The Garden of Stillness is protected by the Garden of Harvest but separate from it. To the public we live together. But the path from his place to mine has been unused for so long that moss has come to cover it. After the spring the entrance is blocked by leaves. The Garden of Stillness was once the residence of Lady Xiangfei, the favorite concubine of the Ming emperor. Lady Xiangfei was known for her naturally scented skin. She was said to be poisoned by the empress. To preserve her memory the emperor ordered the residence to be permanently vacant.
I love this place, its elegant furniture and ornaments. I adore the wildness of my garden, especially the two natural waterfalls. The architect designed the place around the water course. The bamboo bushes are thick outside my window. On full-moon nights, the place looks like a magnificent frosted ground.
Yet I have never felt this bad in my life.
I am left alone with all these treasures.
I am left with my nightmares.
I have helped hatch the eggs of your revolution! she hears herself scream. She gets up at night and sits in the dark. Cold sweat drips along her neckline. Her back is wet. Her cries crawl over the floor and stick in the wall. Mao no longer informs her of his whereabouts. His staff members avoid her. When she tries to talk to them, they show impatience as if she holds them hostage.
One night she breaks through the path and enters Mao's bedroom by surprise. She reaches him and sobs on her knees. My head is filled with a storm. The mirror in my room drives me crazy with a mad skeleton! She pleads, Make the place a home for the sake of our children.
Mao puts down his book. What's wrong with where we are now? Anyin is happy at the Army School of Technology; Anqin is doing well in Moscow University. Ming and Nah are both having a good time at the Party's boarding school. What more do you want?
She keeps sobbing.
He comes and covers her with his blankets. How about I order our chefs to share the cooking space?
That night she is tranquil. She dreams that she is sleeping the last sleep, during which her heartbeat stops and her cheeks freeze against his empty chest.
I excuse myself from the dinner table. Mao pays no attention. I walk into his bedroom, turn off the light and kick off my shoes. I lie down on his bed. Then comes the sound of his putting down his chopsticks. The sound of his striking up a match to light a cigarette. He doesn't like the modern lighters. He likes the big wooden matches. He likes to watch the match burn down to his fingers. He likes to watch the burnt end grow. It makes me sad that I have come to know his small habits.
The smoke drifts over. The garlic stinks badly tonight. I hear him walking toward his desk and pulling out his chair. I hear him turn a page of a document. In my mind's eye I see him making remarks on a document. Circles and crosses. The things we used to do together. He used to hand the pen to me and have me do the job while he enjoyed his cigarette. There has never been a discussion between us on what went wrong in our relationship. The dilemma has fed on trivial details.
He signs his name with a red brush. The new emperor. The past is still too clear. I can't forget the moment when I fell in love with the bandit! The images caress my memory's shore. I feel their tenderness.
For weeks and months I sit in my room daydreaming of the girl who carried her own sunshine. I have lost her spirit. Look at the landscape outside my window! The fabulous sunset! I remember the feeling of sitting on his lap while he conducted monumental battles. His hands were inside my shirt while the soldiers charged forward to honor his name.
A voice mimicking a fortuneteller tells me, Madame, you've got a gilded hook in your mouth.
***
The train plows through the thick snow. The beauty of northern ice trees and the whiteness strangely move her. She is on her way to a doctor. A Russian doctor. She had checked out her growing pain. A cyst was found in her cervix. She doesn't know why she wants to come to Russia. To escape what? Her cyst or her reality?
She is greeted by men from Moscow's Foreign Relations Bureau. Red-potato-nosed agents treat her as if she is Mao's deserted concubine. A short, rosy-cheeked translator, a Chinese woman, is with the men. She is bundled in a navy blue Lenin coat and carries herself like a big triangle. Stepping out of the station, Madame Mao is beaten by the harsh wind. The air from Siberia greets you! one red-nose says. Comrade Stalin is sorry that Comrade Mao Tse-tung's not here.
In her hotel room, holding her tea cup, she picks up a copy of People's Daily. The paper is sent by the embassy. The date is October 2, 1949. On the front page is a large photo of her husband. It is a wide-angle shot. He is on top of Tiananmen—the Gate of Heavenly Peace—inspecting a sea of parades. It is a good photo, she thinks. The photographer caught the elation leaping on Mao's face. He looks younger than fifty-four.
She turns the pages and suddenly sees Fairlynn's name. Fairlynn has not only survived the war, she has been active in the republic's establishment. Have they secretly kept in touch? Has she been invited to his study?
The guard at the Chrysanthemum-Fragrance Study blocks her and tells her that Mao is with a visitor and doesn't wish to be disturbed.
Hello, Chairman! I'm back! Madame Mao Jiang Ching pushes the guard to the side and invites herself in.
The room is dark. The blinds are down and the curtains are drawn. Mao is in his pajamas. He sits facing the door in his rattan chair. The visitor is a woman. She sits with her back toward Jiang Ching. She is in a navy blue Mao jacket. Seeing his wife Mao crosses his bare feet on a stool and says, The Siberian fox has come to share the spring with us.
The visitor turns around and stands up. Comrade Jiang Ching!
Comrade Fairlynn!
How have you been?
Better than ever! Madame Mao fetches herself a chair. Don't tell me that you are still single and still enjoying it.
Fairlynn supports her head with one hand and knits a crease in her trousers with the other. Her fingers nervously run back and forth along the crease. What's wrong, Comrade Jiang Ching? You are not well, are you?
Anna Karenina was stupid to kill herself for an unworthy man, Madame Mao responds. More tea!
But I was merely concerned about your health. After all you are the first lady and you have undergone surgery—it's news.
I want to tell Fairlynn that my wound has healed and the tissues have regenerated. My condition is more than perfect. I've conquered the pain. I'm nursing my heart. But there is something else I can't bear. Something, a bug, I must kill before I can go on. Fairlynn must be given this warning. She has gone too far.
My husband gets up and spits a mouthful of tea leaves into a spittoon. It's his way of shutting me up. I am humiliated. Deep within me violence begins to stir. The summons is too terrifying to measure.
Excuse me, Jiang Ching, I've promised Comrade Fairlynn a tour of the Forbidden City. It would be a shame for a writer like her not to know what's behind the great walls. Don't you agree?
I know that I am not expected to reply. But I wait. For a courtesy. I wait for my husband to invite me along, or give me a chance to refuse.
The request doesn't come.
The point of her fingernail jams into her palm, and her body holds still with extreme rigidity. When Mao and Fairlynn stride shoulder to shoulder out of the room into the sun and disappear behind the great imperial garden, she is kissed by the tongue of the beast inside her.
The draperies are down. The fragrance of gardenia in her room is strong, the ancient rug soft under her feet. A month ago, she ordered a French table with a set of matching chairs from Shanghai, but she discarded them when they arrived—her mood had changed. It is the beginning of her madness. She is not aware that it is running its course.
In the mirror she sees a backyard concubine on her way to being forgotten. Is she turning into Zi-zhen? She has never seen Zi-zhen. She has heard vivid descriptions of her: an old hag with a birdlike face, wrapped in hay hair. Once in the past she tested her husband to see if there were remains of his romance with Zi-zhen.
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A soft wind breathing through the grass, was Mao's comment.
***
There is no one else she can talk to. In frustration she turns to Kang Sheng. She lets him know that it is an exchange. She promises to do the same for him when he needs her. He is delighted for the business. He has been promoted as the secretary of China's National Security Bureau. The apprentice of Stalin. Mao calls him "the steel teeth sunk in the republic's flesh." He comes to her rescue. Tips her off with most valuable information and guides her with advice. Ten years later he will produce a list of names, names of her enemies who he convinces her will destroy her if she doesn't destroy them first. The names will shock her. It will be two thirds of the congress. And he will encourage and hurry her to act. And she will be a soldier and will engage herself in battles out of utter fear. She will hold on to his handwritten list. The names he circled, TOP SECRET, FOR COMRADE JIANG CHING'S EYES ONLY. One hundred and five congressmen plus ninety regional representatives.
In the fifties Kang Sheng is my mentor. We are walking sticks for each other to get up, get around and get to the top. We can't do without each other. We make deals.
I am not Zi-zhen and I am not a masochist. I have tasted life and want more. Mao continues to disappoint me. He wants me to run the imperial backyard and expects me to be happy. But it was he who offered me the leading-lady role in the first place. It was our deal. It is he who breaks the promise, although he never says I don't love you or Let's get a divorce. This is worse. Because he just does it. He has taken away my identity. Ask people on the streets who the first lady is. Nine out of ten don't know. Jiang Ching doesn't sound familiar. Nobody has seen the first lady's picture in the papers. I would be fooling myself to say that it isn't Mao's wish.
A woman's biggest wish is to be loved —there is no deeper truth. I feel ripped from the essence of life. I come to feel for Zi-zhen. I identify with her sadness and cling to my own sanity. The Forbidden City has been the home of many who have gone mad. I wander in Mao's grounds and watch men and women act like old-time eunuchs. Like dogs, they sniff. They spend every second of their waking time trying to please the emperor. They can tell when the emperor is ready to "let go" of his concubine.
I am aware of my position. My role has no flesh. Nevertheless, illusion is available if I work to create it. I am still Mao's official wife. I have to get on the stage. Although dim, there are still lights over my head. Mao's men have tried to take away my costume. I can feel the pulling of my sleeves. But I won't let go. I am holding on to my title. I won't let the magic of my character fade away. Hope guides me and revenge motivates me.
Kang Sheng is a man of obsession. He is known for double-hand calligraphy. He also collects jade, bronze and stone carvings. He once commented that the great poet and calligrapher Guo Mourou's strokes were "worse than what I can write with my foot." It is not an exaggeration. When Kang Sheng speaks about art, he is a scholar of meticulous dedication. His mouth is a river from which magnificent phrases flow. At those moments, all his wrinkles spread like spring curl-grass under sunshine—it would be hard for anyone to imagine what he does for a living.
I am still learning my trade. I come regularly to Kang Sheng's house for lessons. Some lessons are tough. It is like the poison the fairy tale mermaid has to drink in order to have legs. I drink what Kang Sheng offers in order to have powerful wings that cut like saws.
His house is a museum and his tiger-faced wife, Chao Yi-ou, is his business partner. The couple live in a private palace at Dianmen, 24 Stone Bridge Lane, at the end of West Boulevard. It has an ordinary appearance, but inside it is a heaven of its own. One of the features is a manmade hill standing behind the house. It is about three stories high and is surrounded by a bamboo forest. It used to be the house of Andehai, the eunuch in chief and Empress Ci-xi's right-hand man, during the Ching dynasty. The house is guarded by a company of soldiers.
It is in Kang Sheng's house, in the basement, in the middle of his stone-carving collection that he reveals the secret. His views and his traps. He demonstrates the fire and metal in his character and shows me what I must learn and unlearn. And finally what I must endure in exchange for immortality.
I say my ears have been carefully washed—I am listening. Then Kang Sheng begins to pour. The black poison, water of terrible words, details, facts. In his unshaken voice, steady rhythms, the liquid travels, through my ear, throat, chest and down.
It is about Mao. His practice of longevity. Here is the number of virgins he penetrates. I am sorry to play the role of supplier. It's my job. You must understand this. Make no noise about the information I provide you. It is your life I am trying to protect. You must understand Mao's need for penetration. You must not compare yourself with Fairlynn and her like. You are an empress, not another vagina. Your true lover is not Mao but the emperor whose clothes he is in. Your true lover is power itself.
I wouldn't tell you this if I were not your friend, wouldn't tell you if I didn't think it best for you. I tell you this so you won't be a foolish woman; I tell you this so you will know how to gamble with very little capital. I'm trying to make sure that your status is not threatened. I am keeping an eye on whoever passes through Mao's bed. Mao sleeps with different women every day. The number is countless. Swallow that, my little Crane in the Clouds. Swallow.
Try to surface in the water that drowned Zi-zhen. It is only a prescription he takes. It is to absorb the element yin. He penetrates girls I bring from villages. I take care of those no-longer-virgins afterwards. Again it's my job.
You are fine, Jiang Ching. You are sailing smooth. You have crossed the ocean and are not too far from the shore.
Outside the dry leaves scratch the ground. Jiang Ching has gone back to the Garden of Stillness. She has been burying herself under the sheets and pillows. She has lost her last peace in Kang Sheng's basement. Now she can no longer sleep. She keeps hearing cracking sounds as if her skull were breaking apart. In her mind's eye, a gigantic swarm of beasts have come and filled her.
At dawn she feels her nerves burning at the tips. She wakes up and finds that she has given up understanding. She feels light and bewildered. She thinks about sending Mao concubines herself along with pots of poison mixed with ginseng soups and steamed turtles.
14
SHE READS FAIRLYNN'S ESSAY in The People's Literature on her Forbidden City tour, guided by Mao.
Our great Savior stood next to me. The disconsolate moan of the wind over the Zhong-nan-hai Lake grew stronger. He pointed out to me the half-drowned ancient dragon boat with its tail sticking out like a monster. We discussed the history of peasant revolts. He explained heroism. I am sure my face beamed like a young school pupil. I was completely taken.
I opened my thoughts and told him that I had been a pessimist. In his teaching, years of ice shaped by darkness inside me melted down and drifted away. I felt light and warmth. Like a long-lost boat my heart made it to a safe harbor ... The Chairman drew his eyes back from the shadowed walls. Our glances met. He replied when I asked his thoughts on love, We've lived in a time of chaos when it is impossible to love. War and hatred dried our soul's blood. What dissolves my despair is the memory. The memory of the sky above and the memory of the earth under—my loved ones who died for the revolution. Every day my world starts with the light they shine on me. Light, Fairlynn! The light which keeps a promising summer in my soul during the coldest winter.
No, I am not coming to join the concubines of the Forbidden City. Jiang Ching's teeth clench as she closes the magazine. I don't belong. The abandoned souls. The names which the glittering medals, citations and stone gates honor. I don't give a damn. I hate this breath, its dampness. I have an appetite for bright, hot lights. I won't let the coldness of a funeral house seep through my skin.
It is Kang Sheng who informs me of Mao's syphilis. Again, it is Kang Sheng.
I am numbed by rage. I stare at his goat beard and his goldfish eyes.
Endurance is the key to success, he re
minds me. Would you like me to make an arrangement with a doctor to give you a checkup? I mean to make sure...
His finger injects every vessel in my body with black ink.
Can you recall, Madame?
Yes, she does. It was after a state banquet at the People's Hall. They hadn't been intimate in years. Mao was in a good mood. Governors from all states came to report to him in Beijing, to pay him homage. The scene reminded him of emperors giving audience during the old dynasties. The revolutionary son of heaven. Business was running well. Every province orbited Beijing. The faith in him was tremendous. He has taken over the Buddha in the heart of his people. He encouraged the worship by making as few appearances as possible—the ancient trick of creating power and terror. When he did show up he kept his face hidden and his speech short and vague. He threw out a few comments during the meetings. A syllable or two. A mysterious smile and a firm handshake. It was effective. He had nothing to worry about now.
When all the guests were gone Mao took Jiang Ching and walked through the imperial kitchen. Let's go thank the cooks and the staff. On their way back to the Purple Light Pavilion, he was affectionate. She was escorted to the west wing and the two settled in the Peony Room.
She tried not to think about her feelings as she followed him.
The room seemed unnecessarily large. The light cast pink and yellow lily pads on the undulating surface of the wall. Alone with Mao she felt strange and nervous.
He sat down on the sofa and waved for her to sit down across from him. After a while, she felt awkward and asked to be excused. He acted as if surprised. He told her that he would like to chat and asked if she would sit back down. To break the silence she asked about his travels.