It was not that Shang-guan lacked perspective. She had entered show business at a young age and had learned its nature. She knew what she was doing. She was thirty-five years old when she met Mao. She had her own plan. Her career as a screen actress had peaked and she was looking for an alternative. She took up with Mao when Kang Sheng convinced her that Jiang Ching was out of favor and was unsuitable as a political wife. Kang Sheng's analysis was thorough and inspiring. The idea of becoming Madame Mao made Shang-guan Yun-zhu abandon her husband and career.
Shang-guan left Shanghai, stepped into Mao's palace and put on the costume of Lady Xiang-fei. However, she soon discovered that she was not the only one Mao kept.
Shang-guan had wanted to get out, but Kang Sheng's private eyes were everywhere. It is a national affair you are conducting, he warned her. We must guard you twenty-four hours a day. You ought to have no reason to be bored. Making yourself available to the Chairman should be the only goal in your life.
But Mao hasn't shown up for a long time! He has lost interest and has turned away, don't you see?
It is your duty to wait, the cold voice continued.
She waited, through the long winter and summer. Mao never came. When the Cultural Revolution began and Shang-guan Yun-zhu saw the picture of Mao and Jiang Ching standing shoulder to shoulder on the Gate of Heavenly Peace, she knew she was doomed.
Shang-guan's thought pauses. In front of a long mirror, she smiles wearily. Her residence has been quiet this morning. It is a single mansion sitting in rich meadows. A suburb of Beijing. Two nights ago Shang-guan discovered that her guards had been removed. A platoon of new men came.
Tomorrow has already begun to run its course, she mutters. Tomorrow will finish all my trouble. The feather of my imagination finally gets caught.
Shang-guan sits down and begins to write a letter to her husband. She resents him for giving her up. Although I understand that you were under pressure and had no option, I can't forgive you. My life is so hateful that I think it's better to stop it. But then she feels that she is not being honest. Mr. Woo was never her choice in terms of love. It was she herself who was lured by the idea of becoming Madame Mao.
She tears up the letter.
Shang-guan gets up and goes to the garden to lock the gate. She walks quickly and holds her breath as if to avoid the scent of spring. She hurries and slashes through the blooming plants. Her gown drags the petals along. She walks back into her bedroom and closes the door behind her. She looks around. Two windows facing east stand symmetrically like giant eyes without eyeballs. The dark gray rolled-up curtains look like two bushy eyebrows. A redwood ceiling-high closet stands between the windows. The floor is covered with a noodle-colored carpet. The room makes her think of Mao's face.
Shang-guan paces elegantly. She holds herself as if in front of a camera. She remembers how at ease she was with the most difficult camera movements. The sophisticated technical demands were never her trouble. She had good instincts and was always on line and on cue. The lighting and camera directors adored her. She lived up to the expectations of the audience and critics as well. The reviewers said it was her confidence that made her glamorous and her restrained performance that moved hearts.
She can feel the weight of her fake eyelashes. She has applied a rich layer of creams and powders. In the mirror, she rehearses the act. With her chin up she holds a distant expression. The breath of death hits her cheeks as she paints her lips for the last time. Afterwards, she takes a white blanket and covers the mirror with it. She stops in front of the closet. Opening the doors, her hand reaches in. She pulls a drawer and takes out an indigo-blue ceramic bowl, which is covered with brown waxed paper. A yellow string is tied around the rim. She unties the string and lifts the cover. Inside, a pack of sleeping pills.
Carefully, Shang-guan presses the edge of the paper. She folds it into a diamond shape. She then presses it flat again before she throws it into a waste bin under the table. She goes to the kitchen holding the bowl. She takes out a glass and a bottle of half-finished shaoju from the cupboard and mixes the liquor with the pills. She stirs and grinds, and takes time with her act. Afterwards she goes back to her bedroom and remakes her bed. She smoothes every wrinkle from the sheet. From underneath the bed she pulls out a black suitcase and takes out a set of dresses and a pair of shoes. She changes her blouse into a peach-colored dress—a gift from Mao. Then changes her mind. She takes off the dress and replaces it with a navy blue garment which she bought from a nun on location near Tai Mountain. She changes her slippers into a pair of black cotton sandals. She puts the peach dress and the slippers into the suitcase and pushes it back under the bed.
Shang-guan gulps the drink down. There is no hesitation. She washes her hands and rinses her mouth. She then goes to lie down on her bed, spreading her limbs evenly.
Her mind begins to empty itself. The people she used to know come into focus, then fade like smoke, among them Mao Tse-tung and Jiang Ching. She feels that fate is finally releasing her. She is running into the earth's wilderness where peace opens its arms. As the pain comes and her breath grows thin, she exhales a whisper, a line she favored when playing Lady Taimo:
Can anyone reconstruct a string of jasmine from a pot of tea?
21
KEEPING UP WITH MAO has exhausted me although the tactics of the game have become simpler. The struggle to get ahead has come down to three parties. Premier Zhou, Marshal Lin Biao and I have become the only rivals. In April 1968, my strategy is to ally with Lin and isolate Zhou.
It is not that I enjoy the slaughter game. Given a choice I'd rather be with Yu and spend time in film studios and theaters. But my rivals are waiting to knock me out. I smell blood in the air of Beijing.
She tries to break down Premier Zhou's system. Her first objective is to replace Zhou's National Security Bureau, run by the old boys, with her own. Mao plays a delicate role here. He encourages and backs both sides. He believes that only when the warlords are involved in constant infighting will the emperor achieve peace and control.
With Mao's silent permission she allies with Lin Biao and the two finally paralyze Zhou's National Security Bureau. Pleased, Mao asks if Jiang Ching can crack the rest of the country. Excitedly she accepts the challenge. Although Premier Zhou tries every way to derail her action, she is aggressive and powerful.
The tragedy of her life begins officially. Blinded by passion she keeps going, unaware that her role is being set up to be destroyed. She has never completely given up faith that she will one day win Mao's love back. For that she refuses reality, refuses to believe that Mao will eventually sacrifice her.
When Madame Mao's forces grow too fast and too strong, Mao bends toward Premier Zhou and the old boys. In July Mao gives permission to Zhou to publish within the Party the numbers of the dead killed in the fights among factions of the Red Guards. It's time to beat the wild dogs before they become a threat to the nation. Zhou's action to reestablish order follows.
I have been kept in the dark. And I have no idea why Mao is displeased with me. He won't speak to me although I have been trying to reach him. Has Premier Zhou been the evil hand behind this? Sometimes Mao can be so insecure that he senses a storm in a breeze. And Zhou's words have an effect on him. The last time he saw me he quoted a saying, The taller the tree, the longer its shadow. I regret that I didn't pay attention. I hope that it is only his hysteria. Once it runs its course his mind will be back on its track.
To isolate me, Mao cuts off my association with Marshal Lin. Mao orders Lin to take the army to "clear the mess left by Jiang Ching's Red Guards."
I feel crushed. I immediately write a letter to Mao claiming that I have been working only under his instruction.
Mao makes no response. It is his true character acting. A moment in which he recognizes no feelings or memory. He lets himself be taken by fear.
Once again I am betrayed and shit upon. I'm shaken, yet I don't have a place to beg.
Mao dismisses my cabin
et. He sends my people away. Saws off my limbs. A national migration of youth. Two hundred million Red Guards are chased to the countryside in the name of "spreading the seed of the revolution all over China." And yet I am not allowed to say a word. His purpose is to make me see how ill built my power is. There is no foundation. I am no different than Liu. This scares me to death. I am afraid to think about the future. If I can be stripped like this while Mao is living, what about when he dies?
But no, I can't get off the tiger. It is either eat or be eaten.
Lin Biao sees his chance to succeed both Premier Zhou and me. He races on. In the Party's Ninth Convention Mao officially pronounces Lin Biao his successor.
Believe me. History is full of tricks. Real-life drama is better than any playwright's imagination. Marshal Lin has no confidence that his own health will last. He fears that Mao will change his mind and decides to act. He plots a coup d'état. At the same time as he flies Mao live lobsters he sends his son to bomb Mao's train. Well, Mao is the bigger witch in the temple of magic—Mao has two security trains of four cars apiece run in advance. Lin has no luck in catching him.
She is sitting next to Mao, opposite Lin Biao and his wife, Ye Qiun. On the other side of the table sits Premier Zhou and his wife, Deng Yin-chao. She doesn't realize what is going on until the next morning. At the table she observes nothing unusual. Mao begins the ceremony by opening a bottle of imperial wine sealed in its original Ming dynasty porcelain vase 482 years earlier. He then lights incense. Let's celebrate the Moon Festival.
The dinner is elaborate, with sea cucumbers and other land and ocean delicacies. Mao uses his chopsticks to heap Lin's plate with tendons of tiger shot a week ago in Manchuria. The atmosphere is pleasant. She is not aware that her husband is starring in a live opera. She is in a sentimental mood. Mao had his secretary tell her that she must leave the banquet by exactly ten-thirty. She took it as an insult but nevertheless came to dinner. During the meal, she feels her heart ache over the courtyards, flowers and bamboo tree. She used to live here with Mao. The liquor makes the animal statues on the ancient stone tablets and fountains come to life. She turns to the other side. The little vegetable patch is a picture of a harvest. Beans are green and peppers are red. Again she is reminded of their life in Yenan.
The group is dressed casually except for Mao. He is oddly formal tonight, wearing a starched jacket buttoned up to the chin. After a toast he turns to Lin. How's the army doing?
Can't be beat.
Nice job you did in Wuhan.
It's nothing to squash the rebels.
The People's Liberation Army under your command has shown itself a good model for the people, Premier Zhou says, finally inserting his comment.
Lin has been working too hard, Lin's wife cuts in. His doctor begged him to stay in bed. But we all know that he is out of himself when he hears the Chairman call. He breathes for you, Chairman.
Very kind, very kind. Mao heaps two pieces of fried pork rib on Lin's plate and then fills his own cup with more wine. Ye Qiun, you must take good care of your man. He is the only one I've got—he has to run the business after I'm gone.
Premier Zhou seems to have no appetite, but tries to eat to please his host. His wife carefully picks oily fish skin out of her husband's plate and replaces it with green vegetables. Once in a while she watches her husband with concern. He eats slowly and is paying close attention to Mao.
So, what have you been doing, Premier?
Zhou wipes his mouth and states that he has just come back from a trip to Northern Three Province. I went there to check on the Red Guards who were sent there a year ago.
Oh, looking after the kids. Mao laughs and nods. And how are they? I have been wondering myself. Have they adapted to the situation well and have they been productive? I assume they know how to run tractors better than the peasants. They are educated and can read instructions, can't they? I expect them to produce a great harvest. It is a good year in terms of the weather.
Well, the picture is not so good, Premier Zhou answers. The youths and the locals don't get along. The youths don't know much about the importance of catching the seasons. They thought the machines could do everything at any time. But it was the rainy season. Hundreds of tractors entered the field—they were like frogs with their legs chopped off. They got stuck and couldn't move an inch. And it was too late when they realized their mistake. With the help of the locals they collected as much wheat as they could with sickles and left the rest of the grain to rot in the fields. The last day I was there, the kids used their clothes and blankets to bag up the grain and lay it out on their beds to dry—
Always a price for lessons, Mao interrupts. As if no longer interested in Zhou's details he turns to Jiang Ching. You are doing well, aren't you?
She doesn't know where he is heading so she quickly answers, Yes, Chairman, the opera films are doing beautifully. The troupes are making new ones. It will be an honor if the Chairman can inspect the troupe.
He throws her a mysterious smile and then goes on to comment on the wine. She is having a hard time following him—on one hand he tries to generate a conversation, on the other, he is not listening. It is the first time she plays a role without knowing that she is even on a stage.
The group keeps drinking. Don't expect too much. The truth is, no cripple will lend you his stick. In between sips and toasts Mao throws comments as if drunk. The mouse's greatest happiness is to steal away a fistful of grain.
***
Oh look, the host exclaims, I totally forget the time. We should do this more often, right? Premier Zhou? Jiang Ching, are you full?
I look at my watch. It is ten-thirty. I get up. Mao comes over and gives me a comrade-style handshake.
What am I supposed to say? Thank you for dinner? I leave silently.
We'll leave with Comrade Jiang Ching. Premier Zhou and his wife get up.
We will too. The Lins follow.
Mao holds up his hand to Lin. No, do stay at least for another half-hour. We haven't really gotten a chance to talk yet.
When the Lins sit back down Mao chats freely. He asks about Lin's family and health and suggests places for him to vacation. He listens tentatively and recommends to Lin his own herb doctor. He then asks Ye about her dream for their son "Tiger." Ye is flattered and starts to babble about Tiger's achievement.
Your son is talented and deserves a high position in the army. Mao lights up a cigarette. The people need him. Listen, Lin Biao, have you ever thought of promoting your son as the commander in chief of the entire army? That way you can free yourself to take up my job.
Well, Tiger is only twenty-six ...
If you are not going to do it, I will. He owes the people his gift.
At ten fifty-four the Lins bid farewell.
Allow me to walk you to the door, Mao offers. I'd like to see you off personally.
At midnight, the phone at the Garden of Stillness rings. Jiang Ching picks up the receiver half asleep. It is Kang Sheng.
The Lins are dead, he reports. The mission was completed neatly and quietly within the compound of the Forbidden City.
To hide her shock Madame Mao asks Kang Sheng for the details of the execution.
One of Mao's table servants is a transportation expert, and another an explosives expert. Aren't you glad?
She is, but she is also scared—again, will Mao do the same to her one day?
How are you going to break the news to the world? she asks, barely controlling her voice.
Here, I've just finished my draft: September 15, 1971, from New China News Agency: People's enemy Lin Biao was caught in an action attempting to murder Chairman Mao. Lin took a small plane and flew to Russia after his evil plan was exposed. Lin's plane crashed in Mongolia when the fuel ran out.
***
With Lin Biao out, Premier Zhou and I have become the only rivals for the position as Mao's successor. I must hurry. I must battle against Premier Zhou's men as well as my own husband.
I a
m anxious and can hardly sit still. In my dreams I hear steps. I get nervous going near closets. I fear assassins are behind the clothes. I skip meals to reduce the chances of being food-poisoned. I change my secretaries, bodyguards and servants once every two weeks. But the new faces frighten me even more. I know it's foolish but I can't help suspecting these people as Premier Zhou's spies.
The golden autumn views of the Forbidden City and Summer Palace no longer interest me. I used to love walking across the five-hundred-stone dragon bridge, but now I fear that a mysterious hand will come out of the water to pull me down.
I decide to go to Shanghai where my friend Chun-qiao has become the head Party secretary of the southern states. I have come to depend on Chun-qiao. We select my future cabinet members together. Again he recommends his faithful disciple, now the famous "Marshal of Pens," Yao Wen-yuan, and two other men of talent. One is Wang Hong-wen, a handsome thirty-eight-year-old, who very much resembles Mao's late son, Anyin. Wang is the chief of the Shanghai Workers Union. Chun-qiao points out that the union has been recently adapted into a military force and it is under my command.
Excellent. I congratulate Chun-qiao and his men. This is exactly what we need. I'd like to take all of you to Beijing. I'd like to introduce you to Mao. And of course, I shall take Composer Yu, my dearest friend, along. Mao is a fan of his work and he should be working in a much more important position than he is now. So what if Yu is an artist and a slob who often catches himself wearing two different socks? I adore him. There is no one who understands the artistic part of me more than Yu. It's all right that Yu dislikes politics. I dislike it too. The point is that you can't enjoy composing if your head and feet are going to be in different places. Anyway, Chun-qiao, I shall leave Yu to you to enlighten.