Anchee Min - Red Azalea

He asked again whether I liked the model operas. I replied again, How could anyone not like them? How would anyone dare not like something like that? He said, Can you explain? I said he would be bored with my answer. He said he preferred a personal one. He said that he himself was not satisfied with the operas. He said that he craved revolutionary passion and many of the operas lacked it. I said that I agreed with him and said that I would be interested in the private lives of the characters. I said that it was strange to me that the opera protagonists had no private lives. He said, You mean romance? I said, I didn’t mean to say it, but yes, perhaps, that was it, all right, then, that is it. I don’t have anything to lose. I can’t be put lower. He laughed silently. You don’t have to be so panicked, he said. I am interested in your opinion. Do go on. He said it was true that none of the model operas had romance. I said, I don’t believe that the protagonists had no lovers in their lives whatsoever. I don’t believe any human’s mind could be so free of deep emotions.

A cloud of scorn passed over the Supervisor’s face. We should not use fantasy to deceive our young people, he said. His fingers that carried the cigarette traveled in the air. Romantic love does not exist among proletarians, he said firmly. It is a bourgeois fantasy. People will not forgive anyone who sells lies.

I stood up and went to take the mop. He rose and stepped on my mop. I stood quietly. You must have a lover of some sort, he said. Don’t you lie to me. I do not, I said. You have problems-he stared into my eyes. That is not your business, I said, taking the mop, and went out through the door.

You forgot to ask me my name yesterday, he said to me the next afternoon in the smoking room. You can tell me now, I said impatiently. He said, I don’t intend to. You will have to call me the Supervisor like everybody else. I said, I could find out from other crew members if I wanted to. Try it, he said.

No one knew his name. Everyone said that he was from Beijing and was an expert on opera and film. Everyone called him “the Supervisor.” His mission, Sound of Rain once told the crew, was the most important mission of the century. Sound of Rain himself knew nothing about the details.

Cheering Spear was brought to the set again and again to be screen-tested for Red Azalea. I saw her dream in her eyes. Radiant-faced, Cheering Spear didn’t deign to take a glance at me. I mopped the floor and was burnt by extreme envy. The Supervisor stood close to Cheering Spear, watching her being made up. Beautiful, he said wholeheartedly. He did not mind showing the crew that he adored her; then everybody, except me, began to adore her.

I ate my rice cake in the dark in the smoking room. I felt like an animal who ate its own intestine. I could not eat any more. I could not endure watching Cheering Spear smile. I could not bear her happy singing. I could not escape from my jealousy of her success. Cheering Spear was working hard. Her performance was getting better and better. She was getting into the skin of her role. I was ordered to serve her. I had to remind her of her lines. I had to draw marks under her feet for the camera-man’s purpose, to pass her a cup of water when she asked for a drink, to change her costume after shots, to button up her collar when she forgot.

Soviet Wong came to the set often. She would watch me as well. She watched me stand in for Cheering Spear when she was sent to fix her makeup. I stood under the spotlights for Cheering Spear. It was hard to bear. But I did not want to let Soviet Wong and Cheering Spear see my frustration, though Cheering Spear was too much into herself to notice me. I kept my face up there, between my shoulders, stuck on the front of my skull. I said good morning to Cheering Spear. I bent down on my knees to draw and redraw chalk marks for the camera movement. Sometimes my tears would come up without my being aware of it. Especially when Cheering Spear would say to me, Oh, you are so good at your job.

Though the Supervisor was the director, he came and went without announcement. He had a group of four associate directors working for him. They always whispered together. The Supervisor’s voice would suddenly reappear behind the camera after a few days of disappearance. He seemed to like Cheering Spear more and more. One day he said to her, I want you to be prepared, because the masses will want you so much that they will strangle you. Are you prepared? I was drawing chalk marks under Cheering Spear’s feet when the Supervisor said this. My fingers broke the chalk.

You did not eat all day. Are you all right? The Supervisor’s voice rose in the corner. You only have one stomach-can you afford to abuse it? I said, I am afraid that I’m not feeling too well. He said, Don’t break your nerves, because it would not be worth it; no one really cares about what happens to you. Being egotistical is not a good idea. You can eat yourself up that way. He stood up and walked out the door.

I was suddenly afraid of sitting in the dark all by myself. I had a strange urge to end the present, to end my life. To escape from this thought I took the mop and went to the hallway. As I mopped the hall, I heard the Supervisor’s voice over the microphone. Let me hear the key melody! Let me hear the key melody! he yelled. I took a peek through a window on the stairs into the conducting room. With a set of headphones on his head, the Supervisor lay on a sofa. His feet were on a table. The orchestra played again. The Supervisor became furious. You rice worms have no ears! he yelled, and stepped down onto the studio floor. He ran to a grand piano and played a fast string of notes. Turning his back, he said, Take a break and we’ll play it one more time. If you do not get it right, I’ll make sure you all lose your rice bowls. The Supervisor came up the stairway. He saw me before I tried to step out of his way. He looked at me and said, Let out that bag of smelly gas in you. The day is bright. I made no response. He passed by and I heard his voice through the speakers singing the key melody.

I mopped the floor at people’s feet. Foot by foot. My hopes withered. I constantly thought of escaping. I asked Sound of Rain if he could assign me a job elsewhere. He said, I can’t issue you permission because I know you have an impure purpose. I know leaving the studio is your true intention. You lied to me, you lied to the Party and that’s that. I stood there. Sound of Rain continued, How come you have failed to see that you have serious work to do here? How can you possibly be so selfish as to put the revolutionary business second in your mind? He took out his schedule book and told me that I was booked with work for the next five years. He said he did not make the rules, as he closed his book.

I smoked in the dark room. I had become a chain smoker. After a day’s work, the Supervisor came into the smoking room and sat by himself. We sat in silence as usual, about five feet apart, as if the other person were another prop. My senses sailed into a dark ocean. The dot light of the Supervisor’s cigarette reminded me of a buoy light.

The first rough cuts were highly praised by the upstairs. It was said that Comrade Jiang Ching was pleased. She wanted to show the cuts to Mao. The Chairman and his key men would view the cuts and endorse and promote the movie to the public.

Sound of Rain and Soviet Wong came to the set and announced that Comrade Jiang Ching would inspect the set and have dinner with the crew members in the evening. We were asked to keep the news secret for security reasons. The crew members became excited, so excited that they went into corners and whispered loudly. They said in each other’s ears, It’s true! How lucky we are.