Anchee Min - Red Azalea

I was in Yan’s clothes, the washed-white army uniform. I wore that when I was either afraid or proud. My senses told me that my being chosen by the Beijing upstairs had to do with the Supervisor. His secrecy excited me and frightened me at the same time. I did not like the fact that I was obsessed with him, because I smelled danger in him. We were on an unequal footing. I could see the spell he cast over me. I decided that if I were to see him again I would break the spell. I would count on myself. And I knew I must. I was twenty. I had courage.

White nylon gloves guided me out of the car. I was surrounded by a park of peonies encircled by a forest. What a land! The streams under my feet sang through the stones. A clear path through the pink peonies led into the hills of green. The driver told me to follow the path and he walked back to his car. The car pulled off like the shadow of a bird. Fields of grassland expanded to the end of the sky where the sun was setting. A breath of wind stirred the forest. Clouds swam in the mirrorlike river. My steps were light as if I were riding the wind. Although the nodding of peonies was pleasant, the flowers’ splendidness reminded me of their owner’s social status. I suddenly remembered Yan’s first order upon my arrival on Red Fire Farm: Act like a soldier! I forced myself on.

An old mansion appeared, draped with ivy and brightly colored flowers. There was a dark narrow door. I stopped by the door. A young man with white gloves in a green army uniform opened the door for me. He smiled silently at me and guided me into the hallway. There was another man who was in the hallway before I stepped in, but I failed to notice him at first because he stood motionless by the doorway like a piece of furniture. Just like the first man, he had a smile that was well trained. He gestured me to follow him to a tearoom where a row of black and white photographs were exhibited. I was seated on a sofa that commanded a master view of the garden. The young man left the room with noiseless steps. Another pleasant-faced young man appeared with a white tray. Trained smile. He offered me a warm wet towel. He left just as the fourth pleasant-faced young man stepped into the room and placed a cup of perfumed tea in front of me. Trained smile. Trained steps. White gloves. Shaved chins. Petallike mouths. Carved-stone features. They swam in and out of the room like fish in seaweed.

As I sipped the tea, I began to look at the photographs. Most of the subjects were flowers and many of them were peonies. Peonies in fog, in rain, at sunrise, sunset, under the moonlight and in the dark. Peonies in snow, in white. Withering peonies, passionately shot. It touched me and for a moment I forgot where I was. As I looked carefully, I found that the photographs were not exactly black and white. They were hand-colored, slightly brownish. The color of yawning petals was delicately handled. I was moved by the way the artist had emptied himself into these pictures.

From the tearoom an arched bridge led toward the garden. The brightness overexposed everything outside. I heard the click of a camera shutter. I heard a familiar voice. It was an expected voice, but still it shocked me.

It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? the voice said. It made me tremble inside as before. I wanted to say something but my tongue failed me. Come and see my garden, the voice said.

The Supervisor was in a bleached-white cotton blouse, grass-green pants and deep blue straw sandals. His thin, young-girl-like arms folded by his chest. He turned to look at the heart of a peony. He was concentrating on the flower. The perfume he wore drew me toward him. The joy of seeing him again swept me. His short black hair was combed back smoothly. He moved on to another peony. His elegance choked my breath with the desire to be close to him. When his fingers touched the petals of a peony, my whole being quivered inside, remembering the way he touched me.

I did not like my desire because it made me powerless in front of him. He bent to examine a roll-shaped flower. By speaking without a voice, he attracted all my attention. I hated his tricks but was so willing to be seduced. Any comment on the photographs? He spoke. I heard myself say, Were those taken by you? No one else is living here, he said. The photos were taken in this garden.

The pleasant-faced young men were swimming in and out. I felt I was being watched. Their brains are made of metal, the Supervisor said, pointing at the backs of the pleasant-faces. They have square hearts like robots. They do not understand emotions as you do. You are experienced. How is your lover? What’s her name? Oh, no, don’t answer that. I’ve changed my mind.

The way the Supervisor read me scared me. I asked the reason I was called here. I need you, he said. You are invited for an important screen test, a test which will change some fundamental ideas of our countrymen.

The tea mug in my hand almost fell. Am I to play Red Azalea? I asked, so scared of any answer. That’s correct. He nodded. Remember, you would make me happier if you ask no questions.

How are you prepared for Red Azalea? He asked me as he led me through the garden into another courtyard. We entered a room. I saw a white screen hung from the ceiling. The room had a dark lacquered wall carved with shapes of peonies. Four flower-shaped light fixtures stood by each corner. There were two big yellow sofas placed in front of the screen. The Supervisor pointed for me to sit down on the sofa.

I sometimes sleep here when the night gets too deep and the dark chills me, he said. And I become the saddest person in the whole world after my favorite movie. I cuddle myself in the sofa and let my tears run like an infant. Shouldn’t one let himself go when he feels weak?

A shadow passed by the screen. I turned and saw a projector in the wall. So this is a screening room, I said. It’s a screen on which history is performed and reperformed, said the Supervisor. It is all in our will, he added. The perfumed tea was served quietly by the pleasant-faced young men. The Supervisor stared at me as he sipped the tea. I like the way your face is lit now. Don’t move. Yes, that’s nice. His hands were twiddling my face. Your face possesses the heroic quality I have been looking for. It pleases me so much to look at you. Are you pleased to hear what I say? Show me your appreciation like the others. Your quietness irritates me, so stop it. I don’t like to be confused. I observed that you would not laugh when silly girls laughed hard. It impressed me, though I am not quite used to your character yet. Your quality is inborn. That is rare. The mopping of the floor made you learn. The saying fits: “Swallow the bitterest in bitter; it makes one the finest in fine.”

He was telling me the story of Red Azalea as if it were his own life. She was a Red Army leader, a red goddess admired and loved by all. The story was about a long spiritual march. It was about an indelible faith in Communism, about the worship of Mao, about an incredible will in conquering enemies, about extraordinary military skills in conducting monumental battles.

The story did not grab me as much as the talking head before me. He was an opening peony. A hand-colored peony, like the ones in his photographs. The almond eyes were as bright as ever. The porcelainlike fine skin spoke well of his elegance. He was a man and a woman. His story was bad liquor. It poured into my throat and made me drunk with heat.

This is what I want to see in your eyes, he said. A million bulls rushing down a hill with their tails on fire.

He waved his hand. The room turned dark. I want to show you one of my favorite movies, he said into my ear. I asked what the movie was called. It is The Battle of Ancient Rome. I said I do not understand foreign languages. He said that was why he was sitting next to me. He wanted to be an interpreter for me.