by Gavin McCrea
—Do you remember what the Chairman wrote about looking at problems all-sidedly?
—
—Well?
—Give me a second, I’m thinking.
—When was the last time you studied his great essay On Contradiction? Shall I refresh your memory? In that profound and prophetic work, the Chairman tells us that to look at problems all-sidedly one must understand the characteristics of both aspects of a contradiction. Not only China, but also America. Not only the proletariat, but also the bourgeoisie. The peasants and also the landlords. The past and also—
—The future, yes, said Li Na. No contradictory aspect can exist in isolation. Without life, there would be no death. Without above, there would be no below. Without misfortune, there would be no good fortune. If one sees the part but not the whole, the trees but not the forest, it’s impossible to resolve a contradiction, and therefore impossible to accomplish the tasks of the Revolution.
—It’s coming back to you.
—Know the enemy and know yourself?
—Good. I haven’t entirely failed as a mother.
One of Jiang Qing’s Red Guards entered the pavilion and saluted.
Jiang Qing broke away from Li Na and went to him.
—What can you tell me?
The guard glanced over at Li Na.
—It’s all right, said Jiang Qing. My daughter is safe. You can speak freely.
—She’s left the guest villa, Commander. She’ll be here in a matter of minutes.
—Be precise, soldier. How many minutes?
—Three, maybe four.
—Have we managed to get a picture of what’s going on inside the villa?
—The central secretariat are having trouble picking up voices on the recording devices inside. It seems the guest and her people are running showers to cover up discussions. They’re also switching between Filipino and English with deliberate rapidity and using all sorts of unknown slang.
—Hmm. Well, we have the recordings. We can decipher it all later. Has anyone managed to see in?
—One of our agents in the villa did manage to get a quick look. He reports that the revolutionary pillowcases that you sent have been changed.
—NEVER FORGET CLASS STRUGGLE?
—Those ones. It appears Mrs Marcos brought her own.
—And what are they like?
—They have their own slogans, Commander. In English. According to our man, one says, GOOD GIRLS GO TO HEAVEN.
—And the other?
—BAD GIRLS GO EVERYWHERE.
Mrs Marcos entered the Compound by the lesser-used East Gate. As instructed, her limousines parked by the Bureau of Guards; on stepping out, she was met by Li Na and a contingent of Jiang Qing’s Red Guards. Together they came across the bridge on foot: she and Li Na forming a nucleus, her personal bodyguards an inner ring, and the Chinese soldiers an outer. At the centre of the bridge, at the viewing point between the two lion statues, she paused to admire the lake, and everyone stopped. Then she continued on, and everyone went with her. Once on the island, Jiang Qing’s Guards melted back, and Li Na led her up the path — through the artificial hills of rock and the sisal hemps and the lotuses and the oleanders and the magnolias and the camellias and the hibiscus and the rare pair of aspens which had grown towards each other and intertwined their arms like lovers — while her bodyguards shadowed them a few paces behind.
When Mrs Marcos passed under the aspens, Jiang Qing put away the binoculars and sat into one of the two armchairs at the centre of the pavilion. Waving her assistants out, she took up her qin and began strumming, for that was how she wanted to be lighted upon: alone and at peace in the creation of a simple piece of music.
Mrs Marcos did not come straight in but paused, once more, at the entrance; less waiting to see than waiting to be seen. Jiang Qing had already noted her black attire at a distance and had hoped that it would appear less sombre up close. She was disappointed in this respect. A neat Western-style suit in black wool. Black stockings. Black patent shoes with a single gold buckle. A large black alligator bag. A single string of pearls, as a contrast. The kind of outfit Jaqueline Onassis might wear in an aeroplane or at a funeral. Foreigners came to China and laughed at us for wearing the same type of clothes. They thought we did not have the freedom to wear what we liked. Perhaps this was the reason for Mrs Marcos’s choice today. Perhaps her intention was to be sensitive and to blend in. Jiang Qing wished she had not bothered.
Li Na conducted Mrs Marcos towards Jiang Qing. Halfway across the boards, Li Na stepped away and Mrs Marcos proceeded on her own.
The small departs, the great approaches.
Jiang Qing — her heart pounding — put down her qin and stood up.
Mrs Marcos was indeed a towering figure, made more so by the mound of hair frozen like ice on the top of her head. Jiang Qing found herself wanting to reach up and touch it. Take its temperature. Tap it. Crack it.
They shook hands.
Mrs Marcos’s cheekbones bulged when she smiled. Her complexion was flawless. There was not a trace of make-up visible on her face, though of course this did not mean there was none there. A Chinese garden looked completely natural, as if man had never been there, but in fact this effect was achieved by careful manipulation and conscious placement of each rock as well as the daily grooming of each leaf. Even divine women were human creations.
—Mrs Marcos, said Jiang Qing, what an honour. I’ve heard of your reputation for a long time.
—Madame Mao, said Mrs Marcos, you extraordinary woman. I’m your devoted admirer.
Jiang Qing blushed:
—Did she really say that?
—Don’t talk to me, Ma, said Li Na. Address yourself directly to the guest. Pretend I’m not here.
—Shut up.
That was a bad beginning.
—I know how it works.
Mrs Marcos’s bodyguards had formed a line a couple of paces behind her. Mrs Marcos now gestured to one of them, the most handsome, who stepped forward and gave her a bouquet of orchids, which she then presented to Jiang Qing.
—From the Philippines, Mrs Marcos said.
—All that way? Jiang Qing said, accepting them. They look so fresh.
—Orchids are our strongest flower. They live on air.
Jiang Qing handed the flowers to Li Na, who made space for them on the table.
Jiang Qing indicated to one of the two armchairs, and Mrs Marcos sat. Jiang Qing sat on the other chair, Li Na on a stool behind them.
As Mrs Marcos settled herself in — her alligator bag went onto her lap and not onto the ground — she glanced around, as if expecting further additions to the party.
—What’s wrong with her? said Jiang Qing to Li Na.
—From our conversation on the way here, said Li Na, I got the impression she was expecting Baba to be here.
—Has she been told the Chairman is indisposed?
—I imagine so. But, having come all this way, she probably expects to be given a slot with him.
—Tell her it’ll only be us today, unfortunately.
—
—Did you say, unfortunately?
—Yes.
Jiang Qing picked her own handbag up off the ground and put it in the space between her left thigh and the armrest. Unconsciously, without looking, she opened its white plastic flap, and fished around inside, feeling for her handkerchiefs and breath fresheners; she did not need them but the fact that she could feel them there comforted her.
—This is my daughter, Li Na, she said, leaning towards Mrs Marcos and smiling. I’ve asked her to interpret for us.
—How helpful of her, said Mrs Marcos. A delightful girl. You must be proud.
—How is her English? Is it good?
—Yes, it’s, umh, very good.
Yes, it’s very
good.
Jiang Qing understood this phrase, and the tone too, which told her it was a lie. She gave a disapproving look to Li Na, who stared defiantly back: You’re the one who wanted me here.
—You have daughters of your own, said Jiang Qing, do you not?
—Two. After this trip, I’m going straight to America to see my eldest, Imee. She’s at Princeton.
—Do you know what Princeton is, Ma? said Li Na.
—Of course I know what fucking Princeton is, said Jiang Qing. What’s she studying?
—Religion and what is it? said Mrs Marcos, tapping her chin. Religion and something else, I can’t remember.
—Religion? said Jiang Qing. That’s a subject?
—I’m going to meet her in New York, said Mrs Marcos, so we can do a spot of shopping. Have you ever been? I do love that city. It’s my R and R.
—Her what?
—R and R is what she said. I don’t know what that means.
—I’ve never been to America, said Jiang Qing. Is your daughter happy there?
—Very.
—You aren’t worried she might end up staying on and marrying a barbarian?
Mrs Marcos laughed:
—Not a chance. I’m determined to hitch her to a prince.
—
—Just a little joke. I’ve every confidence that after her graduation Imee will come back to the Philippines and make her own special contribution to our nation’s renewal.
—I’m glad to hear it. In America everyone carries guns, didn’t you know? If they don’t like you, they shoot you. They kill coloured people, just like that.
—I’d like to go to America, said Li Na.
Don’t get any ideas, you. You’re the property of China.
Li Na and Mrs Marcos chatted together for a moment, which then became a long minute. Jiang Qing grew uneasy and started coughing.
—What topic so absorbs you? America? Are you conspiring against me?
—
—The garden is beautiful, said Mrs Marcos.
—This is the best time of year for it, said Jiang Qing.
—The sunset is glorious. I have the sensation when I look up that it’s a solid thing, like a mottled shell, protecting us from what’s behind.
—Is she being poetic or is she expecting a response? said Jiang Qing.
—I don’t know, said Li Na. It might have something to do with her religion.
—Should I mention her religion?
Jiang Qing clicked her fingers and an assistant came and poured the tea. While they waited, Jiang Qing and Mrs Marcos locked eyes, and it was like a dream, a dream dreamed by someone else.
—We have stronger, if you want stronger, said Jiang Qing.
—Goodness, no, said Mrs Marcos. Tea is as strong as I get, at this time. At any time, if I’m honest.
Jiang Qing touched the rim of a plate of raw vegetables.
—Have you eaten? Might I offer you—?
Mrs Marcos shook her head:
—I’m going to save myself for the banquet tonight. I like to be nice and hungry.
—Are you looking forward to the performance?
—Why, of course. The theatre, and ballet in particular, is the most important thing in life.
—Did she say the most important?
—Are you going to trust me or not, Ma?
—It’s only through drama and dance, Mrs Marcos went on, that people can derive enjoyment and become cultivated and humane. Have you heard of Margot Fonteyn?
Mrs Marcos appeared to tremble under the impact of this name, and without waiting for an answer, began to speak at high speed, leaving Li Na struggling to keep up.
—What’s she saying?
—Shh, Ma, let her get to the end and I’ll give you the gist.
—I hate to drop names but Margot is a dear friend of mine, I was in London with her last year, it was fabulous, we went dancing at Annabel’s, can you imagine? me on the floor with the great Margot Fonteyn, doing the Paso Doble? well, my third-rate version of the Paso Doble if that counts. So I simply had to invite her to Manila to perform at my Cultural Centre, and you know what? she came, the absolute darling, and oh, I’ll never forget it, a highlight of my life—
—Margot Fonteyn’s style is what we in China would call decadent, Jiang Qing said. Tell her that.
—Decadent? said Mrs Marcos. Yes. We’d probably call it that too.
—Tell our guest that tonight she’s not going to see dancers prancing in pink tutus and pretending to be dying swans.
—Talk to her directly, Ma.
—Tonight you’re not going to—
—Is there a love story? said Mrs Marcos.
—Our approach is different, said Jiang Qing. In China you go to the ballet and find yourself in a battlefield.
—I look forward to discovering how you do things here.
Mrs Marcos took a sip of tea as she listened. Placing the cup back on the saucer, she grinned broadly and nodded.
—We aren’t just peddling new pieces of theatre, Mrs Marcos. With our model ballets, we’re waging war against feudalism, capitalism and revisionism. We intend to create a new kind of art worthy of the great people that we have now become.
—
—What does she think about that? said Jiang Qing.
—She’s not saying anything, said Li Na.
—Before, said Jiang Qing, whenever the Chinese heard a piece of Western music, or saw a piece of Western dance, they assumed unthinkingly that it was superior to our own. It never seriously occurred to them that new Chinese works, true revolutionary art, could be composed.
Jiang Qing signalled to her assistant to refill their guest’s cup.
—While I share your view, Mrs Marcos said then, that our native Asian arts ought to be supported, and that new cultural seeds need to be planted at home, and the results nourished and protected, I feel we must acknowledge that, in respect of modern culture, the standards of the West are higher than ours. We have, alas, fallen behind.
—It’s for this reason, said Jiang Qing, that we mustn’t blindly reject all foreign things. Blindly rejecting foreign things is like blindly worshipping them. Both are incorrect and harmful. The point is to absorb the good things from foreign countries in order to make good our own shortcomings. Weed through the old to bring forth the new and make things foreign serve things Chinese.
Mrs Marcos took up her fresh cup of tea:
—Quite so.
—I don’t think any other nation’s ballet combines alien traditions as boldly as ours, said Jiang Qing. I can’t claim our ballet is perfect, there are areas which need further adjustment, but at least we’ve caused a sensation and shocked the world. Now China is more influential in the West than the West in China.
Mrs Marcos, mid-sip, raised her eyebrows; mid-swallow, she tilted her head, as if thinking on what she had just heard.
—Have you been following events in Europe? said Jiang Qing.
—Events? said Mrs Marcos.
—The rebellions.
—Ah.
—The workers in the West feel a greater affinity to Mao than to their own leaders. In London and Paris, the students don’t want to learn the traditional curricula, they want to be taught Mao Zedong Thought instead. This is proof that our cultural work is penetrating. Thanks in no small part to our revolutionary art, such as our ballet, Mao doesn’t just belong to China any more. Like the sun, he’s now the property of all mankind.
Peeking back over her shoulder, Mrs Marcos said something quickly in Filipino, and her bodyguard, who himself could have passed for a television celebrity and whose particular mark of luminosity appeared chosen to intensify that of Mrs Marcos, came forward and murmured something in her ear. Mrs Marcos nodded that she had understood, and the man receded. Jiang Qing di
d not comprehend what she had witnessed, and therefore thought it rude. Despite that, she had to admit she liked Mrs Marcos. What she found unbearable was the way Li Na was leering at her.
—I believe your husband likes to dance, Mrs Marcos said then, putting her cup down once more.
—Mao?
Jiang Qing ordered Mrs Marcos’s cup to be filled a third time.
—Mao can’t dance. Even as a young man, he was hopeless.
—I’ve been misinformed.
—He does appreciate dance, that much is true. He likes to watch it, if it’s good.
—That’s more than one can say for most men.
Mrs Marcos crossed one leg over the other. Half-hiding underneath the table, she used the toes of her left foot to slip off the heel of her right shoe, and to scratch a mosquito bite on her ankle. The bite, positioned on the skin right where the bone and the leather rubbed against each other, had become red and inflamed, clearly visible through her stockings. The gesture of scratching it was very simple, very unaffected; watching it was to see the low and the high change places.
—I wanted to ask about your husband, Mrs Marcos said, scratching away, but perhaps it’s out of order to speak of the situation so frankly.
Jiang Qing rummaged inside her handbag for her handkerchiefs and squeezed them. To her mind came the image of Mao’s face at the private dance party: one side of his mouth drooping open and a thick green-tinged globule of phlegm creeping over the edge of his lower lip and stretching down, down in a straight line, threatening not to break until it reached his lap.
—There is no situation, she said.
—Do forgive me, said Mrs Marcos. We won’t talk about it. Because we’re both women, I wanted to hear how it was for you. Such burdens can be lightened in their sharing. But I can see that now isn’t the time.
Mrs Marcos pushed the heel of her shoe back onto her foot. There was a quiet sucking sound as it slid into place.
—I understand how hard it is. I have friends in the same position. Margot, for instance, whom I mentioned before? Her husband, Roberto, a gorgeous man, steel-grey hair, dark eyes, Latin, gorgeous, but also completely paralysed and wheelchair bound. Since the cursed assassination attempt.