Becoming Madame Mao - Anchee Min [72]
Basking in Fairlynn's admiration my husband elaborates on himself.
Deep in the landscape of my soul, I am covered with the thick fog of the yellow earth. My character carries a fatalistic culture. I have been aware of this since I was a child. I have an instinct and a craving for travel, in the meantime I have an inborn disgust of living. The ancient sages travel in order to gain distance from men. We fight in order to achieve unity. People of the Ching dynasty, before Confucius, were warlords, very strong in yang. They fought, possessed and expanded the land. Horseback was their life. They had passion for the sun. In fables, one sun was not enough. Nine suns have to be created so the hero Yi can have a chance to shoot eight of the nine down in order to demonstrate his strength. The goddesses were sent way up, into the Moon Palace, so the males could be challenged.
Ching period is your period, Fairlynn responds.
Yes, and I still feel that I lack the knowledge of it. I'd like to hear the shouts of the Ching soldier lunge and enter the gates of their enemy's cities. I would like to smell the blood on the tip of their swords.
You have a vision seen through the eyes of a madman.
At three o'clock in the morning Mao and Fairlynn get up to part. Jiang Ching stands behind the cave's entrance and watches them.
Our argument has not ended yet, Fairlynn says, buttoning up her gray army coat.
Next time it will be my turn to satisfy you. Mao nods a salute.
The darkness is impenetrable, Fairlynn sighs.
I'm a pearl-seeker, Mao says, looking into the night. I work on the deep and airless ocean bed. I don't come up with treasure every time. Often I come back empty-handed and purple-faced. You have an understanding of that as a writer.
But sometimes I want to be wrapped in darkness.
Well, my point is that it is not easy to live up to what's expected of Mao Tse-tung.
Surely almost everyone is drawn to deception.
The irony, as we all understand, is that magic and illusion has to take place in the dark. Mao smiles.
And certainly with distance. I am with you, Chairman.
March 1947. Mao's force has been in and out of the mountain areas of Shan-xi, Hunan and Sichuan provinces. Mao toys with Chiang Kai-shek's troops. Although Chiang has sent his best man, General Hu Zhong-nan, who commands 230,000 men while Mao has only 20,000, Chiang has not been winning.
Like a war concubine I follow my lover. I abandon everything including my favorite record player. I insist that Nah come with us. We travel with the army. It's hard to believe that we survived. Every day Nah witnesses how the dead are buried.
The village artists paint the walls with pictures of Mao. My lover still has the look of an ancient sage, even more so now. It is because the artists are trained to paint the face of Buddha. They can't paint Mao without making him look like a Buddha. Maybe it is the Buddha they see in Mao. And I'm sure it is Buddha my lover is playing.
Sleep deprivation has weakened Mao. He has caught fever. Under the blanket, he trembles uncontrollably. The guards take turns carrying him on a stretcher. In his sickness my lover continues to conduct battles. This is how I become his secretary and assistant. Now I am the one who writes down Mao's orders and drafts telegrams. I am up when he is up, and keep myself up when he sleeps.
When he is better and sees his business is going well, he wants to play. We have time. But I am not myself. My heart feels no warmth—I can't forget Fairlynn. Although I feel my love for him, I still want to make him pay for humiliating me. He seems to be accepting the punishment. The pockets under his eyes have deepened.
The troops pitch camp in a small village. Mao is asleep. Jiang Ching comes out of the hut for fresh air. She has just finished copying a long document under candlelight. Rubbing her strained