He wipes his moist forehead with his sleeve and his lips begin to stretch. I… can't do it. I am-
Don't tell me about your fear. We have brought in the ship! Yu Hui-yong, the ship is in! Come on, get on deck!
She goes on, her gestures animated, arms shooting out and waving back and forth in the air. One more blow, the fruit of victory will fall into our hands!
Yu ceases struggling.
Madame Mao sits down, sinks into the sofa.
Other cabinet members stare at them.
Yu goes to the windowsill and picks up a flower pot. He gently loosens its soil with his finger. It is a wild kind, he suddenly says. The leaves drape around like a crown. The stems will bear little white flowers. He turns the plant toward the sunlight. I love to watch the way plants lift their leaves and the way they deepen their green. I really do.
Madame Mao stands erect like the statue of Lenin on Red Square in Moscow. There is no sentimentality in her voice. The bottom line is that I will allow no betrayal. You are my man. She pauses to restrain herself but tears suddenly pour. If you have to make me beg, I am on my knees now. I beg you to stop insulting me… I am not cold and without feeling by nature… I have chosen love before. But it didn't bring meaning to life. I have lost the soul of an artist… It is my ill fate. One can cure illness, but not fate. The battle I fight is inevitable. My heart is breaking… Let me remind you, all of you, that there is no way out now. We are all in it together and we are soldiers. So let's run toward where the fire is.
September 9, 1976. The history of China turns a page. At the age of eighty-three, Mao Tse-tung exhales his last breath. Upon learning the news from Xin, Jiang Ching forces her way into the Chrysanthemum-Fragrance Study. She sorts through Mao's letters and documents looking for a will. But there is none. Turning around, she orders a Politburo meeting at the Purple Light Pavilion. She wants to announce the Chairman's death personally.
No one else comes but her cabinet members. She checks with her secretary on what's going on and is told that a new figure, a man named Hua Guo-feng, a provincial secretary and Mao's hometown boy, has taken over. He is planning to speak to her-Mao has left a will appointing him as his successor.
Ridiculous! Absolutely ridiculous! She catches her own echo in the empty hall.
The palace is quiet. The day is windless. Mao's body lies at the Hunan Quarter of the Grand Hall of the People. He is straighter than when he was breathing. His ear-long hair has been combed to the back of his skull. The features look peaceful. There isn't a trace of pain. The arms are folded by the thighs. The gray jacket is starched. The body is covered from the chest down by a red flag with the yellow cross of a sickle and hammer.
Liar! Madame Mao Jiang Ching beats the table with her fists. The Chairman never left any will.
The handwriting style is definitely Mao's, the secretary mutters. It was confirmed by an archaeologist and calligrapher who specialized in xing-shu.
Madame Mao stares at the writing, halting her breath.
It is the funeral of the century. Tiananmen Square is flooded with white paper flowers. On top of the Gate of Heavenly Peace, Madame Mao stands behind Hua Guo-feng, who gives the nation the memorial speech. Dressed in a full black suit Madame Mao's head is covered with a black satin scarf. She can hardly bear sharing the same platform with her enemy.
The crystal casket is large. Mao's cheeks are painted thick with powder. His lips are unnaturally red. The corners of the mouth have been artificially pushed and lifted to form a smile. The body lies like a hill slope-from the chest drops a sudden curve-the emptied intestines make his belly looks like a hollow plain. The head looks enormous.
Madame Mao stands three feet from the casket shaking hands with strangers foreign and domestic. She has been doing this for two hours now. Her neck is stiff and her wrist sore. Pale and nervous she holds a white silk handkerchief and uses it to touch her cheeks now and then. She can't even fake tears. She keeps thinking of what Mao had said to her. You will be pushed and nailed into my casket.
Nah has been sobbing hard next to her mother.
My sky has fallen.
Half sky, Nah.
No, the whole sky.
You are truly a good-for-nothing.
The new head of China, Hua, has the face of an old lizard. His eyelids close halfway over his pupils giving him a sleepy expression. His gray suit copies Mao's. He stands stiffly, a frozen smile on his face. When Madame Mao questions the will, he takes a scroll out of his chest pocket and shows the familiar handwriting, which reads, For Comrade Hua Guo-feng. With you in charge I am at rest.
She laughs hysterically, turns away and walks toward the door, shouting, I have the real version of Mao's will. Mao put it, himself personally, into my very ear. She runs into the seventy-nine-year-old Marshal Ye Jian-ying, who is on his way in to pay his respects to Mao.
How can you witness this and do nothing, Marshal? she cries.
The marshal walks past her and pays no attention.
The Chairman's body has not turned cold and you are all plotting a coup d'état!
Comrade Jiang Ching! Marshal Ye Jian-ying wails, my life will leave me no more than ten years to live. But I am willing to abandon this ten years in order to do this country right.
Early morning, October 5, 1976. A strong wind beats the leaves into the air. Overnight the green in the imperial garden turns yellow. The bare trunks point toward the sky like spikes. In the Hall of Fishermen's Port Madame Mao Jiang Ching hosts a farewell party.
The torch-shaped bronze lamps flare brightly throughout the hall. The hour has passed midnight. Madame Mao entertains the guests with a lavish dinner and her opera film in progress. After the showing the lights come back and the host stands up. In a long, elegant blue dress, she toasts everyone's health and luck. There is nervousness hidden under the smiling mask. She calms herself by cracking jokes. Yet no one is laughing.
The guests are her loyalists from all fields. Among them the famous opera singers. You know what Empress Wu's birthday cake was made of? As if on a stage, Madame Mao speaks. She then answers herself. It was made of dirt, seeds and weeds. Why? It is nutritious!
A few laughs come from the audience. The monologue continues. Subjects change in a disconnected fashion. One moment, Madame Mao criticizes the relationship between the eunuch Li Lian-ying and the empress dowager. At another moment she describes a handmade loom she used in Yenan.
The threads broke for no reason, she laughs. I thought to myself, What an armchair revolutionary am I if I can't conquer a stupid loom! So I stayed up all night until I made it work. Yes, that's me. Stubborn as a mule. Well, enough jokes. I am anxious, as you all can tell. What were we talking about? Yes, we are talking about devotion, at the price of death. Yes, it is not a light subject.
After a moment of silence she carries on. It's my fate either to be the queen or the prisoner. Mao has left me to find out the ending myself. It is his way of teaching. As I have said he hated to be figured out. As an actress, I play the moment. The army is out of my hands. It's my biggest concern. When the Chairman was alive, they dared not touch me. Now they can do anything. Hua Guofeng is no threat to me. The threat is the old boys. Ye Jian-ying and Deng Xiao-ping. I once had a conversation with Mao on the subject. I said that I might be born to play a tragic character. The Chairman responded with humor and said that it was a fascinating comment.
Is it? She looks around the room. Imagine me being caught and slaughtered tomorrow. Take a good look at me. I am standing still. What concerns me is you, your life and your family. Every one of you. They will come after you. They might not kill you but will make you suffer. There is a price to pay for being my follower. What am I going to say? What am I going to say to your children? Am I a worthy cause?…She lowers her head and her tears stream down. What can I do to protect you?