The Sisters Mao

by Gavin McCrea

  The factory gates had been forced open. Flics were swarming the grounds. Workers were being arrested, though there appeared to be less violence inside the fence than out. The spotlight had been turned off. But Doris —Eva could not believe her eyes — was still standing on her cone. Three flics were on the roof, holding the structure steady, and ordering her down. She was ignoring them. Motionless, facing proudly out, the pole still lying across her shoulders, the car doors balanced on either side, she appeared a figure of justice for the machine age; one that was about to be toppled.

  —Doris! Eva called out and waved both her arms. Then:

  —Doris! again, as if to warn her, though perhaps her real motivation was to let her know that someone was watching, and to tell her, I’m here, watch me too.

  A pair of flics were stationed at the factory entrance. Eva approached them with hands raised, saying:

  —I’m a foreigner.

  —Yes, said one of the them. Come to shit on us in France.

  The other waved her away:

  —Get lost.

  —Didn’t you hear me? I’m a foreigner. A troublemaker. Take me in.

  —Fuck off, slut, the first said, touching his rifle as an expression of his seriousness.

  —Aren’t you going to arrest me?

  The second laughed. Then raised his visor so that she could see his sneering face.

  —You’d like that wouldn’t you, you little tart?

  Eva held his eye. Stepped forward.

  The first pointed his rifle at her:

  —Don’t move any closer.

  Defiant, she moved forward again.

  The second laughed at her stupidity and raised an arm as if to belt her.

  Anticipating his blow, she sidestepped, and, from that spot, in front of an audience of one, if she was lucky two, she performed the most beautiful act of her life: a light, almost playful slap on the flic’s cheek.

  She was taken to the detention centre, a requisitioned athletics stadium in Clichy. Inside the barbed wire fence, under the rain, she was made to wait on her feet for hours. Then her hair was cut off, and she was taken to the cell, a converted changing room, four metres by six, containing about thirty foreigners awaiting deportation. There was so little space everyone who could had to stand. Buckets in each corner served as toilets; already half-full, they clogged the air with their awful smells. A small window gave onto a courtyard where the French students were taken to be beaten. Every so often a boy would go by half naked, legs lacerated, holding his stomach, pissing everywhere.

  She found Álvaro crouching under the window. His face was bruised and swollen, his right eye sealed shut. She pushed the surrounding bodies back, much to their displeasure, and knelt before him. Embraced him. Touched his head. Kissed his forehead.

  —Ow. Watch it.

  He squinted at her with his good eye:

  —Are you okay? Did they hurt you?

  —I’ll live, she said. You?

  He dropped his head into his hands:

  —I just want to get out of here.

  —You and me both.

  A boy behind her started to complain about the space she was unnecessarily taking up.

  —Oh fuck off, she said but then did stand up. Put her back against the wall. Spoke down to the top of Álvaro’s head.

  —Max’s camera? she said.

  —The flics took it. He knew the risks when he gave it to me.

  —Where are the others?

  Álvaro nodded over to the spot in the centre where the three remaining Wherehouse members were sitting together.

  She waved over but they made as if not to see her.

  —Are they all right?

  —They’re fine.

  —Are they going to come back with us?

  —Back?

  —To the commune in London.

  —I don’t know. We’re not talking. We had a fight.

  —About me?

  —Not everything’s about you.

  —

  —But, yeah, the fight was about you. They can’t blame you for everything, that’s what I told them. No one forced them to come.

  In the cell there was the kind of quiet fostered by people who knew how to go forward when the time came to go forward, and to keep still when the time came to keep still. The exception was a group of Maoists who were making the rounds, getting into arguments, searching out errors in people’s attitudes. Eva could not see them through the multitude, but judging from the accents of their English, there were four: two American men, an Indian man and a German woman.

  —Mao’s peasant army have taught the Vietnamese what they need to know. Vietnam is a people’s war. If you want to support Vietnam, then you have to support China.

  —I wish they’d shut up, said Álvaro.

  She fiddled with Álvaro’s ear:

  —Don’t be such a grouser. That’s what we should be doing.

  He flicked her hand away.

  —What’s wrong? she said. Isn’t Mao still our man?

  He shrugged:

  —I don’t want to talk about politics right now.

  —All right, no politics.

  —In China people have ideals. There are no drugs. No prostitution. People are honest. They get worked up over a little event and start crying. They’re so sincere. It’s great.

  —But we should talk, you and me.

  —About what?

  —About us.

  —I’ve got nothing to say.

  —Want to hear what I have to say?

  —No.

  —In China hundreds of millions of people responded to a single command. If people are all of one heart and mind, they can accomplish great things. In the West it’s different. A man can barely speak for himself, never mind for millions. Nobody listens to anything anyone says.

  She slid her back down the wall so that she was squatting beside Álvaro.

  —Can I just say one thing?

  —I can’t stop you, he said. No one can stop you doing anything. If you decide it’s time to do something, you don’t take no for answer.

  —You’re right. I’m sorry.

  She put her arms around her shins and her chin on her knees. Looked out through the forest of legs.

  —Anyway it’s over now. Once we’re in London it’ll be back to normal.

  She plonked down on the floor and sighed.

  —Then we’ll miss it.

  —Mao has done so much for China, it’s amazing. He fought to win peace and won.

  After about an hour the cell door opened and, in defiance of the protestations of those already crushed inside, more people were thrust in. A burst of applause followed by whistles and insults and sneers suggested that Doris was amongst them.

  Eva’s heart started to pound. Having sunk into the deathly exhaustion that was the atmosphere of this place, suddenly she felt awake again, restless, hot and cold by turns, unnaturally excited.

  —Is that who I think it is? said Álvaro.

  —Stay here, she said, standing up and brushing herself off.

  —Where the fuck would I go?

  It took her a minute to shove through the bodies, some of whom deliberately blocked her way.

  —Stay where you are, British. There’s no room. You’re making it worse for everyone.

  In a state approaching giddiness, she poked and nudged and muscled through, and only barely felt the jabs she received in return.

  —Excuse me. Out of my way. My friend is over there. Let me pass.

  By the time she’d made it to the other side, the Maoists had formed a close circle around Doris, encasing her. Under the pretence of initiating a debate about art, they were launching a verbal attack on her.

  Eva jostled her way to the Maoist wall. Knocked on it.

/>   —She’s my friend. Let me through.

  The Maoists turned their heads.

  —That’s right, she said, I’m talking to you lot. Let me in there.

  Doris peered out over the shoulders:

  —Eva, it’s you!

  Unlike the other girls, whose hair had been roughly chopped, Doris’s head had been shaved like the boys’. There were bruises about her face and neck. Her performance costume had been replaced by a man’s prison tunic. On her feet, a pair of white plastic slippers. It was a shock to see her so changed, yet as much had been added to her as had been taken away. With the dark frame around her face stripped away, her features stood out.

  Squeezing through a gap between the two Americans, Eva put her arms around Doris. Doris, surprised by this embrace, did not enter into it the entire way. Eva, as she drew Doris towards her, was aware of the distance remaining between them and could sense, now, Doris’s desire to be released. Yet she hung on an instant longer. After these long days spent dancing around the periphery, this felt like reaching the centre. Everything that happened from here on in — why think of what’s finished instead of what’s beginning? — would flow from this point.

  —I knew you’d come, said Doris.

  —Papa didn’t want me to.

  Doris laughed and shook her head:

  —I’s glad you didn’t listen to him. Been worth it, has it?

  —It’s been—. I don’t know how it’s been really.

  —A good sign.

  —Is it? It feels a bit, I don’t know.

  —Like an anticlimax?

  Eva shrugged.

  —Don’t beat yourself up about it, said Doris. Takes practice to be able to figure these situations out. Did you see Max while you was here?

  Eva nodded sadly:

  —He isn’t in this place, though. They mustn’t have got him.

  —Course they didn’t. Max’d do anything not to get nicked. If they did get him, he’d bribe someone or find some other way to get out. He dreads having to go back to England too much to let it happen.

  —And you? You’re happy to go back?

  —I ain’t like Max. End of the day, England’s my place. I like being away, but I couldn’t stay away for good.

  —So you’re going to go back to Papa?

  Doris ignored her question:

  —England’ll always be England, and it won’t ever be better. For that, we’ve only ourselves to blame. But when I’s abroad I do miss the feel of the place. I’s accepted the fact that I’s gonna spend my life grumbling about it.

  —Papa’s worried you’re not going to go back to him.

  —Don’t, Eva.

  Eva rubbed her newly cropped hair and blushed.

  —How long’s you been here anyway? said Doris. You come with your group? Did you put anything on?

  Eva had to choke back a wave of nausea that threatened her:

  —Bits and pieces only. Nothing like yours.

  —So you seen it?

  —You were incredible.

  Doris smiled:

  —Don’t know about that.

  Doris turned round and brought Eva in to huddle beside her.

  —It were the best I could do in the conditions I found and with the materials available. If I’s honest, the factory workers and the union bosses were a fucking nightmare to deal with.

  —We can hear what you’re saying, said the Indian Maoist behind them.

  —Ain’t none of your business what we’s saying, said Doris.

  —Oh no? We were the ones watching your little show. Don’t you want to know what your public thinks?

  —Not particular.

  —Typical bohemian attitude. Desperate for an audience for your crap but not interested in hearing what the people think about it.

  He was a bearded Sikh. Navy turban. A Mao badge on the lapel of his military tunic. Both his sleeves and his trouser legs rolled up like a peasant soldier. He and Doris began to bicker.

  —Stop! Eva said after they’d gone on for long minutes and did not show signs of stopping. Quit bickering and listen to me.

  —And just who the fuck are you? said the Maoist.

  Eva did not wear a Mao suit or carry Mao’s Sayings in her pocket — putting on the costume was not her way — but she knew her Mao, and she knew Doris too, better than most did, and if anyone was going to bring them together, it was her.

  —You’re both right, she said.

  —Two opposing opinions can’t both be right, said the Maoist.

  —Trust me, said Eva, you agree on the fundamentals. I mean, for fuck’s sake, man, this is Doris Lever you’re talking to. She’s been to China.

  —Bullshit. She hasn’t been anywhere near the place.

  —Seen it with me own eyes, said Doris.

  —Prove it.

  —Ain’t gotta prove shit to you.

  The Maoist laughed a self-righteous laugh:

  —See? You’re full of it.

  He made to turn away.

  Eva grabbed his arm:

  —What’s your name?

  He looked at her hand until she removed it.

  —I’m Sunny.

  —Sunny, listen, she said, you’ve got to understand, we’re not the enemy. We’re your comrades. Doris as well. From where I’m standing, I see a lot of common ground between us. We should work together.

  —No way, said Doris.

  —Not a chance, said the Maoist.

  Around them, some people had begun to jeer. The Maoists were responding with middle fingers and name-calling.

  —Listen, said Eva. Everyone!

  She had to raise her voice to be heard over the din.

  —All of you, please! Can I have your attention? I have a proposition to make.

  Everyone in this cell was living proof that revolutionary energy was international. The fire passed around the world, mind to mind, to make one mind; fist to fist, to make one fist. The Revolution would not spread on its own. It needed people to carry it. The Chinese flame had been lit in Paris, and the aim now should be to use the flames to light the radical fires elsewhere. They, all of them, should be the carriers. They needed to come together. Collaborate.

  —I’m Eva Thurlow from the Wherehouse theatre collective in London. All I ask is that you hear me out.

  Iris

  1968

  vi.

  Her father lived in a basement flat in a terrace off the Caledonian Road. It took them half an hour to walk there, during which time Keith, who had been good all day and had not complained, began to speak of stomach cramps and weakness in the legs.

  —Don’t start, she told him.

  Her father answered the door with his usual air of mild regret. He was wrapped in a grey cardigan with holes in the elbows. He looked pale, thin, pouchy under the eyes; what remained of his fine hair was sticking up, suggesting a recent stint on the pillows.

  —Who’s this? he said, nodding at Keith.

  —A friend, she said. Keith, this is my dad.

  —How’s it going, said Keith.

  Her father raked a look down Keith’s front.

  —Is he one of those Black Power heads? he said, addressing Iris.

  He turned to Keith:

  —Are you one of those—

  —No, sir.

  Her father, while he thought about this no, gave the impression that the sun was dazzling his eyes.

  —Are you two—?

  —Papa!

  —All right, all right.

  He turned to go back down the sunless corridor.

  —Close the door behind you.

  They followed him up the short flight of stairs to the kitchen. The television had been taken from the sitting room and put on the counter by the sink.

&n
bsp; —Is that safe there?

  —It’s fine.

  He turned it off and sat at the table in front of a cold mug of coffee. The table was sticky with cup marks and scattered sugar granules. As a centrepiece, a dirty frying pan sat on top of a folded copy of The Catholic Worker.

  —Sit down there, Keith, she said, indicating the chair opposite her father.

  She found the crusts of a sliced pan in the bread bin and put them on to be toasted. In the fridge was an old courgette, which she chopped and fried, and eggs, which she beat to make an omelette. She made a strong pot of tea, five spoons.

  —D’you need a hand? said Keith.

  —Sit there and relax.

  Keith sat back and avoided looking at her father by staring out the window.

  —You all right, Papa? she said.

  Her father was alternating between clenching and unclenching his fists and brushing imaginary things from his sleeve.

  —Papa?

  —What?

  —I said, are you all right?

  —Fine. D’you have everything you need?

  —I’ve managed with what you’ve got. Are you hungry? You want some?

  He shook his head distractedly.

  She made room on the table and put the food down, invited Keith to help himself.

  Keith arranged his plate and cup neatly, thanked her, and began to eat with surprising restraint, smiling encouragingly as he chewed.

  The table, with the three of them sitting at it, felt tiny. Underneath, if any of them moved a foot, immediately it came up against another and had to be retracted.

  —So Papa. What’s going on?

  Her father did not answer right away. He was swirling around the liquid in his mug and looking at it with eyes whose gaze had turned inwards.

  —Have you been going to work, Papa? Did you call them at least? Did you tell them you were sick, or something? Anything?

  Her father taught speech and drama to primary school students, a job which he carried out reluctantly and with cynicism, but which he pretended to be passionate about when he bumped into people from his past and they invariably asked, Oh, you enjoy doing that, do you?

  —Papa, are you listening to me?

  Eyelashes fluttering, at last he came out of himself. He studied her clothes, as if she had just made a wardrobe change.