Becoming Madame Mao (18 page)

Before long Mao brings news to the Politburo: Comrade Lan Ping is pregnant. He demands a divorce and a marriage.

Mao's partners shake their heads in unison. You have promised the Party!

Yes, I have. But things change, like the situation of the war. If you can change yourselves to unite with Chiang Kai-shek, why can't you accept my situation with women?...Well, you have pushed me to the limit. Comrade Lan Ping will have no choice but to walk around with her fattening belly to ring her bells. Everyone will know that as Chairman I am imprisoned by my own Party. And that will make all our propaganda a lie. It will be a free advertisement for Chiang Kai-shek—the Communists have no respect for humanity. Chiang Kai-shek will be laughing so hard that his fake teeth will fall out.

Mao goes on. I'm prepared to tell people the truth myself. I am sure they will judge with their own conscience, they will figure out how this Party flatters itself with the emperor's new clothes. They will question. Does anybody care about Mao Tse-tung's personal welfare? Hasn't he worked hard enough? Is he the Party's slave? People will draw their own conclusion and choose whom to follow. By then it will be too late for you to come to your senses—I'll be gone. I will create a new Red Army, a new base where men and women will be free to marry for love, where my children can bear my name, and where the word "liberation" is not a wooden bird!

No one underestimates Mao's capability. All the members of the Politburo clearly remember that it was Mao who saved the Red Army from Chiang Kai-shek's deadly encirclement; it was Mao who turned the devastating exile of the Long March into a journey of victory. After a week of deadlock the men decide to negotiate. The ship can't sail without a helmsman.

Mao is pleased. He promises to place limits on the power of the first lady. Extinguishing his cigarette he says, I am an ordinary Party member. I will unconditionally follow the Politburo's decision.

Rules are drawn up to chain the bride-to-be: she is not allowed to publicize her identity or take part in Mao's business or offer opinions at Mao's pillow. Mao accepts the deal. However, he lets it be known that he would rather not be the one to break the news to Lan Ping. The Party understands.

I walk with Lao Lin, the Party's personal affairs consultant, and my lover, who follows a few steps behind. The afternoon is peaceful and a chatting mood has settled in. We arrive at the riverbank. My lover walks quietly as if contemplating his thoughts. Lao Lin and I have been exchanging words on weather, health and war. Looking toward the sun, which is setting behind the treetrunks, he suggests that we sit in the shade of a tree.

Lao Lin begins by congratulating me. He reports that our marriage application has been approved. I make no reaction. I am waiting for him to drop the bomb. Aren't you pleased? Smiling, he smoothes his bristly beard with long fingers.

I have been preparing myself to fight for my rights, I say frankly.

Lao Lin laughs uneasily.

I glance at my lover, who has been staring at the river.

May I have my marriage certificate? I ask Lao Lin.

Well, I must ... You see before I am allowed to do that I must have your promise.

Here it comes. The sound of an explosion. Without looking at me Lao Lin lays down the rules.

The impact shakes my core. The pain bites right in. It is more than I had ever imagined. Amidst the quiet of the riverbank I explode: What does it mean not to publicize my identity? Am I a criminal? Doesn't the Party know that the Chairman has lost his first wife? How do you know that he won't lose me in the war? How many times has Mao's cave been bombed? How many assassination attempts have you recorded? Part of marrying Mao is to risk my life! And I am not trusted by the Politburo, supposedly the people I shall depend on? For Marx's sake, what kind of congratulation is this?

She tries to calm her voice but fails. What does it mean, "Do not take part in his business"? Why don't you simply disapprove of the marriage? Say it out loud! Print out the rules and put them on the wall for the public to view! I didn't come to Yenan to be insulted. There are a lot of young women in Yenan who are politically reliable, who are illiterate and won't take part in Mao Tse-tung's business. Plenty of them! Why don't you—

Lao Lin interrupts her. The Politburo has sent me as its messenger. I don't have anything personal against you. The same would be required of any woman who marries the Chairman. It's for security reasons. The matter has nothing to do with who you are. Comrade Lan Ping, the Party knows that you are a trusted member. The bottom line is that people want to make sure that their leader Mao will perform without interference.

My lover squats on his heels and continues to gaze at the swirling current. He has not said a word and I have no idea what is on his mind. He is in a difficult position, I understand. After all he can't, and won't, separate himself from his title. Should I ask him to prove his love? He is not Tang Nah. He is not a dramatic type. If I challenge him he will tell me to go my own way. He is used to detaching himself from pain. He would get over me. But would I be able to get over him?

She makes sure that she plays it right this time. She asks herself repeatedly, What is it about her that attracts Mao besides her city-bred wrinkle-free face? Does her brain count? She remembers that he once told her that he liked her character and courage. Was it just a line of flattery? Is she fooling herself? What if it is just her beauty? She can be any man's fantasy in this part of China and if she stays with Mao and he wins China ... It will be indisputable that she was there, fought with him side by side. She will have earned her right to speak, to take part in his business, even a seat in the Party's convention and maybe the Politburo. Who, by then, will stop her from pillow-talking Mao? To be Madame Mao will be her victory. She will be lower than the man she loves but above the nation.

***

I can never forget the night when my lover talked to me about the Great Wall. It was after our lovemaking. He wanted to discuss the most exciting project ever built in the history of China. It is not the Great Wall, he said to me. It is the Du-jiang Dike, built ten years before the Great Wall. It was on the plain of Sichuan where drought and flood continually plagued the province. There is no comparison in size, but unlike the wall, the dike has created happiness for thousands of years.

My lover was immersed in his thoughts. His fingers gently fondled my hair. If we say the wall occupies space, the dike occupies time, he continued. The functionality of the Great Wall has long expired while the Du-jiang Dike still holds the life of the province. Because of it, drought and flood are controlled and Sichuan is now known for its harvests. The culture of the Great Wall is like a stiff sculpture, but the culture of the Du-jiang Dike presents the vitality of the universe. The Great Wall acts like an old empress dowager demanding respect while the dike silently provides service like a humble countryside daughter-in-law.

Mao's vision of China is what she expects in a king. She sees what her lover will become to China and its people. If this is not love and respect in its purest form, the girl questions, then what is? How can she not be proud of her passion for Mao?

***

By the time the next moon rises high the actress from Shanghai shakes hands with Lao Lin. She promises to deliver the letter of acceptance of the rules before the wedding day.

The bride-to-be worries that she has made it too easy for Mao. She is afraid that he won't remember her sacrifice. The sacrifice which she intends to hold and claim for credit in the future. It's her investment. But he has not shown her much affection since Lao Lin departed.

Mao has immersed himself in writing his philosophy of war. He writes for days on end without resting, loses all track of time. When he is finished he calls Little Dragon to send the girl. He makes her feel that she is already in his possession. His hands come for her the moment she enters the door. She hears him mumble, telling her in monologue what he has been writing.

Yes, tell me, tell me everything, she responds.

It's suicidal to display a facade when the enemies are massive in numbers. He begins to unbutton her shirt. We have to learn to take advantage of being small—we are capable of flexibility. If we pull the enemy by the nose and lead their horses into the woods, we can confuse them and pin them down. We bite off their legs and then take off quickly before they can guess our numbers or intention. This was my strategy during the Long March and now I establish it as a rule of war.

I want Mao to know that I am interested in what he is doing and want to be part of it. But I try not to follow his thoughts so I can concentrate on the pleasure. I focus my eyes somewhere else, a penholder on his desk. It is made from the joint of a bamboo pole. It is stuffed with brushes and pens, which point toward the ceiling like bunches of dragon-tongue orchids. I am strangely stimulated.

I've created a myth, he goes on. I have told my generals to be playful with Chiang Kai-shek. To take a bite, then run, and take another bite and run again. The key is not to be reluctant to depart after small victories. It's a problem with our soldiers. It's their hometown. They have a hard time letting go. They hate to quit when collecting the heads of those who murdered their family members. But you must quit in order to win more ... Like right now I mustn't go all the way. I must know when to hold my troops back...

I'm no longer amazed that he can make love while sorting out his thoughts. For me, it has become part of our ritual. The moment I detect him losing track of his thoughts my body goes wild.

Was it four times that you crossed back and forth over the Chi River in order to escape Chiang Kai-shek? I ask, teasing him. Did you confuse the enemy?

He is too breathless to answer me.

I heard about your victory in Shanghai, I keep going. You were not known, though—you were an underground myth everybody wanted to unearth. Did I tell you how Chiang Kai-shek's papers described what you looked like? It said that you had teeth six inches long, and a head three feet wide.

He groans and announces his coming.

For the next three weeks he is back to his writing.
A Study on the Jiangxi Peasants' Movement. Revolution Chinese Style. On Establishing the Red Army.
Afterwards he collapses and goes to sleep like a corpse in a coffin. The girl continues to draft the letter she has promised Lao Lin. She sits by Mao's table and plays with brushes and pens. Her mind is empty. She is bored. She counts characters every few lines. She knows that she has to fill up a page for it to be acceptable.

Fart, fart, and fart, she writes, then erases, then writes again. She takes out a tiny mirror and begins to examine her face. The teeth, nose, eyes and eyebrows. She plays with her hair, combs it into different styles. Stretches her skin with her fingers, making different expressions. She likes her face. The way it is reflected in the mirror. It looks prettier in the mirror than on the screen. She wonders why she didn't look as pretty on camera. Her thoughts skip. She wonders what's happening to Tang Nah and Yu Qiwei. And what they will think when they learn that she is Madame Mao.

The thought brings her delight and makes her go back to the draft. She works until Mao wakes. Her heart beats gaily as she hears him reciting a wake-up poem of the Han dynasty:

The spring woke my hibernation
The sun is on my buttocks hurrying me up

She gets up from her chair to pour him tea. She then goes back to the desk and waits. He comes to her. She shows him the draft. He leans toward the light to read. His hands go under her shirt.

Sounds like a letter of protest, he laughs. She says that she doesn't know how to write otherwise. She is unable to bend herself any lower. He comforts her. You shouldn't go to a monk and ask to borrow a comb—you should be kind with my colleagues' shortcomings. After all they are peasants. As for himself, he appreciates her sacrifice. A letter of promise is only a piece of paper. It is up to us to honor it. The truth is that the letter is only going to be used to clamp the lips of those scorpion-mouthed wives.

She is convinced. Laughing in tears. Holding her hand he revises the draft. I want you to pillow-talk me now. I want you to harvest me. Oh, yes. Right here, sign
Sincerely, Lan Ping.

***

The wedding day. The wind sculpts clouds into the shapes of giant fruits. It is in Mao's new cave—he has moved from Phoenix Hill to the Yang Family Grove. It is a three-room cave located on the side of the mountain, about fifty feet in depth. The back wall is made of stone and the front, of wood. The windows are covered with paper. In front of the cave is a bit of flat ground. There are stone stools and a vegetable patch.

Mao gets up early and works in the garden. Peppers, garlic, tomatoes, yams, beans and squash—all are in good spirits. Mao carries a shoulder pole with two buckets of water on each end. He walks through the narrow paths watering each plant patiently. He tilts his shoulders and lifts the string of the bucket to pour. He looks content and relaxed.

The bride stands in front of the cave and watches her lover. She watches him nibble off the tips of the cotton plants. She remembers that he once told her that his mind worked best when his hands got busy with soil and roots. What is on his mind now? She wonders if he compares her with his ex-wives. You are the girl who carries your own sunshine, he has told her. Your gaiety is my soul's health and Zi-zhen's sadness its poison.

To me, he is a father figure. He is all I have ever wanted in a man. As a father he is wise, loving and formidable. When I asked why he decided to marry me he replied that I have the ability to make a rooster produce eggs. I take the remark as a compliment. I assume that he means that I bring out the best in him. But I am not sure. Sometimes I feel that he is too great for me to understand. His mind is forever unattainable. He is a frightening spectacle. To his comrades, opponents or enemies, he can be intoxicating and terrifying. I love him but fear for myself. In front of him I give up comprehension. I surrender. I long for him to want me, the true me, not the actress. Sometimes I feel that he wants to have my body near but my soul at a distance. He wants to keep the myth of me.