The Sisters Mao

by Gavin McCrea

  —I blame your sister, said Simon. Your father manipulates her. She thinks she can’t say no to him.

  There was a moment of silence between them now, as Simon watched what Iris would do. She felt his gaze on her; she could hear him wondering.

  —A revolution? she said then.

  —Is what they’re calling it.

  —I should go too.

  —Now stop right there. They’re calling it this big thing, but you know that’s just the media talking. It’ll come to naught. Won’t change a thing.

  —I should be there. To see.

  —It’ll be over before it starts, just watch. Afterwards the poor will still be shafted, and the war will go on, and the big bang will eventually wipe us out, thank Christ.

  —They wouldn’t run off like that for nothing.

  —Them? They’re just chasing a thrill.

  —They won’t do well without me. There are things they need me for.

  —Don’t take it personally, Iris. No one is saying you’re not important. You’ve got your own talents. You should just stay and make the revolution from here.

  With an unconscious glance, he referred to the drugs on the table.

  —Not from over there. In somebody else’s head. Your father. Your sister. Doris. Forget about them for once, and their bloody pointless crusades, and focus on what we have to do here. Keeping things afloat at home.

  She pointed at the pile of acid and shook her head:

  —Shifting that will have to wait till I get back.

  He slapped his thigh, then used the slapping hand to appeal to her:

  —Don’t be a bloody pain, Iris! This stuff can’t just sit here. What if there’s a raid, hmm? and I’m arrested? What’d you do then? How’d you feel about that? No, it needs to be sold, a-sap. And you’re not going anywhere till it is.

  —I heard acid is a killer to get in France. I’ll sell it there.

  Simon clutched his head as if to keep it fixed on:

  —Oh man, you rub me wrong, you do.

  —Lend me some money for the ticket, will you?

  —No money. You’re staying here.

  —Fine. I’ll find the money elsewhere.

  Defiance stayed with her only as far as the door. As soon as she was on the other side, she felt a weakening, and she knew Simon was right. Exhausted, penniless, a fear of boats: she was not going to Paris. Glowering, she went back into the office.

  —All right, she said.

  —All right what?

  —Just give me enough to make a call.

  —Talking to your father won’t win you anything.

  —Ten pence, Simon, please.

  —The phone here is out.

  —I’ll go to a box.

  Grumbling but obviously pleased, he stuck his hand into a jar of ready cash that he kept in a drawer. Held out two shillings.

  —Use this. You’ll be hard pressed to find a phone that’ll take the new money.

  She put the coins into her pouch and tied it once more around her waist.

  —Don’t be long, Simon said. You look like the living dead. Come back, soon as you can, and get some sleep. You can help me with the rest of this tomorrow.

  —All right.

  —And leave your bedroom door unlocked. In case—

  In case she had a fit. In case he had to get inside to help her. What would a day in her life look like that did not come with precautions?

  On the way downstairs, she thought about Paris, and the pictures most people had of the life there. Of loafing in cafés, and crossing the Seine, and living on chocolate and bread. Well now, in place of those things, there was revolution, whatever that looked like. With the politicos in charge, there would be marches, and speeches against the war, and Mao’s Sayings. No one would be talking about love, and there would be no drugs, no music, which meant none of it could be real. Not like what was happening in San Francisco, where the people, the seekers from everywhere, were plugging out and getting in touch with themselves and doing only what they really wanted to do, following their inner paths, which was the truly selfless way, the greatest gift that humans could give to the world right now, and, in the long run, the only means of bringing about peace. Get some fucking LSD into the White House water supply — this is what she liked to tell Eva — blast some Steppenwolf through the Oval Office windows, and see how long the war lasts then!

  On entering the auditorium, full of this, she was struck by the sight of what she had forgotten. Wherehouse had converted the auditorium — a windowless room, cavernous, unevenly lit by a rig of lights above a bare stage near the back wall — into a workshop space. The stalls had been cleared away and two lines of workbenches set out. On top of these benches, still there, exactly as the group had left them, were boxes containing bamboo strips and paper and tubs of paste, and all around, in piles on the floor, were unfinished Chinese lanterns. The completed ones were laid out on the stage floor, in groups according to their design: water lily, lotus flower, fan, aeroplane. Around thirty in all. Together making a beautiful but sad impression. This was what struck Iris as she came in: everywhere lanterns, so many in number, yet giving no light.

  Keith was kneeling on the stage, examining a small rabbit lantern by holding it above his head and craning his neck to look up through its bottom.

  —What’s all this? he said.

  —This?

  She looked about uncertainly.

  —Don’t quite know yet. The bones of a performance piece.

  —You made all of these? said Keith, jumping down from the stage and coming to join her on the workshop floor.

  —Some of them, she said. It’s a group effort.

  She weaved her way around the benches. Picked up from the floor what had fallen. Closed jars of glue that had been left open. Put hardened brushes into the pots of dirty water. There were twenty-one steps to making a lantern. As she inspected the unfinished pieces, she tried to determine which step they were at, and whether it was worth continuing with them or discarding them and starting over.

  —So you put candles in them? said Keith, who was following her closely. And they light up? Is that it? I’d like to see them lit up.

  —Yeah, it’s nice.

  —What are you going to use them for?

  —Don’t know yet. A happening. I told you, Eva’s obsessed with China at the mo. It was her idea.

  This was not strictly true, either. The lanterns idea had been as much hers as Eva’s, though neither sister could properly take credit for it, since all of this stuff — Russia versus China and hip-hip-hurrah for the wretched of the earth — had come down to them from their parents.

  —I like them, said Keith now. They’re beautiful. Innocent.

  —Innocent?

  She looked around again, taking in the work.

  —Yeah, innocent, I guess you’re right. Like deserted children.

  She directed Keith’s attention to the line of ochre-coloured boiler suits hanging from hooks on the back wall.

  —And it looks like they’re going to stay deserted for a while longer. Everyone’s gone to Paris.

  He looked at her blankly. Paris signified nothing to him.

  —What’s happening there?

  —Revolution, apparently. Interested?

  —What about food?

  —After that.

  —Revolution? I don’t know.

  —Be something to do.

  —Paris?

  —Yeah.

  Keith drew his eyebrows together, worried:

  —Don’t have a passport.

  —Me neither.

  Shooing a cat off a workbench, she leaned her now aching body onto newly freed space. Looked about as if seeking something in the surrounding air.

  —Listen, I’ve to make a quick call. You want t
o stay here, or come with?

  —So you weren’t serious about Paris?

  —I guess I wasn’t.

  —Are we going to eat here?

  She thought for a second:

  —You’d better come with.

  They went — plodding, in silence — to a phone kiosk on Euston Road.

  Her father answered immediately.

  —Papa?

  —Eva?

  —It’s Iris.

  —Sorry, darling, how are you? I thought you were—. Are you in Paris as well?

  —Have you been sitting beside the phone?

  —What? No.

  —You sure?

  —

  —Papa?

  —What?

  —Can you call me back? I don’t have any money.

  —So you’re here, in London? All right.

  She replaced the receiver and only then realised that she had forgotten to give her father the kiosk’s number. He would call the theatre, presuming she was ringing from there. Deliberately, delicately, as if holding a porcelain cup, she lifted the receiver again, then banged it furiously against the top of the coin box. Through the glass, Keith made a gesture expressive of You crazy bint, what the fuck?

  She kicked open the kiosk door:

  —Come on. We’re going to my father’s.

  At this, his face expressed real distress.

  —Relax, she said. It’s not far. We’ll eat there.

  —Your old man’s okay with that?

  —Sure.

  She could see he was not convinced.

  —He’s not that bad. You just have to ignore absolutely everything he says.

  Jiang Qing

  1974

  ii.

  Ash-coloured clouds drifted from west to east. Little by little the light changed. The trees in the garden trembled. On the paths, fallen leaves, swept up by the breeze, rustled impatiently. Autumn: the pensive season, the reminiscing season, and in the chrysanthemum enclosure, Jiang Qing stood bent over her tripod, immersed. Framed in the viewfinder was a single specimen of brilliant white, its outer petals reaching out hopefully, its inner petals curling inwards to clasp its yellow heart; if the wind were to catch it and turn it ever so slightly in her direction, it would make a perfect picture. For a long minute she watched and did not move. The ends of her skirt whipped at her shins. Her fringe, those strands which had struggled free of the hairband, tickled her forehead. The skin on her bare arms rose into pimples. But — being human after all and bound by the same restrictions — her focus eventually weakened. Memories seeped in. Thoughts and visions. And now, as some painful event gripped her, she shivered.

  Without pressing the shutter button, she took her eye away. Straightened up. Stepped back from the camera. Conscious of a strain in her lower back, she brought a hand to rest there.

  In accordance with her precise instructions, her attendants had set up three of her cameras, spaced three metres apart, in the line of an arc, pointing towards the same flower, which she had chosen the day before and marked with a ribbon. To the right was her medium format Rolleiflex. To the left, her Shanghai 4 twin-lens. In the centre, where she stood, her Kiev 88. Her cameras were her most precious possessions. Her jewels. Locked in special cases and stored in a dedicated cupboard. Cleaned and inspected for marks and scuffs after every use. Which was not meant to suggest that she was a photographer of talent; rather it was the meticulousness of a hobbyist who took her work seriously and did not feel beyond the perfectionist streak which would have the best possible or nothing.

  She moved over to the Rolleiflex. Checked the shutter speed before popping open the viewfinder and placing her eye to it. Her photography tutor had taught her to keep her back straight and look down into the finder from a distance, but this was a good example of why one must beware of teachers and the prejudices hidden in their lessons, for when one examined that pose critically, one could see it was reactionary, attractive only to people who were afraid of looking like a peasant and who generally delighted in themselves. The fact was, in order to see one’s subject in all its details, and to get the best results thereby, it was necessary to bend over like a good proletarian and get close.

  Finding her chrysanthemum to be both off-centre and blurred, she adjusted the Rolleiflex’s angle and focus. In the newly sharpened image, the day looked gloomier than it actually was, the colours appeared darkened, so that the flower was now a flourish in the shadows, its mood even more ambivalent than before: where it was open it seemed expectant and where it was closed defensive, as if it were readying itself for a rainstorm that would both nourish and lash it.

  She glanced up at the clouds: they threatened rain but were unlikely to give it. If Chrysanthemum in a Rainstorm was a scene she wanted to capture, she would have to help it into existence by artificial means. Moving quickly in case the light changed once more, she dipped her fingertips into the bowl of water that she kept on her worktable and sprinkled it over the flower. She then slid a bamboo partition into the flowerbed, arranging it in such a way that it would prevent any gusts from blowing the moisture from the petals.

  Hastening back to the camera, she whipped off her glasses, rubbed the lenses vigorously, then replaced them, pushing them roughly up the bridge of her nose. Unhappy with the image the Rolleiflex was giving her, and wondering if perhaps the problem was her eyesight, she shrouded her head with a square of velvet and peered through one eye and then the other. After turning the focus in either direction several times, unable to find clarity at the centre without losing it around the edges, she decided the fault was not with her but with the Rolleiflex, and so abandoned it for the Shanghai.

  Her tutor had a theory that looking and seeing were two distinct manners of perceiving. Looking referred to the ordinary way in which one was accustomed to perceive the world, with the naked eye, tainted by thoughts. Seeing, on the other hand, could only happen with the aid of the camera lens, and entailed a complex process of communing, through the machine, with the essence of things. She had always struggled to make out what exactly this meant, but now, thanks to the Shanghai, she thought she understood. For the chrysanthemum was white, she saw, and contained everything that was itself; in the drops of water that clung to the flower’s surface were the colours of the world. To see such, and to seize it, was to quench one’s thirst for company, for relations, for love.

  —Forgive me, Commander.

  She felt her attendant’s presence over her shoulder but refused to be interrupted by it. One of the water drops, too heavy for its perch at the top of a petal, was on the cusp of dribbling down. If it did so, it would leave behind a track like pearls. She would not budge until—

  Click. There it was. Click-click. She had got it. Click. A final one for safety.

  —What is it? she said only then.

  —We have finally received a response from Comrade Song Yaojin.

  —Did he call?

  —He sent a letter.

  —A letter?

  Jiang Qing uncurled herself. Came to stand tall over the deed completed. She glanced in the attendant’s direction. He was holding a white envelope, its lip torn open.

  —Remind me, what do you go by, soldier?

  —My humble name is Xinhua.

  —Soldier Xinhua—

  It was hard to keep track.

  —I asked you to get Comrade Song on the phone. I wanted to speak to him personally.

  —And I tried, Commander. I’ve been calling all week, but never managed to catch him at home. I left several messages with his mother. She said he would call back. But it seems he has preferred to respond with a letter.

  Jiang Qing went to her worktable and wiped her clammy hands with a towel:

  —You’ve had a look, I see.

  The boy was nervous; the new ones tended to be.

  —With re
spect, Commander, I’ve been instructed to open and stamp all official corres—

  —Yes, yes. And?

  —It says no.

  —No?

  The attendant, having memorised in advance the main points, did not need to refer to what was written:

  —Comrade Song says that, regretfully, on account of his advancing years and the toll that almost three decades of dancing at an elite level has taken on his body, compounded by his recent period of re-education in the countryside, he asks that his retirement be respected and that he be relieved of the obligation to participate in the upcoming perform—

  —Ah, you dog!

  The attendant jumped.

  —What did you do wrong? When you called, in these messages you left, did you approach the subject properly? Using the right language? The correct tone?

  —I followed your instructions.

  —Stressing the importance of the occasion?

  —Yes, Commander.

  —Saying, expressly, who was coming? I mean, mentioning our guest, by name?

  —Mrs Marcos, Commander?

  —Mrs Marcos, precisely.

  The attendant bowed his head.

  —I did, Commander. I mentioned Mrs Marcos by name as you ordered, as many times as I could without sounding profane. And I took pains to emphasise the size of the occasion, calling it a gala performance, which is the term you told me to use. I was explicit about all of that, and Comrade Song’s mother assured me that she had made full note of my words. I spoke to her several times, and each time she was eager to stress that her son would be certain to oblige, there was nothing he would not do for the Party, given the eternal debt he owed it, after all it had done for him. Still, unfortunately, his response, as laid out in this letter, i—

  —Enough.

  She threw down the towel.

  —I’ve heard quite enough.

  She went back to the chrysanthemum. Pinched the stem just below the bract and shook off the water. That no-good motherfucker. He’s not going to get out of this. An eternal debt to the Party? Pah! Everything he owes, he owes to me and me alone. From the pocket of her apron she took a pair of secateurs. Snipped the stem. Handed the flower to the attendant.