Red Azalea (23 page)

As I looked through the green draperies again, Yan was sitting on Leopard’s lap. Leopard was devouring her. Can he read the poetry of her body like I do? Can he understand the way her heart sings like I do? I tried to deny what I saw and tried to convince myself that Yan did not love him. But Yan kept throwing me into reality. She knew I could not stop watching her. She wanted to put my heart to death. I watched her. I had no choice but to watch her. How every tip of her hair was soaked in sweat, as was Leopard’s. Yan was facing me, her chin was up, her eyes were closed. She was trying to exhaust herself. She had him in her. His face was between her breasts. He murmured. He whispered her name again and again. His hands were pressing her hips. As her breath came harder, her arms circled him like two snakes strapping tight a squirrel. She kissed him deeply. She was showing this to me. She was doing it to me. I could feel my heart laid bare on the ground, being stepped on, like the hen Big Beard’s egg. I did not close the draperies. I forced myself to face Yan, to experience the death of my love for her, to accept what was given to me by fate. I remembered she had said to me that she was more corrupted than I could imagine.
She was doing this to let me hate her and forget her so that she could forget me, in order to stop the pain she had been having. She was always the ruler, the manipulator. She was always in control. She was destroying our love to preserve the love. She was murdering our love with her own hands. I hated her selfishness. I would not be manipulated this time. I felt sorry for Leopard, for he was brainlessly in love; he did not know what he was getting into. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Yan was not the person she used to be, a true heroine, a goddess with a ring shining on her head. Maybe she was changed by the farm, by her life, by my leaving her alone in the mosquito net. Maybe she was corrupt to a degree I could not imagine, where she no longer had a faith in love, or in anything. Maybe Leopard’s lust made her forget what she wanted to remember. Maybe, after all, she was doing the right thing by coming to my house to seduce me.

Yan looked pale when she opened the porch door. She and Leopard were all dressed. My calm must have surprised her because she said, We would like to leave. She wanted to escape from me. Then I said, Congratulations. I did not know why but I just said it. I laughed. I said to Leopard, I enjoyed guarding you two. If you ever need me again, do not hesitate, just let me know. I said to Yan, Goodbye and take care. I tried to put my arm around her, but it was impossible. She disgusted me. She sensed it. She squatted down and pretended to tie her shoes. But she was trying to hold back her tears. She knew, just as I knew, that we would not meet again. She said to Leopard, Let’s go. As if
feeling he owed me something, Leopard said appreciatively, You have been a big help—how can I thank you enough? Take care of your woman, I said. He said, I am glad that you are not a man, otherwise you would have been the one to win her. Although Leopard said the words sincerely, they sounded mocking to me. I said to both of them, It’s been my pleasure. I found I could say no more and I went to open the door for them.

I heard the sound of footsteps on the staircase. It was Mother. I said to Yan and Leopard, Wait. Just say hello to my mother, would you? They nodded. I rushed onto the porch and took a quick look inside. Everything was in order—the pillow, the chairs and the blankets. My mother stepped in. I said, Mama, these are my guests from the farm. This is Yan, and this is Leopard. Mother said, Oh, Yan, how could I stop my daughter from talking about you? She went over to Yan and Leopard. They flushed and lowered their heads. I said, Mama, they would like to leave. Mother pulled me to the kitchen and said to me, How come you have served them nothing? I told her that I had served them tea. Mother said, Tea is nothing. Serve them some dumpling soup. The water on the stove is boiled. I could make dumplings in ten minutes. I said, No, there is no need. I let go of Yan. I had to let her go.

At six o’clock in the evening my father returned from the two movies. He was exhausted and had a headache. He told me that I could never make him go to the movies again. I did not talk to him or the rest of the family. I felt so lonely. That night the cow-hair rain tapped on the window and streamed down on the glass like running tears.

N
o one in the studio said anything about my war with Soviet Wong. Everyone became more careful in their own daily presentation. They watched Soviet Wong’s interest and disinterest and figured out how to act according to what she liked. Nothing was verbally expressed. It was all in the eyes, in that very window of the heart. Every act was precisely performed.

Cheering Spear came to me one evening when I sat among wild grass looking at the setting sun. I was thinking about Yan. I was absorbed in my past. It was a way to escape from the present misery. Cheering Spear had a blade of dog-tail grass in her mouth. She stopped in front of me. She blocked the sun. I looked at her. She was smiling. She took the dog-tail grass out of her mouth and said, I don’t mean to tell you what to do, but if I were you, I would withdraw now. I would propose to go back to where I came from. It is better to bend with the wind when it blows.

I was surprised at her boldness. My anger rose to the tip of my tongue. Mind your own business, I said. I looked at her as I continued: I know no one can be happier that I am about to fall out of the race. It’s written on your face. Go and take a look at that face now. Don’t block my sun here.

I just wanted to show that I care about you, Cheering Spear said. I could never be wrong about what’s on your mind, I said. I hate spies. You can go and report on me now, I told her. She looked at me and said, Yes, I will if you would like me to. She put the dog-tail grass back into her mouth and said, I am glad that you have a sense of where you’ll end up. I said, You don’t know anything about
me. Then let me give you some advice, she said. You would feel better if you were more prepared. You know, you are such a bourgeois individualist. Everyone in the studio is convinced that you are the capitalist sprout.

Cheering Spear often reminded me of Lu. It seemed that I could never escape from Lu. There were Lus all over China. I was reminded of the old saying: “Poverty gives birth to evil personalities.”

Really, I don’t have to mind your business since it has already been taken care of by our Party, Cheering Spear said as she lightly walked away. Her shadow on the ground was extremely long that evening. It remained in my sight for quite a while before it was dragged away. Strangely, I thought of those vultures, the eagles who wended their way up mountain paths and wheeled in the sky looking for a chance to dive and pick up their meals.

The next day a notice was sent to us by One Ounce. It said that the Supervisor had arrived in Shanghai and was scheduled to visit the studio sometime during the week to pick the final actress to play Red Azalea.

Meeting the Supervisor, impressing him, might reverse my future. Soviet Wong told us to pick our own material and prepare ourselves for the competition. Before we began our practice, Cheering Spear came to me and said, I think you are going to be the one who wins. I did not answer her. I did not know how to trust her. She asked, after a while, in a casual tone, what I was going to perform. Would it be “Azalea visits the Red Army headquarters” or “Azalea tells her life story”? Sensing that I did not want to answer her, she smiled and said, I am going to perform “Azalea in jail.”

I looked at Cheering Spear. I felt pity for her. It was hard to believe that she chose this part, the part of Red Azalea in jail, behind bars. The scene had only two lines. I could not believe that she could throw away her chance like this. I looked at her, doubting whether I heard her right. Cheering Spear convinced me. She convinced me that her stupidity was real. She was going to perform “Azalea in jail.” It was her choice. I let out a breath. A secret pleasure filled me. I said, Are you sure? She said, Yes, this is what I am going to do. Then she asked, Which part are you going to do? I said offhandedly, “Azalea tells her story.” I said I chose the scene because it was material which allowed me to show different aspects of the character. She said, Let’s wish each other success. She appeared unusually friendly as we practiced together and gave comments on each other’s performance. She constantly complimented me. I could see my success lay at my feet.

The day arrived when my fate would be decided. It was morning, about nine o’clock. A cloudless day. The sunshine axed into the rehearsal room through the windows. The room was filled with people. Everyone was waiting for the Supervisor. Cheering Spear and I were busy going through our last rehearsal in our heads. We paid no attention to how Firewood, Little Bell, and Bee OhYang were feeling. They were assigned to play the supporting roles. Soviet Wong, Sound of Rain, a group of studio heads and newspaper reporters were already seated. They each had a mug of hot tea in their hands. They waited patiently.

I stood by the window. I was taking deep breaths.
Cheering Spear did not look as nervous as I did. She came in late and sat by me. She was wearing a red shirt. The red color reflected on her face. She was in good spirits. She asked me whether I was nervous. I said I was, a little. She said she was not. She shook hands with me as we saw a car drive into the studio gate.

The man called the Supervisor was introduced to us. He was wearing a pair of big sunglasses. No one got to see his face much. He was in a green military uniform. He was a medium-sized man. His hair, combed back, was extremely black. He was not as old as I had imagined. He was about forty. He stepped out of the car and walked toward us with vigorous strides. Soviet Wong and Sound of Rain went running up to greet him. They shook hands. He was guided into the room and seated in the middle seat. The performers—Cheering Spear, Firewood, Little Bell, Bee OhYang and I—gathered at the back corner of the room. Soviet Wong announced the program. The program of two candidates running for Red Azalea. She announced Cheering Spear’s name, then my name. When she went to sit down by the Supervisor, our competition began.

The Supervisor did not look at us. He crossed one leg over the other and lit a cigarette. He did not take off his sunglasses. Cheering Spear marched up to the platform in the center of the room. She had changed into Red Azalea’s costume—a side-buttoned cotton jacket printed with a pattern of red azaleas. She was confident. She began her lines. It shocked me, it knocked me down—she was performing “Azalea tells her story.” She was performing my material. But she did it better. She added good details. I could hear nothing but the sound of a deafening tone in
my head. Cheering Spear was doing my piece. I had nothing left to perform. If I performed what she did, everyone would think that I’d imitated her.

I lost my chance to win before the battle. I could not believe that Cheering Spear had done this to me. I could not believe that she was reciting my lines. It was so sudden, so devastating. The Supervisor was looking intensely at Cheering Spear. Soviet Wong was smiling. She looked so pleased.

Cheering Spear ended her performance. She landed her last phrase like a first-class acrobat who landed on tiptoe on the seat of a running bicycle. There was much applause. Cheering Spear bowed to the audience, to the Supervisor. Soviet Wong went up to the platform to congratulate her. The Supervisor looked impressed. He went to shake hands with Cheering Spear. He asked her whether she knew how to ride a horse. When Cheering Spear said yes, he asked whether he could see her perform on a horse in Shanghai Stadium. She said, Of course. When? She said that she had been longing for a horse ride for so long. The Supervisor invited Cheering Spear to sit by him. He talked about arranging a horse ride.

Then came my turn to perform. I had twenty minutes to fight back. I had twenty minutes to convince the Supervisor that I was better than Cheering Spear so he should pick me instead of her. But I was already beaten to the ground. I was bleeding inside. My time was slipping away. I went up to the platform. My legs were shaking. I gave the most stupid performance of my life. I performed “Azalea tells her story.” I recited the lines thinking how I
could convince people that I was not imitating Cheering Spear. The audience began to yawn. Then it was finished. I was finished before I began. My limbs were cold.

I was going back to my seat in the audience when I heard Cheering Spear saying to an interviewer that her success was due to Soviet Wong. Soviet Wong had mothered her excellence. The next day the Party newspaper published a big picture of Cheering Spear on a horse led by Soviet Wong.

The revolutionary task needs you to be a set clerk—One Ounce delivered the message to me flatly. I was in my room idling. I had been idling for hours. If you do not like it, the studio would not mind your going back to Red Fire Farm. It took him thirty seconds to announce that order. No one in the room looked surprised. I realized that my good fortune had come to an end. I wanted to ask, Who made that decision? My tongue was so stiff that I could barely make a sound. Feeling a sudden weakness, I went out of the room. I held a maple trunk and sat down on the grass. The Party Committee, of course, One Ounce volunteered. Who exactly are those people? I looked at him. I am sorry I don’t know, he said. I am just a guard delivering the message from the upstairs.

I packed my things and walked out of the room. I was on my way to becoming a set clerk at the studio. It was early morning, around six-thirty. Cheering Spear, Firewood, Little Bell and Bee OhYang were already up doing their routine
exercises. Their voices were clearer than usual. As I passed by, they stared at me. Behind the deadpan expressions, I knew they were happy. I kept walking toward the gate. The maples were swaying and birds were flying up and down picking their food under my feet. One Ounce went to open the big wooden gate when he saw me coming out. It’s all right, I can just go through the side door, I said. One Ounce insisted. The bolt was rusted after a few rains. One Ounce rotated the bolt hard. The rusty sound was hard on the ears. After he wrestled with the bolt, the door was pushed open. The birds flew away. One Ounce stretched out his right arm and made a humble gesture to let me pass.