Becoming Madame Mao - Anchee Min [80]
No, I am not coming to join the concubines of the Forbidden City. Jiang Ching's teeth clench as she closes the magazine. I don't belong. The abandoned souls. The names which the glittering medals, citations and stone gates honor. I don't give a damn. I hate this breath, its dampness. I have an appetite for bright, hot lights. I won't let the coldness of a funeral house seep through my skin.
It is Kang Sheng who informs me of Mao's syphilis. Again, it is Kang Sheng.
I am numbed by rage. I stare at his goat beard and his goldfish eyes.
Endurance is the key to success, he reminds me. Would you like me to make an arrangement with a doctor to give you a checkup? I mean to make sure...
His finger injects every vessel in my body with black ink.
Can you recall, Madame?
Yes, she does. It was after a state banquet at the People's Hall. They hadn't been intimate in years. Mao was in a good mood. Governors from all states came to report to him in Beijing, to pay him homage. The scene reminded him of emperors giving audience during the old dynasties. The revolutionary son of heaven. Business was running well. Every province orbited Beijing. The faith in him was tremendous. He has taken over the Buddha in the heart of his people. He encouraged the worship by making as few appearances as possible—the ancient trick of creating power and terror. When he did show up he kept his face hidden and his speech short and vague. He threw out a few comments during the meetings. A syllable or two. A mysterious smile and a firm handshake. It was effective. He had nothing to worry about now.
When all the guests were gone Mao took Jiang Ching and walked through the imperial kitchen. Let's go thank the cooks and the staff. On their way back to the Purple Light Pavilion, he was affectionate. She was escorted to the west wing and the two settled in the Peony Room.
She tried not to think about her feelings as she followed him.
The room seemed unnecessarily large. The light cast pink and yellow lily pads on the undulating surface of the wall. Alone with Mao she felt strange and nervous.
He sat down on the sofa and waved for her to sit down across from him. After a while, she felt awkward and asked to be excused. He acted as if surprised. He told her that he would like to chat and asked if she would sit back down. To break the silence she asked about his travels.
You have been lonely, he suddenly said.
She stood up and walked toward the door.
Stay. His word halted her.
She knew she couldn't disobey him. She went to sit back down, but on another sofa.
I am too old for guerrilla war today. He got up and came to share her seat. His hands caught her.
No, please! The words almost choked themselves out of her chest.
He was not affected. He took pleasure in her struggle. He gently forced his way. God provides food for every bird, but he doesn't throw it into its nest, she heard him say. You have to come out and pick it.
I'd rather continue my path to dust.
He didn't respond but began to pump her.
Her body shut down and her mind withdrew.
Drops of his sweat curved their way down onto the bridge of her nose, across her cheeks, down her ears and into her hair. Her rejection unnerved him. Holding her he kept lunging as if to push himself out of her.
We tryst ... she cried suddenly, grinding the words. We tryst in the dark. Our skin once glowed, our bodies swelled in rapture, our flesh was consumed with impatience. But how would I know ... that we were only to discover that this journey ... the journey which gulped the fire of our youth, was ... not worth traveling.
His right hand came to cover her mouth. His body beat her with its