by Gavin McCrea
—On no account must we isolate ourselves or give ourselves airs. We might have come through the top academies, but we mustn’t pretend to know when we don’t. In order to preserve our purity as vanguard fighters of the proletariat, it’s essential for us to go out and meet the people and to work hard at their side, and to use their wisdom to temper and cultivate ourselves in every respect.
She turned to Zhu Xi now, smiling at him in such a way that he could not doubt her sincerity.
—For this reason, Zhu Xi, I’m rewarding your hard-won achievements at the Central Ballet with a period of rehabilitation on a model farm in Inner Mongolia.
A collective gasp blew out from the wings. Zhu Xi stumbled backwards, as if falling against it.
—There, Jiang Qing went on, you’ll have the opportunity to learn from the peasants and selflessly work the fields. It’ll be a chance to get out of your own life, to put aside your personal ambitions, and to think, to study, to be objective. You’ll return to society a new man, enlightened, with a deeper love for your country, ready to make an even greater contribution to its greatness. I dare say you’ll come back as a living Lei Feng.
—No! No!
Zhu Xi was swinging around, flailing, in search of someone or something that might help him.
—You cannot do this. Help me someone, please!
He appealed to Chao Ying, who was now on the stage and coming fast towards them.
—It’s all right, Zhu Xi, said Chao Ying. Calm down.
He gripped the dancer’s arms in an effort to tranquillise him.
—You’re not going anywhere.
Jiang Qing laughed:
—You think you know better than me what this man needs? What this man needs, what all men need, is someone who’ll command great things of them. Not someone who has the power but, unpardonably, will not command.
Chao Ying placed himself as a barrier between Jiang Qing and Zhu Xi.
—That’s enough.
With his feet planted wide, and his hands clutching his hips, Chao Ying probably thought he looked tough.
—You’ve had your moment, Commander Jiang, we’ve all seen you, we’ve all heard you, we all love you, deeply, and I must now ask you to leave the stage.
Jiang Qing laughed again, this time into his face:
—Director Chao, it’s nice to see you show some proper interest in the work, at last. Now please let me explain what’s happening here, for it seems you’re failing to understand. I’m recommending Zhu Xi for a course of rehabilitation, in accordance with Party policy.
—Over my dead body.
—So you’re against it? Zhu Xi doesn’t need it, is that what you’re saying? He’s above it?
—That’s not what I’m saying.
—Would you prefer to go in his place, is that it? I understand why you’d be eager. I’d go myself, in a shot, if I weren’t tied to my duties here. By stepping down from our privileged positions and returning to poverty, we come to understand what the world is really like. Or have you forgotten, Director, about the world?
She turned to address the other dancers on stage, and the troupe in the wings, and the orchestra in the pit.
—Am I right, comrades? Do you all have fond memories, as I do, of the times you’ve been away? I learned some of life’s most important lessons in the countryside. Above all, I realised that my real comrades, and the best communists, were the ones I worked with in the fields, not the people I typed with in some office. Or performed with in some theatre.
—Some theatre?
Chao Ying bellowed like an animal in order to seem bigger than he was.
—This is the Great Hall of the People. I am the Director of the Central Ballet of Beijing. It’s in that capacity, on this stage, that I declare to you, Jiang Qing, that I won’t allow you to send me or Zhu Xi or any of my dancers anywhere, now or at any time in the future. I’ll denounce you!
—People denounce me every day, Director. I could hardly be called a real communist if someone weren’t denouncing me.
—I have the ear of higher powers than you, and I’ll make sure any directives you make, regarding the re-education of any dancer in this troupe, will have to pass through me. And you can be sure that I’ll veto them.
Sneering, Jiang Qing turned to Wenge:
—Do you see what I mean, young Wenge? Are you watching this? It’s always interesting to see how men who claim to be radical treat women.
—Oh, don’t give me that, said Chao Ying.
—It was women who gave birth to human history, and all of its labour. Men’s contribution has been nothing more than a drop of sperm. Yet men can’t bear to move aside and let us take over the management of things.
—You’ll have to step over my grave.
—Do you hear that, Wenge? This man doesn’t want you to have the leading role, even though, of all the dancers in the troupe, you’re the most suited to it. He’s still got one foot in the old society. He’ll do everything to seal off a woman’s force. To tame it. To bind it. I wonder, has Director Chao ever read what Mao has written about the importance of women? Does he even know what the Sayings say about our equal role in the Revolution?
—I’m not getting into a quotation war with you, Commander.
—He won’t, Wenge, because he knows he’ll lose. He’s so busy upholding Mao’s principles on stage, he never bothers to actually look at them.
Wenge, cracking, put her hands over her face and began to cry.
A dancer ran in from the wings and put an arm around her.
—Do you see what you do? said Chao Ying, addressing Jiang Qing. The mess you make?
—Women are the only true proletariat left. It’s right for us to rebel. To unhorse the tyrant, wherever he’s found.
Jiang Qing’s whistle was on a cord around her neck, hidden in her shirt. She now pulled it out and brought it to her lips.
Chao Ying glanced up at the auditorium doors and saw the slits of light where they were being held ajar by Jiang Qing’s Red Guards.
—All right, Commander. All right. Let’s go to my office and have this out. It’s not good for the troupe to see us argue. I’m sure, after some rational discussion, we can reach a solution.
—I’m not interested in private committees, Director.
Jiang Qing put the end of the whistle between her teeth.
Chao Ying threw his arms up in exasperation:
—Why? Why are you doing this?
—The reason is quite clear, Director.
Jiang Qing took the whistle out from between her teeth and tapped her chin as she spoke.
—The pure essence of Revolution is concentrated in women, and Chinese women are the most numerous in the world. They are the motor of global rebellion. Is that not the very message of our ballet?
Chao Ying was no longer agitated, he now appeared serene, but it was a serenity as hard as iron, he was not giving up.
—Tong Hua isn’t ready for the role you want her to dance. Forcing her to do so would endanger the entire production. What if she makes a mistake? Do you want to embarrass her in front of our foreign guest? Do you want Mrs Marcos to see Chinese women as weak?
How exasperating it was of Chao Ying to put himself in a position where she had to injure him.
—Director, let me ask you a question.
She pointed the end of the whistle between his eyes.
—Have you ever given any thought as to why, when we were creating The Red Detachment of Women, we decided to have the ARMY CAPTAIN burned on a pyre, as opposed to having him shot or hung? Why did we choose death by fire for our hero when, historically, that has been a woman’s punishment? I’ve been thinking a lot about this of late. Why didn’t we have the ARMY CAPTAIN shoot himself, or put a sword into his own heart, given that those are the masculine methods? And I think I may have fig
ured it out. The role of the ARMY CAPTAIN has always been a female one.
She paused to allow the silence which had formed around her words to deepen.
Then she blew the whistle.
For the rest of the day and the next morning, she worked to reconcile Wenge to the idea of playing the ARMY CAPTAIN in public, and to integrate her performance into the ballet. The other dancers put up little resistance to their new lead. Having witnessed the Red Guards chase Zhu Xi through the auditorium, then break his little finger as a punishment for his recalcitrance, the other dancers understood that this was the turn things had taken, and that it was in their interests to go with it. The strongest resistance came from Wenge herself, who had trouble believing in her right to be the centre of attention and had to be pressurised into it. Jiang Qing sympathised with her. It was hard to have confidence as a woman. One was on one’s own.
Chao Ying, when threatened with arrest, agreed not to impede Jiang Qing’s vision, nor to escalate the row, but he declined to partake further in the rehearsals, choosing instead to lodge himself in the back row of the stalls, and from there to sulk. His assistants were more helpful. They offered their services to Jiang Qing, who rewarded them with responsibilities beyond their experience. And why not? There was a female chivalry, too: woman for woman, sister helping sister.
Time was short. If they wanted the performance to be correct, a model, they would have to work until midnight tonight, and then do at least two run-throughs tomorrow. Jiang Qing did not like to rehearse on the same day as a performance, she thought it brought bad luck, but these were exceptional circumstances, in whose advent luck had played no part. Strength of will had got them to where they were; now all the stops had to be pulled out to reach the end. The dancers were on lock-in. The physiotherapists on call. The musicians and the crew had been told that they would not see their families until after the performance. Her message to her assistants: absolutely no disturbances.
—Commander—
—Comrade Shit-tank! What did I tell you?
—I’m sorry, Commander, but I thought you ought to know, she’s here. The First Lady of the Philippines has arrived in China.
Jiang Qing rushed from the auditorium to a nearby office, the Sichuan Room, where a television had been set up on a sideboard and a single armchair placed in front of it. She put herself behind the armchair, leaning on the backrest. On screen were pictures from the airport: an aeroplane parked on the tarmac, a mobile staircase creeping towards the plane door, and two thousand children in formation, dancing and waving pom-poms.
—Live, said the assistant. Can you believe it?
—Shut up and hand me that phone.
The assistant brought the phone from the desk, careful not to get the wire caught in the furniture, and put it down on the arm of the chair.
—I’ll put it here for you, shall I?
—Stop talking, you insect, and get out!
Once alone, she called Li Na.
—Daughter, are you watching this?
—Yes.
They did not say any more, but they kept the receiver to their ears, so they could hear the rhythm of each other’s breathing change as the aeroplane door opened and Mrs Marcos stepped out dressed in a white gown that reached all the way to the ground and that shimmered in the sun: a sun which, on this autumn day in Beijing, was the whole sky. Mrs Marcos descended the steps as if from a high temple: floating. At the bottom she accepted a bouquet of flowers, waved east, waved west, and waved east again, before being accosted by the official welcoming party: the Vice-Premier, some Central Committee members, various mid-level diplomats.
Jiang Qing put the phone receiver to her chest to muffle it and shouted:
—Someone!
The same assistant came back in.
—Look, she said, pointing to the screen. I was told only ranks above nine could be at the airport. Nobodies, the lot of them. B-listers. Hangers-on. I’m mortified. Are you mortified?
—Yes, Commander.
—I should meet Mrs Marcos today as well. She deserves to have someone important shake her hand. Let’s arrange to have her brought to me before she’s taken to the guest villa.
—The schedule has been decided, Commander. You’ll have a chance to greet her tomorrow before the performance. And you’ll be at the same table at the banquet afterwards.
—That’s not good enough. Why should I have to wait? And why should Mrs Marcos be snubbed in such a manner? It’s outrageous.
—Courtesy and protocol require that the First Lady be given time to rest before starting formal activities.
She thought about this a minute:
—You turtle’s egg. I hope you get pockmarks all over your head. Get out.
Mrs Marcos walked the path between the assembled children. At one point she stopped to appreciate the dancing, and the camera went in close, cutting off the pack of panting men that surrounded her, and giving the viewers a proper look at her face.
Jiang Qing swallowed.
On the other end of the line, Li Na was holding her breath.
It was an Asian face, but it had an expression which had disappeared from China. One could walk the streets of Beijing for a lifetime and never find an expression like it. Serene and gentle and kind — and satisfied. In China, to be given responsibility, one had to suffer, to starve, to work oneself to the bone; Mrs Marcos appeared never to have worked a day in her life. She glowed, not with the vigour of revolutionary struggle, but as though transfused with Western blood. She shone, she burned, dangerously so, in the style of high-class productions, of colour films, of millionaire’s magazines, of Toscanini.
Jiang Qing froze: Mrs Marcos was looking into the camera, as though straight at her. It was only a second, yet in Jiang Qing’s mind it lasted much longer; a protracted instant in which the world turned inside out, and Jiang Qing became the watched, Mrs Marcos the watcher. The television was Mrs Marcos’s own camera. China, which before had not been lit, was now lit, the sun from the West had come out, and Mrs Marcos could see everything for herself.
What will she make of us?
How will she judge us?
Jiang Qing longed to hear her praise. And also feared her criticism. Even a mild objection, coming from those eyes, would break her heart.
Iris
1968
xiv.
Downstairs in the basement flat, Sid gave her a Dexedrine from his hospital stash, which she swallowed then and there without water. Neel and Sid were studying on opposite sides of their little table, textbooks open in front of them, sharing a single oil lamp. She sat down on the stool between them, eliciting grumbles and moans, but they would put up with her for a few more minutes, she knew.
She popped and chewed a second pill, which she demanded by opening her palm like a beggar on the street.
—Don’t look at me like that. It’s an emergency.
She despised the bourgeois housewives who took uppers to reduce their waists nearly as much as she despised the plastic hippies who took them for the illusion of power they gave. When she met anyone who was on uppers, she tried to get them off them. Uppers removed the worry of sleeping and eating, which was an advantage, but they did not do enough for the mind, and it was the mind that most people wanted changed, which was why, more often than not, uppers led to junk.
—You know me, boys. I don’t normally do this shit. But I need something right now. It’s fucking crazy up there.
The commune was overfull with the new heads from Paris. The Maoists.
—We’re supposed to be collaborating on a thing. I don’t know, a happening, an anything. Not much activity going on, though. Just lots of talk. And you wouldn’t believe what these Mao freaks are saying.
Violence is an antitoxin. You have to fight to win peace.
—I tried arguing with them, but they don’t listen to me. They
only listen to one person. Doris. Because she’s been to China.
As she spoke, Iris peered into the dark corner, trying to make out whether the movement of the little curtain hung across the coal heap was caused by a draught or by vermin. The only light that reached the room came through the bars of a small window set high in the wall; the bottom of the window frame made a precise line with the path outside. Iris’s attention was drawn there now by a further darkening caused by the wheels of a passing pram, and a pair of stocky, stockinged legs following after. The legs halted to the left of the frame, where the lodging house steps began, and a woman’s voice could be heard responding to a man’s.
Iris broke off and rushed to the window, her bells jingling as she went. Looking up at an angle, she could see the bonnet of a police car parked on the road outside, and, through the woman’s legs, a couple of paces further along, a pair of brightly shined shoes.
—Had any trouble, have you, madam? the copper was saying.
—Ow yeah, the woman was saying, awful nuisances, i’nt they? Darkies and aggro and loud music at all hours—
Iris made for the door:
—Sorry, loves, gotta handle this. Adore you as ever.
She went up to the main door. Before opening, she breathed into her hand, smelled her breath. Nothing bad came back: after a while the body began to clean itself.
She opened the door and stepped outside. The woman was Iris’s age, though she looked twice that, with her three-quarter-length coat, worn as a fingers-up to the warm weather, and her backcombed hive held in by a floral scarf, knotted at the chin, a single curl springing free at the fringe. Her name was Jackson, which Iris knew because her son, Derik Jackson, was one of the local boys whom Iris brought into Wherehouse to make art from time to time.
—Can I help you, Mrs J? Iris said.
Startled, Jackson’s eyes widened first, then slowly narrowed as she wiped a look down Iris’s front. She seized the pram handle and jammed a foot on the low bar in order to lever the stiff front wheels into the air and get the back wheels moving.