The Sisters Mao

by Gavin McCrea

  Eva knew Álvaro was not comfortable, either, with the power that Iris and Doris had so quickly assumed in the collective. He too had been happy with the previous regime. Under Eva’s leadership, the group’s ethos of equality had not required him to relinquish his natural privileges. When he had spoken, he had been listened to. He had not had to do women’s tasks like cooking or keeping house. He had not had to get out of his seat to answer the door or change the record; his cup of tea was brought to him, it was never his turn to make it. According to the biological laws, he had occupied a position of slightly elevated equality, from which no one threatened to topple him. The old regime had been nice like that. But Iris and Doris were not nice. They were unpredictable. Tricky. They could not be trusted to respect the unspoken rules. Which was why Eva could not understand why Álvaro was supporting them. Was he not afraid, as Eva was, of where they were leading them?

  —Iris’s plan isn’t going to save this place from demolition, she said.

  —I don’t think anyone really believes it will.

  —Then what are we doing it for?

  He must have felt her gaze on his skin because he now turned round and met it square on.

  —When you’re thinking about all of this stuff, Eva, do you ever think about what we’ll do? When this place comes down? Is there a plan B?

  Eva shook her head. Artists, real ones, did not make backup plans. Those with a cushion to fall back on invariably fell back on it. When things got tough, they lay down, which was what they had intended to do all along. It was why they bought the cushion in the first place.

  —Until Wherehouse disappears, she said, there’s only Wherehouse. Thinking about what comes next would only make it a reality.

  —That’s mystical thinking. Deluded.

  —What’s deluded is people planning for the end of what they love. That’s what really destroys things.

  Suddenly worked up, visibly hot, Álvaro thrashed about until he had rid himself of his jeans. One sock came off in the melée; the other stayed stubbornly in place.

  —What is it, Álvy?

  —I’m hot.

  He subsided, panting.

  —And also I’m thinking, after this place gets torn down—

  —What?

  —we could go to Spain.

  Eva examined his face in an effort to determine whether or not he was serious, and when she saw that he was, said:

  —No, we couldn’t, you fool. You’ve overstayed your student visa. It was a miracle you got through immigration after Paris. If you leave again, they won’t let you back in. Not a chance.

  —You overestimate Her Majesty’s Government.

  —You underestimate them. You’ve just been deported from France. Your name is known to the English authorities.

  —Maybe I don’t want to come back.

  She was stunned:

  —You don’t mean that.

  —Maybe I do. Going back to Spain has always been an option.

  —You’re a known Leftist, Álvy. An expatriate agitator. I’d bet my life you’re on some list.

  —Franco can’t live forever. Change will come. We could be part of that change.

  —Not interested. I’m staying here. England is my home. I thought you’d made it yours.

  —We could live more cheaply in Spain. Even under the regime, a person lives better. We could get a flat of our own.

  —With what money? We’d have to get jobs.

  —My parents would help. You know they know people.

  —Not this again. You want to manage a factory? Or work in a bank?

  —Those aren’t the only choices. We could work in bars in the evening and make art during the day.

  —You mean exhaust ourselves at night and sleep all morning, dabble for an hour at something worthless before we start work again, like all the other pretend artists in the world? We don’t have to go to Spain to do that. We could do that here. We’d have plenty of company.

  —So, as ever with you, it’s all or nothing.

  —Yes.

  —I’d like to see you cope with nothing.

  —A half-measure is nothing.

  And with half-measures, they, Eva and Álvaro, would be nothing. For love, like art, could not flourish in circumstances dominated by money and meaningless work. Love required complete economic and personal freedom. Leisure time. The opportunity to engage in absorbing activities, which, when shared, led to deep union. This was what made love so rare. It required special people who were prepared to free up their lives for it.

  —So tell me this, he said. If I stay—

  —Sounds like you’re about to make an ultimatum.

  —Listen. If I stay, are we going to be together? You promise we’ll stay together as a couple?

  —I’m not following.

  He gathered up the bedsheet until there was a mass of folds resting on his chest, around which he put his arms, a surrogate embrace.

  —Do you fancy Sunny?

  —Álvy. He’s a Sikh.

  —So?

  —So, no. I don’t fancy him.

  —So there’s only me in your heart?

  —Yes.

  —Then we should get married.

  She was not expecting a proposal, but neither was she surprised that one came now. It was a kind of vengeance that most couples unleashed upon one another, was it not? If we are unhappy, if we dislike each other, if we must suffer for the fact of no longer being single, then it is probably about time we got hitched.

  —Well?

  —I’ll think about it.

  —That’s the same as maybe. You hate maybes.

  —You can’t spring this on me and expect an answer straight away.

  —That’s too much to ask? Jesus. Most men would—

  —I don’t give a fuck what most men would do.

  —I was going to say they’d take your response for a no.

  —Most men are fucking idiots.

  —I feel like a fucking idiot right now.

  She had a horror of weddings, the congratulations and the cheers, the forced sentiments, the standing around, glass in hand, with a permanent grin on your face.

  —It couldn’t be a church thing. Nothing Catholic.

  —Course not.

  —You say that now, but when the time comes you’ll start wanting to please your family.

  —No, I won’t. We’d do it our own way.

  —Okay, I just need some time.

  —You shouldn’t need time.

  —

  —All right. How long?

  She hesitated, her desire to give in locked with a ferocious resolve to hang on to herself. Could she be taken over and remain intact? Had there ever been a marriage that was not about possession or being possessed? Her parents’ perhaps, and that had ended as any ordinary marriage did, with the same accusations, the same recriminations. Who got to be the exception?

  —I’ll tell you in a few days. But don’t bother me with it in the meantime. Don’t come at me, asking. That’s guaranteed to make me say no. Leave me be, forget we ever talked about it, and I’ll let you know when my mind’s made up.

  The Sing-Song Tribunal had been a marriage story. At its centre was the character of LIXIN, a peasant girl born in rural Sichuan who runs away to Shanghai to escape an abusive father. In Shanghai LIXIN becomes a dancer, in other words a sort of high-class prostitute, at a nightclub called Sassoon’s Sing-Song House. At Sassoon’s, LIXIN meets GEORGE, a wealthy English businessman, already married, who becomes one of her regular customers. Max, when writing the play, had wanted it to contain many grand themes, so at this point, at the meeting of LIXIN and GEORGE, the play explodes: there is cabaret, there is glitz, there is poverty, there is squalor, there is capitalism, there is imperialism, there is violence, there is rape, the
re is Western arrogance, there is Chinese pride, there is worker uprising, there is World War II, there is civil war, there is revolutionary war, there is Mao’s countryside commune, there is a communist victory parade, and ultimately, in a final courtroom scene, there is retribution. But in essence, stripped down to its bones, with all the singing and dancing and fighting taken away, the question the play poses is: will GEORGE divorce his English wife and ask LIXIN to marry him? After three hours of will they, won’t they?, in the end he does. GEORGE marries LIXIN, then together they marry the Cause.

  Eva’s role was that of the young LIXIN, covering the period from LIXIN’s childhood in the countryside to her arrival in Shanghai. The role required her to be on stage for most of the first half. Her final appearance was at the beginning of the second, when LIXIN’s entry into womanhood was represented by a solemn ceremony in which she hands her mask over to the adult LIXIN (who, since her mother’s rejection of the role, was being played by a man called William).

  As late as the final run-throughs, Eva had not yet succeeded in getting to the end of her bit without slipping up and causing an embarrassing interruption. Every day, after her last scene, she rushed into the wings and immediately burst into tears because she knew that, despite months of rehearsals, still she had not learned to walk by herself; rather she was being carried like an infant by the rest of the ensemble through every step of her performance. When she did not know the lines, or when she overplayed, or acted statically, or was in the wrong position, they covered for her, pulled her up and along, prevented her from falling down completely. Everyone did their bit to help. Her mother more than anyone else. Her mother — the true actress amongst the mere enthusiasts — always seemed to be nearby, hovering there, ready to step in. Eva saw flashes of her mother’s costume, THE JUDGE’s wig and scarlet robe, whenever she turned her head. She heard the quiet directions that her mother gave her when she passed behind. By moving into the spaces that Eva left unfilled on stage, her mother assumed responsibility for Eva’s shortcomings. With nothing more than a look, her mother seduced bigger and better gestures out of her. At the end of each rehearsal her mother gave her little written notes saying, Loosen up! or Tighten up! (depending), or with recommendations to listen to a particular piece of jazz or to read a certain poem. Sometimes she simply wrapped her arms around her and kissed her and whispered into her ear, You’re doing the best you can, darling, and that’s all you can do.

  And still, every time, Eva cried. It was blatant: she was not up to the part. There was no chance she would be ready for opening night, or for any night after that. She did not have her mother’s talent. She did not have any talent, full stop. That was the truth of the situation, which she knew because her father did not spare her from it.

  —You’re not up to the part. There’s no way you’ll be ready for opening night.

  These, his exact words, spoken at the top of his voice, in front of everybody. And even that was her fault. She was requiring her father to be hard. She needed to be drilled by him, made to behave in the way he thought was right, because she was so often wrong. As a director, her father was guided more by what he did not want than by what he wanted. He did not tell her: do this. Instead he said: do not do that. And he punished her when she persisted. The method was not hard to understand. Eva was the reliable stone on which he broke open his mouth, and she could not complain about being badly treated because she only had herself to blame; she was not heeding the basic laws.

  From the wings, through the tears in her eyes, she watched the rest of the rehearsal and did not fail to notice how much lighter the play was, how much faster and smoother it ran, now that William was in the role of LIXIN and she was banished. How happy everyone looked, how relieved. And how dark it was where she stood.

  After rehearsals, her mother normally went straight to her room without saying goodnight to anyone, and it was understood that she was not to be disturbed. But once, a few days before opening night, Eva went to her, with the intention of telling her that she was dropping out. Mama, she was going to say, it’s all been a mistake. I’m the wrong choice. I’m not an actress and don’t ever want to be one. Her mind was made up, she would not be appearing in The Sing-Song Tribunal. William would have to play the entire part, adult and child, all by himself.

  —Mama? she said, knocking on the door. Mama, are you still awake?

  Inside, her mother was on her back on the bed, still in costume. Iris was lying beside her.

  —Oh. You’re already in bed? Sorry.

  The springs of the mattress creaked as her mother turned onto her side and beckoned Eva in:

  —It’s all right, darling. This is the life of the actress. The world gets to see us in all our states.

  Approaching the bed, Eva picked up THE JUDGE’s wig from where her mother had dropped it on the floor, and put it onto the dressing table. She turned the chair round so that it was facing the bed and sat down. Leaned onto her thighs so as to avoid speaking down to her mother and to ensure, instead, that they were on a level.

  —You’re still in your costume, Mama, she said. It’ll get creased like that.

  —Sorry. I can see you’re tired. I’ll come back in the morning.

  Alissa reached out a hand and touched Eva’s knee.

  —Stop apologising for yourself, child. You’re fine where you are.

  Her mother’s hand slipped off Eva’s knee and onto the floor, and she kept it there, so that she now lay with one arm hanging off the side of the bed.

  —Mama, said Eva, I want to tell you something.

  —Hmm? her mother said. The rehearsal went well, didn’t it? Everybody did good work today, I thought.

  —Mama, said Eva, if you’ll permit me to say—

  Her mother drew her fallen arm up and put it lying on her side:

  —What is it, Eva?

  Behind her mother, Iris sat up and rubbed her eyes. Peered out over the undulation of their mother’s hip.

  —Mama, said Eva, I think, well, I think I’m in a phase where I don’t think I’m an actress at all.

  —Not an actress?

  —I feel I’m only giving the impression of being one. Like, it’s all been blown out of proportion and I’m an ab-so-lute fake.

  —Nonsense.

  Her mother pressed her elbow into the mattress and propped her head up on a hand.

  —For your age, she said, you’re doing remarkably well.

  —For my age, maybe. But I think that’s the point. My role is the young LIXIN but I don’t think it’s for a young person. It’s too hard.

  —Eva, precious—

  Her mother threw her legs off the bed and came to sit up.

  —This is just the jitters. It happens to all of us. Go to bed. Get some rest. You’ll feel all right in the morning.

  —No, Mama. I mean it. I can’t do it. Don’t make me, please.

  Her mother brought her palms to her face and breathed loudly into them. Now, revealing herself again, she said:

  —Let me share something with you, Eva. A professional secret. Are you listening?

  Eva nodded, though she did not like the sound of what was coming.

  —All actors get cold feet. It happens to me all the time. The key to getting past it is to look at what’s causing it. What thoughts are causing the fear? For me, it’s always the same. I can’t bear the thought of myself as successful in a society like ours. As a result, I get these feelings of wanting to sabotage my own work. I won’t be happy until I destroy everything. But you’ve got to remember that society doesn’t need perfect art. It just needs people who try to make art. Of any kind. Good or bad. People who are willing to fail, that’s what helps societies grow and what, in the end, brings about change in the ww—

  Her father, seeing the door ajar and the light on inside, had entered without knocking.

  —Oh good, you’re still up. Doris
, come in!

  Doris slinked in. Came to stand beside him.

  Eva turned away a little, so that the newcomers could not see the distress on her face. She heard her mother say:

  —What do you two want?

  Eva pinched the bridge of her nose and fought against her tears. She could not accept the fact of all of these people around her in this moment, this total experience, because it meant a loss of control. She was, at once, desperately angry and desperately trying to avoid it. If this double feeling was like anything, it was like standing before the highest mountain, on the cusp of ascent, while being forced down, down into the ravine, the blackest stream.

  —Eva, Iris, said her father. Go and wait outside please.

  —Leave them where they are, said her mother. I want them to hear whatever you have you say to me.

  —You want to turn them against me.

  —Only you have that power, Paul.

  Eva heard her mother call her name. She turned to see her mother on her feet, taking off THE JUDGE’s robe.

  —Can you give me a hand please, darling?

  Eva wiped her face quickly before helping her mother undress. She folded the robe over the back of the chair. Then crept over to the bed and sat down beside Iris.

  Her mother, standing just a couple of paces way from her father and Doris, unzipped the black jumpsuit that functioned as the base layer of her costume and undressed as far as her underwear, the combination of high-waisted pants and sensible bra (minus a girdle) that her father used to say he liked because it showed her social conscience. Without covering herself, she rummaged in her bag for her pills, downers at this time, and took two together without water.

  —It’s past midnight, Paul, and I didn’t sleep last night. So if you’ve got something to say, for God sake say it, so I can go to bed and be done with you.

  —Stop being so defensive. We just need to talk.

  Her father took her mother’s dressing gown from the hook on the door. Threw it to her. She plunged her arms into the gown’s sleeves. Tied a knot at the waist. Plonked down at the dressing table and began to cream her face. All the while keeping her eyes on Paul and Doris through the mirror in front.