***
This is not a fantasy, I tell the leading actress of my opera. The heroine is real. She has come through hardship. I want you to treat the red paint on your chest as a real wound. Feel its burn. Feel its consuming power. You are being eaten alive and are crying without being heard. Project your voice to its fullest range.
I come to the studio and meet my chief, Yu. I work with him closely on the filming. I am pleased with the progress. The details especially. The color of a patch on the protagonist's pants. The shape of her eyebrows. I like the sound quality of the drums in the background and the orchestra. I have gathered the top artists of the nation. I enjoy every expression on my favorite actress Lily Fong's face and I like the way they light her. I have told the crew that I will allow no imperfection. I order retakes. Endless retakes. I don't pass them until the footage is flawless. At the moment three thousand cultural workers are laboring on my projects. The cafeteria is open twenty-four hours a day. Yu finds me catching myself from falling asleep during my own speech. I am too tired.
Can I stop? It is a bloody battle with invisible swords. The choice is life or death. The other day I visited Mao and witnessed the deterioration of his health—he can no longer get himself out of the rattan chair without assistance. This frightened me. A house won't stay if the center beam falls. But I hide my fear. I have to. The nation and my enemies are watching my performance. I face a scary audience.
I phone Yu. Let's discuss how to make the political message in the operas exciting to the working class. We are courting the youth—it is crucial to my survival that they identify with my heroine. The loving and caring goddess who selflessly sacrifices herself for the people.
Yu picks actresses who resemble my look to play the lead. He comforts me.
I come to the set after conducting the day's affairs. I feel at home in the studios. That has always been the case. The lights soothe me. Mao has gone south again on his train. I have no idea where he is. He keeps his schedule a secret. And changes his mind often. I am trying to mind my own business. I am trying to think of the good Mao has done for me and must remind myself constantly to be grateful.
Indeed, I should be content about how things have finally worked out for me. With Dee commandeering the set, my films are coming out. The silent bullets that lie in the chambers of his soldiers' guns speak louder than my voice ever could.
On October 1, 1969, Taking the Tiger Mountain by Wit is released and is a hit. Within weeks, I hear its arias being sung on the streets. To make the script available to the public, I order it published in its entirety in People's Daily and the Liberation Army Daily. It takes up the whole paper and there is no space for other news or events.
In the next few months Story of a Red Lantern is completed and released to theaters nationwide. It is followed by two three-hour ballet films, The Women of the Red Detachment and The White-Haired Girl, and the opera films The Harbor, The Sha Family Pond and Raid the White Tiger Division.
What a feeling! I can't go anywhere without being congratulated.
Story of a Red Lantern is so popular that Mao expresses his desire to view it. I take it as an honor and accompany him to his private viewing booth. He likes everything except the ending where the heroine and the hero are shot.
It's too depressing, he complains. He suggests that I make it a happy ending. I disagree but promise to consider his remarks and tell him that I shall try my best to make the change.
The fact is that I am determined to do nothing about it. I won't touch the ending. It is symbolic. It is how I feel about life. The flying bullets are in the air. It's my life. So many times I have been shot.
***
It is an open space. Man-high wooden poles stand three feet apart against the gray sky. Twenty of them. Weeds are waist high. The wind is harsh. The prisoners are kicked out of the truck and tied to the poles. Blinders are removed. Colorless faces, some with towels stuffed in their mouths. The chief executioner shouts an order. Some prisoners begin to lose consciousness. Their heads drop to their chests as if they have already been shot.
Fairlynn is shaking hard. She struggles to breathe. Suddenly her legs start to walk by themselves. She walks toward the wooden pole involuntarily. She wails, Chairman Mao!
The chief executioner comes and pulls Fairlynn up by the collar. He drags her to the side. Fairlynn's mind is paralyzed. She feels as if she were a cooked fish lying on a plate with its spine taken out.
The soldiers raise their guns. The sound of the wind can be heard. One female prisoner turns around. Her eyes seek Fairlynn. It is Fairlynn's cellmate, Lotus. Fairlynn rolls on the ground and then rises up on her knees. Suddenly she sees Lotus wave her hands, punching her fists toward the sky. Lotus's mouth opens, shouting Down with Communism! Down with Mao!
The woman stops punching her fists toward the sky—she is hit by a bullet. But her mouth keeps moving.
In terror Fairlynn lifts her head and crawls toward Lotus. Her surroundings spin. The earth is upside down. Her ears begin to buzz. Suddenly everything starts to float soundlessly in front of her eyes.
The prisoners fall, scattered in all directions. Some of them bounce off the wooden poles. Shot-broken ropes drop to the ground. Lotus runs toward Fairlynn. She wags her body with her chin toward the sky. Behind her, the clouds have fallen to the earth, rolling like giant cotton balls.
The chief executioner shouts his last order. In extreme silence, Fairlynn witnesses Lotus's face break. The splattered blood paints a blooming chrysanthemum.
Chimpanzee experiment! Fairlynn passes out.
Although Fairlynn survives the Cultural Revolution, the moment Lotus's face became a bloody chrysanthemum, an important compartment in her own conscience bursts as well, as her memoir suggests (written in 1985 and published by South Coast China Publishing in 1997).
True, Chairman Mao has his weaknesses. They seem more poignant during the last few years of his life. I think it is all right to write about it. But under the circumstances I refuse to reveal more than what's known. There are people who intend to deny Mao's great contributions and heroic deeds. They not only want to smear his name but also want to have him nailed as a demon, and I will not allow that. No matter how wrongful the treatment I was made to endure in the past, I will not use my pen to write any word attacking Mao.
In later chapters the seventy-nine-year-old legend lingers on an encounter with Mao in a tone of elation:
It was in Yenan. I visited Mao's cave quite often. Almost every time I went he would give me a poem of his own or by others as a gift. All presented in his beautiful calligraphy on rice paper. Once Mao asked me, Do you agree that Yenan is like a small imperial court, Fairlynn?
I was sure that he was joking, so I answered, No, for there isn't a board of one hundred advisors. He laughed and said, That's easy, Just make a board. Let's draw up a list. He took out a pen and pulled a sheet of paper and said, Come on, you produce the candidates and I'll grant them titles.
I pronounced the names that came to my mind as he wrote them down. We were having such fun. He wrote ancient titles next to the names. Li-bu-shang-shu—Judge of the Supreme Court, Bing-bu-shang-shu—Minister of National Defense. There were others, like prime ministers and secretaries of state. After that he asked me, What about wives and concubines? I laughed. Come on, Fairlynn, names!
On that of course I retreated because I want no more trouble with Jiang Ching.
***
It's New Year's Eve. The snow has turned the Forbidden City into a frozen beauty. Yet I am in no mood to visit my favorite plum flowers. On the surface I have achieved a dream—I have walked out from the shadow of an imperial concubine and have established myself as the ruler-to-be. And yet, to my discontent, I've once again lost my way to Mao's door—he has declined my invitation to spend New Year's Eve with me.
It has, I am sure, a lot to do with the success of my opera and ballet films—he believes that my popularity has diminished his name. He feels damaged. What will happen?
I don't have to look far—this was the reason he removed Liu.
I feel as lonely as ever, yet I can't stop doing what I have been doing. Like a moth I am destined to chase after light. To escape depression I plan my own New Year's Eve party in the Grand Hall of the People. I invite my creative team and crew members, three hundred in all. Comrade Jiang Ching would like to honor everyone by spending New Year's Eve with you.
After a cup of wine my tears begin to spill. To beat this, I ask my bodyguards to bring out firecrackers. They are surprised at first—they all know I have an aversion to loud noise and heavy smoke. It's true my nerves have been weak. But I am desperate to hide my feelings and to get rid of the public's suspicion that I am falling from Mao's grace.
My bodyguards come back emptyhanded. There is a security rule that no fireworks are allowed in front of the Grand Hall of the People.
Well, I don't care. I am Jiang Ching! Bring firecrackers to me in twenty minutes or you're fired! Steal them if you have to!
A half-hour later, the bodyguards arrive with cases of firecrackers.
The bullet sounds begin. The fireworks cover the sky. The crackers bounce up and down and side to side. I laugh to tears. I hate Mao. I hate myself for walking this path.
When the head of the hall's security comes and tries to stop me I throw an "earth dragon" at him. The firecrackers shoot out like magic ropes encircling him and leaving black burning dots on his clothes.
My bodyguards follow me. They "shoot" him in the chest and feet and finally he backs off.
***
She changes. The rhythm of her temper reflects Mao's mood and his treatment of her. In public she is more than ever a Mao zealot. She resides in Shanghai and makes all members of her opera troupes wear army uniforms. She tells them that every performance should be taken as seriously as a battle. To her it is more than true. She feels that she has to fight for the right to breathe. She becomes hysterical and nervous. Nothing lasts forever, she comments out of nowhere. When she has a good night's sleep she wakes up thinking about her past. One day she reveals a secret to her favorite opera singer. You know, this is the exact same stage where I played Nora.
She wonders where actor Dan has been. The last time she saw him was on the screen. He had been playing emperors and heroes of all sorts. The image is still magnificent and irresistible. Since the Cultural Revolution his name has disappeared from the papers and magazines. She suddenly desires him. She now understands why the empress dowager was obsessed with actors. Fed yet feeling hungry. Breathing yet feeling buried alive. There is this need to hold on to fantasies.
She can't touch them but keeps them as possessions. She is surrounded by handsome and intelligent men. Men in whose eyes she sees herself once again as a goddess. Her favorite men are Yu Hui-yong the composer, Haoliang the opera actor, Liu Qing-tang the dancer and Zhuang Zedong the world table-tennis champion. There is only one man who won't get down on his knees before her. It is Dan. She burns for him, for she appreciates his genius—compared to the emperors he portrays, Mao is like a fake. And yet she can't stand him. In front of him she feels defeated.
They meet again when she is taking a short break at West Lake. They happen to stay in the same hotel. Dan has been doing research for Biography of Lu Xun—a movie he dreams of making. They run into each other in the lobby. She recognizes him but he doesn't acknowledge her. She follows him to his room and he is surprised. They shake hands. She is restless that night. A handshake is no longer enough for her. The next time they meet she hugs him. Her arms circle his neck and then her lips seek his mouth.
He freezes but doesn't remove himself. The kiss lasts long seconds. He is a good actor. Finally she lets him go.
They sit facing each other in a teahouse. He compliments her on how good she looks. The highest place is the coldest, she responds, quoting an ancient poem.
His face turns pale but he goes along with the performance. She convinces herself that he is just as interested. They discuss art. She tells him that his role as the Ching dynasty marshal has been her favorite. He asks if she could lift the ban. There is silence. She asks if he has ever thought of her all these years. He smiles and gives no reply at first. After a while he says, Buddha always grants me the opposite of what I pray for.
She smiles. I'll grant what you have been praying for tonight.
He pauses and says, But I have become a man of empty guts.
In my eyes, you are forever the daring Dan. Tell me what happened to you after Doll's House. How is Lucy?
There has been a string of bad luck, he sighs. I was imprisoned as a Communist suspect by Chiang Kai-shek. I was sent to a prison in Xin-jiang Desert for five years. Lucy was told that I was dead and she married my friend Du Xuan. I—
Dan, I'd like to share tears with you tonight. We will drink the imperial liquor I brought from Beijing. We will have a good time. Here—my key.
She waits and imagines. She counts the minutes. Half past ten and Dan still hasn't shown up—he has checked out of the hotel.
The air bites and the water poisons. She feels like she is losing her own feet while plotting to possess other people's new shoes.
For his action Dan is put away. The excuse is a typical Cultural Revolution dunce cap label: Chiang Kai-shek's agent. The cell reminds Dan of a movie set he once was in while playing an underground Communist. The wall is three feet thick and thirty feet into the earth. He lives in total darkness and is given two bowls of thin porridge a day. He is also given tools to end his own life.
For fifteen years Dan fights to see the light. I couldn't even manage to walk a block after I got out, Dan says when he was released after Madame Mao's downfall in 1977. My second wife tried to divorce me. My children demonstrated their resentment by joining the Red Guards. At a public rally my son took a whip and hit me.
How can I tell life from a movie?
***
The footage is disappointing. The direction is stiff and the performance superficial. The lighting has too much shadow and the camera frames the wrong angle. Before lunch I order the production shut down. Everyone is terrified. It makes me feel a little better. But my good time doesn't last. Someone is sticking his neck out for my bullets. What timing! He is a producer. He says we should go on filming. Chairman Mao has instructed us to promote the operas. We shouldn't stop working on the assignment of honor. The biggest idiot in China now is the one who doesn't know how to read my mind. So I order him fired on the spot. You see, I can do this effortlessly. There is no need to beg anybody.
The key actress cries and thinks that she is the reason I am upset. I fire her too. I can't stand pitiful characters! I wish I could fire myself too. This is a horrible role I'm playing. There is no way to make it shine. Nothing is working. My role is laughable. I have the power to shut the nation down but I can't achieve one individual's affection.
Her mood starts to change drastically. Half of the crew members are fired within a month. The productions have turned into a mess. Finally the cameras stop rolling. Still she looks for the enemy. Trapped deeper and deeper in her own misery she sees poison in her bowl and a murderer behind every wall.
***
The lady of the mansion, Shang-guan Yun-zhu, has been trying to contact her lover Mao since morning. She wants to tell him that she has been reading poems about the Great Void. She is tired of her role as a mistress and is sick of the endless waiting. She wants to tell him how she misses acting. She has been watching movies produced by the Shanghai Film Studio and has recognized roles which originally were created for her. She wants to tell him about the threatening calls from Jiang Ching's agents asking her to "count her days." But she can't reach Mao—her phone has been disconnected and her maids have disappeared.
Shadows are cast over Shang-guan's mind. She senses her own ending. She imagines Madame Mao Jiang Ching's laughter as she recites a thirteenth-century verse:
Flower-gathering girls have dropped out of sight
Suddenly
For sightse
eing I feel disinclined
Rover that I am
I rush through all the scenes
Grief deprives me of what pleasure I can find
Last year
Swallows flew away horizon-far
Who on earth knows in whose house this year they are
Stop, will you?
Don't listen to the rain at night in the third moon
For it cannot help blossoms to appear soon
It's time, she murmurs, slowly closing the book.
They were in the middle of lovemaking. Mao was sitting on a sofa and Shang-guan Yun-zhu was on his lap. He was enjoying photographs of her movies, the roles she had played. You are a pearl.
She smiled and bent over. A string of fresh jasmine dangled from her ears.
He grabs her and begins to undress her.
She feels him and feels her love for him.
Don't be sad, I'll make it work someday, he says.
She shook her head. I am afraid.
Oh, heaven! How I miss you! Have mercy. Come on. Oh, you cold beauty. You're stone-hearted.
The more he caressed her the sadder she became. What about tomorrow? Yet she dared not ask. She had asked before and it had driven him away.
Shang-guan was flattered but concerned when Mao first pursued her. At first she refused to be disloyal to her husband, Mr. Woo, an associate director, a humble man at the Shanghai Film Studio. But it didn't stop Mao. Soon the problem was solved by Kang Sheng. Mr. Woo offered his wife. The next problem was Madame Mao Jiang Ching. Shang-guan was not able to overcome her fear, to which task Mao again assigned Kang Sheng. Kang Sheng kept Shang-guan a secret from Jiang Ching until he learned that Mao and Jiang Ching had reunited—Mao didn't mind sacrificing Shang-guan in order to please Jiang Ching.