by Gavin McCrea
—Leave me alone, Ma.
—Do you think these peasants here can afford to have a second suit for the city?
—I don’t think these peasants give a shit about what I’m wearing.
Jiang Qing was not without self-regard. She liked the freshness of a skirt in the summer, and in the winter when everyone wore thick clothes, she had hers cut to fit tightly, so as to show off her figure. But these were private vanities. Having given so much, she was entitled to some selfishness, as long as it stayed hidden. Outside, there could be no place for bad practices and bad attitudes. Nothing should be done that would show contempt for the toiling masses or damage the Party’s reputation among them. The effort to modernise China required a strict code of conduct; deviations had to be exposed and shamed.
—What do you have there? said Jiang Qing, gesturing at her daughter’s bag.
—My things.
—What things? What could you possibly need?
—Just my things.
—Have you got your Treasure Book in there?
—Hmm?
—Your Treasure Book. Your father’s Sayings.
—Yes, Ma.
—Show me.
—It’s in there, don’t worry.
—Don’t lie to me, daughter.
—Leave me be, Ma. I’m a grown woman.
The fact of this knocked Jiang Qing back: thirty-four years old, Li Na was now, and still testing the limits of what she was allowed to do; still learning how to be Chinese. If she was like this, Jiang Qing had to face that she herself had a part to play in making it so, for she was her mother, her daughter’s first teacher.
—Very well. You’re right. We should just sit and enjoy the ride in peace.
She settled back and opened Song Yaojin’s dossier, ran a finger along the script as if meditating on it — but now, from nowhere, she threw it to one side, pounced into the seat beside Li Na, grabbed the bag, opened it, stuck her hand in, rummaged about.
Her daughter yanked on the strap and screamed:
—Get off me, you witch! Let go!
—As I thought, Jiang Qing said. No book.
—You’ve lost grip of yourself, Ma, you know that?
—You’re a little liar.
—I thought it was in there. And if it’s not, what’s the big problem? I don’t need to bring it everywhere I go.
Breathless, Jiang Qing returned to her seat. Re-pinned her bun. Tucked any errant hairs back into her cap.
—In the West, she said in between breaths, the youths carry it in their breast pockets. They’re proud to be seen with it.
—Yeah? said Li Na. Well, I carry it here.
She tapped her temple.
—And here.
She placed a hand on her chest.
—Which is the important thing, isn’t it? To have it on the inside. Do the Westerners have it there, do you think?
Their first stop was a shoe shop in Dashilar. Jiang Qing’s bodyguards, who had been riding in separate cars, one in front and one behind, cleared the alleyway of cyclists and pedestrians before taking up positions on either side of the shop’s entrance. Only once this had been done, and a new quiet had settled on the immediate area, did the chauffeur open the car door.
Li Na moved to get out first, but Jiang Qing stopped her:
—Take those glasses off.
—They’re just glasses, Ma.
—No one knows who you are.
—Of course they do. Look at these fucking cars.
Jiang Qing shook her head and sighed.
Biting her lip, Li Na conceded:
—All right.
She folded the glasses into a case and put the case into her bag. Her naked eyes were dark and tired. One of them was bordered with red styes. She blinked and squinted:
—Have they been warned we’re coming?
—No. This is a private errand.
—There’s a shop in the Compound, Ma.
—They wouldn’t have what I want. I’m after a gift. Of a quite specific nature. I want you to help me choose it.
Inside, the shopkeeper was standing behind the counter; the wife by the storeroom door. Both were stiff and obviously afraid.
—Good afternoon to you, said Jiang Qing, and a thousand years to the Chairman.
—And a thousand years more, the man said, addressing Jiang Qing’s feet.
Two shelves lined the walls on either side. Jiang Qing went up the shop floor on the right side, inspecting the stock, which was entirely made up of standard liberation shoes in black, navy and grey. She paused at the back wall to glance through the small window that gave into the workshop. Neither the man, a pace to her right, nor the woman, a pace to her left, moved or said a word. Jiang Qing did not have the magic word that would put them at ease, so she came away. At the end of the shelf on the other side, she picked up a grey shoe and turned it over in her hands. On the sole had been painted:
LET’S STIR THE COUNTRY
She bent and folded the shoe to see how durable it was.
—I must be mistaken, she said as she did this. Have I come to the right place?
The man, a grey-haired comrade of seventy or more, replied in a strong Beijing accent, which, even after all these years, Jiang Qing had to strain her ear to understand:
—Tell me, revolutionary sister, what exactly were you looking for?
She put the shoe back on the shelf:
—What’s the name of your shop?
—The alley is called Dazhalan Jie. We’re just the Dazhalan Jie shoe shop.
—Are there others?
—No, sister. This is the only one.
—In that case, I must’ve been given inaccurate information. I was told you make ballet slippers.
The man sucked air in through the gaps in his teeth, then froze a moment, open-mouthed, his tongue turning over, as he formulated a response.
—Your information is correct, sister. We are in fact the suppliers of slippers to the Central Ballet. But we do not make such things for use by the ordinary comrade. I cannot sell them to just anyone, you understand?
—I understand, revolutionary father. There’s no need to fear. I have the permission.
He knew who she was, of course he did. He was pretending not to know because he could see that Jiang Qing was pretending not to be herself, and he understood that this was a test.
—Do you dance, sister? Are you looking for slippers for yourself?
At this insincerity Jiang Qing laughed sincerely.
—You are kind, father. Unfortunately I’ve advanced beyond the age for anything more strenuous than a brisk walk and a few stretches.
—But you danced at one time?
—You know, I might have. Had I been given the chance. My feet—. Well, I don’t need to tell you how it was back then.
The man nodded pensively:
—The old society was indeed a cruel one.
Jiang Qing matched his movements:
—How far we’ve come, hmm?
—How far.
—And we don’t dwell. We keep our eyes fixed on the glory of the now.
—Fixed, fixed.
For thirty years after her marriage to the Chairman, she had been kept in obscurity by the Party; for thirty years, cloistered and disguised by other names, forbidden to assume any public role in government affairs; for thirty whole years chained up in the shadows waiting for her moment, her opportunity to shine. It had not been a healthy time. In truth it had made her sick, and she would never go back to it. She was happier now, being known. It felt better to be recognised. Far from being an aberrant state, it was for her the natural one. She had always expected to get here, so when she did, it simply felt like a coming into herself; she accepted it without amazement or alarm. But, as with every natural thin
g, fame was divided into two sides, a light and a dark. The dark side, which few talked about, was the alienation. The better she was known, the harder it became for her to know others. People did not act naturally around her. She who had once loved commune life and had enjoyed being in the thick of a crowd was now unable to prevent her very presence from creating a barrier between herself and others; everyone constantly, pitilessly made her remember who she was. No one bothered about the woman of flesh and blood who stood before them, with her humour, her sensitivity, her tenderness — and her weaknesses, too, of which she had as many as anyone else, only she no longer had a right to forgiveness for them. Everyone presumed to know her, and judged her as known, which meant she was not permitted to get to know anyone as herself, a situation which made her long for the plain and the ordinary in human exchange: the simple request, the throwaway comment, the smirk, the wink.
—So this must be the dancer here then, the man said, turning to direct a quivering smile at Li Na, who had taken up a non-participatory position beside the door.
—Ah!—
Jiang Qing did not need to look round in order to call to mind her daughter’s wide hips and her gourd-shaped tits.
—Quite the ticket you are. In fact I’m looking for a gift for one of our revolutionary brothers.
—A man’s slipper?
—For a friend of mine who also happens to be one of China’s finest dancers.
The man showed no sign of surprise at this news.
—Is he in the Central Ballet?
—Recently retired. Though too early, in my opinion.
The man waved a hand at his wife and said:
—Get the ledger!
Then:
—If you give me the dancer’s name, I can check his shoe size. I keep a list of sizes for all the Central Ballet dancers.
The wife, falling out of the respectful posture she had held until now, hurried to the counter.
—No need, revolutionary mother, Jiang Qing said to her. I know the man’s size. He takes a forty-two.
The wife, who had produced the ledger from a drawer, looked to her husband, unsure of what to do. The man extended an open palm in his wife’s direction.
—Sister, he said to Jiang Qing, are you sure you don’t want to double check? Sometimes a dancer will go for a tighter shoe because they eventually stretch.
—That won’t be necessary, she said. I know he’s a forty-two.
A fluttering of his fingers told his wife to put the ledger away.
—You’re the boss.
Jiang Qing’s husband had found a way. His conversational style, his relaxed and easy-going manner, his method of encouraging people to speak without restraint, and probing their mind without revealing his: he was, in the presence of people, both a god and a human, and this was what made him great. Jiang Qing wished that what he did would rub off on her.
The man shuffled over to a cabinet, opened it with a key and pulled out a long drawer.
—This is the men’s range, if you’d care to have a look?
Jiang Qing joined the man at the cabinet. He reeked of wine and smoke and sweat, against which she closed her nose. In the drawer there were displayed two models of slipper: one unadorned, the other with a small bow sown onto the front. Each came in four colours: white, grey, navy and black. The man picked out the navy and black samples of both models and put them to one side.
—These are the colours we have in stock in size forty-two. If you want white or grey, you’ll have to wait a day while we make them.
—I see. And of the navy and black, is one of superior quality?
—They are both of superior quality, sister.
—Hmm.
Jiang Qing tapped a tooth.
—I’m not sure. Daughter of mine, come and help me choose.
Her daughter reluctantly approached.
—What do you think? said Jiang Qing. Which do you prefer?
—Ahm, said Li Na, I don’t know. I can’t see so well without my—. Aren’t they more or less the same?
Jiang Qing clucked her tongue.
—How about that one? said Li Na.
She pointed, predictably enough, at the black slipper with the bow.
—That one? said Jiang Qing.
Sighing, she turned to the man:
—We’ll take the plain navy one now. And we’ll order a white one with the bow to be made.
—Very well. Would you like me to post the white one to you?
—No need. I’ll have someone come and pick it up. Tomorrow?
—We’ll have it waiting.
The man opened a second cabinet, which was filled with the different sizes of navy slipper and extracted a forty-two. He was about to close the cabinet door again, when Jiang Qing noticed a stack of boxes which had been pushed to the back so that it was half-hidden by the slippers. From the top box, whose lid had not been properly replaced, a bright green ribbon had escaped, and was dangling down, wafting with the current created by the opening and closing of the cabinet door.
—What are they? said Jiang Qing.
—They? said the man, who had shut the door and was already fiddling with the lock and key.
—Those boxes.
—Boxes?
—In the cabinet. Western-style shoe boxes.
—Oh those? They’re nothing. A mistaken order. They need to be sent back.
—I was under the impression that you made all of your own shoes.
—We do, most often. But from time to time we get requests, from the theatre troupes and the like, for which we don’t have the materials. So we have to order from outside.
—Did you say theatre troupes?
—Did I? I meant—. I don’t know what I meant. My mind is no longer quite with me.
—It’s the years catching up.
—That’d be it.
—We’ve seen so much.
—Enough for five generations, sister.
—And many more, father. But, tell me, from where do you order these special shoes?
—Oh I can’t remember. I have it written somewhere.
—You’ve forgotten that also?
—I can check—
—I’d rather just see them directly.
—See what?
—The shoes. I bet I can tell where they’re from, just by looking at them.
—You want to see the shoes?
—That’s right, I want to see the shoes.
The man re-opened the cabinet with gestures whose slowness and deliberateness made his anxiety all the more palpable. Reaching into the gloom behind the slippers, he removed the box and opened its lid. Presented the contents to Jiang Qing as a boy might the neighbour’s chicken he has accidentally killed. Lying on their side, wrapped in thin paper, was a pair of green leather sandals made according to a fashion from Hong Kong, it was likely, with embroidered leaves running across the front, and cut away so that the big toe would be open to the weather.
At first Jiang Qing said nothing, and the room waited. Li Na had gone hot and was touching her face with the back of her hand. The shopkeeper and his wife stood bowed and absolutely still. Until Jiang Qing — cheerfully, unfazed — waved the shoe away.
—Fancy, she said. I, for one, wouldn’t get my feet into them.
In silence, unwilling to show even relief, the man knelt to put the box back in the cabinet. Jiang Qing brought the navy slippers to the counter herself. The wife wrapped them in newspaper and, without raising her eyes, pushed them across towards Jiang Qing. Then the wife stepped back, towards the wall, seemingly uninterested in taking payment. Jiang Qing had to count out the coupons once, twice, and then again because the woman was refusing to oversee it.
—Do you want to get paid or not? said Jiang Qing.
The woman did not open her m
outh. Kept her gaze on the floor.
—Yes, said the man, coming to stand beside his wife. Thank you.
—That’s half, said Jiang Qing, who did not need to hear the price of something to know how much she would pay. I’ll send the rest with the messenger tomorrow.
—So we should expect someone?
—In the morning.
He picked up a pen and, with more than a hint of bravado, dipped it into the pot:
—What’s the name, for the docket?
—Put down Lan Ping, said Jiang Qing, giving her old Shanghai stage name. That’s it. Lan. Ping.
Song Yaojin lived in a courtyard house in Dongcheng. On the way there, Li Na was quiet for a time, brooding, but then said:
—Was that it? Was that all you wanted me for?
Jiang Qing laughed:
—Gracious sakes alive, child, loosen up. I’m having a nice time. Practically nothing comes to my ear in Beijing. It’s good to be out and to see.
Jiang Qing pinched herself between the eyes, for her laughter had risen up her nose and made her feel light in the head.
—If you feel you’re lacking something to do—
She handed Li Na the wrapped slippers.
—you can give these to Comrade Song.
—What? No.
—You see? You’re impossible.
—I don’t even know him.
—You used to play as children.
—I remember seeing him dance when you took me to the Academy. But we weren’t friends. We never played.
—Your memory is defective.
—You’re making stuff up.
—Just give him the shoes, daughter. He’ll remember you, even if you don’t remember him.
Until relatively recently Song Yaojin and his parents had lived in the best house in the courtyard: a three-roomed building behind a wooden fence-gate on the north side, facing south. Three years ago, however, soon after Song Yaojin was sent away for rehabilitation, that house was given to a Party official, and Song Yaojin’s parents were moved into a small out-of-business factory situated in the southwest corner. This dwelling had just a single room, a storeroom and a toilet. The kitchen was a gas cooker partitioned off with a board. Song Yaojin’s father died soon after the move, so when Song Yaojin was allowed to return to the city, there was space for him here, in the room with his widow-mother, and half a bed to sleep on.
