by Gavin McCrea
But then came the sound of a single pair of hands clapping. Which became an applause that spread to the circle, made its way round like a ring of fire igniting. Animated by it, Eva emerged from her hiding place in her mother’s embrace and took a bow. Her mother, her hands freed, began to applaud with the others. Eva turned round and, with little waves of her hand, told everyone to stop, but they did not stop. They went on.
Truth stood in contrast to falsehood, did it not? Beauty in contrast to ugliness? Fragrant flowers to poisonous weeds? These people, these professionals, were clapping for her, which could only signify that she was good.
Her mother led her outside so that the members could vote.
Once they were alone on the mezzanine, Eva said:
—What did you think, Mama, really?
Her mother brushed a hair from Eva’s cheek.
—Art, she said then, especially the theatre, is a realm you can’t enter without the odd stumble. Don’t be too disappointed if the group decide you’re not ready.
After only a short minute, her father opened the door and stretched out his arms:
—Eva, darling.
Eva went in and accepted what she assumed to be her father’s condolences.
—It was unanimous, precious, he said. You’re in.
II
Jiang Qing
1974
xiii.
A bright moon was in the sky, and she could not sleep. Her pills and drops did not help; her qigong breathing techniques neither. Wound up, head throbbing: it was as though her system was running on chicken blood. The left side of the bed was as inhospitable as the right. Closing the shutters stopped the cool air from coming in; opening them let the darkness out. Her eye-mask gave her an oppressive feeling like that of a vice gripping her temples, and she had to tear it off. Her thoughts were in a whirl, orbiting the subject of death without ever facing it. It felt like her mind was preparing to say goodbye to Mao — by saying everything once more, all that there was to say, all that she had left unsaid — while her heart was refusing to contemplate a life without him.
Exhausted, finally, by these rotations, she got up while it was still night, and washed. Sat at the table by the window, drinking boiled water and scrunching the curls of her perm back into her wet hair.
During her entire life with Mao, she had never given any proper thought to death in relation to him. To do so was a crime, one of the few she was genuinely afraid to commit, so she had refused to let it cross her mind. Normally death starts a long time ahead of when it arrives, yet out of duty to the Revolution she had declined to detect its advance on Mao. The Chairman, although obviously old, had not aged in her eyes; although obviously sick, he had not succumbed. When she looked at him, she saw the face of embalmed youth: not a wrinkle, not a crow’s foot marring the carefully massaged flesh. He seemed always to be just now rising and not yet stopped.
Such a loyal refusal to see could no longer blot out what had been seen, however. Viewed through the peephole last night, Mao’s aspect had changed. The face to which she had hitherto been blind became available. For the first time she saw Mao’s glaze crack, and this shell, grown as thin as rice paper, crumble to dust, and the effigy of an old man emerge, complete in every detail, with wrinkles, yellow eyes, large brown moles, green-coated teeth, swollen veins, knotted fingers, tissue invaded by disease, insides black, death embedded.
Her first instinct had been to blame the dancers. Was it not their job to help Mao recover lost vigour, to freshen him up? But in truth they could not be faulted. They had put all their youth and vitality into their performance; with their smiles alone they had brought five lights and ten colours to the scene, and still they had not been able to puncture the shadow of dusk which was over all. Mao, once the Red Sun in the East, China’s Star of Salvation, was a burnt-out man. His embers were dying away to ash. The cold was gathering around. It was the almost hour.
Now, alone in her own room, she thought she might cry, for her thought was: When you, Mao, are dead, will I dare to be alive?
Clasping a hand over her mouth to prevent the liberation of her grief, she scrabbled for the lamp switch and flicked it on. Dazzled, she covered her eyes with her other hand, and, her entire face covered like this, collapsed forward onto her lap. In a matter of months he would be gone, she knew it, and she was frightened by this foreknowledge, and reminded of her own mortality, and angry about being left to face the future on her own. She shuddered: no tears, just a silent wail.
But then it came to her: No, no, Mao, you won’t die. You won’t have to. You’ll go on, as an anguish inside of me.
And this brought her round. Her inner noise quietened, the convulsions ceased, and she parted her fingers to look out again. The lamp was reflected in the window glass, preventing her from seeing out, so she switched it back off. Visible now, marked out by the moonlight, was the garden: rock and water and earth and plant. Her feelings departed her and attached to these forms. There is nothing to lament, she thought, rubbing her face with her hands, and her hands on a nearby cushion, for Mao cannot die. He has become installed in my heart, has taken root in me. He is my life-force, my oxygen. As long as I am alive, he will endure.
She wrapped herself in a blanket and went out onto the veranda, where the breeze had a bite, and where the vast landscape managed also to be private. She leaned on the veranda wall, and, aided by her knowledge of the meticulous planning that went into this wildness, picked out the path that led to the pavilion where, in another life, she used to sit with Mao and view the moon. Now the pavilion was empty, so she had to be his eyes, ears and voice:
The lonely goddess in the moon spreads her ample sleeves
To dance for those good souls in the endless sky.
Of a sudden comes word of the Tiger’s defeat on earth
Tears stream down like an upturned bowl of rain.
Before dawn, at the first whistles of the birds, she ordered the car, and arrived at the Central Ballet compound in advance of the morning gongs. She ordered the driver to park in the central concourse, and, without waiting for her bodyguards to secure the area, went by herself to the women’s dormitory block.
The dancers were still asleep, so the halls were empty; silence was conveyed by the squeak of her plastic shoes on the washed floors. Entering room six on the second floor, she turned on the light and took the gong from the shelf. Stuck it three times.
—Everybody up! An early rise this morning! Come on, up! Up!
The dancers groaned and peeped out from under their blankets, indisposed to renouncing any of their sleep allowance. As soon as they realised who was there, however, they sprang up and stood to attention.
—Don’t just stand there, hurry! Into your exercise clothes and out for your jog. We have a lot to accomplish today.
Tong Hua, whom Jiang Qing had come to see, began to undress with the others.
—No, Jiang Qing said to her. Not you. You stay where you are. Sit down.
Tong Hua, gone white, perched her hard little arse on the edge of the mattress, fearful of committing more of herself to the command. Jiang Qing sat down on the neighbouring bed, facing her. Tong Hua was not one of the prettier girls, having marks on her cheeks from a severe bout of adolescent acne, but she had a melon-seed-shaped face and a pursed cherry mouth which were likely to make men want her nonetheless. While the other dancers changed, Jiang Qing poured Tong Hua a cup of tea from a flask which she had brought and set it down to cool on the side-table. From her uniform pocket she produced a boiled egg, cracked it against the iron bedpost, and peeled the top third of the shell off.
—There you go, she said, handing it to Tong Hua.
Tong Hua received the egg with the fingers of both hands. Then bowed her head in gratitude. The dancers nearby glanced at Tong Hua and exchanged, with their eyes, feelings about her.
—What are you gawping
at? Jiang Qing shouted at them. Get out. Ten laps of the concourse, and no slacking off. I’ll be counting from the window.
When the dancers had left, Jiang Qing said to Tong Hua:
—Do you need to piss?
She nodded.
—Can you hold it in?
She nodded.
Jiang Qing leaned over and removed the hardened mucus collected in the corners of Tong Hua’s eyes.
— Tong Hua. I suppose your parents gave you that name. The Chairman gave me mine, would you believe?
She traced out the characters of her name on her open palm.
—Green river like this, but also, by virtue of its sound, pure waters, do you see? Do you like it?
—Yes.
—So do I. I sometimes say it to myself, out loud, just to hear it. Jiang Qing. Jiang Qing. I like the feel of it in my mouth, and I like hearing it in the air around me, you know? There are many things one can do to feel close to one’s husband. Some day you’ll see for yourself.
Tong Hua met Jiang Qing’s eye, then immediately lowered her gaze again.
—I’d like to give you a name, Jiang Qing said. A stage name. A revolutionary name. I was thinking about Wenge. Do you like that?
Tong Hua nodded.
—Wenge it is then. Say it.
—Wenge.
—It suits you. A strong name. A warrior’s name. Say it again. My name is?
—My name is Wenge.
In the short time they had been speaking, Wenge’s posture had deteriorated into a slouch, a common problem amongst these young girls, in spite of their training. Jiang Qing moved to the bed beside her and ran a finger up her spine in order to correct it.
—So tell me about yourself, Wenge. Your family. Where you come from.
In a low voice, cautious and rehearsed, Wenge told a familiar story about being raised in poverty in a provincial village, before, at the age of ten, being selected by a group of visiting Party officials to attend the Academy. She was at pains to explain that her family background had been checked, and that it contained all three of the good classes: peasants, workers, and soldiers.
—How fortunate you are, said Jiang Qing. Do you feel special?
Wenge shook her head vigorously once, which made Jiang Qing smile.
—I’d be surprised if you didn’t feel, well, if you didn’t feel just a little bit special.
Wenge was turning her half-eaten egg around in her fingers.
Jiang Qing touched the girls’s quivering leg to steady it.
—Go on. Eat your egg.
Wenge nibbled off the white at the top, revealing the hardened yolk: a sun peeping out of clouds.
—Have some tea.
Wenge blew on the tea, then sipped loudly.
—Listen, Wenge, said Jiang Qing, I know I promised you an extra hour in bed this morning after your late night last night. I hate to deny you that. But I have news that couldn’t wait till later.
Using the knuckle of her index finger, she pushed Wenge’s chin up.
—I watched you last night, child. I wasn’t in the room, but I could see you, do you understand? I can always see you. I’m always watching.
Wenge had let her back hunch again, and her shoulders jut forwards, as if trying to hide her heart. Jiang Qing righted her once more.
—The dancer has only her body. And the body isn’t an opinion. It’s a collection of physical laws. The dancer explores the limits of what these laws allow. Either she can touch those limits, and traverse them, or she can’t. The audience can see if she’s good from tens of li away. If she’s bad, she’s immediately exposed.
Wenge’s lips, which had been drawn into her mouth, unfolded outwards, and her tongue slid out to wet them; then she sucked everything back in.
—What I’m saying, Wenge, is that your performance last night impressed me. It was clear to me that you’re better than the others and deserve to be seen.
Wenge closed her eyes and released a breath through her nostrils.
—Now you mustn’t misunderstand what’s happening here. It isn’t the Chairman who has picked you out for special attention. The Chairman is—. Well, it’s doubtful he’d have been able to distinguish you from the others. Luckily for you, I have excellent vision.
Jiang Qing tapped the frame of her spectacles.
—Don’t let these ugly things fool you. My eyes are like a hawk’s. Nothing escapes them. And, as I say, they liked what they saw.
Jiang Qing rubbed the girl’s neck and shoulders. Mention of Mao had clearly overloaded her.
—There’s a girl, Jiang Qing said. Eat up.
It took Wenge a long minute to finish the egg. Once she had done so, Jiang Qing took the shell from her, dropped it into the unfinished tea, and took the cup to the window. Outside, the entire troupe of dancers, male and female, were jogging in a circle around the edges of the concourse. Parked in the centre, next to the Volgas, was the line of buses which would transport them to the Great Hall for rehearsals. Jiang Qing opened the window and flung the unfinished tea and the shell out.
—Do you want to be the best, Wenge? she said, coming away from the window.
—I, I, I don’t know, Auntie Jiang.
Jiang Qing twisted the cup back onto the top of the flask and gave it to Wenge to hold. Wenge gripped it in both hands as though it were a precious relic.
—This is a private conversation, strictly between you and me. You don’t have to be modest. Do you want to be the best?
—Ahm—
—Silly goose, do you trust me?
—Yes, Auntie Jiang. I love you.
Jiang Qing took Wenge’s rehearsal clothes from the drawer and dropped them into Wenge’s lap. Without waiting for the order, Wenge began to change.
—Then you must trust me when I tell you that you’re extraordinary, and that you deserve this promotion.
Wenge paused with one leg in her shorts and one leg out.
—You heard me, said Jiang Qing.
Wenge turned away to put on her bra.
—When someone appoints you to a high position, said Jiang Qing, that someone is assuming responsibility for your actions. You mustn’t let them down.
—I wouldn’t, ever, Auntie Jiang.
—Then you must follow my lead and do everything I say.
Wenge pulled her jersey over her head:
—Everything. I understand.
Jiang Qing took Wenge’s bag from her hook and began to fill it with her personal things: dancing slippers, long trousers, coat, hairbrush, bar of soap.
Wenge put the flask under her arm and held out her hand for her bag, now full.
Jiang Qing indicated that, no, she would carry it.
She made to leave the room, and Wenge followed her.
At the door, she paused:
—Do you grasp what is happening to you, Wenge?
Wenge nodded but looked bewildered.
Jiang Qing pulled her in to her chest and clasped her tightly. The child’s arms, wrapped around the flask, were crushed between their breasts.
—You’re going to make a great ARMY CAPTAIN, Jiang Qing said.
She released her embrace but kept hold of the girl’s shoulders.
Wenge’s eyebrows were knitted. She was worried.
—You should be happy, said Jiang Qing.
—I am, Auntie Jiang. But, but why me?
Jiang Qing smacked Wenge on the side of the head:
—In Revolution, people don’t choose jobs. Jobs choose people. This is called being obedient to the organisation.
Jiang Qing watched Wenge fight not to bring her hand to the place where she had been struck; and fight to prevent tears from coming to her eyes; and fight instead to summon the look of defiant radiance worn by the female soldiers in The Red Detachment of Wo
men.
Good girl.
Wenge was allotted five days in which to learn the role of ARMY CAPTAIN. She was given lodgings in a room attached to Jiang Qing’s own Separate Apartment, removed from all contact with the rest of the troupe. At five each morning she was woken by Jiang Qing herself, plunged into ice to sharpen her mental awareness, and sent to the garden for a jog. For breakfast, in addition to the regulation rice porridge and pickled turnips, she was allotted eggs and soy milk and wonton soup. After that, she was escorted to a secret room in the Compound, within the headquarters of the Central Garrison Corps on the east side of the lake, where she was drilled in male ballet steps till noon. At lunch she was served an extra bowl of rice and expected to eat it. The slot allocated to her midday sleep was half an hour longer than the norm, and, again, she was expected to use it. This was because, instead of the usual three hours of role-building in the afternoon, she had five; and after dinner, when ordinarily she would be let off to study, she had a further two hours of marching, rifle practice and martial arts: for such a strenuous routine, she needed to be well fed and rested. Jiang Qing conducted this training according to the ideal of Lei Feng: to go up mountains of knives and swim through seas of flames; to have one’s body smashed to powder and one’s bones crushed to smithereens. To this, Wenge submitted unquestioningly. Her reward at the end of the day was a full bath of hot water, for which she was provided with an extra bar of soap. The soap was jasmine, and Jiang Qing insisted that she come to her room, smelling of this, before going to bed.
—Have a seat in the big armchair, Jiang Qing would say, and after much goading Wenge would oblige.
—Are you tired? Jiang Qing would ask her.
—Not really, Wenge would lie.
—Nonsense, Jiang Qing would say, you’ve been dancing for ten hours.
She would order a basin of warm salted water to be brought in, and would herself kneel in front of the Wenge, and lift her feet into the basin. While Wenge’s feet soaked, she would rub the girl’s thighs and calves with tiger balm. Then she would lay a towel across her own thighs and place Wenge’s wet feet onto it. She would dry Wenge’s feet carefully, cut any broken nails, reapply the bandages on her toes, and perfume the skin with rose water.