Basking in Fairlynn's admiration my husband elaborates on himself.
Deep in the landscape of my soul, I am covered with the thick fog of the yellow earth. My character carries a fatalistic culture. I have been aware of this since I was a child. I have an instinct and a craving for travel, in the meantime I have an inborn disgust of living. The ancient sages travel in order to gain distance from men. We fight in order to achieve unity. People of the Ching dynasty, before Confucius, were warlords, very strong in yang. They fought, possessed and expanded the land. Horseback was their life. They had passion for the sun. In fables, one sun was not enough. Nine suns have to be created so the hero Yi can have a chance to shoot eight of the nine down in order to demonstrate his strength. The goddesses were sent way up, into the Moon Palace, so the males could be challenged.
Ching period is your period, Fairlynn responds.
Yes, and I still feel that I lack the knowledge of it. I'd like to hear the shouts of the Ching soldier lunge and enter the gates of their enemy's cities. I would like to smell the blood on the tip of their swords.
You have a vision seen through the eyes of a madman.
At three o'clock in the morning Mao and Fairlynn get up to part. Jiang Ching stands behind the cave's entrance and watches them.
Our argument has not ended yet, Fairlynn says, buttoning up her gray army coat.
Next time it will be my turn to satisfy you. Mao nods a salute.
The darkness is impenetrable, Fairlynn sighs.
I'm a pearl-seeker, Mao says, looking into the night. I work on the deep and airless ocean bed. I don't come up with treasure every time. Often I come back empty-handed and purple-faced. You have an understanding of that as a writer.
But sometimes I want to be wrapped in darkness.
Well, my point is that it is not easy to live up to what's expected of Mao Tse-tung.
Surely almost everyone is drawn to deception.
The irony, as we all understand, is that magic and illusion has to take place in the dark. Mao smiles.
And certainly with distance. I am with you, Chairman.
March 1947. Mao's force has been in and out of the mountain areas of Shan-xi, Hunan and Sichuan provinces. Mao toys with Chiang Kai-shek's troops. Although Chiang has sent his best man, General Hu Zhong-nan, who commands 230,000 men while Mao has only 20,000, Chiang has not been winning.
Like a war concubine I follow my lover. I abandon everything including my favorite record player. I insist that Nah come with us. We travel with the army. It's hard to believe that we survived. Every day Nah witnesses how the dead are buried.
The village artists paint the walls with pictures of Mao. My lover still has the look of an ancient sage, even more so now. It is because the artists are trained to paint the face of Buddha. They can't paint Mao without making him look like a Buddha. Maybe it is the Buddha they see in Mao. And I'm sure it is Buddha my lover is playing.
Sleep deprivation has weakened Mao. He has caught fever. Under the blanket, he trembles uncontrollably. The guards take turns carrying him on a stretcher. In his sickness my lover continues to conduct battles. This is how I become his secretary and assistant. Now I am the one who writes down Mao's orders and drafts telegrams. I am up when he is up, and keep myself up when he sleeps.
When he is better and sees his business is going well, he wants to play. We have time. But I am not myself. My heart feels no warmth—I can't forget Fairlynn. Although I feel my love for him, I still want to make him pay for humiliating me. He seems to be accepting the punishment. The pockets under his eyes have deepened.
The troops pitch camp in a small village. Mao is asleep. Jiang Ching comes out of the hut for fresh air. She has just finished copying a long document under candlelight. Rubbing her strained eyes, she notices that Little Dragon is standing nearby. Seeing her he salutes. She nods and takes a mouthful of fresh air. In front of her there is a patch of yams and a narrow path that leads to a river. The night is quiet and chilly.
She feels lonely so she walks to the guard and greets him.
Have you heard from your family? she asks the nineteen-year-old.
The man replies that he doesn't have a family.
How so?
My uncle was an underground Communist. Chiang Kai-shek massacred my family for helping him escape.
Do you like working for the Chairman? Will you be loyal to him?
Yes, Madame. The young man lowers his head and looks at his own shadow under the bright moonlight.
Do you hear anything at night? She clears her throat.
Well, a ... a little.
Like what?
N ... Noises.
Suddenly she feels sorry for him. The man who has never in his life tasted the sweetness of a woman. It is not allowed. It is the rule—soldiers are the monks of Mao's temple.
What kind of noises? she asks, almost teasing. Like a noise from an owl? A field rat? Or wind?
The young man becomes tongue-tied and turns away from her.
She gently calls him by name and makes him look back at her.
I don't like myself, Little Dragon says suddenly.
She feels a strange tension rise between them. She finds herself out of words.
Little Dragon swallows a mouthful of saliva.
After a while she asks, Would you like me to ask the Chairman to transfer you?
No, please, Madame. I'd like to serve the Chairman for the rest of my life.
Of course, she murmurs. I understand. And the Chairman needs you too.
The young man stands against the wall, his breath hardens. He is confused by his own reaction toward the woman. The mysterious power clothed under his uniform. She can see sweat glistening on his forehead. He looks intimidated, fraught and defeated. He reminds her of a young gorilla in frustration, the male who is given no chance to win female trophies, the male whose semen is deposited in the dustbin of history. Little Dragon's manhood is chewed up by the bigger, more brawny, aggressive and formidable gorilla, Mao.
December 1947. Mao finally exhausts Chiang Kai-shek's troops. Before the New Year Mao launches a full-scale counterattack. The Red Army soldiers shout as they charge forward: For Mao Tse-tung and New China! It doesn't take long for Mao to swallow his enemy completely. As spring turns into summer, the number of Mao's forces draws even with those of Chiang Kai-shek.
Chiang's loss starts to settle in. Mao changes the title of his army from the Red Army to the People's Liberation Army.
> I have become the manager of Mao's makeshift office. And have sent Nah and her siblings away to live with villagers. I will miss them terribly but the war has reached its crucial moment. My husband sets up his headquarters once again in our bedroom. I have been sleeping in mule barns. I am bitten by mosquitoes, fleas and lice. One bite under my chin swells so much that it sticks out like a second chin.
To avoid Chiang Kai-shek's air raids, my husband orders the troops to travel after sundown. Long hours of working and lack of nutrition have taken their toll on me. I become sick and can hardly walk. When we advance Mao picks me up to ride with him on the only mule the army has left. Our relationship grows in a strange direction. It has been a long time since we showed affection to one another. The more territories he wins the more I am tormented. Despite all that I have done, all that I have suffered, I have been denied recognition. My nature refuses to live an invisible life. I demand acknowledgment and respect—but I get it from no one.
One day the dog-faced journalist Old Fish comes into my office with an urgent matter. Mao is in the inner room on the phone with Vice Chairman Liu.
I am in charge of the office, I say to Old Fish. But the man pretends that he doesn't hear me. So I try again. I ask if I may help him. He gives a smile but doesn't say anything else. He doesn't let me take care of Mao's business.
It is only my most recent insult. At a Politburo meeting a few days ago Mao encouraged opinions. When I spoke up, Mao was upset. Not only did he tell me to mind my own secretarial work, he ordered me to stay out of the Politburo meetings forever.
***
The table of history has turned, Fairlynn writes in her "Red Base" column. This time it is Chiang Kai-shek who plays an eager negotiator. From his capital city, Nan-jing, he sent Mao Tse-tung telegrams begging for a peace talk. In the meantime he has been trying to get the westerners to interfere. Britain sent a frigate, Amethyst, to the coast near the Yangzi River where Mao's force is in full engagement. Twenty-three Englishmen were killed and the frigate has been a dead fish for one hundred and one days. From Russia Stalin demands that Mao enter into peace talks with Chiang Kai-shek. Stalin's advisors follow Mao around attempting to stop him from sweeping through the entire South. In his war tent Mao is preparing for his final strike to take over China.
November 18, 1948. Hundreds and thousands of boats, captained by fishermen and soldiers, sail across the Yangzi River. The People's Liberation Army lunges toward Chiang Kai-shek's capital, Nan-jing. The Chiangs flee to Taiwan.
My lover listens to the radio while he finishes a yam.
Jiang Ching looks at Mao as she washes pots and bowls. She sees the expression of an emperor who is about to mount his throne. The couple haven't discussed their future. Not long ago, Jiang Ching found a piece of Fairlynn's writing on Mao's desk. It was an essay. Jiang Ching suspected that it was a love letter in secret code.
Chairman Mao was enlightened by the narration of the classic novel The Dream of the Red Chamber. The protagonist, Baoyu, couldn't be separated from a piece of jade he was born with. The jade was the root of his life. To Mao bis jade was the heart of the Chinese people. Why Baoyu the lover? Jiang Ching wonders. Is Fairlynn trying to be Taiyu, the only other soul in the mansion who understands Baoyu?
***
I had a terrible dream last night in which my lover's dark, stained fingers play at his throat as he reads Fairlynn's article. The fingers move tenderly up and down as if struck by a sweet mood.
The People's Liberation Army takes Yenan back. While the soldiers unite with the surviving family members the headquarters packs. Mao will leave this place for good. After a celebration rally Mao is finally left alone with Jiang Ching.
The cave is dark although it is daytime. The couple haven't been intimate since the evacuation. They sit by themselves quietly. It feels strange to Jiang Ching that her body has stopped missing his.
A ray of sunlight peeks in. It slants across the corner of the desk. Mao's old chair with its back leg wrapped with bandages stands like a wounded soldier. The wall is dirty.
After an awkward silence, Mao reaches out his arms and pulls Jiang Ching toward him. Without speaking he moves his hands from her shoulders to her waist. And then down he continues. She grows rigid. Heat drains from her limbs. Silently she lies in his arms.
He undresses and positions himself. And then he pushes in. She is motionless. He tries to concentrate on the pleasure, but his mind stirs.
I liked it better when we were illegitimate, she suddenly says.
He doesn't respond, but his body withdraws. He collects himself and lies down next to her.
Her tears begin to gush and her voice trembles. I don't want to be Zi-zhen. And I am not ready to retire. To build a new China is my business too.
He is silent, shows that he is disappointed.
I have talked to Premier Zhou, she continues. I told him that I deserve a title. He gave me no straight answer. I am not sure this is not your intention.
He lies with his eyes closed.
She goes on. Describes her feelings, how she has been submerged in water, the beating of her heart making circles on the surface. Doesn't know what happened to the love she lives for. She keeps going as though to pause would mean collapse. I am a dying seed inside a fruit. Everybody is polite to me because I'm your concubine. A concubine—not a revolutionary, not a soldier, not any part of this business. Your men disrespect me. While I'm everything I'm nothing. I've been following you like a dog. What more can I offer? My body and soul have been your resting place.
Why don't we finish this business before I get too tired? the lover demands.
She protests. My mind has its own pleasure and I can force nothing.
He grips her arms with tense fingers. Against her struggles he pulls her over and forces his way inside her. She shivers, feeling that she is pushed out of her body. He moves on top of her. She watches the event with a third eye. He feels her constraint and struggles against it. After a while he gives up.
Perhaps I'm not as sympathetic to your needs as I'd like myself to be. He sits down on the edge of the bed. Or perhaps it is just one of those things that time wears out. He sticks up a finger to stop her from responding. I'd rather not go into it. No matter what's said or going to be said, it's pointless. It will be an unreasonable demand. Maybe you and I have become the past. My feet are on the breast of victory. I live more intensely in the present than I could ever in the past. I have no time for misery.
She shakes her head vigorously.
He nods to silence her.
She tries to hold back her tears.
He gets up and collects his clothes.
No! Please don't go!
Buttoning up his uniform he takes out a cigarette. The smoke eddies about his face.
She feels the way horror corners its victim.
What time is it? he asks.
She doesn't answer but gets up. Her clothes are wrinkled. Matted hair falls to her shoulders.
Reality doesn't discuss, it simply is, he says in a harsh tone and extinguishes the cigarette.
The bitter lines on her face suddenly deepen.
We will settle in Beijing. He goes to open the door. It'll be by Zhong-nan-hai in the Forbidden City. I'll occupy a compound called the Garden of Harvest. I've saved the Garden of Stillness for you.
13
WE HAVE WON CHINA and have moved into the Forbidden City. It is a city within a city, a vast park enclosed by high walls and containing the government offices and a number of splendid palaces. Our palace was designed in the Ming dynasty, built in 1368 and completed in 1644. It has golden roof tiles, thick wooden columns and high deep-red stone walls. The massive ornaments are on the themes of harmony and longevity. The craft is exquisite and the detail meticulous.
As his cabinet prepares for the establishment of the republic, my husband tries to relax in his new home on an island in the Zhong-nan-hai Lake. It takes him weeks to adjust to the spacious living quarters. The high ceiling in
the Garden of Harvest distracts him. The space makes him fearful although there are guards behind every gate. Finally, after sleeping in different rooms, he moves to a quiet, less solemn and more modest corner called the Chrysanthemum-Fragrance Study.
Mao likes his door. It faces exactly south. The door panels are wide with ceiling-high windows. Natural light pours into his new room, which he enjoys. The sofas with extrasoft cushions, gifts from the Russians, were sent over by Premier Zhou En-lai. Mao has never sat on a sofa before. He doesn't feel comfortable. Can't get used to its softness. It gives him a sinking feeling. Same thing with the toilet. He prefers to squat on his heels like a dog. He keeps the sofas for visitors and orders himself an old-fashioned rattan chair. The outer space is the drawing room, which has been converted into a library with books piled from floor to ceiling along three walls. He doesn't pay attention to the furniture but is aware that all the furniture in the imperial city is made of camphor trees. Camphor wood has the reputation of continuing to live and breathe, producing a sweet scent even after it's made into furniture.
Original hand-bound manuscripts lie on top of the long narrow stands. In the middle of the room sits an eight-by-four-foot desk. On top of the desk is a set of brush pens, an ink jar, a tea mug, an ashtray and a magnifier. The inner room serves as Mao's bedroom. It has gray-white walls and dusty wine-colored curtains. A boatlike wooden bed has many adjustable bookcases. Outside, three-hundred-year-old pine trees spread their branches to the horizon. Beyond the limestone terrace is a branch of the Zhong-nan-hai Lake, its water grass green. Dog-faced fish gather under lotus leaves. On the left side, a new vegetable garden has just been completed. At the end of the garden is an arched stone door covered with ivy. Under the ivy is a path leading to the Garden of Stillness, where Jiang Ching resides.