Anchee Min - Red Azalea

I kept quiet. What could I say? It was the possibility of my departure that upset Yan. Regardless of how much she wanted me to leave this place, my taking off would mean that she would have nothing else to rely on. Since her belief in Communism had begun to collapse, she was no longer emotionally strong. I had no idea where I would be taken if I won the contest.

The next morning Yan appeared calm. She poured all her saved sugar into my porridge. Lu watched us as Yan went to pull out the tractor and hurried me on. The soldiers watched in silence. Yan took me to headquarters to get a stamp to leave the farm. We transferred to the truck to Shanghai.

We sat closely together on the farm’s open truck. It began to rain after we crossed the country border approaching the city. I tried not to think too much about what was going to happen: whether Yan and I would be apart forever. Yan took out a plastic sheet from her bag to cover me from the rain. I tried to pull the sheet to cover her. Don’t bother, she said impatiently. I held her arm and said, Maybe I won’t even pass the regional contest. Don’t you dare to shit on my face, she said.

Its gate was more solemn than I had imagined, the Shanghai Film Studio. In front of me was a big flower bed with two dark reddish buildings standing imposingly on each side. Yan and I walked through the studios where we saw painted ocean backgrounds and wood and ceramic naval vessels. We lost our way and ended up in a place where we saw burnt houses and a collapsed bridge. We explored underground tunnels, artificial trees, plastic human body parts dressed in Communist Army uniforms and Japanese army uniforms, and a burnt Japanese flag.

A security guard came yelling after us. We showed him our official letter. He directed us to the performance hall where I saw many young people gathered. We were guided to our seats. I looked around. A red slogan hung above the stage: “Devote all our energy to the Party’s cultural business!” There were two other slogans hanging vertically: “Follow Comrade Jiang Ching!” and “Long live the victory of Mao’s revolutionary line!” In front of the stage was a long narrow table covered with a white cloth. About fifteen judges were seated behind the table.

A girl who sat next to me was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in my life. She told me that she was from the Red Star Farm neighboring mine. She had a cherrylike mouth. Compared to hers, my mouth was as big as a frog’s. She had hips that curved out from the waist. Mine were a straight column. When her name was called, she went on stage calmly and performed without rushing. Her piece was a combination of dancing and storytelling. As she performed, she laughed and cried like real life. I began to feel short of breath. The sounds around me were like layers of echoes. My rivals sitting beside me became blurry figures and heads. I knew nothing about professional acting; there was no way I could compete with them. I kept thinking that I couldn’t even speak Mandarin properly. When my name was called, I panicked. Instead of standing up and walking to the stage, I bent over the front chair and covered my head with my arms.

Yan shook my arms and shoulders, but I could not make myself move. I was shaking hard. The announcer repeated my name and said that it was the last call. I felt that I was going to faint. I had double vision. My legs were strengthless. Yan yelled ferociously in my ear, Get your ass moving, you pig-shit-head! For our ancestors’ sake it’s your only chance to escape from hell! She cried, You pig-shit-head, you louse-won’t-touch corpse, you have disappointed and dishonored me.

I jumped up. I wiped the sweat off my face. My army coat fell from my shoulders. I strode to the stage.

I stood in front of the judges. I saw no expression on their faces. They looked me up and down. The one with the bald head in the center took his glasses off. I opened my mouth, but I was voiceless. My mind went blank-I forgot the lines. Yan rose up from the audience. Her face was purple.

The words spilled out from my mouth by themselves. Chairman Mao’s poem. I was almost shouting, “Praising the Winter Plum”! The sound was resonant and clear like a bugle call. Yan smiled, her mouth was motioning with me:

Yan looked at me with gentleness. She held my hands throughout the trip back to the Red Fire Farm.

As I waited for the results of the contest, the soldiers in the company began to distance themselves from me. I could sense their envy and bitterness. After two months, when I started to believe that I must have been eliminated, Yan brought back an announcement from headquarters saying that I had been selected for the second regional contest.

My parents in Shanghai were glad to have the chance to reunite with me for the weekend. My father warned me not to believe anything. My father was older than his age. As was my mother. They had no more courage left. Their drive was greatly weakened by their experiences. My father was no longer the ambitious astronomer who named his son Space Conqueror. He was crushed under the unit Party secretary’s feet, trampled upon. He was timid as a mouse in shock.

I was sent back to the farm and was called back for three other regional contests. I forced myself not to think about the event after every contest.

Yan buried herself in hard work. A few times I found her looking at me from a distance with the saddest expression on her face. She rarely spoke, and when she did, her voice sounded tired. I did not know what to say. I tried to keep myself busy in weaving my new future. I did not want to deal with my feelings. I could not. I could not face Yan. It was too hard. I tried to forget before time separated us.

In the early spring of 1976, after the final contest, I was sent to the Shanghai Film Studio for a special class to test my ability to learn. Many of the people I had met and had thought were excellent, such as the girl with the cherrylike mouth from the Red Star Farm, had been eliminated. People who had showed a lack of performing skills were kept on. Later I was told that one of Jiang Ching’s principles was that she would rather have “socialist grass” than “capitalist sprouts.” The judges thought of me as having less talent but politically reliable.

In the class I was instructed to carry a plastic bag, pretending it was a heavy stone. I was described as having a plain background-that is, no one in my family had been an actor-but was quick in responding to instructions.

In another acting exercise I was asked to drink a cup of water. The instructor stopped me and said, No, no, no. You are not drinking the water right. He said I had two problems. He said that a person from the proletarian class would never hold a cup in such a superficial manner-using three fingers on the handle. He instructed me to grab the cup with my hand. He pointed out that a proletarian person would never drink water sip by sip like a Miss Bourgeoise with tons of spare time. He showed me how to drink down the water fast in one gulp and wipe my mouth with my sleeve.

The studio checked my family background and my political record and then sent me back to the farm. I was told that I had been accepted.

When I got back and told the exciting news to Orchid, she shocked me with a rumor: Headquarters was conducting an investigation of me and Yan. Lu was the investigation-team head.