The Sisters Mao

by Gavin McCrea

  Thus forewarned, Alissa did not flinch. Did not drop a word or skip a line. Did not allow herself to speculate about what had happened backstage, nor to give in to anger or the desire to reprimand. Rather, she maintained a fierce calm, and put her absolute trust in Iris that she would succeed in playing the part of the young LIXIN as her own.

  William, maskless but dressed in a traditional Chinese woman’s cheongsam, now entered from the other wing, and Iris met him downstage, and they began to sing and then to dance. This was the meeting of the young LIXIN with the adult LIXIN. The lyrics of the song mimicked those of a love ballad, as the adult seduced the youth into maturity. The dance was a sort of foxtrot, an alteration of slow and quick steps, at the core of which were the adult LIXIN’s attempts to entice the young LIXIN to part with her mask.

  William adjusted quickly to Iris’s presence. He integrated her seamlessly into his actions. With Eva, he had had to play forcefully in order to overcome her hamming: her tosses and jerks, her unnecessary poses and bizarre attitudes, the fire she tried to breathe into even minor sentences. But with Iris, now, there was no fighting. Even masked, she had a translucently thin skin; he could see her feelings and could sense in advance the direction they were taking her, which made reacting to them require less effort. Through the eyeholes of her mask, there radiated an energy that even Alissa, high up on her platform, could feel as a physical heat.

  Alissa put an end to the dance by summoning William and Iris up to her court. As they climbed up the ladders, Alissa reprised their song, changing the words to a warning:

  —The young cede to the old, but be warned, the young get their own back in the end.

  From the wings, the rest of the cast came on and filled the stage below, humming softly and dancing in loose formation.

  Once on the top of the platform, William and Iris came to kneel in front of Alissa, as before a statue on an altar. Alissa came out from behind the bench and placed herself between the two. She rested a hand on the crown of Iris’s head:

  —Do you, Lixin, in the fear of the Lord, and before this assembly, agree to become an adult member of our free-earning society, and to make every human effort to preserve its ways?

  —I do, said Iris.

  —Do you promise, through divine assistance, to be unto capitalism a loving and faithful servant, productive and full time, until it shall please the Lord by death to separate you?

  —I do.

  —Do you accept capitalism as the natural state of affairs in the world, to have and to have not, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, according to God’s holy ordinance?

  —

  Alissa tightened the grip on Iris’s scalp as a signal to the girl that she should answer. William, without turning his bowed head, peered at Iris out of the corner of his eyes. The third I do was the cue for Iris to take the mask off and give it to William: the symbolic passing of responsibility for LIXIN’s life. But Iris was stuck. Dumb. Inert. Rigid.

  Iris used to say that, when a fit was coming on, she would sense bad smells like rotting meat. Well, now filling Alissa’s nostrils was the stench of smoke and gas and melting rubber, as if somewhere unseen, in the blank place where Iris’s mind had gone, the fires of revolution had been lit.

  From nothing, the little finger on Iris’s left hand began to quiver, almost imperceptibly. Then her head swung sharply to the right, and both her arms flew up. Then she keeled over onto her back, where her body began to writhe, her limbs to throw punches and kicks at an invisible enemy. A wet patch formed in the crotch of her costume. Her bones slapped and slammed on the boards. Her neck twisted one way and then the other, causing her head to thrash violently from left to right, as if being repeatedly struck. From behind the mask, a guttural sound came, very old and very deep, like a primeval hymn.

  In future years, when Iris would come to review the cine-film of this scene, she would conclude that Alissa had had a choice in that moment. Alissa could have stopped the performance. She could have cushioned Iris’s head. Or held her legs in case she fell over the platform edge. Or put something between her teeth to stop her from biting her tongue. Or called out, Is there a doctor in the house? It had been in Alissa’s power to help. What could possibly have been more important?

  But, to Alissa, it did not feel like she had a choice. Or rather, the choice she appeared to have, had in fact been made long before. Duty’s pendulum swung away once more, and Alissa accepted that her daughter was separate from her, an autonomous being. Iris had made her own decision to be here, on this stage. Regardless of the wisdom of that decision, Alissa was not going to try to save her from it. Instead she was going to ensure that it was a decision not made in vain.

  Without hesitating, she came to stand over Iris, stepped across the girl’s flailing body so as to plant her feet on either side. Her robes shrouded Iris’s hips and legs; when Iris kicked up, the red material swished and wafted and flapped.

  Now Alissa bent over and caught hold of Iris’s rocking skull. Gripping the front of the mask, she pulled Iris’s head towards her so that she could reach the ties at the back. Keeping the head lifted with one hand, she untied the mask with the other. When the mask came free, Iris’s head fell back onto the boards with a load bang. Uncovered, Iris’s face had the look of someone involved in a desperate struggle against something. Her eyes were rolled upwards, the whites exposed. Her jaw was clenched. She was gritting and grinding her teeth. From the corners of her mouth, white foam spewed. To all appearances, she was trying to speak. On her contorted lips: the words she had never spoken, but one day would.

  Alissa stepped away from Iris and lifted the mask into the air, its painted front facing out.

  The audience — Alissa imagined — were stunned. Nothing like it had ever been seen on the London stage. From this moment on, everything that occurred in the play they would accept as part of a great work, a masterpiece. There’ll be three hundred performances. How could it be otherwise?

  Alissa made three circles in the air with the mask, as if purifying the space with it. Then turning to William, she said:

  —Because you have made vows before God and these witnesses; because you have pledged your commitment to the capitalist way and have declared the same by accepting this mask, I now pronounce you money-earner and whore. What God has joined men must not divide.

  She fixed the mask to his face, and, with Iris still convulsing on the floor, played out the remainder of the scene.

  —There, you see!

  On the London Carlton stage, Iris was speaking to their mother using lines from Miss Julie. JEAN’s words.

  —Do you think you can possibly stay here now?

  —No—

  Their mother was responding as MISS JULIE.

  —I don’t. But what can we do?

  Iris moved downstage, took a chair from under the table, turned it round to face their mother, and sat in it. She leaned forward and rested an elbow on her thigh and cupped her left hand over her right so that both were holding the gun; this way, her entire body was orientated towards the weapon; she appeared intended for it, answerable to its needs.

  —We could go away, she said. Travel. Far away from here.

  —Travel?

  Their mother got to her feet. Threw off her right shoe so that she was barefoot. Wiped the wet from her eyes. Sucked in the mucus from her nose. In order to hold closed the rip in her blouse, she was forced to cross an arm awkwardly across her body.

  —All right, but where?

  —To Switzerland. To the Italian lakes. Have you ever been there?

  —No.

  Eva was finding it hard to watch. When she focused on a point, on Iris’s face, say, or on the gun, everything swirled around it. When she shifted her gaze to another point, her mother’s torn blouse or her laddered stockings, everything then swirled around that. />
  —Is it beautiful there? their mother said, daring to take a step towards Iris.

  —An eternal summer, said Iris. Oranges, laurel trees.

  From their mother, another step:

  —But what shall we do there?

  —I’ll start a hotel. De luxe. For de luxe people.

  —Hotel?

  —That’s a life, believe me. New faces all the time, new languages. Never a minute for worry or nerves, or wondering what to do. Yes, that’s the life.

  —Sounds exciting, but—

  Their mother took another step so that she was now touching distance from Iris. Iris leapt up with a force that sent the chair falling back and waved the gun in the air as an order for their mother to get back. Their mother recoiled; dashed back as far as the wing. Iris, keeping the gun aimed at their mother, set the chair upright. Then she sat on the table and put her feet on the chair as a stool. Visibly happier at this new altitude, she rested the gun on her knee, held it loosely in one hand, a more casual attitude than before: I would prefer not to have to use one of these, it seemed to say, but circumstances have called me to it.

  —You shall be the mistress of our hotel, she said, the pearl of the establishment. With your looks, your style, we’ll be made.

  —Sounds wonderful, their mother said. But, Jean, you must give me courage. Tell me you love me. Come and kiss me.

  —I’d like to kiss you, said Iris. But I daren’t. Not in this house. I do love you, though. Can you doubt that Miss Julie?

  —Miss? said their mother. Call me Julie. There are no barriers between us now.

  —I can’t call you that. There are still barriers between us. There will always be. As long as we’re in this house.

  The words, now, began to turn around in Eva’s ears, the pattern of sounds dissolving and reassembling, speeding up then slowing down, as if someone had their finger on the vinyl.

  —Above all, Iris said, no emotional scenes, or it’ll be all up with us. We must think this over coolly, like sensible people.

  Their mother had given up holding closed the tear in her blouse, so it hung down, revealing a roll of flesh above where the wire of the bodice dug in.

  —My God. Have you no feelings?

  —Me? No one has more feelings than me. But I can control them.

  —Don’t speak harshly to me.

  —I’m not speaking harshly. I’m talking sense.

  Iris got down from the table and cupped their mother’s cheek with her hand with apparent fondness. Abruptly Iris swiped her arm to the right, using their mother’s head as a lever to push her down to a kneel. Then she used the tip of her boot to knock her onto her side.

  During this short sequence of actions, it was impossible to tell if Iris was in character or not. She did not try to make her gestures distinct. She moved quietly, in a way that was at odds with the idea of performance as a discrete event. It hurt Eva to witness it. This was an actress, a natural talent, functioning at the highest level. And it was also her sister. Iris. Who had received not a single day of training. Who had never been re-educated, as Eva had, to walk and sit and look and talk before a public. Who, through some secret method of auto-correction, in communion with her own reflection only, had learned to play herself with accuracy and ease. Watching her now, Eva experienced a despair that would have been inconceivable in any other situation. Hell was up on earth and had engulfed her. To escape these few seconds of anguish, she would have given away years of her life. All the work she had put into her craft, all the struggle, had been a waste. She was a fake. A fraud. Her being in this theatre at this moment, her very existence, was unwarranted. By rights, she should just wither away.

  —Is there anyone on this earth as miserable as me? their mother said from her position on the ground.

  Iris scoffed:

  —Why should you be miserable? Think of Christine in there.

  She pointed into the wings at Eva. This made Eva jump. Christine? Yes, that’s it. JEAN’s fiancée, CHRISTINE is who I am. A vague memory flashed in her mind of learning the lines, the process of it, but she could not recall the words themselves. She knew who she was supposed to be, but did not know what to say, as herself. Which was awful.

  —Don’t you suppose Christine has feelings too?

  —Oh God in Heaven, said their mother, end my miserable life. Save me from this mire into which I’m sinking. Save me.

  —I can’t deny I feel sorry for you, said Iris.

  Iris made a sudden dash across the stage. Reached down and grabbed their mother’s string of pearls.

  —Servant, lackey, stand up when I speak!

  Iris tugged on the pearls, as if to pull their mother to her feet.

  Their mother resisted by going limp and allowing her neck to be yanked up and her head to fall backwards.

  At this point, a man from the audience invaded the stage from the front:

  —This has got to stop! If no one else is going to put an end to this, I will!

  Eliciting screams from the audience, Iris raised the gun and aimed it at the man. She did this without releasing her grip on their mother’s pearls, so she now had both arms outstretched, her mother on one end, her weapon and its target on the other. In the wings, the photographer’s camera flashed wildly.

  —You can put that down, the audience member said. You don’t scare me.

  With her neck wrenched, their mother’s veins had popped out and her skin had turned puce; she could barely turn her head.

  —It’s all right, sir, she said, coming off script for the first time. Go back to your seat, I’m fine.

  A second audience member, who had attempted to leave the theatre, shouted from the aisle:

  —They’ve locked the doors, but everyone stay calm, the police will be on their way.

  A third spectator:

  —Come down from there, mister, no need to play hero. Let the authorities handle it.

  The man on stage hesitated, until their mother said to him:

  —You’re a gentleman, and I thank you. But I lied when I said I don’t know who these people are. This is my daughter. I don’t know why she is doing this, but I do know that if I do everything as she says, she will not hurt anyone. Please sit down.

  Once the man had left the stage, Iris jerked her arm to snap the necklace. Released, their mother reeled back. Her hand flew to her throat to massage it. The pearls, their mother’s own, hailed onto the countertop, then the floor.

  Glen, who was crouching nearby, said:

  —Aw, man, gorgeous things!

  And chased after them as they bounced and rolled in various directions.

  —Servant’s whore, Iris said then, returning to Miss Julie. Lackey’s bitch. You dare to order people around? Not one of my class ever behaved the way you’ve done in your life.

  —You’re right, said their mother. Hit me. Trample on me. I deserve nothing better.

  —It hurts to see you sunk so low. To find that deep down you are a kitchen slut. It hurts me, like seeing autumn flowers whipped into tatters by the rain and trodden into the mud.

  —You speak as though you were already above me.

  —I am.

  Iris indicated to the comatose children, and to giggling Glen, and to wide-eyed Eggie.

  —We are.

  Iris was now deviating from the script, but their mother was not put off by this. She took up where Iris left off. Responded to Iris’s additions with the same spontaneity that she summoned for the rehearsed text. She herself did not diverge.

  —You’re a thief, Alissa said. That’s something I’m not.

  —I’m not a thief, said Iris. We’re not thieves. We don’t want anyone’s money. We just want justice. We want you to admit your faults and be punished for them. It’s a matter of fairness.

  —Are you sure about that?


  —Yes. You are old, we are young. Your time is up. You might as well give in.

  —You won’t win me over like that.

  —How, then?

  —How? I don’t know. There is no way.

  —Because you hate us.

  —I detest you as I detest rats, but I can’t run away from you.

  —Join us, then.

  —Join you? Oh God. I’m tired. So tired.

  Their mother came to sit with her legs bent to one side. She pulled a chair towards her to use as a ledge on which to lean her torso. Crossed her arms over the seat of the chair and rested her forehead on top of her arms.

  Iris loomed over her, peered down at her with beady-eyed intentness, as though surveying an injured hare whose beauty meant nothing, only her pain, for that would bring the rewards.

  —And me? said Iris. Do you hate me?

  —I’d like to shoot you like an animal, said their mother, lifting her face to the auditorium.

  —But you’ve got nothing to shoot with, said Iris, shaking the gun in her face. What are you going to do?

  With that, their mother broke. Pushed the chair away, causing it to fall loudly onto its back. The brutal treatment of props and furniture was, for her, the behaviour of an amateur, it showed a lack of delicacy and restraint. She was moving off script.

  —This a fascist scene. Do you realise you’ve become fascists?

  Iris laughed a cruel laugh:

  —Listen to you. You had your time, now you think no one else should have theirs. You failed.

  —Is this your revolution? If so, it’s barely worth the name. It’ll last a day and be dead tomorrow.

  —Maybe so. But today is our day. It’s only right that we live up to it. If we can bring about equality for one day, at least we’ll have proved it’s possible.

  —You’ll soon tire of your so-called equals, child, and of this madness. Talented people always rebel against equality. The winner is the person who comes first and establishes order.