Becoming Madame Mao - Anchee Min [71]
Chairman, I don't mean to challenge you. Fairlynn picks up the dropped peanuts. In your writings there is a sense of praising the war itself. I found that extremely interesting, or may I say disturbing? You praised violence itself. You believe in martial law. Your true purpose is to kill the yin element in the Chinese, am I right?
Mao nods.
So you kill, Fairlynn presses.
I kill to heal.
Fairlynn shakes her head. Chairman, you are making us the prisoners of your thinking house. You make us bite and chew on each other's flesh in order to exercise your ideal yang. Am I allowed to say that you're crazy to give our minds no pleasure to wonder and experience?...Sir, you're stir-frying an overnight dish—you are nothing original—you're copying Hitler!
If this wakes up the nation, I'll bear the shame! Mao pitches his voice like an opera character.
Mao! You are the most outrageous individualist I have ever met. You are fascinated by yourself! But what about the rest? What about their right to be as individualistic as you are? The great thinkers, journalists, novelists, artists, poets and actors?
Comrade Fairlynn, you have been poisoned. Mao laughs confidently. The westerners think that the authors and artists are supermen, but they are only men with animal instincts. The best of them are men with mental illnesses. Their nature is to sell tricks! How can you regard them so religiously? You must have spent a lot for this pair of artificial frog-eyes. Poor thing, you have been robbed!
Two o'clock in the morning and I see no end to the discussion. Mao and Fairlynn are on their third jar of wine. The subject has turned to beauty.
You are not unlike any other male creature on this earth. Look at Comrade Jiang Ching! Beauty of the red base! Mao, I thought you were not one of the Shakespearean characters. But look at what you are doing! You are stuffing Marxism into a flashlight—using it only to examine the others. Don't embarrass me with your so-called knowledge of Western literature. You remind me of the frog who lives in the bottom of a well who thinks the sky is only as big as the ring. You're selling your hot-pepper tricks to illiterate peasants. You are making yourself a fool in front of me. Yes, yes, yes. Sometimes I do think your writings on morality are a joke. After I read them, they lie on the floor of my mind in complete disarray and disorder!
What a pleasure to hear this! How daring that you come to my cave to burn my grains! Water! Hot water! Jiang Ching!
I get up, pick up the teapot and go to the kitchen.
In the kitchen I hear them continue. They laugh and sometimes whisper.
You're irresistible, Fairlynn. If...
Imagine that! The hoarse voice rises, laughing.
You're right, Fairlynn. Beauty does arouse me. It makes me sympathetic toward deformity. However, the drive to save this country makes me a true man. I have only one understanding of politics—it is violence. Revolution is not a tea party, it is violence in its purest form. I worship ancient politics, the politics of simple dictatorship.
Standing in front of the boiling teapot my mind travels to exile. When I return to the living room I find myself empty-handed. I have left the teapot behind. Politely I interrupt the conversation. I mention that I am tired. My husband suggests that I go ahead to bed.
It's the middle of the night, I insist, showing no intention of leaving the room—I am determined to kick Fairlynn out.
I know. He waves a hand.
You must be exhausted, I say to my husband, so must Comrade Fairlynn.
Don't you worry about me! Fairlynn stretches her arms upward. Leaning to the side she places her elbows on the table. I feel as charged as if it were ten o'clock in the morning.
Mao makes a muffled guffaw.
I try to contain myself but my tears betray me.
My husband stands up, goes to the kitchen and brings