The bride-to-be worries that she has made it too easy for Mao. She is afraid that he won't remember her sacrifice. The sacrifice which she intends to hold and claim for credit in the future. It's her investment. But he has not shown her much affection since Lao Lin departed.
Mao has immersed himself in writing his philosophy of war. He writes for days on end without resting, loses all track of time. When he is finished he calls Little Dragon to send the girl. He makes her feel that she is already in his possession. His hands come for her the moment she enters the door. She hears him mumble, telling her in monologue what he has been writing.
Yes, tell me, tell me everything, she responds.
It's suicidal to display a facade when the enemies are massive in numbers. He begins to unbutton her shirt. We have to learn to take advantage of being small-we are capable of flexibility. If we pull the enemy by the nose and lead their horses into the woods, we can confuse them and pin them down. We bite off their legs and then take off quickly before they can guess our numbers or intention. This was my strategy during the Long March and now I establish it as a rule of war.
I want Mao to know that I am interested in what he is doing and want to be part of it. But I try not to follow his thoughts so I can concentrate on the pleasure. I focus my eyes somewhere else, a penholder on his desk. It is made from the joint of a bamboo pole. It is stuffed with brushes and pens, which point toward the ceiling like bunches of dragon-tongue orchids. I am strangely stimulated.
I've created a myth, he goes on. I have told my generals to be playful with Chiang Kai-shek. To take a bite, then run, and take another bite and run again. The key is not to be reluctant to depart after small victories. It's a problem with our soldiers. It's their hometown. They have a hard time letting go. They hate to quit when collecting the heads of those who murdered their family members. But you must quit in order to win more… Like right now I mustn't go all the way. I must know when to hold my troops back…
I'm no longer amazed that he can make love while sorting out his thoughts. For me, it has become part of our ritual. The moment I detect him losing track of his thoughts my body goes wild.
Was it four times that you crossed back and forth over the Chi River in order to escape Chiang Kai-shek? I ask, teasing him. Did you confuse the enemy?
He is too breathless to answer me.
I heard about your victory in Shanghai, I keep going. You were not known, though-you were an underground myth everybody wanted to unearth. Did I tell you how Chiang Kai-shek's papers described what you looked like? It said that you had teeth six inches long, and a head three feet wide.
He groans and announces his coming.
For the next three weeks he is back to his writing. A Study on the Jiangxi Peasants' Movement. Revolution Chinese Style. On Establishing the Red Army. Afterwards he collapses and goes to sleep like a corpse in a coffin. The girl continues to draft the letter she has promised Lao Lin. She sits by Mao's table and plays with brushes and pens. Her mind is empty. She is bored. She counts characters every few lines. She knows that she has to fill up a page for it to be acceptable.
Fart, fart, and fart, she writes, then erases, then writes again. She takes out a tiny mirror and begins to examine her face. The teeth, nose, eyes and eyebrows. She plays with her hair, combs it into different styles. Stretches her skin with her fingers, making different expressions. She likes her face. The way it is reflected in the mirror. It looks prettier in the mirror than on the screen. She wonders why she didn't look as pretty on camera. Her thoughts skip. She wonders what's happening to Tang Nah and Yu Qiwei. And what they will think when they learn that she is Madame Mao.
The thought brings her delight and makes her go back to the draft. She works until Mao wakes. Her heart beats gaily as she hears him reciting a wake-up poem of the Han dynasty:
The spring woke my hibernation
The sun is on my buttocks hurrying me up
She gets up from her chair to pour him tea. She then goes back to the desk and waits. He comes to her. She shows him the draft. He leans toward the light to read. His hands go under her shirt.
Sounds like a letter of protest, he laughs. She says that she doesn't know how to write otherwise. She is unable to bend herself any lower. He comforts her. You shouldn't go to a monk and ask to borrow a comb-you should be kind with my colleagues' shortcomings. After all they are peasants. As for himself, he appreciates her sacrifice. A letter of promise is only a piece of paper. It is up to us to honor it. The truth is that the letter is only going to be used to clamp the lips of those scorpion-mouthed wives.
She is convinced. Laughing in tears. Holding her hand he revises the draft. I want you to pillow-talk me now. I want you to harvest me. Oh, yes. Right here, sign Sincerely, Lan Ping.
The wedding day. The wind sculpts clouds into the shapes of giant fruits. It is in Mao's new cave-he has moved from Phoenix Hill to the Yang Family Grove. It is a three-room cave located on the side of the mountain, about fifty feet in depth. The back wall is made of stone and the front, of wood. The windows are covered with paper. In front of the cave is a bit of flat ground. There are stone stools and a vegetable patch.
Mao gets up early and works in the garden. Peppers, garlic, tomatoes, yams, beans and squash-all are in good spirits. Mao carries a shoulder pole with two buckets of water on each end. He walks through the narrow paths watering each plant patiently. He tilts his shoulders and lifts the string of the bucket to pour. He looks content and relaxed.
The bride stands in front of the cave and watches her lover. She watches him nibble off the tips of the cotton plants. She remembers that he once told her that his mind worked best when his hands got busy with soil and roots. What is on his mind now? She wonders if he compares her with his ex-wives. You are the girl who carries your own sunshine, he has told her. Your gaiety is my soul's health and Zi-zhen's sadness its poison.
To me, he is a father figure. He is all I have ever wanted in a man. As a father he is wise, loving and formidable. When I asked why he decided to marry me he replied that I have the ability to make a rooster produce eggs. I take the remark as a compliment. I assume that he means that I bring out the best in him. But I am not sure. Sometimes I feel that he is too great for me to understand. His mind is forever unattainable. He is a frightening spectacle. To his comrades, opponents or enemies, he can be intoxicating and terrifying. I love him but fear for myself. In front of him I give up comprehension. I surrender. I long for him to want me, the true me, not the actress. Sometimes I feel that he wants to have my body near but my soul at a distance. He wants to keep the myth of me.
Later on, after many years, I discover that he prefers to live with the counterfeit rather than the human. But as a young woman I am simple and enthusiastic. I don't need to understand everything about this god whose essence is out of my reach. I sleep soundly on the question of the unknown. What's the hurry when I shall have the rest of my life to figure him out? I don't compare myself with Zi-zhen. I am not like Zi-zhen, who preserves herself in the bottle of misery and seals the lid with a wrench. If there is such a bottle in front of me I will smash it. I have a passion for stimulation and challenge. I see my future promising nothing but that.
But why am I having these doubts on my wedding day?
Eight o'clock. The sunshine bursts out of the clouds. After setting up a table outside I go back to the cave to get dressed. I am a little disappointed that Mao has only invited a small group of people. He has turned down my wish to invite a crowd. His reason was that he didn't want to attract Chiang Kai-shek's attention-he doesn't want to be bombed on his wedding day.