by Gavin McCrea
—Ah, Sister Zhang, Jiang Qing said.
—Commander, Zhang Yufeng said and made a ceremonious gesture: Won’t you be good enough to come in?
Building 202 was brand new. Zhang Yufeng’s office had acquired more furnishings since Jiang Qing’s previous visit. Jiang Qing admired the choices that Zhang Yufeng had made, everything was rational and functional and modern, though the room still had the look of being on show. The open bookcases, which last time had been empty, were now filled with books and magazines. Narrow side-tables had been added, on which bowls and tea things and vases of flowers were arranged. Maps of China and the world, and an occasional scroll, hung on the north and south walls. Sitting against the east wall was a row of four big chairs, covered in old rose brocade, with footstools in front. Zhang Yufeng’s worktable had been upgraded to a cloth-covered scholar’s desk. In the corner of the room, resembling a still photograph, was a meeting space comprising two sofas and a coffee table. Zhang Yufeng conducted Jiang Qing there now. Patted a cushion as an invitation to sit down.
—Might I offer you some tea? she said.
Jiang Qing waved a finger:
—I won’t take anything stimulating.
Zhang Yufeng sat down on one of the sofas, arranged herself neatly.
—If not tea, then you’ll have some hot water?
Jiang Qing stayed standing:
—I’m not staying, Sister Zhang.
Zhang Yufeng pressed the buzzer and an assistant came in with scented tea already prepared. While the assistant laid the table, Jiang Qing eyed the door to the Chairman’s bedroom, which was blocked by a guard whose hand clasped the handle of his sword as if about to draw it.
Zhang Yufeng poured tea into two cups. Took one for herself. Slid the other across towards Jiang Qing.
—In case you change your mind, she said.
Jiang Qing’s armpits moistened, and she felt obscure emotions rise into her throat. In dealings with comrades, it was essential to assign positions. No useful interaction was possible without doing so first. If two revolutionaries talked to each other without knowing and honouring their respective ranks, they achieved nothing. She lifted her heels off the ground a little, and stood exactly where she was: eminent, dominant.
—This is for you, she said then, producing a gift from the pocket of her uniform.
—Oh, said Zhang Yufeng flatly as she reached across the table to accept it.
She opened the wrapping carefully so as not to tear it.
—Did you do this? she said once the gift was revealed.
—I pressed it myself, said Jiang Qing. But I can’t take credit for the frame. That’s my bodyguard’s work.
—A chrysanthemum.
—If you like it, you might put it up somewhere. There’s still plenty of space on the walls.
—A good idea.
—I also took a picture of the same flower, which I’m developing at the moment. On my next visit I’ll bring you a copy. It might be tasteful to display them together, the specimen and the photograph, one next to the other.
—I’ll certainly have a look. You are kind, thank you.
—It’s no more than you merit.
Zhang Yufeng put the pressed flower on the cushion next to her and took up her cup again. Jiang Qing saw no hint of gratitude in these gestures, but rather a hardness towards receiving.
—Please, Zhang Yufeng said, gesturing to the platter of exotic raw vegetables.
—No, thank you, said Jiang Qing.
—Won’t you sit down?
—I don’t want to keep you.
—There’s always time for you, Commander Jiang.
Jiang Qing, for her part, tried to remember to be kind at breakfast, kind at lunch and kind at dinner; she felt an urge to perform generous actions every day. Giving had its joy in seeing the joy of the receiver. To deny the giver this was a kind of cruelty.
—Really I just need to nip in to the Chairman, she said. Have a quick word. Then I’ll leave you to your good work.
Zhang Yufeng sipped from her cup, then laid it on her lap and stroked it.
—The Chairman is getting his hair cut, she said.
Having his enema.
—He’ll be glad of the distraction.
—Please don’t disturb him. It took us long enough to coax him into the chair.
—I know exactly what to say to relax him.
—He’ll see you another time. Send a note and we’ll put you in the diary.
Ignoring this, Jiang Qing went to stand in front of the guard. Here, half a pace from his chest, close enough to smell his unwashed skin beneath the spotless uniform, she silently willed him to step aside. When he did not, she turned to Zhang Yufeng:
—Please. I’ll only be a minute.
Zhang Yufeng drew a hand across her forehead in order to brush her fringe to one side. Underneath, her expression appeared gentle and kind.
—The Chairman is old and in poor health, she said. You show not one spark of consideration for him.
—And you, Little Zhang?
Jiang Qing turned back to the soldier and searched his eyes for complicity.
—You’re treating the Chairman like a corpse at a funeral. The man is well enough to see his wife.
—He doesn’t want any more quarrels with you.
—I’m not here to quarrel. I’m here to ask my husband for his advice on a political question. A matter of utmost importance to the Cultural Revolution. Am I the only one in Beijing who remains interested in what our Great Saviour has to say?
Zhang Yufeng slid forward on the sofa. Put her cup on the table, then her hands flat on her knees. With her eyes staring ahead and her back straight, she looked like one of the infinitely calm buddhas of the old China.
—All right, Commander, she said. If you insist. At ease, soldier.
The soldier saluted and stepped to the right.
Sighing out her residual frustration, Jiang Qing made for the door. Opened it a crack. A smell like that of a Russian hospital rushed out. She froze. Turned to Zhang Yufeng, who had not moved:
—Aren’t you going to accompany me?
Zhang Yufeng was using a plump white finger to rummage around the raw vegetables, feigning to look for something in particular.
—You can go in, Commander. I can’t stop you. But you must go alone. I won’t facilitate this unwarranted disturbance.
Jiang Qing stiffened. Her grip on the doorknob tightened. She dared not go in alone. The Chairman’s various diseases had left his speech so impeded that Jiang Qing no longer understood him. Whereas once, not even so long ago, his utterances had sounded like a war drum, as clear as the seasons and more precious than gold, these days he drooled uncontrollably, struggled for breath and communicated solely by grunts and croaks, incomprehensible to everyone except Zhang Yufeng. Zhang Yufeng, having been at his side since he first began to deteriorate, was the only one able to decode the sounds that he now made. She had become his interpreter. Jiang Qing would say his ventriloquist.
—Won’t you help me, Sister? Jiang Qing said.
—I’m sorry, Commander, Zhang Yufeng said. The answer is no.
Jiang Qing let her chin drop into her chest. She would not enter without Zhang Yufeng. The risk of misunderstanding the Chairman, and of angering him thereby, was too great. She pressed her forehead against the door and composed herself. Then she closed the door and came away. Went to lean on the back of the sofa.
—Sister Zhang, I pray you—
Zhang Yufeng raised an open hand:
—Before you say anything more, Commander, please hear me.
She indicated to Jiang Qing that she should sit. Kept her arm outstretched until Jiang Qing had lowered herself all the way down.
—I would like to tell you how I spent last night, Zhang Yufeng said.
—Nothing happened last night, Commander, that does not happen every night. It was not an unusual night for me in that I didn’t get a moment’s rest. As you know, I’m expected to stay by the Chairman’s bedside until he has fallen asleep. I’m the only one he’ll tolerate. He refuses be left alone with any—
—Are you complaining, Sister Zhang?
—one else. Lying down, he finds it hard to breathe, so he must stay on one side. When he tires of that side, unable to turn over, he insists on getting up and doing a tour of the room—
—Yours is a most privileged position.
—for which he needs me as a crutch. Then he gets hungry and I must spoon chicken broth—
—The most privileged in all of China.
—into his mouth. Of course it’s hard for him to swallow, and most of it ends up on his front, which means his pyjamas then have to be changed. He’ll want to excrete after that, so I must hold him while he does so, and mop up—
—That’s enough!
Zhang Yufeng fell silent.
Jiang Qing took up the tea, which she realised she wanted after all, and gulped it down.
—You exaggerate, Sister Zhang, she said, slamming the cup back down. This is the Chairman you’re speaking about. Your tone alone is grounds for arrest.
Zhang Yufeng kept careful control over her features to stop them betraying her bitterness:
—People all over the world love our Great Leader, but no one loves him as I do. No one does as much for him as me.
—Is that what you believe?
—It is the fact.
Jiang Qing sucked in her lips and closed her eyes. In her life, there was only Mao. In his service, she had swept away her individualism as an autumn gale sweeps away fallen leaves, and now she was nothing. She accepted being nothing. He alone existed. He could demand anything of me. The truth of my life is outside me, in him.
—Sister Zhang, she said, opening her eyes again. I must ask you to stop this talk. I can’t listen to any more of it. I prefer not to speak of him to you.
—In that case, Commander, I’ll limit myself to the following.
Zhang Yufeng’s mask had slipped, revealing a surface far less clean, far less smooth.
—I, Zhang Yufeng, have been chosen to look after the Chairman, therefore it is I, Zhang Yufeng—
She placed a hand on her sternum and beat it three times.
—who decides what’s best for him. It has taken great effort to relieve the Chairman of his pains and to get him into a position in which he can rest. I’ve ordered the medical staff not to disturb him, and I must ask you, too, to respect that order.
Jiang Qing let her gaze roam around Zhang Yufeng’s face. Dark peasant skin. Expressive eyes. Wide open features. Well-defined nose. And her body. Leather shoes. Four pockets on her uniform. Flat chest. Shoulders hunched as if trying to escape the scrutiny of a crowd; the stoop of a watched woman.
—Anything that is in the Chairman’s hands—
Her fine lips were moving again.
—is also in my hands. Don’t hesitate to tell me your business, Commander, and I’ll make certain it reaches him. Why did you come here today?
For a moment Jiang Qing saw herself in Zhang Yufeng. Looking at her, a deformed reflection returned to her, and she was perturbed and embarrassed before it. Zhang layered over Jiang, and Jiang layered over Zhang: she was unable to make independent sense of herself. All the things that made her I were gone, and she was, momentarily, two extremely lonely people. We suffer, she thought, but we have no one to tell.
—Sister Zhang—
From behind a sofa cushion, Zhang Yufeng produced a notebook. Leaning forward, she opened this onto the table, flattened a fresh page, and took a pen from a special box. She was going to take notes. This was the signal she wanted to give. She was going to record everything so that if a different day ever came, she would be able to prove her innocence, or failing that, seek a tooth for a tooth.
—I’ve come about the forthcoming ballet performance in honour of Mrs Marcos.
—As I thought, said Zhang Yufeng as she scribbled into her book. I heard you’ve ordered an extra week of rehearsals.
—Nine days. As usual you’ve heard incorrectly.
—This decision has made many people unhappy.
—What gives you that idea?
—There have been complaints.
—From whom? My people are happy. Following my orders makes them so.
—Some comrades, I won’t name them, fail to see the point of more practice. They think it unnecessary. They were under the impression that work on The Red Detachment of Women had finished. That the ballet had been perfected.
—Can I remind you, Sister Zhang, that the development of The Red Detachment of Women is in my charge? and that I, and only I, will say when it has been perfected? If it takes another eight years, so be it.
—Hasn’t it already been classified as a model?
—Until I say so, definitively, we can assume that it’s not yet a model.
—So it’s not a model?
—To say the ballet is a model is to speak as though it’s good in every respect. That is at variance with the facts. It’s not true that everything about it is good. It still contains shortcomings and mistakes.
—You’re going to make changes to it?
—If a room is not cleaned regularly, the Party’s work collects dust. Constant motion prevents the inroads of germs and other organisms.
—The rumours are accurate then.
—Don’t give your attention to rumours, Little Zhang. A rumour is but a wind howling about mountain peaks.
—The dancers are worried that you plan to change the cast.
—How the mouths have been working.
—All my information has come through the official channels.
—It can’t be the dancers who are grumbling. The dancers know that being awarded a part is not a lifelong contract. They understand that they can’t stay forever in one role. They must gain experience in all kinds of roles.
—They’ve been touring and are tired. They’d appreciate some consistency.
—They’re young and trained to be athletes. They ought to be ready for change and welcome it when it comes.
—Is it true you’re going to install a new principal dancer?
—For crying out loud, what business is it—?
Feeling hot and prickly, Jiang Qing rubbed her back against the cushion in an effort to itch an inaccessible part of it.
—If you must know, yes. The dancer who plays the role of ARMY CAPTAIN isn’t up to scratch. He has the vitality that comes with youth, but he lacks the technical discipline that the role demands. I had a replacement in mind but unfortunately he’s indisposed. I’ll make my new choice known presently.
—Changing the lead at such a late juncture won’t be popular, Commander.
—I take pride in unpopularity. What’s right is rarely what’s liked.
Widening and narrowing, Zhang Yufeng’s eyes wanted to nail Jiang Qing into a single position. Failing, she looked down to write in her book.
—You must remember, Jiang Qing went on, that we’ve been sending out announcements about the gala performance on Radio Beijing. Next week the foreigners will be tuned in. They’ll be watching Mrs Marcos, first and foremost, because they can’t stop being fascinated by her. But they’ll also be watching what she watches. They’ll be waiting to see if she likes our ballet before deciding if they should like it or not, which is the way it works in the capitalist world. For this reason, Sister Zhang, the performance must be of a new order of superior. The best dancers must be chosen, and they must spare nothing of their talent to make this performance a sensation. Not for an instant must they be allowed to ease up. China is stepping onto a
global stage, and she must shine as the sun which makes all things grow.
Zhang Yufeng looked up from her writing. Tapped her lips with her pen. When she spoke again, it was in the voice of the Chairman as he had been in his health.
—That may be so, Commander, she said, but you yourself must see that in your doings you provoke too much enmity.
Listening to Zhang Yufeng taking the Chairman off like this, Jiang Qing could hear her own self mimicking him.
—None of my decisions, she said, transgress the bounds of my authority.
—You possess many good qualities, Commander, and have rendered good service. You’re respected by your team, quite rightly so, but this, yes, this sometimes leads to conceit. You must always remember not to become conceited.
—I take pride in my competence, which is different from being conceited.
—If you’re not modest and cease to exert yourself for the common good, if you don’t respect the cadres as they respect you, then you’ll stop being a revolutionary leader, and become—. Well, you’ll begin to inflict harm on the interests of the Party.
Jiang Qing’s rage manifested itself in a full-toothed smile. She was well schooled in giving apologies at the very times when she ought to be demanding them. It was a skill that women in the Party learned early.
—I’m not here to defend myself, Sister Zhang. But I will say this.
Zhang Yufeng poised the nib of her pen over a fresh page.
—There are some in the Party who blame me for every odour that’s not pleasing, for every darkening cloud. Given the chance, they’d gladly burn my flesh. They are not small in number either. Their spit combined could make a well deep enough to sink me. But is that justice? I don’t deserve to be pilloried. I’m not really bad. Of the many virtues I possess, my number one is this: when I get my teeth into something, I persist, I follow through, I stick with it and get the damn thing done. Which is what I’m doing with The Red Detachment of Women. I’m getting it done. Perfecting it. This is my job. Should I be prevented from it?
