The guard at the Chrysanthemum-Fragrance Study blocks her and tells her that Mao is with a visitor and doesn't wish to be disturbed.
Hello, Chairman! I'm back! Madame Mao Jiang Ching pushes the guard to the side and invites herself in.
The room is dark. The blinds are down and the curtains are drawn. Mao is in his pajamas. He sits facing the door in his rattan chair. The visitor is a woman. She sits with her back toward Jiang Ching. She is in a navy blue Mao jacket. Seeing his wife Mao crosses his bare feet on a stool and says, The Siberian fox has come to share the spring with us.
The visitor turns around and stands up. Comrade Jiang Ching!
Comrade Fairlynn!
How have you been?
Better than ever! Madame Mao fetches herself a chair. Don't tell me that you are still single and still enjoying it.
Fairlynn supports her head with one hand and knits a crease in her trousers with the other. Her fingers nervously run back and forth along the crease. What's wrong, Comrade Jiang Ching? You are not well, are you?
Anna Karenina was stupid to kill herself for an unworthy man, Madame Mao responds. More tea!
But I was merely concerned about your health. After all you are the first lady and you have undergone surgery-it's news.
I want to tell Fairlynn that my wound has healed and the tissues have regenerated. My condition is more than perfect. I've conquered the pain. I'm nursing my heart. But there is something else I can't bear. Something, a bug, I must kill before I can go on. Fairlynn must be given this warning. She has gone too far.
My husband gets up and spits a mouthful of tea leaves into a spittoon. It's his way of shutting me up. I am humiliated. Deep within me violence begins to stir. The summons is too terrifying to measure.
Excuse me, Jiang Ching, I've promised Comrade Fairlynn a tour of the Forbidden City. It would be a shame for a writer like her not to know what's behind the great walls. Don't you agree?
I know that I am not expected to reply. But I wait. For a courtesy. I wait for my husband to invite me along, or give me a chance to refuse.
The request doesn't come.
The point of her fingernail jams into her palm, and her body holds still with extreme rigidity. When Mao and Fairlynn stride shoulder to shoulder out of the room into the sun and disappear behind the great imperial garden, she is kissed by the tongue of the beast inside her.
The draperies are down. The fragrance of gardenia in her room is strong, the ancient rug soft under her feet. A month ago, she ordered a French table with a set of matching chairs from Shanghai, but she discarded them when they arrived-her mood had changed. It is the beginning of her madness. She is not aware that it is running its course.
In the mirror she sees a backyard concubine on her way to being forgotten. Is she turning into Zi-zhen? She has never seen Zi-zhen. She has heard vivid descriptions of her: an old hag with a birdlike face, wrapped in hay hair. Once in the past she tested her husband to see if there were remains of his romance with Zi-zhen.
A soft wind breathing through the grass, was Mao's comment.
There is no one else she can talk to. In frustration she turns to Kang Sheng. She lets him know that it is an exchange. She promises to do the same for him when he needs her. He is delighted for the business. He has been promoted as the secretary of China's National Security Bureau. The apprentice of Stalin. Mao calls him "the steel teeth sunk in the republic's flesh." He comes to her rescue. Tips her off with most valuable information and guides her with advice. Ten years later he will produce a list of names, names of her enemies who he convinces her will destroy her if she doesn't destroy them first. The names will shock her. It will be two thirds of the congress. And he will encourage and hurry her to act. And she will be a soldier and will engage herself in battles out of utter fear. She will hold on to his handwritten list. The names he circled, TOP SECRET, FOR COMRADE JIANG CHING'S EYES ONLY. One hundred and five congressmen plus ninety regional representatives.
In the fifties Kang Sheng is my mentor. We are walking sticks for each other to get up, get around and get to the top. We can't do without each other. We make deals.
I am not Zi-zhen and I am not a masochist. I have tasted life and want more. Mao continues to disappoint me. He wants me to run the imperial backyard and expects me to be happy. But it was he who offered me the leading-lady role in the first place. It was our deal. It is he who breaks the promise, although he never says I don't love you or Let's get a divorce. This is worse. Because he just does it. He has taken away my identity. Ask people on the streets who the first lady is. Nine out of ten don't know. Jiang Ching doesn't sound familiar. Nobody has seen the first lady's picture in the papers. I would be fooling myself to say that it isn't Mao's wish.
A woman's biggest wish is to be loved -there is no deeper truth. I feel ripped from the essence of life. I come to feel for Zi-zhen. I identify with her sadness and cling to my own sanity. The Forbidden City has been the home of many who have gone mad. I wander in Mao's grounds and watch men and women act like old-time eunuchs. Like dogs, they sniff. They spend every second of their waking time trying to please the emperor. They can tell when the emperor is ready to "let go" of his concubine.
I am aware of my position. My role has no flesh. Nevertheless, illusion is available if I work to create it. I am still Mao's official wife. I have to get on the stage. Although dim, there are still lights over my head. Mao's men have tried to take away my costume. I can feel the pulling of my sleeves. But I won't let go. I am holding on to my title. I won't let the magic of my character fade away. Hope guides me and revenge motivates me.
Kang Sheng is a man of obsession. He is known for double-hand calligraphy. He also collects jade, bronze and stone carvings. He once commented that the great poet and calligrapher Guo Mourou's strokes were "worse than what I can write with my foot." It is not an exaggeration. When Kang Sheng speaks about art, he is a scholar of meticulous dedication. His mouth is a river from which magnificent phrases flow. At those moments, all his wrinkles spread like spring curl-grass under sunshine-it would be hard for anyone to imagine what he does for a living.
I am still learning my trade. I come regularly to Kang Sheng's house for lessons. Some lessons are tough. It is like the poison the fairy tale mermaid has to drink in order to have legs. I drink what Kang Sheng offers in order to have powerful wings that cut like saws.
His house is a museum and his tiger-faced wife, Chao Yi-ou, is his business partner. The couple live in a private palace at Dianmen, 24 Stone Bridge Lane, at the end of West Boulevard. It has an ordinary appearance, but inside it is a heaven of its own. One of the features is a manmade hill standing behind the house. It is about three stories high and is surrounded by a bamboo forest. It used to be the house of Andehai, the eunuch in chief and Empress Ci-xi's right-hand man, during the Ching dynasty. The house is guarded by a company of soldiers.
It is in Kang Sheng's house, in the basement, in the middle of his stone-carving collection that he reveals the secret. His views and his traps. He demonstrates the fire and metal in his character and shows me what I must learn and unlearn. And finally what I must endure in exchange for immortality.
I say my ears have been carefully washed-I am listening. Then Kang Sheng begins to pour. The black poison, water of terrible words, details, facts. In his unshaken voice, steady rhythms, the liquid travels, through my ear, throat, chest and down.
It is about Mao. His practice of longevity. Here is the number of virgins he penetrates. I am sorry to play the role of supplier. It's my job. You must understand this. Make no noise about the information I provide you. It is your life I am trying to protect. You must understand Mao's need for penetration. You must not compare yourself with Fairlynn and her like. You are an empress, not another vagina. Your true lover is not Mao but the emperor whose clothes he is in. Your true lover is power itself.