Becoming Madame Mao (23 page)

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.

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.

S
HE 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 reminds 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.

You have been lonely, he suddenly said.

She stood up and walked toward the door.

Stay. His word halted her.

She knew she couldn't disobey him. She went to sit back down, but on another sofa.

I am too old for guerrilla war today. He got up and came to share her seat. His hands caught her.

No, please! The words almost choked themselves out of her chest.

He was not affected. He took pleasure in her struggle. He gently forced his way. God provides food for every bird, but he doesn't throw it into its nest, she heard him say. You have to come out and pick it.

I'd rather continue my path to dust.

He didn't respond but began to pump her.

Her body shut down and her mind withdrew.

Drops of his sweat curved their way down onto the bridge of her nose, across her cheeks, down her ears and into her hair. Her rejection unnerved him. Holding her he kept lunging as if to push himself out of her.

We tryst ... she cried suddenly, grinding the words. We tryst in the dark. Our skin once glowed, our bodies swelled in rapture, our flesh was consumed with impatience. But how would I know ... that we were only to discover that this journey ... the journey which gulped the fire of our youth, was ... not worth traveling.

His right hand came to cover her mouth. His body beat her with its rhythm.

Suddenly he wound down, like a broken bicycle.

She felt herself living inside a clock, watching her own body in a strange motion. She tried to block her thoughts from shooting toward the future.