Becoming Madame Mao - Anchee Min [62]
Mao has immersed himself in writing his philosophy of war. He writes for days on end without resting, loses all track of time. When he is finished he calls Little Dragon to send the girl. He makes her feel that she is already in his possession. His hands come for her the moment she enters the door. She hears him mumble, telling her in monologue what he has been writing.
Yes, tell me, tell me everything, she responds.
It's suicidal to display a facade when the enemies are massive in numbers. He begins to unbutton her shirt. We have to learn to take advantage of being small—we are capable of flexibility. If we pull the enemy by the nose and lead their horses into the woods, we can confuse them and pin them down. We bite off their legs and then take off quickly before they can guess our numbers or intention. This was my strategy during the Long March and now I establish it as a rule of war.
I want Mao to know that I am interested in what he is doing and want to be part of it. But I try not to follow his thoughts so I can concentrate on the pleasure. I focus my eyes somewhere else, a penholder on his desk. It is made from the joint of a bamboo pole. It is stuffed with brushes and pens, which point toward the ceiling like bunches of dragon-tongue orchids. I am strangely stimulated.
I've created a myth, he goes on. I have told my generals to be playful with Chiang Kai-shek. To take a bite, then run, and take another bite and run again. The key is not to be reluctant to depart after small victories. It's a problem with our soldiers. It's their hometown. They have a hard time letting go. They hate to quit when collecting the heads of those who murdered their family members. But you must quit in order to win more ... Like right now I mustn't go all the way. I must know when to hold my troops back...
I'm no longer amazed that he can make love while sorting out his thoughts. For me, it has become part of our ritual. The moment I detect him losing track of his thoughts my body goes wild.
Was it four times that you crossed back and forth over the Chi River in order to escape Chiang Kai-shek? I ask, teasing him. Did you confuse the enemy?
He is too breathless to answer me.
I heard about your victory in Shanghai, I keep going. You were not known, though—you were an underground myth everybody wanted to unearth. Did I tell you how Chiang Kai-shek's papers described what you looked like? It said that you had teeth six inches long, and a head three feet wide.
He groans and announces his coming.
For the next three weeks he is back to his writing. A Study on the Jiangxi Peasants' Movement. Revolution Chinese Style. On Establishing the Red Army. Afterwards he collapses and goes to sleep like a corpse in a coffin. The girl continues to draft the letter she has promised Lao Lin. She sits by Mao's table and plays with brushes and pens. Her mind is empty. She is bored. She counts characters every few lines. She knows that she has to fill up a page for it to be acceptable.
Fart, fart, and fart, she writes, then erases, then writes again. She takes out a tiny mirror and begins to examine her face. The teeth, nose, eyes and eyebrows. She plays with her hair, combs it into different styles. Stretches her skin with her fingers, making different expressions. She likes her face. The way it is reflected in the mirror. It looks prettier in the mirror than on the screen. She wonders why she didn't look as pretty on camera. Her thoughts skip. She wonders what's happening to Tang Nah and Yu Qiwei. And what they will think when they learn that she is Madame Mao.
The thought brings her delight and makes her go back to the draft. She works until Mao wakes. Her heart beats gaily as she hears him reciting a wake-up poem of the Han dynasty:
The spring woke my hibernation
The sun is on my buttocks hurrying me up
She gets up from her chair to pour him tea. She then goes back to the desk and waits. He comes to her. She shows him the draft. He leans toward the light to read. His hands go under her shirt.
Sounds like a letter