I know the story. It is about Judge Hairui from the Ming dynasty during the ruling period of Emperor Jia-jing.
Yes, exactly. The story tells how Hairui risks his post to speak out for the people and how he heroically fights the emperor and gets purged.
I see. Mao's eyes narrow. Who is the author?
The vice mayor of Beijing, professor and historian Wu Han.
Mao turns silent.
She observes a change slowly taking place in his expression. His wrinkles stretch and squish, eyes grow into a line. She feels the moment and decides to twist the knife and press his most sensitive nerve.
Have you, Chairman, ever thought of this-why Hairui? Why a tragic hero? Why the scene where hundreds of peasants get down on their knees to bid him farewell when he is escorted into exile? If it is not a cry for Marshal Peng De-huai, what is it? If it is not saying that you are the bad Emperor Jia-jing, what is it?
Mao gets up and paces. Kang Sheng has already talked to me about the play, he suddenly turns around and speaks. Why don't you go and check into it for me? Bring back to me what you find as soon as possible.
At that moment I hear a familiar aria in my head.
Oh maiden in a palace tower
Soothing her love-laden
Like a glowworm golden
In a dell of dew
Scattering unbeholden
Its aerial hue
Soul in secret hour
With wine sweet as love
Which overflows her bower
After her report, Mao loses his composure.
I have been in power for fourteen years, he roars. And my opponents have never stopped plotting conspiracy. They wear me out. I have become the Garden of Yuanming-an empty frame. They suggest that I take vacations so they can form factions during my absence. What a fool I have been! The important posts have already been filled with their people. I can't even get through to the mayor's office.
Eagerly she responds, Yes, Chairman, that's exactly why the play Hairui Dismissed from Office is a hit-they have plotted the whole thing. The critics have orchestrated the play's promotion. Besides Wu Han, they include Liao Mu-sha and Deng Tuo, our country's most influential scholars.
Mao lights a cigarette and stands up from his rattan chair. His look softens for a moment. Jiang Ching, he says, many think of you as a meddler, as someone whose vision is short and feelings too strong. But you are seeing clearly now… It's been eight years that Vice Chairman Liu has been running the country. He has already established an extensive network. Wu Han is only a gun triggered by others.
The leading actors are yet to make their appearance, she remarks.
Let them come. This morning I read an article Kang Sheng sent me. It was written by the three men whom you have just mentioned. Did they call themselves the Village of Three?
Yes. Was one of the articles titled "The Great Empty Words"?
He nods. It is an attack!
She tells herself to be patient. She sees the hand that is working to change her fate. She leans toward him, her voice filled with tears. Chairman, your enemies are getting ready to harm you.
He turns to her and smiles.
Unable to bear his gaze she looks away.
If there is a trade that I have mastered in my life it is that I crack people-nuts, he suddenly says. The harder the better.
I am ready to fight alongside you, Chairman.
Have you some ideas?
Yes.
Let's hear them.
She begins to describe her cultural troupes, describes the plays she has been working on. All the characters are symbolic. Although the conditions for creativity are poor-for example, actors work in their backyards and use kitchenware as props-their devotion, enthusiasm and potential are great. She tells him that she is ready to bring the troupe to Beijing to present to him.
Stay out of Beijing, he instructs. Do it in Shanghai. Talk to my friend Ke Qin-shi, the mayor of Shanghai, for production funds. He is loyal. I would go out myself to support you but it would be too obvious. Go to Ke with my message. You represent me. Get writers you trust. Call for a national denunciation and criticism of Hairui Dismissed from Office. It'll be a test balloon. If there is a response, we shall put our worry aside. But if there isn't a response, we are in trouble.
She is unable to utter another word, so happy that she feels that she must bid good-bye to hide her emotion.
He takes a drag on his cigarette and walks her to the door. Just a moment, Jiang Ching, he says and waits to have her full attention. You have complained that I have caged you. You might be right. It's been twenty-some years, hasn't it? Forgive me. I was forced to do so. I am in a tough position. At any rate, I am putting an end to it. You have paid enough. Now go out to the world and break the spell.
She throws herself on his chest.
He holds her and calms her.
In her tears dawn comes to display its extraordinariness.
The secretary tells me that Mayor Ke has come two hours earlier to wait for my arrival. It is ceremonial. It is to show his courtesy. I tell the secretary that the mayor's hospitality is appreciated.
The noiseless car takes me to number 1245 Hua-shan Road. Mayor Ke sits next to me and writes down every word I say. I send him Mao's regards and tell him that I need to find writers.
Can't Madame locate good writers in Beijing? Doesn't the imperial city attract fine intellects?
I smile. A smile that demonstrates absolute secrecy. A smile Mayor Ke reads and understands. The mayor is from peasant stock and has a head that reminds me of an onion. He is in a white cotton garment. A pair of black cotton sandals. A costume the Party cadres wear to show their revolutionary origin. Antileather shoes means anti-bourgeois. I am sure you'll produce results that will be to Mao's satisfaction, I say. I let him take his time, let him count his fingers and figure out his profit margin.
Mayor Ke asks me to answer one question. One question and that will be all. I nod. Are writers in Beijing no longer dependable?
I don't say a word.
He gets it. Gets that Mao regards Shanghai as his new base. Gets that Mao is ready to flatten Beijing.
The next morning Mayor Ke calls and says that he is sending a writer named Chun-qiao to my villa. Chun-qiao is the editor-in-chief of the newspaper Shanghai Wen-hui. He is the best I have ever known, he says.
Send Comrade Chun-qiao the Chairman's warmest hello, I say.
Two hours later Chun-qiao arrives. Welcome to Shanghai, Madame Mao. He bows to shake my hand. He is walking-stick thin and a smoker. After a few minutes of conversation I find his mind scissor-sharp.
Shanghai can do anything Madame desires. He smiles with all his teeth sprouting.
My first night in Shanghai I have difficulty sleeping. The city reminds me of how I used to eat my heart out over Tang Nah and Dan and how I longed for Junli's attention. There was not a spot of unbroken skin on my mind's body. How heroically I fought fate. My youth was a splendid bonfire with herbs of passion that smelled strongly. I have never forgotten the scent of Shanghai.
The night is bittersweet and tearful. I can't help but recall the past. My suffering. The struggle, the feeling of being entangled in my own intestines, crouching, but unable to fight back. Slowly, the dirt track of memory disappears into the flat of the horizon. I watch my sentiments burn and I scatter the ashes. I realize that if I can't live a life tending my vineyards in the sun, I have to learn to trust my own instincts. In that sense I am truly my name. Jiang Ching. Green comes out of blue but is richer than blue.
Chun-qiao proves himself to be a good choice. He has a clear sense of who I am. He treats me as Mao's equal. With the same regard he fights for my ideas, my thoughts and extends my strength. People say that he never smiles. But when he sees me he blooms like a rose. Behind his thick glasses, his eyes look like polliwogs. The pupils are never still. He tells me that I have given him a new life. I think he means a ladder to political heaven. He tells me that he has been waiting for a moment like this for many years. He is born to devote his life to a cause, to be a faithful premier to an emperor.