Anchee Min - Becoming Madame Mao

But he won't do it for me. He will not pronounce my name again. His silence has become the permission for others to force me to vanish; to murder me in cold blood. No matter how hard I try to paint black pink, the truth speaks loudly for itself. Mao is determined to carry on his betrayal. He wants to punish me for being who I am. He wants to blame me for his mistress Shang-guan Yun-zhu's death. He has marked me his enemy.

Then why bother to order a graveyard built for both of us at Ba-bo Hill Funeral Home? Why lie next to me instead of Zi-zhen or Kai-hui? Or Shang-guan Yun-zhu? I will never want to record again the way you used to love me. My eyes hurt from crying for your warmth at night. Why don't you lie by yourself after all this hatred for me?

In the thickening snow of January 1976, Premier Zhou passes away. He had played against the political stream by appearing slow and foolish, blind and deaf. So many times he offered toasts to the demons. However, he is remembered as the people's premier. To Madame Mao's disappointment, the nation disregards Mao's order to downplay the ceremony and mourns Zhou. White wreaths cover Tiananmen Square. To the sick Mao this shows obvious resentment. He suspects that Zhou's friend, the newly promoted Premier Deng Xiao-ping, is plotting a betrayal.

In muttered and half-swallowed words, Mao orders the removal of Deng Xiao-ping. The order is carried out immediately. The nation is confused.

Madame Mao Jiang Ching loses no time. She takes advantage of the situation and comes hopping onto the scene. In Mao's name she promotes her future cabinet members: Chun-qiao as the premier, his disciple Yiao as the vice premier, Wang as the minister of national defense and Yu as the minister of culture and arts.

Yu wants me to understand his suffering. He is withering like overheated summer grass. He is terrified by the new title. But I refuse to let him off the hook. We are standing face to face in my office having an argument. I push the window open to let in the cold air. I am frustrated and upset. The sky is a sapphire blue sheet with clawmark-like clouds pulling through it. I shall stand behind you, I promise. You can be a figurehead boss. Your assistants will sweep up the dust after you. So what if you are an artist? You are expected to do things differently. A great genius is supposed to have horns, I have already told everyone. People will understand.

He growls, mutters and begs.

My voice turns tender. A rainbow is forming in front of you, Yu. All you have to do is open your eyes.

He wipes his moist forehead with his sleeve and his lips begin to stretch. I… can't do it. I am-

Don't tell me about your fear. We have brought in the ship! Yu Hui-yong, the ship is in! Come on, get on deck!

She goes on, her gestures animated, arms shooting out and waving back and forth in the air. One more blow, the fruit of victory will fall into our hands!

Yu ceases struggling.

Madame Mao sits down, sinks into the sofa.

Other cabinet members stare at them.

Yu goes to the windowsill and picks up a flower pot. He gently loosens its soil with his finger. It is a wild kind, he suddenly says. The leaves drape around like a crown. The stems will bear little white flowers. He turns the plant toward the sunlight. I love to watch the way plants lift their leaves and the way they deepen their green. I really do.

Madame Mao stands erect like the statue of Lenin on Red Square in Moscow. There is no sentimentality in her voice. The bottom line is that I will allow no betrayal. You are my man. She pauses to restrain herself but tears suddenly pour. If you have to make me beg, I am on my knees now. I beg you to stop insulting me… I am not cold and without feeling by nature… I have chosen love before. But it didn't bring meaning to life. I have lost the soul of an artist… It is my ill fate. One can cure illness, but not fate. The battle I fight is inevitable. My heart is breaking… Let me remind you, all of you, that there is no way out now. We are all in it together and we are soldiers. So let's run toward where the fire is.

September 9, 1976. The history of China turns a page. At the age of eighty-three, Mao Tse-tung exhales his last breath. Upon learning the news from Xin, Jiang Ching forces her way into the Chrysanthemum-Fragrance Study. She sorts through Mao's letters and documents looking for a will. But there is none. Turning around, she orders a Politburo meeting at the Purple Light Pavilion. She wants to announce the Chairman's death personally.

No one else comes but her cabinet members. She checks with her secretary on what's going on and is told that a new figure, a man named Hua Guo-feng, a provincial secretary and Mao's hometown boy, has taken over. He is planning to speak to her-Mao has left a will appointing him as his successor.

Ridiculous! Absolutely ridiculous! She catches her own echo in the empty hall.

The palace is quiet. The day is windless. Mao's body lies at the Hunan Quarter of the Grand Hall of the People. He is straighter than when he was breathing. His ear-long hair has been combed to the back of his skull. The features look peaceful. There isn't a trace of pain. The arms are folded by the thighs. The gray jacket is starched. The body is covered from the chest down by a red flag with the yellow cross of a sickle and hammer.

Liar! Madame Mao Jiang Ching beats the table with her fists. The Chairman never left any will.

The handwriting style is definitely Mao's, the secretary mutters. It was confirmed by an archaeologist and calligrapher who specialized in xing-shu.

Madame Mao stares at the writing, halting her breath.

It is the funeral of the century. Tiananmen Square is flooded with white paper flowers. On top of the Gate of Heavenly Peace, Madame Mao stands behind Hua Guo-feng, who gives the nation the memorial speech. Dressed in a full black suit Madame Mao's head is covered with a black satin scarf. She can hardly bear sharing the same platform with her enemy.

The crystal casket is large. Mao's cheeks are painted thick with powder. His lips are unnaturally red. The corners of the mouth have been artificially pushed and lifted to form a smile. The body lies like a hill slope-from the chest drops a sudden curve-the emptied intestines make his belly looks like a hollow plain. The head looks enormous.

Madame Mao stands three feet from the casket shaking hands with strangers foreign and domestic. She has been doing this for two hours now. Her neck is stiff and her wrist sore. Pale and nervous she holds a white silk handkerchief and uses it to touch her cheeks now and then. She can't even fake tears. She keeps thinking of what Mao had said to her. You will be pushed and nailed into my casket.

Nah has been sobbing hard next to her mother.

My sky has fallen.

Half sky, Nah.

No, the whole sky.

You are truly a good-for-nothing.

The new head of China, Hua, has the face of an old lizard. His eyelids close halfway over his pupils giving him a sleepy expression. His gray suit copies Mao's. He stands stiffly, a frozen smile on his face. When Madame Mao questions the will, he takes a scroll out of his chest pocket and shows the familiar handwriting, which reads, For Comrade Hua Guo-feng. With you in charge I am at rest.

She laughs hysterically, turns away and walks toward the door, shouting, I have the real version of Mao's will. Mao put it, himself personally, into my very ear. She runs into the seventy-nine-year-old Marshal Ye Jian-ying, who is on his way in to pay his respects to Mao.

How can you witness this and do nothing, Marshal? she cries.

The marshal walks past her and pays no attention.

The Chairman's body has not turned cold and you are all plotting a coup d'état!