Becoming Madame Mao E-Book

Anchee Min

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 539

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

From the author of the international bestseller Empress Orchid comes the stirring, erotically charged story of the woman known as 'the white-boned demon' - the ambitious wife of Chairman Mao whose actions led to the death of millions in the Cultural Revolution. From the young, unwanted daughter of a concubine, defiant in her refusal to have her feet bound, to the wayward, beautiful actress on the stages of Shanghai, to the ruthless, charismatic partner of the great revolutionary leader, Mao Zedong, Anchee Min moves seamlessly from the intimately personal to the broad sweep of world history in this fascinating portrait of an extraordinary woman driven by ambition, betrayal and a desperate need to be loved. Finely nuanced and always ambiguous, Min penetrates the myth surrounding Madame Mao with passion and sensitivity to pain a surprising picture of one of history's most vilified women. Rich with compressed drama and all the lyrical poetry of great opera, Becoming Madame Mao is a startling and moving achievement.

Leseprobe

Becoming Madame Mao

A Novel

ANCHEE MIN

ToLloyd withallmy love

You are what your deep, driving desire is.

As your desire is, so is your will.

As your will is, so is your deed.

As your deed is, so is your destiny.

—Brihadaranyaka Upanishads iv. 4.5

Contents

Title PageDedicationEpigraphAuthor’s NotePrologue12345678910111213141516171819202122AcknowledgmentsReferencesCopyright

Madame Mao

as Yunhe (1919–1933)

as Lan Ping (1934–1937)

and as Jiang Ching (1938–1991)

Author’s Note

Author’s Note: I have tried my best to mirror the facts of history. Every character in this book existed in real life. The letters, poems, and extended quotations have been translated from original documents.

Prologue

Whatdoeshistoryrecognize?Adishmadeofahundredsparrows — aplateofmouths.

Fourteenyearssinceherarrest.1991.MadameMaoJiangChingisseventy-sevenyearsold.Sheisonthedeathseat.Theonlyreasontheauthoritieskeeppostponingtheexecutionistheirhopeofherrepentance.

Well,Iwon’tsurrender. WhenIwasachildmymotherusedtotellmethatIshouldthinkofmyselfasgrass — borntobesteppedon. But Ithinkofmyselfasapeacockamonghens. Iamnotbeingjudgedfairly.SidebysideMaoTse-tungandIstood,yetheisconsideredagodwhileIamademon.MaoTse-tungandIweremarriedforthirty-eightyears.Thenumberisthirty-eight.

IspeaktomydaughterNah.Iaskhertobemybiographer.Sheisallowedtovisitmeonceamonth.Shewearsapeasantwoman’shairstyle — awok-lid-cutaroundtheears — andsheisinaman’ssuit.Shelooksunbearablysilly.Shedoesthattohurtmyeyes.ShewasdivorcedandremarriedandnowlivesinBeijing.Shehasasontowhommyidentityhasbeenasecret.

No,Mother.Thetoneisfirmandstubborn.

Ican’tdescribemydisappointment.Ihaveexpectationsof Nab. Toomanyperhaps. Maybethat’swhatkilledherspirit.AmIdifferentfrommymotherwhowantedthebestformebybindingmyfeet?NahpickswhatIdislikeanddropswhatIlike.It’sbeenthatwaysinceshesawhowherfathertreatedme.Howcanonenotwetone’sshoeswhenwalkingalongtheseashoreallthetime?Nahdoesn’tseethewhole picture.Shedoesn’tknowhowherfatheronceworshipedme.Shecan’timaginethatIwasMao’ssunshine.Idon’tblameher. TherewasnotraceofthatpassionleftonMao’sfaceafterheenteredtheForbiddenCityandbecameamodernemperor.NotracethatMaoandIwereonceloversuntodeath.The mother tells the daughter that both her father and shehatecowards.Thewordshavenoeffect.Nahistoobeaten.Themotherthinksofherasarottenpieceofwoodthatcanneverbemadeintoabeautifulpieceoffurniture.Sheissoafraidthathervoicetrembleswhenshespeaks.Themothercan’trecognizeanypartofherselfinthedaughter.

ThemotherrepeatstheancientstoryofCima-Qinhua,thebravegirlwhosavedhermotherfromabloodyriot.Themodelofpiety.Nahlistensbutmakesnoresponse.Thenshecriesandsaysthatsheisnotthemother.Can’tdothethingsshedoes. Andshouldnotberequestedtoperformanimpossibletask.

Can’tyouliftafinger?themotheryells.It’smylastwish,forheaven’ssake!

Saveme,Nah. Anydayabulletwillbeputintomyhead.Canyoupictureit?Don’tyouseethattherehasbeenaconspiracyagainstme?DoyourememberthemorningwhenDengXiao-pingcametoyourfather’sfuneralandwhathedid?Hejustbrushedfingerswithme — didn’tevenbothertoshakemyhand.ItwasasifhequestionedthatIwasMao’swidow.Hewasawareofthecameras — hepurposelyletthejournalistscatchthescene. Andtheotherone,Marshal Ye Jian-ying. HewalkedpastmewearinganexpressionasifIhadmurderedtheChairmanmyself!

Yourfatherwarnedmeabouthiscomrades.Buthedidn’tdoanythingtoprotectme.Hecouldbeheartless.Hisfacehadavindictiveglowwhenhemadethatprediction.HewasjealousthatIgottogoonliving.Hewouldhavelikedtoseemeburiedwithhim,liketheoldemperorsdidwiththeirconcubines.Oneshouldneverhavedelusionsaboutyourfather.Ittookmethirty-eightyearstofigureoutthatslyfox.Hecouldneverkeephishandsawayfromdeception.Hecouldn’tsurviveadaywithouttrickery.Ihadseenghostsinhiseyesstretchingouttheirclaws.Alivinggod.TheomniscientMao.Full-of-mice-shit.

Youareahistorian,Nah. Youshoulddocumentmyroleintherevolution.Iwantyoutodemonstratemysacrificesandcontributions. Yes, youcandoit.Forgetaboutwhatyourfatherwillthinkaboutyou.Heisdead.Iwonderwhat’shappenedtohisghost.Iwonderifitrestsinitsgrave.Watchoutforhisshadow.

Thehandstostranglemearecreepingupfast.Icanfeelthematmythroat.That’swhyIamtellingyouthis.IamnotafraidofdeathifIknowmyspiritwilllivethroughthetipofyourfountainpentothelipsofthepeople‚generationstocome.Telltheworldthestoryofaheroine.Ifyoucan’tprintyourmanuscriptinChina,takeitoutside.Don’tletmedown.Please.

Youarenotaheroine,Mother!Ihearmydaughterfireback. Youareamiserable,madandsickwoman. Youcan’tstopspreadingyourdisease.LikeFathersaid,youhavedugsomanygravesthatyoudon’thaveenoughbodiestolayinthem!

Theirdinnerhasturnedcold.Nahstandsupandkicksawayherchair.Herelbowaccidentallyhitsthetable.Adishfalls.Breaks.Piecesofceramicsscatteronthefloor.Greasesplattersonthemother’sshoe.Youhavekilledme,Nah.MadameMaosuddenlyfeelsshortofbreath.Herhand gripstheedgeofthetabletopreventherselffromfalling.

Pretendthatyouneverhadme‚Mother.

Youcan’tdisownyourmother!

*

Well,allmyhopeisgone.Iamexhaustedandreadytoexitthestageforgood.Thelastcurtaintimewillbetomorrowmorningatfive-thirtywhentheguardschangeshift.Theyareusuallydullatthattime.Theoldguardwillbeyawninghiswayoutwhilethenewguardyawnshiswayin.

It’sdarkoutside. Abeautifulblacknightwithoutstars.Theprisonofficialshaveputmeonasuicidewatch.Buttheycannotbeatmywill.Ihavesavedenoughhandkerchiefsandsockstomakearope.

Therubberwallsemitaterriblesmell.Butallisfinewithmenow.Tomorrowyouwillreadaboutmeinthenews:MadameMaoJiangChingcommittedsuicidebyhanging.ThedaytomarkisMay14, 1991.AmIsad?Notreally.Ihavelivedanextraordinarylife.Thegreatmoments … NowasIthinkaboutthemforthelasttime,theystillmakemyhearthammerwithexcitement …

1

She learns pain early. When she is four, her mother comes to bind her feet. The mother tells the child that she cannot afford to wait any longer. She promises that afterwards‚ after the pain, the girl will be beautiful. She will get to marry into a rich family where she doesn’t have to walk but will be carried around in a sedan chair. The three-inch lotus feet are a symbol of prestige and class.

The girl is curious. She sits on a stool barefoot. She plays with the pile of cloth with her toes, picks up a strip, then drops it. Mother is stirring a jar of sticky rice porridge. The girl learns that the porridge will be used as glue. Good glue, strong, won’t tear, Mother says. It seals out the air. The ancient mummies were preserved in the same way. The mother is in her late twenties. She is a pretty woman, long slanting almond-shaped eyes, which the girl inherited. The mother hardly smiles. She describes herself as a radish pickled in the sauce of misery. The girl is used to her mother’s sadness, to her silence during family meals. And she is used to her own position — the last concubine’s daughter, the most distant relative the family considers. Her father was sixty years old when she was born. He has been a stranger to her.

The mother’s hair is lacquer black, wrapped in a bun and fixed with a bamboo pin. She asks the girl to sit still as she begins. She looks solemn as if she is in front of an altar. She takes the girl’s right foot, washes it and wipes it dry with her blouse. She doesn’t tell the girl that this is the last time she will see her feet as she knows them. The mother doesn’t tell her that by the time her feet are released they will look like triangle-shaped rice cakes with toenails curled under the sole. The mother tries to concentrate on the girl’s future. A future that will be better than her own.

The mother begins wrapping. The girl watches with interest. The mother applies the paste in between each layer of cloth. It is a summer noon. Outside the window are climbing little bell flowers, small and red like dripping blood. The girl sees herself, her feet being bound, in her mother’s dressing mirror. Also in the frame, a delicately carved ancient vase on the table with a bunch of fresh jasmine in it. The scent is strong. The pendulum of an old clock on the wall swings with a rustic sound. The house is quiet. The other concubines are napping and the servants are sitting in the kitchen quietly peeling beans.

Sweat gathers on her mother’s forehead and begins to drip like broken beads down her cheeks. The girl asks if her mother should take a break. The woman shakes her head and says that she is finishing the task. The girl looks at her feet. They are as thick as elephant legs. The girl finds it amusing. She moves her toes inside the cocoon. Is that it? she asks. When her mother moves away the jar, the girl jumps on the floor and plays.

Stay in bed from now on, her mother says‚ the pain will take a while.

The girl has no trouble until the third week. She is already tired with her elephant legs and now comes the pain. Her toes scream for space. Her mother is near her. She is there to prevent the girl from tearing off the strips. She guards the elephant legs as if guarding the girl’s future. She keeps explaining to the crying girl why she has to endure the pain. Then it becomes too much. The girl’s feet are infected. The mother’s tears pour. No, no‚ no‚ don’t touch them. She insists‚ cries‚ curses. Herself. Men. She asks why she didn’t have a son. Again and again she tells the girl that females are like grass, born to be stepped on.

The year is 1919. Shan-dong Province, China. The town is the birthplace of Confucius. It is called Zhu. The ancient walls and gates stand high. From the girl’s window the hills are like giant turtles crawling along the edge of the earth. The Yellow River runs through the town and its murky waters make their way lazily to the sea. The coast cities and provinces have been occupied by foreign forces — first the Germans and now the Japanese — since China lost the Opium War in 1858. China is collapsing and no one pays attention to the girl’s cries.

The girl is never able to forget the pain, even when she becomes Madame Mao, the most powerful woman in China during the late 1960s and ’70s. She recalls the pain as “evidence of the crimes of feudalism” and she expresses her outrage in a series of operas and ballets, TheWomenoftheRedDetachment and TheWhite-HairedGirl, among many others. She makes the billion population share her pain.

To understand the pain is to understand what the proletariat went through during the old society, she cries at a public rally. It is to understand the necessity of Communism! She believes the pain she suffered gives her the right to lead the nation. It’s the kind of pain that shoots through your core, she tells the actress who plays the lead in her opera. You can’t land on your toes and you can’t fly either. You are trapped‚ chained down. There is an invisible saw. You are toeless. Your breath dies out. The whole house hears you but there is no rescue.

She remembers her fight with the pain vividly. A heroine of the real-life stage. Ripping the foot-binding cloths is her debut.

If there is no rebellion, there is no survival! she shouts at rallies during the Cultural Revolution.

My mother is shocked the moment I throw the smelly binding strips in front of her and show her my feet. They are blue and yellow, swelling and dripping with pus. A couple of flies land on the strips. The pile looks like a dead hundred-footed-octopus monster. I say to my mother, If you try to put my feet back in the wrap I shall kill myself. I mean it. I have already found a place for myself to lie. It will be in Confucius’s temple. I like the couplet on its gate:

Thetemplehasnomonk

Sothefloorwillbesweptbythewind

Thetemplehasnocandles

Sothelightwillbelitbythemoon

You need to have the lotus feet, my mother cries. You are not made to labor.

Afterwards my mother quits. I wonder if she already knows that she will need me to run with her one day.

The girl’s memory of her father is that he lives on liquor and is violent. Both her mother and she fear him. He hits them. There is no way to predict when his temper will rise. Each time it shocks the soul out of the girl.

He is not a poor man. Madame Mao doesn’t tell the truth later when she wants to impress her fellow countrymen. She describes him as a proletarian. In fact he is a well-to-do businessman, the town carpenter and owner of a wood shop. He has four full-time workers. Two of them are blind. He uses them to sand wood. The family has food on the table and the girl goes to school.

I never understand why my father beats my mother. There never really is a reason. Nobody in the house interferes. All the wives hear the beating. All my stepbrothers and sisters witness the act. Yet no one utters a word. If my father is not pleased with my mother, he comes to her room, takes off his shoe and starts hitting her. Concubines are bought slaves and bedmaids, but I wonder if my father’s true anger is because my mother didn’t produce a son for him.

This is how her father plants the seed of worthlessness in her. It is something she lives with. The moment she begins remembering how she was brought up‚ she experiences a rage that bursts at its own time and pace. Like the flood of the Yellow River‚ it comes and crashes in big waves. Its violence changes the landscape of her being. The rage gets worse as she ages. It becomes a kept beast. It breathes and grows underground while consuming her. Its constant presence makes her feel worthless. Her desire to fight it‚ to prove that it does not exist‚ lies behind her every action.

It is my nature to rebel against oppressors. When my mother tells me to learn to “eat a meatball made of your own tongue‚” and “hide your broken arm inside your sleeve‚” I fight without ever considering the consequences.

In frustration Mother hits me. She hits me with a broom. She is scared of my nature. She thinks that I will be killed like the young revolutionaries whose heads are hung on flagpoles on top of the town gate. They were slaughtered by the authorities.

Mother scolds me‚ calls me a mu-yu — a monk’s chanting tool — made to be hit all the time. But I can’t be set right. It is always afterwards‚ after she has exhausted herself from hitting me‚ that she breaks down and sobs. She calls herself an unfit mother and is sure that she will end up being punished in her next life. She will be made into a most unfortunate animal, a cow who when alive bears heavy burdens and when dies is eaten, its skin made into jackets and its horns into medicine.

Every time I see Mother’s tear-stained face I age. I feel white hair sprouting out of my head. I am sick of seeing Mother tortured. I often wish that she were dead so she would be released from having to take care of me.

But the mother goes on living‚ for her‚ the daughter she wishes were a son. This is how misery permeates the girl’s soul. Most of her life she can’t be satisfied with who she is. The irony is that she truly wishes to satisfy her mother’s wish. This is how she begins her acting career. Very young. In her own house. She slips into roles. When she thinks that she is not who she is, she becomes relaxed and fear free. She is in a safe place where her father’s terror can no longer reach and her mother’s tears can no longer wash her away.

Later on it becomes clear that Madame Mao doesn’t forgive. She believes that one must collect the debts owed to one. She has little desire to understand forgiveness. Revenge‚ on the other hand‚ she understands. She understands it in the most savage way. In her life, she never hesitates to order her enemies’ complete elimination. She does it naturally. It is a practice she started as a young girl.

I see my father hit Mother with a shovel. It happened suddenly. Without warning. I can hardly believe my eyes. He is mad. He calls Mother a slut. Mother’s body curls up. My chest swells. He hits her back, front, shouting that he will break her bones. Mother is in shock, unable to move. Father drags her, kicks and steps on her as if to flatten her into a piece of paper.

I feel horror turning my stomach upside down. I jump. I get in between them. You are no longer my father‚ I announce‚ my body trembling all over. I will never forgive you! One of these days you will find yourself dead because I put mice poison in your liquor!

The man turns and raises the shovel over his head.

My lips burn. My front tooth is in my mouth.

*

During the production of her operas and ballets in the 1970s, Madame Mao describes the wound to the actresses, actors, artists and the nation. Madame Mao says, Our heroines must be covered with wounds. Blood-dripping wounds. Wounds that have been torn‚ punctured or broken by weapons like shovels‚ whips‚ glass‚ wooden sticks‚ bullets or explosions. Study the wounds‚ pay attention to the degree of the burn, the layers of the infected tissue. The color transitions in the flesh. And the shapes that remind you of a worm-infested body.

Eight years old and she is already determined. It is not clear whether her father kicked her mother out of his house or her mother ran away herself. At any rate the girl no longer has a home. The mother takes the daughter with her. They walk from street to street and town to town. The mother works as a maid. A washmaid, lower in rank than a kitchenmaid. The mother works where she and the girl will be given a corner to sleep at night. At night the mother often leaves mysteriously. When she returns it is usually dawn. The mother never tells the girl where she goes. One day when the girl insists‚ she says that she visits different houses. She either peels potatoes or serves as a foot warmer for the master’s children. She never tells the girl that she is a foot warmer for the master himself. The mother withers quickly. Her skin wrinkles up like ripples in a lake and her hair dries like a winter stalk.

Some nights the girl gets bored waiting for her mother. She can’t sleep yet she is afraid to go out. She lies in bed quietly. After midnight she hears bullets being fired. She counts the shots so she will know how many people have been killed.

My number always matches the number of heads that hang on the gate of the town the next day. My schoolmates talk to each other like this: I’ll slaughter you and hang your head on a hook and then I’ll stick an opium pipe between your teeth.

I hate school. I am an object of attack because I have no father and have a mother who works at jobs that arouse suspicion. I beg my mother to transfer me to a different school. But the situation doesn’t change. It gets so bad that one day a classmate unleashes a dog.

Madame Mao later uses the incident in both a ballet and opera of the same title‚ TheWomenoftheRedDetachment. The villains come with vicious-looking dogs to chase the slave girl. A closeup of the dog teeth and a closeup of the wound. The bleeding body parts.

My mother’s face becomes unrecognizable. Her pretty cheekbones start to protrude and her eyes have deep pockets. She is so sick that she can’t walk far. Yet we are still on the run. She has been fired from her job. She can’t talk‚ she whispers in between breaths. She writes a letter and begs her parents for shelter and food. I wonder why she hasn’t done that earlier. She won’t explain. I sense that she wasn’t her parents’ favorite. There are probably bad memories of the past. But now she has no choice.

My grandparents live in Jinan. It is the capital of Shan-dong Province. Compared to the town of Zhu, it is a fancy city. It is on the south side of the Yellow River, about nine miles away. The city is a center of business and politics. It is very old. The names of the streets reflect its past glory: Court Street‚ Financial Street‚ Military Street. There are magnificent temples and dazzling opera houses. I don’t know until later that many of the opera houses are in fact whorehouses.

*

My grandparents and I have never met and our meeting changes my life. My dependence on my mother begins to shift dramatically as my grandfather takes charge in caring for me. He is a kind fellow‚ a meek man actually‚ knowledgeable but powerless in handling reality. He teaches me opera. He asks me to recite after him. Phrase by phrase and tone by tone we get through the most famous arias. I don’t like it‚ but I want to please him.

Every morning‚ sitting on a rattan chair with a cup of tea‚ my grandfather begins. He tells me what the story is about first‚ the situation and the character, and then out his voice comes. He is a terrible singer, which makes him quite funny. I follow him, not remembering exactly what I am singing. I purposely imitate his poor tone. He tries to correct me. After a few efforts, he discovers that I have been naughty and threatens to be upset and then I behave. I hit the notes in a perfect voice. He claps and laughs. With his mouth wide open I see a hollow with all the teeth gone.

We move on. Soon I am able to do passages from TheRomanceoftheThreeKingdoms, especially TheEmptyCity. My grandfather is pleased. He lets me know that I count. A boy or a girl, to him it makes no difference. There is only one condition: as long as I follow him and learn. He lets me do whatever I want around the house. My grandmother is a quiet little lady and a Buddhist. She echoes her husband and never seems to have an opinion of her own. She always covers up for me. For example, when I accidentally break Grandfather’s favorite ink bottle‚ she uses her own savings and hurries to the town on her lotus feet and buys a new bottle to replace the broken one. She does it quietly and I adore her.

My grandfather continues his cultivation. His head swings in circles. I do the same. When he is in a good mood, he takes me to operas. Not the good ones — he can’t afford the tickets — but the imitations presented in the whorehouses. During the performances fights often break out among the drunkards.

It is my grandfather’s wish that I complete elementary school. You are a peacock living among hens, he says. He is fixing the arm of his rattan chair when he says this to me. His head is on the floor and his rear end points toward the ceiling. The phrase has an enormous effect on me.

My grandfather enrolls me in a local school a block away. He gives me a formal name, Yunhe — Crane in the Clouds. The image is picked from his favorite opera, TheGoldenPavilion. The crane is the symbol of hope.

The new school is a terrible place. The rich kids beat the poor whenever they like. Yunhe endures as much as she can until one day she is hit by a boy and a group of girls applaud. It enrages her. For days afterwards she is chewed by an incredible pain. I would have endured as usual if it were just the boys taking advantage of the girls, Madame Mao says later. I wouldn’t have felt so alone and betrayed. I wouldn’t have taken it so personally because mistreating women was considered a tradition. But it was the girls, the women, the grass, the worthless creatures themselves, laughing at their own kind that hurt, that opened and dipped my wounds in salt water.

2

Slowly my mother fades from my life. It is said that she is married. To whom? She never introduces us to the new husband. She just disappears. Gone. The door is shut. I don’t hear from her. She is done with parenting. I don’t know what to do, only that I don’t want to end up like her.

I watch operas and copy the arias. TheLegendof HuoxiaoYu and StoryoftheWestChamber. I dream about the characters in the ancient tales, the rebellious heroines, women who fight fiercely for their happiness and get it. I decide that I shall be an opera actress so I will get to live a heroine’s life on stage. But my grandfather opposes the idea. To him‚ actresses and prostitutes are the same. I don’t give in. My grandfather regrets that he ever introduced me to opera. He threatens to disown me. But it is too late.

The girl is not sold to the opera troupe as she later claims. She runs away from home and delivers herself to a local troupe. She begs to be accepted. She is pretty‚ already a full-size young woman, already attractive. She claims to be an orphan. She runs away before her grandparents get a chance to disown her. This becomes a pattern in her life. With her husbands and lovers, she takes the initiative. She abandons before being abandoned.

The girl becomes an apprentice. While learning her craft she washes the floors, cleans makeup drawers, fills water jars and takes care of the leading actress’s wardrobe. She gets to sit by the curtain during performances. Like a spring field in the season’s first rain, she absorbs. During the New Year’s Eve performance she gets to play her first one-line role. The line is: Tea,Madame.

For the role she dresses up in full costume. Her hair is up, pinned with pearls and glittering ornaments. In the mirror‚ in the painted face, in the red lips, the girl sees herself in the world she has been imagining.

Yet the place shows its ugly face. At night, after the performances‚ the girl hears sobbing. After her mistress takes off the makeup and costume, the girl sees a withered face. A young woman of twenty but who looks forty. A face of wood, carved heavily with wrinkles. There must be a ghost’s hand working on this face‚ the girl thinks to herself.

When the girl goes out to fetch duck-blood soup on her mistress’s order, she sees men waiting. Each night, a different man. They are the troupe owner’s friends. Most of them are old, and a couple of them have a mouthful of gold teeth. The mistress is told to entertain them, to help them realize their fantasies. It doesn’t matter that she is exhausted, doesn’t matter that she wants to spend time with the young man of her heart.

The girl is waiting. She waits for a bigger role. For that she works hard, does everything she is told‚ endures an occasional beating. She tells herself to be patient, to perfect her skills. She is aware of the changes in her body. Aware that it is blooming. In the mirror she sees her eyes become brighter, her features ripening. Her waist grows smaller while her chest blossoms. She believes that her chance is coming her way. At night she dreams of the spotlight tracing her, only her.

I follow my grandfather and we head home. I am not giving up acting. I was not given the role I wanted to play. I was bored. The wait was too long. I became sick of cleaning backstage. Sick of my rubber-faced mistress‚ her complaining, long and smelly words, like foot-binding cloths. My grandfather has paid a large sum to get me out of the troupe.

But when the moon buries itself in the deep drifts of cloud‚ my thoughts get busy again. I thought I had caught a glance, heard a tone, seized my dream, but … I stay wide awake in my old bed trying to figure out where to go and what to do next.

The sticky-rice-pasted wrapping cloths. The swelling toes. The inflammation. The prickling pain at the ankles. The girl remembers how she saved herself.

My grandparents are busy traveling from town to town and from matchmaker to matchmaker. They are trying get rid of me. I am sixteen years old‚ already beyond ruling. Because of my size‚ I am often mistaken as eighteen. They should have my feet bound. Now I can walk and run on this pair of — what my grandmother calls — liberation feet. My feet feel strong‚ as if they are on wings.

I run to free myself. I find another opera troupe. It is called the Experimental Theater Troupe of Shan-dong Province. It’s bigger and better known‚ headed by a Confucius-looking man named Mr. Zhao Taimo.

Although Mr. Zhao Taimo has the look of Confucius‚ he is not a man of tradition by any means. He is a man of Western education. He is the torch that lights Yunhe’s early life. Later on Madame Mao refuses to credit him for his guidance. Madame Mao takes all the credit for herself. It is because she is expected to prove that she was a born proletarian. But in 1929 it is Mr. Zhao Taimo who grants the girl admission even though she lacks important qualifications. Her Mandarin is poor and she has no acrobatic skills. Mr. Zhao is attracted instantly by the rebellious spirit in the girl. The bright almond eyes. The burning passion behind them. From the way the girl marches into the room‚ Mr. Zhao discovers a tremendous potential.

The circle of literature and arts in Shan-dong regards Mr. Zhao as a man of inspiration. His wife‚ the elegant opera actress Yu Shan, is popular and adored. Yu Shan is from a prestigious family and is well connected. The girl Yunhe comes to worship the couple. She becomes a guest at the Zhaos’ open house every Sunday afternoon. Sometimes she even comes early in the morning, skipping her breakfast, just to watch Yu Shan go through her opera drills. Yunhe’s modesty and curiosity impress Yu Shan and the two become good friends.

At parties, Yunhe is usually quiet. She sits in the corner chewing sunflower seeds and listens. She observes the visitors. Most of them are students‚ professors‚ musicians and playwrights. There are mysterious visitors too. They are the left-wingers — the underground Communists.

My first encounters with the revolutionaries take place at Mr. Zhao Taimo’s parties. I find them young, handsome and passionate. I look at them with respect. I can never forget those bloody heads hung on the poles. What is it that makes them risk their lives?

In Mr. ZhaoTaimo’s house I find the answer. It is their love for the country. And I think that there is nothing in life more honorable than what they do.

The girl suddenly has the urge to join the discussion. It takes her a while to finally gather her courage and project her voice.

I was never told that the foreign occupation was the result of our nation’s defeat‚ the girl says. In my schoolbook China is as glorious as it has always been. But why are foreigners the masters of factories‚ owners of railways and private mansions in our country? I remember once my grandfather sighed deeply and said that it was useless to learn to read — the more one was educated‚ the deeper one felt humiliation. I now understand why my grandfather loves opera. It is to numb himself. In opera he relives China’s past splendor. People are fooling themselves.

At the school Yunhe proves herself to be an ardent student. Her shirt is constantly wet with sweat. Bruises are visible on her knees and elbows from practicing martial arts. During voice class she spends hours studying one aria and won’t quit until it is perfect. The teachers are pleased by the high expectations she sets for herself and she is adored. After classes one can hear Yunhe’s laughter. It sounds like bells. The male students find it extremely pleasant. They find themselves unable to take their eyes off the girl. There is something about her that is utterly irresistible. It catches their attention and has a mysterious effect on them.

Not only does the girl love drama‚ she creates drama in her daily life. It becomes her interest first‚ then it extends itself to become a need‚ an obsession and an addiction. Finally her entire existence is based on it‚ her fantasy — she has to feel dramatic‚ has to play a role, or she gets restless, stressed and sick. She doesn’t get well until she assigns herself another role.

It is midnight. The Temple of Confucius is said to be a visiting place of abandoned ghosts — the ghosts who had disobeyed tradition during their breathing time and have been punished. No temple will collect them. It is said that if the long grass sways in the empty courtyard after dark‚ bricks will drop from corners of the eaves. The statues of Confucius and his seventy-two disciples will come to life. They will lecture the ghosts and help them find their way back. The statue of Confucius is the tallest figure and is located in the deep end of the temple. It is covered with thick dust and spider webs‚ all the way from his feet up to his head scarf.

The boys of the opera school are afraid to go into the temple at night. One night they invent a game and set up a reward for anyone who dares to enter the temple after midnight to fetch the scarf from Confucius’s head.

All week long, no one answers the challenge. The fifth night, someone grabs the scarf.

To everyone’s surprise‚ it is Yunhe.

With two thin pigtails and a naughty grin on her face‚ the girl smiles toward the clapping audience.

The girl has a feeling that Mr. Zhao and his wife will do her good — for example, introduce her to someone or provide an opportunity. She relies on her instinct. Later in her life‚ on many occasions‚ she does the same.

She continues to practice her trade. She is taught Qingyi,traditionally a beautiful tragic female character. The girl’s good looks earn her the role. Her movements are expected to be filled with elegance.

There are already rivals. Yunhe realizes that she has to fight to get chances. There is a part in a new play by a well-known Shanghai playwright, Tien Han. It is entitled TheIncidentontheLake. Yunhe participates in the audition but is unlucky. The part goes to her roommate‚ a thin-haired girl whose brother is an instructor at the school.

Yunhe feels depressed during the opera’s opening. She is unable to deal with her jealousy. Her discomfort is written all over her face. During the performance she forgets her job — to pop out of a tree. Inside she is tortured. She thinks of herself as a much better performer.

Some evil hands are always there trying to bind my feet, Madame Mao will say.

Even when winds buffet me from all directions‚ I never give up hope. This is my biggest virtue. Someone said that it was by accident that I sprouted. No. It was no accident. I created my own opportunity. Raining or snowing‚ I never missed one show. I was always there and always made myself available. I was never late or gave myself an excuse to retire early. I didn’t waste time on gossiping or knitting sweaters by the stage curtain. I watched the leading lady.

Yes‚ I was bored to tears‚ but I made myself stay. I memorized the character’s every aria and every word. It is not that I am so wise that I can predict what will happen next. What I do know is that if one wants to get a boat ride‚ one must be near the river.

The leading lady has the flu. Sick as she is, she doesn’t want to leave the show. For days she drags herself through the play. It is Monday evening and it is rainy and wet. The actress is on the verge of collapsing. After peeping through the curtain at the small crowd she asks for the night off. The stage manager is furious with such short notice. The actress calls up a rickshaw and leaves the theater. It is seven o’clock. Fifteen minutes to curtain time. In the makeup room the stage manager paces in circles like a dog chasing its own tail. When the curtain bell rings he punches his fist into the makeup room mirror.

In the broken mirror Yunhe’s face appears. Fully made up and dressed for the role.

I am ready to carry on the show‚ the girl says. I have been ready. Please‚ sir‚ give me a chance.

Thywhitefacedothpowderspurn … The manager recites an aria from the middle of the play.

Vermilionmustyetfromthylipslearn. Yunhe opens her mouth with a full voice. Fleshofsnow‚ bonesofjade‚ dreamthydreams‚peerlessone‚notforthisworldthouartmade.

When the curtain ascends I am my role. Oh‚ how fantastic I feel! My cheeks are hot and I move about the stage at ease. I am born for this. I let myself flow‚ be led by the spirit of the character. The audience is mine. A shout comes when my character is about to end her life for love. Takemewithyou! I hear. Takemewithyou! The rest of the audience follows. And then there is the sob‚ the whole theater. It sounds like an incredible tide. Wave after wave. Sky high. Vast‚ wrapping my ears.

The performance is a success. It turns out to be the best opportunity I could ever hope for — Mr. Zhao Taimo and a group of critics he had invited to review the show are among the audience. He didn’t call in advance to make reservations because he was aware that the show had been slow and that seats would not be a problem.

Yunhe’s tears pour uncontrollably. The heroine finally wins her lover’s affection. But her tears are not for her character. They are for herself‚ her victory‚ that she had outshone her rival‚ that she can no longer be ignored. And that she had single-handedly made all this happen herself.

Backstage‚ as she is being helped to remove her makeup and costume‚ she breaks down again. The sob comes so suddenly, with such an overwhelming impact‚ that she grabs the door and dashes out.

The year is 1930. Right after her first appearance on the stage‚ the theater is shut down. And then the troupe and the school. The reasons are lack of funds and political instability. Unable to pay its debts‚ China submits itself to deeper and wider foreign penetration. The infighting between warlords has exhausted the peasants and months of drought have devastated the landscape. By the time Yunhe decides to pack up‚ everybody else has already left. It is like a forest on fire where all the animals run for their lives.

The girl has no money to flee and she doesn’t want to go back to her grandparents. Her mother has never tried to find her. She doesn’t let herself miss her‚ especially in these moments, moments when she needs a place to go and a familiar face to turn to. She despises herself when she feels weak and helpless. She pinches the little-girl-crying-for-help voice inside her‚ pinches it as if it were her worst enemy. She keeps pinching until the pitiful voice turns into ice drops and forms a hard crystal. A crystal that never melts.

I sell all my belongings and buy a train ticket to Beijing. I look for acting jobs. I have to try. But the city is cold to me. Wherever I go‚ my Shan-dong-accented Mandarin brings laughs. None of my auditions ring back. Two months later‚ I am completely broke. No one wants to lend me money. No one believes that I will ever have a future as an actress. It doesn’t bother me at the beginning. But when I am cold and hungry‚ I begin to doubt myself.

The girl comes back from Beijing and consents to her grandparents’ wish — she will marry. She is seventeen. The husband’s name is Fei, a fan of hers when she played TheIncidentontheLake. He is a small-business man. Later on in her life‚ she never mentions her marriage to Mr. Fei. She refuses to recall the face of the man. To her‚ he happened to be a rock in the middle of the river in which she was drowning. She reached for the rock and pulled herself up.

But at the wedding ceremony she is obedient. She is carried on a sedan chair and wrapped in red silk like a New Year’s present. It is to satisfy her parents-in-law. They are not smiling. Yunhe suspects that her grandfather has paid money to have Mr. Fei propose.

Now she is on her own as a wife and a daughter-in-law. She feels strange and unprepared for the role. The first night is awful. The man claims his territory. She thinks of herself as an animal on a slaughtering table. His expression reminds her of a goat after a satisfying chew of grass. His jaw moves from side to side. Blood seeps from between her legs. She is resentful and disgusted.

I had dreamed of falling in love as in the operas. I expected my new husband to be intelligent and caring. I expected that we would court like butterflies in spring. I expected to feel for him. But my chances are taken away unasked. Mr. Fei is on my face every night ripping away every thread of my beautifully embroidered dream.

I weep in the middle of his act. How different am I from the prostitutes on the streets? It makes me think that. I have wronged my mother. I have always thought that she had done something wrong to mess up her life. Now I understand that a girl can do everything right and her life will still be a mess.

Now the girl has a place to stay and a man to pay her bills. Her energy resumes. She is ready to take charge of her life again. She doesn’t consult her husband. She thinks of him as a prop in her real-life show.

The in-laws’ complaint becomes her excuse. I am not going to stay where your mother wants to have my feet bound again, she says. The husband comes in between the women and tries to negotiate. No deal. His wife can’t wait to be divorced. He can’t outsmart her. Nothing will satisfy her until she is released.

Mr. Fei sits down and takes out his abacus. He calculates and decides that he doesn’t want to invest more in a business of no profit.

With some money in her pocket the girl is on the run again. She never mentions the husband to anyone. Later in life she denies that the marriage ever existed. As the woman who will lead China after Mao‚ she must be a goddess. Having too many husbands on record will impede her path to power.

In 1930 she thinks herself a peacock among hens. Her life is the proof. She tells herself‚ sometimes one has to be put in a henhouse in order to be measured‚ compared and recognized.

I run away from my marriage. A girl of eighteen. Not very well educated and all alone in the world. I can’t remember how many days I wander from place to place. I have lice in my hair and my underwear smells. I think about giving up. I almost do.

Finally I manage to locate Zhao Taimo‚ who is now the new president of Shan-dong University. I am sure that he remembers me and I assume that he will find a way to lend me a hand. But I am disappointed. Mr. Zhao says that he is too busy. If I want to be a student, I have to apply through the admissions office. How can I? I have no diplomas. I haven’t even completed elementary school. But I try not to feel discouraged I make myself go to Mr. Zhao’s wife, Yu Shan, to beg.

She plays her role passionately. Stories of her struggle, shows lice in her hair‚ blisters on her feet. She moves the audience. Don’t cry, says Yu Shan. Don’t worry. There is hope. I know someone who might be helpful. Let me work on it and I’ll get back to you in a few days.

Yu Shan finds the girl a job working in the school library as an assistant, which allows her to be a part-time student. The girl feels excited and nervous at the same time. She attends classes, walks around the campus and meets new people. She speaks humbly and carefully. She is eager to impress and eager to make friends. One day, Yu Shan brings a handsome young man to meet her. It is her brother, Yu Qiwei. Yu Shan introduces him. The student leader‚ the secretary of the underground Communist Party on campus.

Neither Yu Shan nor Yunhe could know that this man will become the girl’s next husband — and more dramatically, one of the power-managers of Mao Tse-tung, the girl’s fourth husband. My first impression of Yu Qiwei is that he is extremely good-looking and calm like a summer lake. His smile relaxes me. He is in a navy blue Chinese two-piece suit. A pair of black cotton sandals. He sits opposite me, drinking tea. His sister has been trying to explain the meaning of his name — Qi as enlightenment and Wei as power and prestige.

It is a beautiful autumn day. We sit outside the teahouse near the campus under a large maple tree. The ground is carpeted by the red and yellow maple leaves. The colors are pure and bright. When the breeze stirs, leaves rain down. A couple land on Yu Qiwei’s shoulders. He picks up a leaf and admires it. Yu Shan finishes her introduction and makes an excuse to leave.

The girl is interested but doesn’t show it. She nods politely, sips her tea. Yu Qiwei asks what kind of classes interest her the most. Literature and theater, she answers. How interesting, he responds, and tells her that he has been involved with artists who put on political plays. She says that she doesn’t know the group but admires them. Maybe you would like to work with them someday, suggests Yu Qiwei. Maybe, she smiles.

He then asks whether she enjoys campus life. She answers his questions. She doesn’t ask any. There is no need. She knows all there is to know about him through Yu Shan. Finally he asks‚ Don’t you have any questions regarding me? They both laugh. Your sister told me that you were a talent in the biology department. Oh that, he laughs. Yes, but that was before I became a full-time Communist. I see politics as a much more effective way to save the country.

Looking into the young man’s eyes, Yunhe discovers something extraordinary. When he begins to talk about his country and his belief in Communism his expression is exalted. She is instantly attracted. But she is not sure whether he is attracted to her. It doesn’t stop her. She pursues. She lets him know that she would like to meet people, his friends. He is glad. He finds her beautiful and pleasant.

The next day he takes her to see a street play. He introduces her to his friends. She is impressed and discovers that he is adored by almost everyone, especially women. His charisma and ability to communicate and lead make him a natural magnet.

She sits in front of a checkout desk expecting him without knowing whether he will come. He usually steps into the library right before she gets off work. She sees him now. She turns away, pretending that she is writing. She doesn’t want him to know her feelings. Yu Shan has told her that he has many female admirers.

She sees him approaching. He comes near, smiles, and tells her that he is here to deliver a message from his sister. Yu Shan and Mr. Zhao have invited us both for a private dinner. Would you please come?

We begin to meet. We take long strolls around the campus as the sun is setting. The campus was originally a German military base. The library was built on the waist of a hill facing the sea. Its roof is made of red glass tile and its windows have delicate wooden frames. The views from the hill are breathtaking. Our other favorite spot is the port of Qing-dao. Its beauty lies in the mingling of traditional and modern architecture. At the end of the long seashore is a pavilion which, when the sun sets, brings one onto the stage of the ancient poet Ci Yin’s poem “On Farewell.” Sometimes we recite the lines together.

Andso,dearfriend,atBrownCraneTower

Youbidthewestadieu

MidAprilmistsandblossomsgo

Tillinthevastblue-green

Yourlonelysail’sfarshadenomoreisseen

Onlyonthesky’svergetheriverflow

Every morning, when the sea awakens the city, the young woman Yunhe and young man Yu Qiwei appear shoulder to shoulder at the shore. There is the faint smell of rotten fish and salt water. Blown by the wind Yunhe’s hair brushes softly over Yu Qiwei’s cheek. They come again in the evenings to watch the moon. To watch how the ocean puts on its silver nightgown and dances. In the distance are blinking lights of passing ships. The night stretches in front of them endlessly.

In the beginning, the conversation is about banned books and plays — ADoll’sHouse,TheDreamoftheRedChamber — and then the future of the nation, the inevitable foreign invasion‚ freedom‚ socialism‚ Communism and feminism. She listens to him and gradually feels herself falling in love. She doesn’t tell him about Mr. Fei, her ex-husband. But a couple of times she makes odd remarks: The true poverty is having no choice in life. No choice but getting married, for example. No choice but to be a prostitute or a concubine, to sell one’s body. She is in tears when she says that.

Yu Qiwei pulls her closer and holds her. He finds himself becoming inseparable from her. The girl from Jinan. The bright almond eyes. He feels the sweet-stir inside him. Suddenly he tears himself away from her and runs toward the night waves. He dives into the water‚ swims‚ splashes his arms. Under the white moonlight‚ the silver water streams down from the tips of his fingers.

She watches him‚ wiping her tears happily.

Through him she learns to be comfortable with herself. She learns that her own judgment counts‚ that she can trust herself. She is no longer restless. Yu Qiwei makes her happy‚ content and inspired. They court seriously. She is his everywoman. Each night‚ she is different. She loves to perform. Last night she was Nora and tonight she is Lady Yuji. She does this genuinely and effortlessly. She likes the idea that he is popular among women. It gives her the chance to prove herself‚ to prove that there is no way a hen can outshine a peacock. In his arms she realizes that she is capable of playing any role.

She thinks of him as a hero of the time. It stimulates her to think that she nurtures a powerful man‚ that thus she is the source of the power‚ strong and worthy. Each night when she opens herself she feels this way. She likes to witness how she is desired‚ how he becomes helpless without her. She likes to prolong the moment of sweet torture‚ to make him want her so much that he begs and cries. Sometimes she is quiet from beginning to end. The only sound in the room is the sound of their breathing‚ its rising and falling like a distant sea‚ the ocean‚ the water that wraps the earth.

Yu Qiwei is daring and shy at the same time. He is a respected public figure‚ a wise man‚ almost fatherlike‚ yet with me he is a young boy in a fruit shop. I love it when he wants me in his sleep. This is often the case. He comes home late. He has been promoted as the provincial Party secretary. His meetings take place in darkness‚ in disguise and secrecy. Each night I wait for him.

It is the late autumn of 1931. Through Yu Qiwei I learn that the Japanese invasion has deepened. China’s three northern provinces are occupied. The workers and students put on demonstrations. Day and night‚ my lover is there to call the public’s consciousness. We decide to get married. There is no time for the wedding ceremony. We have more important things to do. Moving into a small two-room place we settle down. Our friends and relatives are notified of our union. In fact I have been respected as Yu Qiwei’s wife from the moment we started dating. Everyone thinks of us as a perfect couple.

I volunteer to work for the Communist group under Yu Qiwei’s leadership. He has convinced his theater friends to take advantage of my talent. I become a leading actress for a small left-wing troupe. I help create anti-Japanese plays and take them to the streets. The first play is called PutDownYourWhip. I play a girl who finally stands up to her abusive father. It feels like I am playing my life. I act out what I couldn’t back home. Yu Qiwei is my most faithful fan. It always makes me happy when I see his face in the crowd. He hugs and kisses me as he congratulates the other cast members. He leads the crowd‚ shouting DownwiththeJapaneseinvaders!

I am part of my lover‚ part of his work and part of China’s future.

In his bed‚ I am tame‚ settled. He is exhausted. He falls right to sleep when his head hits the pillow. He hasn’t been able to sleep for days. I get up and cook noodles and vegetables. I know that he will want to eat when he wakes. He eats a lot. Three bowls. It makes me laugh to think about the way he eats. He apologizes for his manners but continues to eat. He calls himself a toilet that flushes the food down.

I cross my legs on the floor and watch him sleep. His sweet‚ boylike face. Sometimes he drools. He is so tired he sleeps in his coat; he hasn’t the energy to take it off. I don’t wake him. I take off his shoes, slowly and gently. There is a truck passing by outside on the street. I am afraid that he will wake. But he is fine‚ keeps dreaming.

I lie down next to him and fall asleep myself. Once In a while the noise outside keeps me up. I feel that I haven’t seen him for so long that I still miss him. I am afraid that he will wake and tell me that he has to move on.

I take off his coat, shirt and pants. I push him toward the wall side of the bed. He doesn’t wake up. Maybe he just knows that it is me and knows what I am going to do.

He has told her that he loves it, loves what she does when he is dreaming. He says that she always knows when he has a steaming dream. He is too busy to feed his body, and the desire comes in his dreams. She knows the timing — when, exactly, he needs her.

It usually begins with a towel. For he is covered with dust and sweat. She rubs him with the cloth. A few strokes, the towel turns brown. She moves around, tosses the towel in hot water. Sometimes he turns around‚ in half sleep‚ as if to help her out. A born pleasure seeker‚ he used to describe himself. It has to do with his background‚ a bourgeois family spoiled with comforts. What makes him a revolutionary? She has no idea. There are such people in the Communist Party. What do they risk their heads for? It isn’t food, she is sure. The power to control? The love of country? Or just following an instinct — to be a bigger man than the rest?

The smooth body, the golden flesh. He is a naked god who doesn’t know shame. I can’t stop myself from tasting him. I taste him alongside the dishes I have prepared for him, next to his dirty clothes. I unbutton my blouse. I have the urge to feed him.

He opens his mouth, like an infant. Smiles, sweetly. I touch him gently as I take off my underwear. It is at this moment I feel his hands coming.

In his desire I hear the singing of a storm as it breaks across a river.

The time-mountain will be there, left there, years later. It remembers the passion of the storm and the river.

We are walking in the dark. Three of us. A friend of Yu Qiwei walks a half block behind us. This is going to be our ceremony, he says, a spirit union. I smile, nervous but excited. I thank him for the guidance. We slow down to allow the friend to catch up. Yu Qiwei then passes me to the friend — a secret Communist agent. He talks to the friend again about safety, instructs him to take the alley behind the silk factory on Yizhou Road, not the cross street, Xin-ming Road. Be careful of the spies. The man nods. Congratulations, Yu Qiwei whispers to me.

I follow the man, my heart a rabbit in a bag. We walk quickly toward a small park where the bushes are thick. The man takes the alley. Before we make a turn the man looks back. There is no tail.