The Sisters Mao

by Gavin McCrea

  Zhang Yufeng was in the final year of her golden age, which for a Chinese woman was between twelve and thirty. She had met the Chairman at eighteen and had given the rest of her good years to him. But that was nothing compared to Jiang Qing. Jiang Qing had been twenty-four when she was chosen by the Chairman to be his assistant, and she was now entering the cycle of sixty. When Zhang Yufeng had completed forty years, as Jiang Qing had, maybe then she could claim to speak for Mao, but not before.

  Zhang Yufeng dropped the pen into the crevice at the centre of her book and, with one hand, snapped it shut.

  —All right, Commander. What is it that you want exactly?

  Jiang Qing helped herself to more tea. Swirled it around in the cup. Swigged it.

  —The costs of the extra rehearsals aren’t covered by the Cultural Committee budget, she said. I was hoping to withdraw some money from the Chairman’s slush fund.

  —How much?

  —Eight thousand.

  —Eight thousand?

  —I know this seems like a large amount, but in the context of mounting a ballet, it’s a pittance.

  —Fine. Anything else?

  Jiang Qing had been raised in a poor peasant family. She had been given no formal education. When she arrived at Mao’s countryside commune, her knowledge of Marxism consisted of no more than a few phrases and some militant opinions. Certainly she felt the passion and the sense of struggle, but she did not know the ideas, the history. Yet she had what most of the other peasant girls did not. She had spent five years in Shanghai trying to make it as an actress, which had conferred on her both a city style and a talent for getting men to pay attention to her. She was one of the few girls in the commune who could sing and dance and act. In the get-togethers, the senior officers vied with each other to dance with her. She was exuberant, and smiled a lot, and was sure to make it seem like the men were leading. One night a commune leader signalled for her to follow him. Willingly she went to his office, where he asked her, Are you prepared to assume any role the Party assigns you? Are you prepared to perform any act unconditionally, no matter what it is? And her answer, which came immediately, was yes.

  —There is one more thing, said Jiang Qing. The Chairman’s next private dance party is scheduled for two days before Mrs Marcos’s arrival. This date interferes with my rehearsal plans. I wanted to postpone it until after Mrs Marcos leaves.

  —This is a sensitive topic, Commander.

  —Which is why I wanted to speak to the Chairman directly. To reassure him that his needs weren’t being disregarded.

  —Aren’t they?

  —Not in the slightest. I’m merely requesting to put his party off for a few days, so that we can focus our resources on our international dignitary.

  —Aren’t you already wasting your resources on unnecessary rehearsals? Why ought your rehearsals take precedence over the Chairman’s relaxation?

  —If the Chairman were to agree, to compensate we could plan a bumper party for a fortnight’s time. Twice the number of girls.

  —The Chairman likes things kept regular. Once a week, every week. He looks forward to his parties. In our conversations he mentions them often. They’re one of the last remaining pastimes which, in his condition, he can wholly enjoy.

  —I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t an emergency.

  —It’s you, now, who exaggerates.

  —I can’t ask my dancers to stay up late, spending their energies, and then expect them to be at their best at rehearsals the following morning.

  —Cancel the rehearsal.

  —I’m not cancelling anything.

  —Then give them an extra hour in bed in the morning. That should be enough for them to recover. They’re trained athletes, isn’t that what you said?

  Jiang Qing sat back and pondered. She had to try to persuade Zhang Yufeng by speaking words within her comprehension.

  —Another option would be to do a round of the hotels where the foreigners stay.

  Zhang Yufeng glanced sideways beneath her lashes:

  —Out of the question. We tried that once and it was a disaster. The Chairman was appalled by our selection. The Central Ballet girls are what he likes. And there mustn’t be any repeats either. Don’t bring him anyone he’s seen before. We can’t keep serving him the same dishes and expect him to be sated.

  Zhang Yufeng’s face was mimed and meaningful as she took command of a situation which until now had placed her at a weakness.

  —Instead of postponing the party we could bring it forward.

  She reopened her book. Found a calendar on a page near the front.

  —I imagine tonight is too soon for you. You’ll need time to choose the girls and prepare them. So how about—

  She put her finger on a date.

  —tomorrow night?

  —Tomorrow?

  Jiang Qing sighed:

  —All right.

  Zhang Yufeng drew a circle on the calendar, and with tiny strokes wrote party inside it.

  —That settles it then, she said. This way you’ll get your rehearsals and the Chairman will get his party. Everyone wins.

  She stood up and held out a cool hand:

  —You see, Commander? Travelling together, the destination is never far away.

  From the distance of her seat, Jiang Qing examined Zhang Yufeng’s outstretched hand. Something sincere and dangerous had started up between them, for which Jiang Qing felt an acute intolerance. Only savages and animals were sincere. No actress ever forgot that she was actually on stage. What the actress hoped for, far from sincerity, was a part she could play better than anyone else. Jiang Qing would play the performance of Mao’s wife until the day she died, and it was a performance she did not mind being disliked for.

  She said nothing for several seconds.

  As the time ticked by, Zhang Yufeng was becoming a stranger to her once again.

  Finally, with a friendly laugh, she relented and gave Zhang Yufeng the Western handshake. But: I determine its strength, I decide when it ends, there could be no exchange between them on an equal footing.

  —Please give the Chairman my special love, she said.

  Strange noises were coming through the auditorium doors. She went in and found herself in the middle of an orgy. The dancers were lounging in the stalls, or leaning against the walls, or wandering arm-in-arm across the boards; their patter and their laughter resounded. Chao Ying was sitting on the stage with his legs dangling over the edge, expressing opinions on who-knew-what to a group of the girls crouched in a semi-circle below him. The orchestra members, too, were out of their seats and gadding about: two of the violinists were in the aisles, pretending to duel with their bows. The stage crew were scratching their arses in the wings. In the lighting booth, there was a game of mah-jong taking place. It was trivial and disgusting. All that was missing was fruit wine and caviar.

  She clapped her hands once:

  —What the hell is this?

  An awareness of her presence gradually infected the crowd, and they, all three hundred of them, fell silent. Descending the stairs, she bored a hole through them as they moved away from her as politely as possible.

  —What a picture you all make, she said when she reached the bottom. If I were new to Beijing, a peasant from the countryside, or a foreigner, God forbid, and did not know this to be the Great Hall of the People, I’d swear I’d just walked into a counterrevolutionary shithole.

  —Commander, said Chao Ying, who had come off the stage and was standing in the pose of contrition, we weren’t expecting you till this afternoon.

  —I’d like to say I’m astounded by your complacency, Director. And by the idealistic bankruptcy of this environment.

  She walked circles around Chao Ying, all the while looking him up and down.

  —But I’m not in the least astounded. Everywhere I look t
hese days, the idealism that has motivated the Chinese to work hard and to accept privations for the sake of the Revolution is being replaced by dubiety, laziness and only half-hearted compliance. Undeniably the Cultural Revolution is a great victory for us but, thanks to people like you, I’m constantly reminded it hasn’t yet been completed. You remind me — and I thank you for this — that there can be no relenting, and that after a few years it’ll have to be started all over again.

  —We were just taking a break, said Chao Ying.

  She stopped her circumnavigations in order to peer around the auditorium like a guest offended by a dirty house.

  —A break, you say, Director? Good, good. The instruments will be tuned in that case? The dancers warmed up? We can get started straight away?

  Chao Ying’s face burned red:

  —Without question, Commander.

  She acknowledged him with a fierce little nod, and then:

  —Women! Corps de ballet! Here!

  The female dancers rushed down the aisles and out of the wings. She swept an arm across the stage as a sign for them to form a line. She waited, hand on her hips, while they assembled; and she waited again, tapping her foot, while the slouchers corrected their posture.

  —Are we ready? she said. Have we all had our dumps? Is there anyone who still needs to perfume her arse? We’re going to rehearse the target practice dance from scene two.

  —But Commander, said Chao Ying, stepping forward, the plan was to rehearse the scenes in order, starting with the prologue. That’s why the props are there.

  She waved a dismissive hand at the lanterns and the whipping post that sat on the stage:

  —Crew, remove those props. Bring in the rifles instead.

  —With respect, Commander—

  Chao Ying tilted his head forward, not quite a bow.

  —the target practice dance is, in my modest opinion, as near to perfect as it’ll ever be. If you intend to work on the group dances, there are others that need more attention. The dance of the Red Army men in scene five, for example, would not suffer from a little adjustment.

  Chao Ying spoke as if he had never met her before, as if he knew nothing of her methods, which enraged her.

  —I’m not opening a discussion, Director, she said without looking at him. In fact, I doubt I’ll be speaking to you for the rest of the day.

  She kept still, her gaze directed diagonally downwards, until she felt that Chao Ying had receded a sufficient distance into the stalls.

  —Dancers, she said then, clapping her hands, I want you to start after the marching entrance and finish before the ARMY CAPTAIN’s sword dance. Just that short section. Orchestra, please play this nice and fast. Don’t let it run over two minutes, got that?

  The dancers formed two rows of nine stage right, their rifles held against the outside of their legs, their faces displayed to the audience.

  —We all know where we are? Now remember to subdue the old ways. Be joyful and dance powerfully. On three, and two, and—

  She nodded to the conductor, the music started up, and the dancers began.

  —No, no, no.

  She stopped them after only a few seconds.

  —That looked weak. Where’s the positive emotion? From the top.

  The dancers went back to their first positions and began again. This time they made straighter extensions and raised their rifles higher, but this did not eliminate the dreaminess, the aura of sadness which hung about them. Jiang Qing recognised their condition. They were thinking about other things, feeling listless, always on the point of dragging their feet, and, out of a fear of showing it, were pushing their energy out into their limbs, which got them through the steps all right, but which also made them look like wound-up machines. Because they knew their parts inside out, they did not feel the need to go on feeling them anew. They merely remembered and repeated the external movements, recalling how they did them when they first got it right, refusing to call on any fresh emotions.

  She let them finish the sequence, then sent them back to the starting positions. She had already picked out the two worst offenders, but she needed another round in order to make her final selection.

  —You know, she told them while they waited for her cue, if you dance without realising who you are, where you come from, and, most importantly, what you want, which is to conquer society, you will be dancing without revolutionary spirit. Like that, you’ll always fail to attain realism, and will be nothing more than automatons. Revolution, remember, must be always on your mind.

  She raised a finger and the conductor raised his baton.

  —This time, she said before giving the signal, check the falseness in your actions. Search for the true gesture of the Revolution. And consider this: sometimes enthusiasm is more important than quality.

  On their third attempt, the dancers beamed and sparkled, trying their best to show the face of the Party, but real fervour was as red as fire and as white as cogon grass flowers, which this was not. Jiang Qing saw past their trained expressions to their thoughts. They were thinking of the hours they had worked. Of the days, the months, the years they had given. Don’t do that, Jiang Qing thought in response. Don’t think of yourselves. The Party has the first and only real claim on your lives. If you let yourself think otherwise, you’re finished.

  The sequence complete, the dancers looked to Jiang Qing for her judgement. She climbed onto the stage. Drew a line in the air with her finger, as if marking the boards, and the dancers lined up in front of her.

  —Are you happy with how you danced?

  She walked up and down the line as a company commander would at a practice drill.

  —If a foreigner were watching you today, would you be able to tell her, This is the best that China has to offer?

  The dancers breathed heavily through their nostrils, their chins and their gazes elevated.

  —I urge you to think about how you might be viewed from the outside. You mustn’t forget that we’re the centre of the world’s attention. Every single day, all the people of the world are watching China’s development. Their eyes are on us. On you. Imagine that. How lucky you are. To be Chinese at this moment in history. And, what’s more, to have been chosen to embody the beauty of the Revolution.

  Going round the end of the line, she walked behind the dancers, touching the backs of those she had selected.

  —The people in the West have to make do with a rubbish culture. In the cities of Europe, they’re fighting in the streets for the right to live as you do. They would die for what you have. You should appreciate your good fortune. The struggle against the decadent and the cult of the ugly in art is your task, and it is a momentous one. If you succeed, the world will thank you.

  She came back to stand in front of the line.

  —This is why you should never be satisfied with your work because it’s near perfect. You should always try to find faults with it. You must never slacken your pursuit of artistic and ideological perfection.

  She planted her feet hip-width apart and clasped her hands behind her back.

  —Now —

  She spoke calmly.

  —the dancers I have touched, please step forward.

  Three dancers came out of the line.

  —I touched four of you, said Jiang Qing. Who’s holding back?

  The fourth dancer stepped forward.

  —Names?

  Voices shivering and cracking, the dancers gave their names.

  She stood in front of each them in turn and looked them over. Lifted their drooping chins. Turned their faces to view their profiles. As she did so, she was assailed by premonitions of the ephemeral nature of her own achievements. Would socialist art in China flourish when she was not around to oversee it? Would it keep its splendour? The Cultural Revolution was still on the march, it had not stopped, yet nowadays it was advan
cing only slowly, with small, uncertain steps. The present problem was that people considered it impossible to accomplish things which could be accomplished if they exerted themselves. Her first instinct was to strike these dancers across their cheeks in order to make an example of them, but, out of a greater wish to be seen to be magnanimous, she overcame it.

  —Follow me, she said.

  She came off the stage and went up the aisle through the stalls, with the four dancers trotting behind her.

  —Director, she called out to Chao Ying who was brooding in row eight, take over from here. You’ll have do without these four. They won’t be back for the rest of the day.

  She ordered the Volga, which took them via the underground tunnel to the Compound. Touring had given the dancers the experience of travelling in trains and buses, but this was the first time they had ever been in an official car, and it made them nervous. They fidgeted in the leather seats, and, feeling underdressed, tugged on the ends of their rehearsal shorts as if that would make them longer. She took woollen rugs from the cabinet and put them over their bare legs.

  —Better? she said.

  The dancers nodded in unison.

  The smile that came to her now was a natural one.

  —Do you know why you’re here?

  They regarded her as if trapped in a corner.

  —You’re here because you’re idlers. Lazy little bourgeoises.

  One of the dancers, who since leaving the auditorium had been visibly suppressing her tears, now let them up.

  Jiang Qing raised her voice to be heard over her sobs:

  —Ballet should be full of human will. To dance is to fight. In the target practice dance, the women soldiers are preparing for mortal battle, yet all you showed were glum faces and apathy. You moved as if your bodies had been drained of blood and energy.

  Contaminated by the first’s tears, now they all started up. Jiang Qing gave them tissues to wipe their faces.