by Gavin McCrea
Alissa was one of only six girls to become a member of the Society that term. According to the inside voices, she had been ranked first and already tipped for an upcoming lead. Max wasted no time in inviting her to tea. After that, they started going everywhere together. Boating up to Grantchester. Walking over Coe Fen. Having late dinner at the Taj Mahal. Max, heir to an arms empire, and Alissa, from a well-known family of hotel owners: wherever they were, people took notice. Rich, striking, rebellious: just by walking into a room, they made a difference. The Cambridge couple that everyone wanted to know, and that everyone already presumed would end in marriage.
—While neither Alissa nor I created this illusion, Max told Doris now, we were guilty of failing to stop it magnifying and spreading. We liked the attention, I suppose. But the fact was, ours was a platonic relationship. A meeting of minds only.
They met to talk about politics and to read plays and to help each other with their essays, and that was all. Paul, however, wracked by jealousy, refused to believe it. Such simple devotion of man to woman, without any sexual attachment, was unfathomable to him. Max had to have been courting Alissa, there was no other explanation. And that being the case, Paul would court her too.
—Don’t misunderstand me, Max said. Paul didn’t force himself to love Alissa just because he thought I did. As soon as he got to know her, he did fall for her. I just brought them together. I was the mediator.
Paul made a direct appeal to Max. He was terrified of exclusion, he said, and begged Max to invite him to his meetings with Alissa. The subsequent meetings of the three, which took place in Max’s room and sometimes lasted for twelve, fourteen, sixteen hours, sent more than a whiff of scandal through the Cambridge corridors. Much to the threesome’s delight, stories of sexual games and political plots and esoteric rituals began to circulate. When Alissa announced that she was going to audition for the female lead in the forthcoming Society production of Strindberg’s Miss Julie, Paul managed to convince Max not to go for the male part. You’re a VANYA, Max, Paul told him, You’re a MACBETH. Maybe one day a HAMLET. But, for goodness sake, you’re not and never will be a JEAN.
When the cast list was posted on the board, with Paul’s name under Alissa’s, Max called them to his room and opened a bottle of champagne in their honour. When they had polished that off, they went out to crawl the bars. So elated were they, and so involved in each other, they missed Alissa’s curfew. They walked her back to Newnham with the intention of helping her to sneak in. Paul helped Alissa to scale a wall, from which she could climb over the spiked railings. The spikes cut her hand and pierced her skirt, but numbed by giddiness and drink, she managed to get over without seriously harming herself. From the other side, she beckoned them to follow her. Paul did not hesitate. Once over, and only slightly grazed, he turned to goad Max on — but Max, in the light of a single match, was shaking his head. No, you two go ahead, he said. MISS JULIE and JEAN.
—Here I am, Paul said now, coming out of the club with their jackets and cardigans across his arm. Miss me?
—Where are our drinks? said Max.
—Still in their bottles. I gave up waiting to be served. I’ve decided we’re bored of this place.
Paul handed Doris her cardigan:
—So has Max told you yet?
—Told me what? she said.
—That he hates jazz.
Max laughed:
—It’s true.
Doris put her cardigan over her shoulders:
—What are we doing here then?
—Paul likes it. I come for him.
—Aye, a real martyr.
Paul leaned into Doris’s ear, as if to tell her a secret, but spoke loudly enough for Max to hear.
—Really it’s the jazz people he hates.
—All pretension, said Max. No substance.
—What did I tell you? said Paul with a sly wink.
—They didn’t seem so bad to me, Doris said. No one laughed at my dancing.
Max touched her arm sympathetically:
—Aw, bless you.
Paul invited Max to join them at The East Wind for a nightcap.
—Kind of you, Max said, but I think I’ll stay out and see what other trouble I can find.
He slapped Paul on the back. Kissed Doris on both cheeks.
—Go and be happy.
—Don’t stay out too late, said Paul, if you’re coming to rehearsals tomorrow.
—We’ll see.
Emboldened by drink, or perhaps by sudden feeling, Doris stepped in to hug Max. His thin frame accepted her embrace and allowed it to linger.
—Doris Lever, he said. It’s perfectly brilliant of Paul to have found you.
Once back at the flat in Marylebone — he was the only member of The East Wind not to live in the lodging house — Max went straight to the desk and wrote Alissa a letter. He would not be returning to rehearsals, he told her. He had decided to leave England again, for the scene here depressed him, and, despite the best efforts of The East Wind, he saw little hope of it changing. As far as he was concerned, The Sing-Song Tribunal no longer belonged to him. It was Alissa’s property now. She could do with it whatsoever she wished. His only request was that she should arrange to have his name blacked out of the brochures and the promotional posters for the production. He no longer wanted to be associated with it. As for Doris, his advice to Alissa was this:
The time has come to put an end to this pantomime you are too good ever to have appeared in. Paul, I have never shied away from telling you, is not a worthy counterpart for you. He is a pygmy and you are a giant of the age; he does not gain from having you tower over him any more than you do from having him cower beneath you. You need him only in order to glory in your feat of loyalty and to reproach him for his disloyalty, and in this manner you torture him and you mortify yourself. The moment has come to disentangle yourself from this mad dance of dependence. Stop devastating yourself by Paul’s failures. Set him free. Leave him to his girl, who represents the most he can hope to win in this lifetime. You, on the other hand, are made for more. Go. Be the woman who gets there. In your heart of hearts, is that not what you desire?
Max put the letter in the envelope, wrote Alison on the front (it had been his idea that she adopt the stage name Alissa) and left the letter on the table by the front door so as to remember to post it in the morning.
Max had not come to rehearsals for a couple of days, no one had seen him or heard from him, so as soon as Eva saw his handwriting on the envelope, she understood the importance of its contents. She picked the rest of the letters off the hall floor, put them under her arm, and slipped through the lodging house door to the steps outside. Glanced up and down the empty road. It was her job to hand out the post. A responsibility she took seriously. Helping out in this way functioned in her mind as a kind of apology to the other actors for her deficiencies, and made her feel a little less useless, a little less hated. She scanned the envelope again and thought about the morality of what she was about to do. It was wrong; it would make her even less popular if she was found out; and she was going to do it anyway. Something — the sense of a larger duty — was urging her on.
At speed, with her thumbnail, paying little attention to how it was tearing or to the problem of how she would restore it, she opened the seal. Read the letter quickly once. Then read it more slowly a second time. Stuffed it back in.
Her heart pounding, she glanced up the road again.
Then down at the tattered envelope.
And, in the next instant, felt an immense wave of relief.
The lifting off of a terrible weight.
For, while it was true that she could destroy this letter and by that means prevent her mother ever setting eyes on it, it was also true that she could give it to her, open and read as it was, and in doing so say to her: End this game, Mama. Stop this play. If you can’t d
o it for Max, if you can’t do it for Papa, then do it for me. Put me out of my misery.
I
Jiang Qing
1974
xvi.
Late September was when things ripened in the garden. Peaches, apples, apricots, jujube, pears, and on the branches, everywhere, heaving breasts and bright flashing eyes. Around the South Lake, the reeds had grown thick and the bulrush seeds were scattering in the breeze. The surface of the water was covered by lotus leaves. The sky was clear, the air crisp. The sun, infused a dark red, was sinking, and the shadows were long and slanted. The world was serene, though there were many sounds: Jiang Qing could hear them reverberating in her chest as she looked up to see whether the heavens were obeying her meteorologist.
—He told me that dusk would overtake us at a quarter past six exactly, she said to her assistants, who were standing around her, following her gaze. If he’s right, we have an hour of daylight left. But let’s get the lanterns going now anyway, before it darkens. The effect of the transition will be more powerful that way.
They were in the moon-viewing pavilion on the centre of the lake. Earlier, Jiang Qing had had the imperial-era lanterns taken out of storage and hung around. Lanterns of crystal and glass tied along the beams and balustrades. Lanterns of silk gauze on bamboo poles dug into the surrounding earth. Hundreds of rice-paper and bast lanterns fastened to the branches of the bare willow trees nearby. And many more, made of shells and feathers, in the form of water lilies and ducks, floating on the water. On her command now, her assistants spread out and began to light them all.
—Be extra careful with your tinder sticks, she called after them. These lanterns are irreplaceable. I won’t tolerate damage caused by clumsiness or ineptitude.
Her original plan had been to hang her birdcages alongside the lanterns, so that Mrs Marcos could admire her parrots and cockatoos and white-eyes also, but it was pointed out that the chirping would interfere with the listening bugs hidden inside the lanterns, so that idea was dropped. Instead Jiang Qing put up some modest examples of her calligraphy.
SERVE THE PEOPLE WITH HEART AND SOUL
FIGHT SELFISHNESS
REPUDIATE REVISIONISM
TRUST THE PARTY
TRUST THE MASSES
—A bit vain, don’t you think, Ma, said Li Na, whom Jiang Qing had asked to come and help. Putting your own work up there.
—I don’t think so. It’s my handwriting all right, do you like it? But the slogans themselves are from and for the people. I’m trying to counterbalance this rather traditional setting with voices from the New China.
—I don’t know. It seems a bit—
—They use calligraphy practice in the prisons now. It’s a great way to straighten a person out. I’d assign you a tutor, if I thought you’d stick to it longer than a minute. I worry about your ideological progress, Li Na, really I do.
Li Na shrugged and turned away. Busied herself with the presentation of the food on the central table, rearranging the platters so that the tastes and colours were more harmoniously spread and the better dishes easier to reach. Jiang Qing watched her out of the corner of her eye. Li Na had complied with Jiang Qing’s order to come dressed like a proper Chinese. Lenin suit. No make-up or sunglasses. Flat shoes. Her one slip was to forget to remove a plastic grip from her hair — the kind that members of artistic families used to make statements about themselves — but this was easily swapped for a plain pin. Jiang Qing herself had gone for an off-white blouse and brown skirt, and, to keep off the chill, a lambswool cardigan and a silk scarf tied at the neck. Having been informed of Mrs Marcos’s unusual height, she had permitted herself a small heel.
—What time is she coming? Li Na called back over her shoulder.
Jiang Qing was shaken out of her paralysis:
—She’ll be here any minute.
—You’re going to get in trouble, Ma. You’re going way off programme with this.
—I’m told our guest was delighted to receive my invitation. That’s all that should count.
—When word gets out, it’s going to piss a lot of people off.
—Just focus on doing a good job, my child, okay?
—You’re in hot water, Ma. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
With the help of her loyal Red Guards, Jiang Qing had managed to get a message to Mrs Marcos inviting her to a private meeting before the ballet performance. I hope you don’t find me presumptuous, the note had said, I’m simply impatient to know you. It’s said that a single meeting is too short to make a friend, yet I feel this won’t apply to us as we already have so much in common.
—Are you nervous? said Li Na, coming to help Jiang Qing straighten the alignment of the chairs.
—No, said Jiang Qing. Have you been practising like I said?
—A little. But I’m not nearly good enough. Honestly, you should get Nancy Wang to translate for you.
—I can’t bring in anyone official. This has to be off the record.
—I was being sarcastic.
—I don’t even know what that means. You’ll do a better job than her anyway because you’ll tell me precisely what Mrs Marcos is saying. Nancy is good, but in my experience she tends towards approximation. Today I want word for word. No flights of poetry, got it? This isn’t your moment for freedom of expression.
—Are you really going to make me do this?
—I was up late last night going over my Thousand English Sentences. I used to know them off by heart, but it has been such a long time since I’ve practiced, I fear I’ve forgotten everything. Objectively, it shouldn’t be that hard, should it? These foreigners only have twenty-six letters to deal with, we have two thousand. But I’ve lost confidence. I don’t quite trust myself. I need you by my side.
—Well, I’m here. You’ve won.
At the entrance to the pavilion, one of Jiang Qing’s assistants was on a stepladder, lighting one of the harder-to-reach lanterns. Aware of the unevenness of the ground there, and judging the ladder’s position precarious, Jiang Qing went to stabilise it. Li Na accompanied her.
—It’s of great importance to hold yourself with dignity in front of Mrs Marcos, Jiang Qing said to her daughter. You mustn’t do anything that will cause China to lose face abroad.
The assistant came down, bowed his thanks to Jiang Qing and transported the ladder to the pillar on the other side. Jiang Qing went there with him and held the ladder as before.
—Don’t look too interested or smile too often. Don’t open your mouth too wide, you sometimes do that. And don’t use gestures. Keep your hands under the table. Restrict your face. Don’t expose your teeth.
The assistant came down and took the ladder away, and Jiang Qing and Li Na went back into the pavilion. Seeing nothing else that needed her immediate attention, Jiang Qing went to the balustrade and looked out onto the lake. Li Na came to stand beside her, and together they watched a second assistant in high wellingtons wade into the water and create miniature waves with his fingers in order to send the floating lanterns further out. The sun was projecting brilliant gold reflections onto the water, overwhelming the little points of light from the lanterns. When it gets dark, though, yes then the effect will be—
—I want you to pay attention to yourself, daughter. Be vigilant. Don’t allow yourself to be hoodwinked. How Mrs Marcos behaves with us is not necessarily how she behaves in her own home. People, remember, discover a sense of decency when they get to another country. You shouldn’t assume that her demeanour is typical of a Rightist. If you find yourself getting drawn in by her, if you feel in any way overawed, you must rub your eyes and call to mind all the dirt and the darkness that we know to be lurking behind every reactionary’s façade.
Li Na turned round and leaned back onto the balustrade so that she was facing Jiang Qing. She wore an expression which announced she had something to say but req
uired an invitation to say it.
—What is it? said Jiang Qing.
—Are you warning me? said Li Na. Or yourself? Sounds to me like you’re worried you might get drawn in.
Jiang Qing laughed:
—Is this your famous sarcasm? I’ve been exposed to many Western influences in my time, but they’ve simply bounced off me. Why? Because I’ve undertaken a close study of our own history and traditions, our own folklore, and have tapped into the pulse of popular creative art. I’ve realised that the Revolution has its own beauty, and that the struggle against Western decadence and the cult of the ugly is a social task of supreme importance. This has served as an antidote.
Li Na raised her eyebrows in a manner that acknowledged what had been said without accepting any of it:
—So you’re immune.
—Not naturally. One isn’t born with a special resistance. One has to work to develop one.
Li Na hooked a hand onto her hip, a gesture denoting what? Pique? Incredulousness?
—You’ve given me some good advice there, Ma. Now can I give you some in return?
Jiang Qing smiled. How wonderful the young are. How they seem to have something we do not. A spirit. An openness. A fat cheek for slapping.
—I don’t mean to be disrespectful, truly, said Li Na, but when you speak to people it sometimes sounds as if you’re arguing with them. Tone it down a bit with our guest. I doubt she’ll be used to it. Foreigners generally aren’t.
—You speak like an expert on the subject, my child. Get many foreigners, do you? in your neck of the woods? A rural Chinese with the mouth of an Overseas. That’s what you are.
—I’ve given you my advice, for what it’s worth. You can take it or leave it.
Jiang Qing walked to the centre of the pavilion, fixed something on the table that did not need fixing, then walked back to her daughter.