I give Chun-qiao ten days to present me with Yu. Finally, when I am in the middle of reviewing Taking the Tiger Mountain by Wit at the Hall of Mercy, Chun-qiao comes to me with the news that Yu has been escorted to Beijing.
Where is he? I ask, so excited I raise my voice. The actor on the stage thinks that I am yelling at him and swallows his lines.
Yu is in the Guest House of Beijing at the moment, Chun-qiao whispers in my ear. He is in terrible shape. He hasn't had a chance to take off the prison uniform and he smells like a chamber pot.
Send him!
A half-hour later Yu Hui-yong arrives. The moment Madame Mao Jiang Ching lays eyes on the half ghost and half man, she stands up and quickly walks up to him. She reaches out and offers both her hands. I regret not having met you earlier, Yu.
The composer/playwright begins to tremble. He is unable to utter a word. He looks like a sick old man with gray hair and messy beard. He wears a borrowed suit. How can I ever pay back your kindness, Madame? He weeps.
Let's work together, replies Madame Mao.
By now the opera has come to its end. The curtain descends and then rises. The actors line up. The audience claps. The sound becomes louder. The security people run back and forth between the stage and the audience. It is a signal for Madame Mao to get on the stage. The weeping Yu gets up and tries to make a way for his savior.
Come with me, Yu, Madame Mao says. Come with me onto the stage.
The man is shocked.
Madame Mao takes Yu's arm and pushes him, smiling.
The man follows.
On stage Madame Mao Jiang Ching centers herself with Yu standing right next to her. The two clap and pose for photos.
The romanticism in Yu's composition moves me. Being with him is like being in a dream. He is not so attractive in appearance; neither tall nor strong, he has a broad forehead and a jaw that is too square. But below the thick eyebrows is a pair of bright eyes. He inspires me as a great artist. Since he and I are from the same province, Shan-dong, we are able to reflect on our favorite childhood tunes. I invite him for tea every day. He is humble to a fault. He won't sit down without a long string of thank-yous. He won't open his mouth unless I order him to comment. He always carries a notebook and opens it when I speak. He waits on me. It makes me laugh, because he is so serious. Very silly. I tell him that I don't want to be treated like a portrait on the wall. I want him to have fun and I want myself to have fun. My life has felt too much strain already. Think of a way to relax me. Tonight we don't talk about work. Tonight we talk nonsense.
It takes him weeks to feel comfortable with me. Finally he is himself again. He starts to bring instruments to play for me at tea. Two-string violin, flute and three-string guitar. He is a gift. We chat and he hums me rice songs, drum tunes and ancient operas that imitate the sound of desert winds. Sometimes I join him. I sing arias from The Romance of the West Chamber. We tease each other and break into laughter. His voice is poor but his singing is charming. It has a style of its own. His soul is steeped in music. Like a student I ask him questions. He is the most confident in those moments. He brings me books he has written—A Collection of Drum Songs of Shan-dong, A Collection of Folk Songs of Jiao-dong, Songs of the Forest of Shan-bei and Classics of One-String Banjo.
The pleasure is enormous. Yet I can't express myself fully. My status intimidates him. There is always a distance between us. To everyone in China I am Mao's woman. No man is allowed to have personal thoughts about me. Although I would like to get closer to Yu, I withhold myself. The worst part in our friendship is that he answers me like a servant. It only makes me feel lonelier as I listen to his passionate music.
The visits continue. As much as I can I try not to mention Mao. In fact, he never asks about my life after work. I can tell that he gets curious sometimes, but he won't venture himself. We would run out of words to say. He finds excuses to depart. He is sensitive and is weak in confrontation. I beg him to stay and he insists on leaving. We do what I call "saw-movement" several times a day. Sometimes in public. People get confused when hearing me raise my voice at Yu.
You never listen to me, Yu Hui-yong! she yells, almost hysterically. There will be a day you and I split. And I won't be afraid!
He hurries to the door and leaves. He never says a word when she is angry. Later, people tell her that he weeps his way back to the Opera House of Beijing. He doesn't have a home and he lives in a storage space near backstage. He has made a public oath that he lives only to serve Madame Mao Jiang Ching. He doesn't care that it costs him his relationship with his wife. He wants nothing but to impress Jiang Ching. This is how he repays her kindness, with music and his life. His health is declining. He has serious stomach problems and pain in his liver. But he never complains. He conducts rehearsals day and night. He eats irregularly and has no sense of time. Often he delays the meal time and innocently starves the actors. He makes the cafeteria people wait. It has become a habit that Yu calls lunch break at four o'clock in the afternoon.
She can't explain herself. She feels hurt and yet she waits for Yu's return. When she can't take it anymore she sends her secretary to demand from Yu a "self-criticism." He hands in no paper. But he understands that Madame Mao is calling him back. He sends her a tape of a work in progress. Usually it is a newly composed song. One of the songs is called "I Won't Be Happy If I Don't Sing."
It is a strange relationship. It carries the intensity of one between lovers. In order to have him by her side she promotes him to be the new chief of the Cultural Bureau. But he declines her offer and expresses his indifference to politics. She takes it personally, believes that he looks down on her. He argues, trying to prove his loyalty. To impress her he produces more work. He is putting his fingerprints all over her operas and ballets. He highlights the female character—his dedication to a goddess. He fights for her. To convince the troupes to try his new music construction and to replace shao-sheng (male lead in falsetto) by lao-sheng (male of natural voice), he conducts weeks of seminars to educate the actors and troupe heads. For the orchestra to play his mixture of Western and Eastern instruments, he demonstrates the harmony by taking apart and putting together the arrangements. He takes away the male character's stage time and devotes it to the females. And finally there are only heroines.
When she is presented with the new productions, she is greatly impressed and deeply touched. In many ways she feels that he is a soulmate. She feels great love for him.
The effect of the operas begins to show. The arias are broadcast throughout the nation. The masses know the words and hum the tunes. The Cultural Revolution is at its height. The operas help Madame Mao Jiang Ching's popularity. She becomes a superstar to every household. She grows more ambitious. I want all my operas and ballets to be made into films! She doesn't wait for the proposal to go through the bureaucracy. She goes to the National Treasury and demands the funding. She takes a political approach. It will test your loyalty toward Mao.
Her wish is granted.
You have to have the guts to touch a tiger's rear or you'll never get a chance to ride it.
***
Let's all promote the revolutionary operas! I thought with Mao's pronouncement I could get my films done smoothly. But that is not the case. The problem is that the film studio has been divided into eight factions. No one wants to work with any other. The head of the lighting department tells the cinematographer at what angle to set the camera. The designer refuses the director's order on costumes. The makeup artist puts pink cream on the actress's face, the color he personally favors. And the producer issues a report on the screenwriters' "anti-Mao lines." Every day there is a fight on the set. Months have passed and not a single scene has been shot.
I can't be a fire-rescuer! I yell at the troupe heads. My main business is to run the Cultural Revolution! You seem to hear me but none of the problems get solved. I have promised Chairman Mao that the films will be ready to show by fall. How dare you disappoint Mao?
I pack the ca
feteria of the Beijing Film Studio with the faction groups and I speak in my toughest tones. The chefs inside the kitchen have quieted down. It is half past two and I allow no one to eat. The dishes are getting cold.
You have to make it work, I say.
***
I need help, Mao says to me. He flies me from Beijing to Fujian in the south of the country, where his train is on the run, just to say this. I ask if he is all right. He smiles. Lately I have been reading the Tang poem "The Long Separation," and would like to share my thoughts with you.
I hold my sour words between my lips.
Remember that poem? he asks. About Tang Emperor Li, who was forced to hang his lover, Lady Yang. He was forced to satisfy his generals, who were in the middle of calling up a coup d'état. What a heartbreaking poem! Poor emperor, they might as well have hanged him.
The train keeps moving. The scene slides by. Mao stops talking and looks at me. There is vulnerability in his eyes.
"The Long Separation" is my favorite too, I say.
He begins his monologue again. It takes me a while to figure out what he is saying. He is explaining the pressure he feels. He is concerned about the obstacles facing the Cultural Revolution. Half of the nation is in doubt about his decision over Liu. Sympathy is developing. Although the population hasn't had a chance to experience Liu's idea, they are now certain that Mao's idea doesn't work. It makes him more than angry.
The opposition is trying to block me from realizing the Communist dream. His tone becomes firm and his eyes fix on the ceiling of the carriage. The intellectuals are Liu's pets. They are not interested in serving the masses. They hide in labs in white coats and abandon their motherland in pursuit of world fame. Of course Liu has their loyalty, he has been their money dad. And I worry about the old boys too. They are turning their backs on me. They have called up a military exercise. But to me they are exercising a coup d'état.
Mao doesn't tell Jiang Ching his full story. He doesn't tell her that he is negotiating with the old boys and that there are deals. He doesn't tell her that one day he will be willing to play Emperor Li and will try out the lines of "The Long Separation." She refuses to realize that this is his game. In front of him her mind quits processing facts. She can't see that in his life he has never protected anyone but himself.
To history, this is her role. The leading lady of a great tragedy.
To keep his affection she does things that hurt her on a deep level. For example, a few weeks ago Mao had a fight with one of his favorite mistresses. The woman walked out. Mao called Jiang Ching for help—she was asked to invite the woman back in the name of the first lady. Thinking back she doesn't know how she did it. She is amazed by how she abuses herself.
You are the person I trust the most, and you are the one I truly depend on. In this warm light she gives in, gives herself. She swallows the pain and puts on her costume to play Lady Yang of "The Long Separation."
In return for her favor Mao promotes her productions. To pave her way he orders a campaign called Making the Revolutionary-Model Operas Known to Every Household.
She feels that she deserves the compensation. In an odd way her marriage with Mao has been transformed and has entered into a new season. Both of them have overcome their personal obstacles to focus on a bigger picture. For him it is the security of his empire and for her, the role of a heroine. In retrospect she not only has broken the Party's restriction, she runs the nation's psyche. She is gripped by the vision that she might eventually carry on Mao's business and rule China after his death.
She doesn't take her power for granted. She doesn't think that she now has complete control over her life. Deep down she doesn't trust Mao. She knows that Mao is capable of changing his mind. And his mind is deteriorating. When he called her to help with his mistress problem did he forget that she is his wife? She hears innocence in his voice. His pain is like that of a child being robbed of his favorite toy. Is it logical to assume that tomorrow he might turn around and not know her? His aging has enhanced his paranoia and she is balancing herself on his mind's beam. Being Madame Mao she never lacks enemies. The price for her success is that she no longer hesitates when it comes to eliminating enemies. Without a thought she now calls Kang Sheng at midnight to place a name on his execution list. She is trying hard to clip the mouths that won't shut, such as Fairlynn and Dan. She fears that when Mao passes away, her battle will be like sweeping back the ocean with a broom—she will be swallowed alive by her enemy.
She needs Chun-qiao and Yu. She needs loyalists in the military too. She remembers how Mao eliminated his enemies in Yenan. Some wrongful executions he made and later regretted. But he never lets the feeling poison him. He says, Victory doesn't come cheap. Now it is her turn. She repeats his phrase.
***
I am trying to make films. The operas and ballets. I have eight of them lined up and have set up the production in Beijing so I can supervise the details while conducting the Cultural Revolution at the same time. Yet things are not going as I had wished. The infighting between factions has worsened at Beijing Film Studio. Actors are made up and fully costumed. But they sit through the day without getting one shot on film. As the days drag on a rumor begins to spread: Unless Mao sends his garrison, there won't be a film.
I take the rumor to Mao. It is a warm day in May. He is in private meetings at the Grand Hall of the People. I can't eat, he greets me. My teeth are killing me. I am talking wills with my friends.
I look at him. His face and hands are visibly swollen.
What's up? he asks.
I worry about your health. Why don't you take a break?
How can I when my enemies are walking around my bed?
Same here. I am frustrated.
What's wrong?
I'm having a hard time getting the films off the ground. The opposition is strong.
Well, it's not our style to accept defeat.
But I don't want to add more strain to you.
Well, well, well, he laughs jokingly. Your enemies will murder you the moment I exhale my last breath.
My tears begin to well up. Truthfully, it might not be a bad solution.
He comes and sits me down gently. Looking at me he says, Calm down, Comrade Jiang Ching. You'll do fine. Just tell me how shall I help you?
Overnight, Mao's 8341 Garrison led by Commander Dee arrives at the Beijing Film Studio. The soldiers are armed and move swiftly and silently. They don't respond to greetings. The workers are sought out from their living quarters and are escorted to the cafeteria.
I am here to carry out Madame Mao Jiang Ching's order, Commander Dee, a short but strongly built man with an enormous nose, says. And I shall put up with no nonsense. Whoever disobeys my order will get a military treatment. By the way, I shall recognize no favors. Listen carefully. Platoon numbers one, three and four will find their duty spot behind all the cameras. My leaders will listen to no one else's instruction but the cinematographers. Platoon number two goes to the lighting department and platoon five will be in charge of the makeup and props. I myself will be at the command of the film's director and I'll be reporting to Madame Mao Jiang Ching daily.
In less than two days the cameras begin to roll. Within a month, half of the film is completed. Never again is there mention of faction conflicts. People work together as if operating a big family business. At the end of the day the exposed cans are sent to the lab to be processed and the next day the cuts are roughly edited and available to view.
Thrilled, Madame Mao inspects the set. She pats the shoulder of Commander Dee and praises his efficiency. If only I could get this kind of efficiency for all my projects! She begins to think about hiring Commander Dee for more jobs.
Don't confuse yourself. Mao holds his swollen cheek and speaks with irritation. You are not who you believe you are. The truth is that no one will take your orders if they don't see my shadow! When the air force commander in chief Wu Fa-xian answers your call his eyes are on the chair where I am sitting. Wh
en the Red Guards shout at the top of their voice A salute to Comrade Jiang Ching! it is I they want to please.
I understand, Chairman. I try hard to sound humble and non-argumentative. Please don't doubt that I have committed my life to helping you. And only you. I put my faith in my ability to get things done. Let me tell you about my recent creations. Let me show you the film cuts of the operas and ballets.
The operas are all right, Mao says. He picks up a hot towel from a steaming jar and places it against the swollen cheek. I am pleased with your work. The shows sound good. But don't ride them like a magic carpet. And this is my warning.
At this point he loses me. But I dare not mention my confusion. There are a lot of things we confuse each other with lately. We don't clarify. It is to keep peace. Probably confusion is better. I tell the public that I represent Mao but I am not in his life. I have no idea what his days are like. I don't enjoy chasing his mistress and I don't like the fact that he takes pleasure in intimidating me. He has been telling me how his commanders (and he won't spell out the names) would love to suffocate me in my own bed. It's tiring just to keep up with his imagination. Especially when he plays god and devil at the same time. Besides, he hates to be figured out.
The early spring is still chilly. In the morning the frost coats the Forbidden City white. This evening outside the window the vine frames shake violently. A storm has come—the winter's unwillingness to depart. Yet who can stop the spring from coming? After midnight, heavy clouds are swept from the sky. The moon is once again bare. The branches beat my windows like the knocks of spirits.