by Gavin McCrea
—My dear Wenge, Jiang Qing would say in an effort to relax her, do you think I believe myself above this?
Once the treatment was finished, she would put a fresh pair of socks on Wenge’s feet and bring the portable radiator closer to chase away the chill. Then they, both of them, would sit with their feet up on stools, drinking lotus brew and watching banned ballet films: of Fonteyn and Ulanova and Plisetskaya and Alonso and Kirkland and Nureyev and Baryshnikov.
After the film ended, and they had exhausted their criticisms of the state of dancing in the world today, Jiang Qing would order a second pot of tea, which was the signal that it was Wenge’s turn to be criticised.
—I fear, Jiang Qing would say, that I lack the lion’s voice for commanding. I can see that my instructions don’t always reach you. I want to fire you up, to bring on the necessary storm, but at the same time I’m scared of inhibiting you, with the result that I end up serving you half-measures. This is my error. In committing it, my name falls behind Sun Shan. I can only hope that still words, shared here in private, will succeed where my former commands have failed.
One expected all the dancers at the Central Ballet to be talented. Talent high to the extent of eight dou was the unwritten standard. In Wenge’s case, unusually, talent was accompanied by a high capacity for concentration and a quiet composure. She had developed a sense of dignity and responsibility and made no displays of temperament. At all times, she was serious, composed and completely absorbed in the work. In her technique, foreign conventions had successfully been broken down and subdued. She had mastered all the classic movements without letting them enslave her. Her limbs were beautifully trained. Her feet well arched. Her extensions high without any apparent forcing. Her back was supple enough that she could bend backwards to the floor ten, twenty, thirty times in a row, without wobbling or losing form.
In short, she was a ripened melon. So it did not surprise Jiang Qing that Wenge picked up the ARMY CAPTAIN’s steps with ease. For a female dancer, these steps demanded a different kind of precision, one derived from commands and salutes, the language of military parades. To Wenge’s credit, she realised early on that the challenge was not that of compensating for a perceived lack of strength by overreaching herself; the opposite, it was that of discovering a new kind of strength by limiting herself. To this end she restricted her bends. Straightened her limbs. Cut the temptation to point the toe, extend the leg, bend the back all the way. Rather than push beyond, she pulled back, garnered her energy inwards, to her centre, and from there, when the cue arrived, erupted into the required shapes.
And yet, and yet — it pained Jiang Qing to see — in the last resort, Wenge was not convincing. She had mastered all the different components of the role but was unable to assemble them into a complete performance. In her execution of the individual steps, in finding and holding the forms, she outdid even Song Yaojin, the best ARMY CAPTAIN there had ever been, yet she was unable to inhabit the role as he had. She had what it took to be the upright soldier, the perfect man, but appeared scared of herself as such, intimidated by her own abilities, and was therefore not entirely persuasive.
At first Jiang Qing thought Wenge was being hindered by vanity.
—Are you worried that portraying a man is ruining your appearance? she said to her. Are you afraid of not being pretty? A dread of losing men’s regard, is that the reason you’re messing up like this?
By and by, however, she realised that the problem went deeper than this. She noticed that Wenge’s difficulties were most pronounced in those moments in the ballet when the ARMY CAPTAIN was on stage but not dancing, that is when Wenge was expected to replace ballet steps with the gestures of the dramatic theatre. In scene three, for instance, the ARMY CAPTAIN, disguised as a rich merchant, sits on a chair, watching an entertainment and fanning himself with a large white fan. Amusing, technically untaxing: it had been Song Yaojin’s favourite bit to perform; he used to brag about being able to upstage all the other dancers with a single beat of the fan. But for Wenge it was different. The scene gave her terrible trouble. No matter how many times she practised it, she could not get it right. She was unable simply to sit for any stretch without seeming tense. Her attempts to use the fan according to the rules of men’s conduct — gripping it from underneath, beating the air upwards, never bringing it to the face — led to her mishandling or dropping it. Because the ARMY CAPTAIN is in disguise in this scene; because the character himself is performing, his expressions and gestures are deliberately those of a suave and effeminate man. Wenge’s failure to convey this effeminacy made her cry out in frustration.
—Wenge! What on earth is wrong with you? What are you doing with your hands? Are you playing a soldier or a faggot? Choose!
Jiang Qing hoped that being in costume would help. She had ordered the ARMY CAPTAIN’s five outfits in Wenge’s size, and when the outfits arrived, on the fourth day of their private rehearsals, she hung them on a rail and invited Wenge to get acquainted with them.
—What do you think?
Wenge stroked the material:
—They’re—
—High-grade, I know. I thought you’d like them.
Jiang Qing picked out the military uniform and helped Wenge into it. Although Wenge’s breasts were small, barely there, Jiang Qing thought it best that they be out of the way completely, and so bound them with a large bandage. Onto the front of Wenge’s underwear she taped a small paperweight, so that Wenge would feel a load there. Extra padding had been sown into the sides of the jacket, and the belt fastened high across her ribs, in order to straighten Wenge’s silhouette. Wenge had big thighs, which had previously prevented her from doing principal female roles, and around which she usually wrapped plastic so that they would sweat and become thinner; for the part of ARMY CAPTAIN they were an advantage, for they filled out the shorts without the need for stuffing. Her shins, on the other hand, were as thin as sticks; four pairs of leggings were required to broaden them. The last element, the cap, had been designed with a wire frame to add height. Jiang Qing pinned it to Wenge’s hair, and stood back to look at the result.
—Yes, she said, and turned Wenge by the shoulders to face the mirror. Hmm? Am I right?
Wenge examined her reflection carefully, as though it was not hers, as though it belonged to someone else. Jiang Qing smiled, remembering the sensation of seeing oneself in costume for the first time: the mental switch which occurred that permitted one to shed one’s common habits and to make the shapes of a character who looked like that.
—I don’t recognise myself, Wenge said.
—I recognise you. You’re the ARMY CAPTAIN. The body and the voice of China.
They practised in costume for the rest of the day, until Wenge got it right, that is until she stopped making the mistake of trying to play a man, and instead learned to forget that she was a woman.
That evening in Jiang Qing’s room, for the first time Wenge admitted to being tired.
—Today, yes, she said. Today I feel it.
They were sitting side by side, facing the window. Between the armchairs, on a side table, their lotus brew was cooling. Jiang Qing wafted away the rising steam. Reached across and fixed Wenge’s blanket, which had come down on one side. Tested the heat of the cups with her fingers. Judging them cool enough, she handed one to Wenge.
—Do you happen to know the story of Meng Lijun? she said.
Wenge shook her head.
Jiang Qing took some tea into her mouth and sloshed it about, for the taste, before swallowing it down.
—Watching you today reminded me of an actress I used to like when I lived in Shanghai. There was a specific theatre I used to go to, where this actress was employed. In all of Shanghai, she was the best at playing Meng Lijun.
Jiang Qing paused as her mind became filled with the memory of sitting amongst the bourgeois housewives and their daughters in the Great Chinese Theat
re on Fuzhou Road, where, together, in a state of almost unbearable agitation, they would watch the red curtain rise and witness Xiao Dangui embodying their ideal man.
—The actress’s name was Xiao Dangui. What made her great was that she didn’t try to copy the style of other men to convince us that she was a man. Her words, her impulses, her actions told us, simply, that she was being a real man. If you ask me, in her place, a man wouldn’t have done such a good job.
Smiling — it was secretly exhilarating to be speaking openly about this — she took some more tea, then put the cup down and pulled the blanket up to her chest.
—A woman is more capable of representing universal man. When a man plays that role, he ends up imitating great men in history and ends up feeling inhibited in their presence. He compensates for his own weakness by overacting, and that always ruins things.
Wenge was staring into her empty cup, aware that they had entered dangerous territory.
Jiang Qing lifted the lid of the pot and stirred the remaining tea, tapped the pot with the spoon. She poured Wenge another cup.
—The curious thing about Xiao Dangui was that, on stage, she barely seemed to do anything. I don’t think she ever tried to be anyone else than a slightly subtracted version of herself. It was as if she believed that the less she did to make us believe, the more we would believe. And it was true, it worked.
Wenge brought her newly filled cup under her nose and breathed in the scent.
Jiang Qing did the same.
—In a couple of days’ time, Wenge, you’re going to dance the role of ARMY CAPTAIN in front of the entire Beijing Party apparatus, ten thousand people, and of course Mrs Marcos, who, owing to the outside attention she attracts, counts for ten thousand more. I can see you’re scared. You don’t believe you’re up to the task, so you’re finding false excuses for yourself. But that’s the easy way. Where you find one excuse, you’ll find a hundred. The hard thing is to run towards the difficulty, to go more deeply into what you’ve learned.
Wenge’s hair, lustrous as ebony, had been cropped in such a way that it could be oiled and parted. Jiang Qing smoothed it where it had become tousled.
—I’ve told you what’s right, child. All you have to do is move now to where it is.
She reintroduced Wenge into the troupe on the first day of full dress rehearsal, two days before the gala performance. At the auditorium door, Wenge went rigid and refused to budge like a stubborn ox at the bank of a fast-flowing river. Jiang Qing literally had to slap her on the bottom to get her across the threshold. The unit of Red Guards, which Jiang Qing had brought as backup, she ordered to wait outside in the corridor.
—Keep the doors ajar, she told them, and listen for my signal.
Inside, the house lights had been switched off. On stage, the troupe were well into scene one, by Jiang Qing’s estimation about five minutes from the ARMY CAPTAIN’s first appearance. As they descended the central aisle in the semi-darkness, Jiang Qing took Wenge’s hand, which was cold to the touch, the palm moist. Wenge let out a whimper, which Jiang Qing answered by pulling down hard on her arm:
—None of that. I want none of that, do you hear? This is real life. You must face it.
From their seats in the fourth row of the stalls, Chao Ying and his assistants glanced over their shoulders:
—Shh!
Resting a calming hand on Wenge’s back, then creeping it up to grip her collar, Jiang Qing shepherded the girl the rest of the way down. She decided against joining Chao Ying, opting instead for the seats directly in front of him. She waited until she was standing in Chao Ying’s line of vision before taking off her scarf, then her cardigan, then, as if noticing a draught, putting her scarf back on. She did not sit down, either, until she had wiped the dust off the cushion and checked the floor for anything that might obstruct the comfortable placement of her feet. Protocol prevented Wenge from sitting until Jiang Qing had, which afforded Chao Ying ample opportunity to take in the cut and quality of the girl’s ARMY CAPTAIN costume. The seats creaked, first for Jiang Qing; second, though less so, for Wenge.
—Commander—
Chao Ying leaned over their shoulders and hissed,
—what the hell is this?
Alarmed, Wenge tried to retract her head into her body like a turtle.
Jiang Qing put a hand on her knee: just ignore him.
—First you take Tong Hua away without any notice, and with no indication of when, or whether she’d be coming back. And now, whole days later, you saunter in here, as if nothing has happ—
Jiang Qing seized Chao Ying’s nose between her thumb and forefinger and used it to propel him back into his seat.
—Son of a bitch! she said. I’ll fuck your grandmother!
Chao Ying’s assistants, both women, one to either side, the skin on their young faces reflecting the colours of the stage lamps, sat as though petrified, their mouths covered. Chao Ying himself appeared to be feeling in a single blow the sum of all the little corrections that Jiang Qing had been forced to give him over the course of his career.
—Remember yourself, Director Chao, she said.
—I have it very clear, Commander, who I am, and what my job is.
—In that case, you’ll be able to count the number of ranks which divide us—
—There aren’t as many as you seem to think.
—and you’ll be careful how you comport yourself for the rest of the day. I’m here to make the necessary final changes to our gala performance for Mrs Marcos, which my position in the Propaganda Committee authorises and demands. I’ll be watching to see how well you adjust to those changes. Anything less than your full compliance, I’ll mark as insubordination.
Distracted by the talk coming from the stalls, the dancer playing the SLAVE GIRL missed her mark in a jump, and stumbled a little, putting her behind the beat for a number of steps. Jiang Qing called a stop to the music and told the dancer to start again at the beginning of her solo. The performance recommenced. Under Jiang Qing’s gaze, the energy of the troupe flowed unforced, always moving forward, the thread unbroken. She could not find much to fault. The dancing was good, light. The poses exact. The performers accomplished what they set out to do, they were exposed and honest and alive, no one disgraced themselves. The ARMY CAPTAIN, whom she had criticised in the past for a range of bad habits, and on whom she was now keeping a particularly close eye, did not do anything that was radically unsound. But this did not bring her to question her plan to replace him. Her purpose remained fixed. Behind her, Chao Ying and his assistants were scribbling notes, tearing them out and passing them around, whereas she was calm and unstirring, in a state of assuredness, her arm resting on the armrest, her hand hanging off the end, her fingertips suspended centimetres above Wenge’s knee; when the chosen moment came — in the sixth and final scene — she would simply tickle the girl, or pinch her, and that would be their cue to move.
When that scene arrived — the TYRANT’s courtyard, an overcast sky, a huge banian tree in front of which the ARMY CAPTAIN is about to be executed on the burning pyre — she rose out of the seat and took Wenge up with her. As they climbed the temporary steps to the right of the orchestra pit, and as they crossed the stage, the ARMY CAPTAIN was holding his last pose: standing rigid in the flames, his right fist raised, looking defiantly out over the motherland.
From the stalls came Chao Ying’s screaming:
—What on earth? How dare you! No, really, this is too much. Stop right there! Come down immediately! You’re making a mockery of our work and destroying morale in the process. Really, I’ve never —. Come down! I mean, this is —. I can’t go on like this!
Disdaining Chao Ying, Jiang Qing occupied centre stage and waited to be acknowledged by the cast. After a few seconds, the ARMY CAPTAIN dropped his pose, a reluctant relenting, and the TYRANT and his GUARDS followed suit. The music separated into discordant
parts, then droned to a halt. In the wings, the RED DETACHMENT OF WOMEN, who had been poised to rush on and take their revenge on the TYRANT, folded their arms and exchanged confused looks.
Jiang Qing gestured to the ARMY CAPTAIN to join her. She applauded him as he made his way down from the pyre and approached.
—Bravo, bravo, she said.
The rest of the troupe clapped with her, hesitantly at first, but with increasing vigour.
—Bravo, bravo, bravo, bravo—
A full minute of this, Jiang Qing allowed, during which time the dancer stared furiously, first, at his own feet, then, gaining courage, at Wenge, who was squirming, shamefaced, at the stage edge.
Jiang Qing cut off the applause by slashing the air with her arm.
—Zhu Xi, she said, for that was the dancer’s name, for two years, since the retirement of the great Song Yaojin, you’ve played the ARMY CAPTAIN with skill and delight. You’ve been an inspiration to ordinary people across the country, and a model of behaviour for Party members. I don’t exaggerate when I say that, in your efforts to be an exceptionally good dancer, you’ve come exceptionally close to success. The Revolution thanks you.
She applauded him again, turning round on her heels, nodding and smiling. Then she went to Wenge, took her arm, and conducted her to centre stage. Put her standing to her left, a pace away. The girl’s face was white and wet with sweat.
—As revolutionaries we have to go through a long process of tempering before we can grasp and skilfully apply the laws of Revolution. All of us, without exception, carry with us remnants of the various ideologies of the old society. In order to cleanse ourselves of these leftovers, besides learning from Party activities, we must participate in contemporary revolutionary practice, out there in the world.
Positioned like this between Zhu Xi and Wenge — their costumes identical, their meanings disparate, the old and the new manifestations — Jiang Qing felt a heightened sense of power; the happiness which came when resistance was overcome.