Red Azalea (28 page)

I never heard from the Supervisor, but wherever I went in the studio, I could see his shadow and hear his voice. The maple tree delivered his spirit. The memory of the night of his departure held me each evening. Alone in the emptiness, my body lay hopelessly on a field of desire, like a bird with clipped wings.

I missed Yan though she never answered my letters. We never spoke about our affair. We never dared to admit to ourselves and to each other that it was love that we had shared. Instead, we shared the embarrassment and the guilt. We gave each other our deep shame. I had never thought of having her only to myself until the moment I saw Leopard touch her. It was in that moment that I realized my shame. Because it was at that moment that I wished to be loved so much.

Yan made it look like she had deported me. It was like what we did to the baby rice shoots in early spring—broke the intertwining roots, tore them apart to ensure the individual’s growth in the future. Most of the rice shoots survived, but a few of them died in the process. When I broke the roots with my hands, I listened to the sound of
tearing and wondered if the roots felt the hurt. Yan never listened to this sound. She did what she thought was necessary without a blink of the eye. She was cruel. She had to be the way she was. She threw me out to save me. She sent me away to have me remember her. And I did. Yan had become a part of me. I knew this when I touched the Supervisor. My relationship with the Supervisor, though it happened unexpectedly, was logical; it was within the realm of expectation. The difference was that I had been, strangely enough, aware of every move I made with the Supervisor. If it was love I shared with Yan, it was ambition I shared with the Supervisor, to exceed ourselves, our time, to reach beyond our spoiled minds.

The Supervisor had left without any promise. But my eagerness to excel made me want nothing but the impossible. Yan was the impossible. I could not escape from paying for it. And I was paying for it. I became my mother. Like my mother, I lived in the dream of a world I believed in. I longed for the return of the Supervisor. I longed for the moment of his presence. The endless longing—lonely, bitter, vaporous, yet so very vivid.

Cheering Spear became very sick. It was said that Comrade Jiang Ching’s comments on the cast were a denunciation of her future. It was said that Comrade Jiang Ching inspected the rough cuts and commented, “All is not gold that glitters”—meaning she had seen no real talent in the
cuts. The phrase was printed on a red-headlined document. It was read in meetings at the studio. Cheering Spear went to Sound of Rain and Soviet Wong for help. She poured out her tears. But they said nothing. Not a word.

Your name has been called, the guard One Ounce told me. Sound of Rain and Soviet Wong were checking with Beijing to confirm the news. Whose name? Who was called? I heard every word he said but asked as my heartbeat quickened. For a moment I felt deaf, as if my ears were blocked by successive bangs of firecrackers. In the afternoon I was called into the office of the studio heads. Sitting before a huge wooden desk, I was told by Sound of Rain that I was chosen by the upstairs in Beijing for an important assignment, a screen test as Red Azalea.

Soviet Wong sat next to Sound of Rain, her eyes filled with envy. Do you know anyone in Beijing? she asked. Her voice pronounced heavy suspicion. As I shook my head, she said, You must tell the truth, nothing but the truth. The Party’s needs are my priority, I replied. But I could stay as a set clerk if the Party needs me to. Hypocrite! Soviet Wong shouted at me.

Strangely, it pleased me to see Soviet Wong acting like this. Why do I have to be a hypocrite? I said lightly. No! We can’t let her go, Soviet Wong said firmly to Sound of Rain. We must be responsible for the upstairs. My instinct tells me, said Soviet Wong, that she is seriously corrupted, like a stone in a manure pit—smelly and hard! There must be a man, a lover of some sort, behind the
curtain! It is necessary to strengthen the dike before the water rises!

Sound of Rain wore Soviet Wong down. The girl is bacteriaproof—we had doctors check her, remember? I don’t think she has a crafty lover behind the curtain. She is virgin soil. She is a tough little shit, I agree, but maybe—who knows?—that’s what the upstairs likes about her. Our Chairman always praises the spirit of rebels. The upstairs always said they liked youngsters who carried the rebel flavor. Who knows?

Soviet Wong yelled at Sound of Rain, You just don’t want to go through the trouble to investigate her; you’ve been irresponsible to the Party. Don’t you have a principle? Sound of Rain sat down in his chair and said slowly, “Always
say yes
to our Party” is my principle.

I
did not know where I was being taken. I only knew that I was in Beijing. I had been riding in different fancy cars. I had never been in a car before, yet being in a car did not make me feel nervous. All the drivers wore white nylon gloves. They did not answer my questions on directions. I figured that they were not allowed to. When they said, Please, the accent was strongly northern, which revealed that they must be the sons of peasants. They had sincere and tolerant features like carved stone.

I was in Yan’s clothes, the washed-white army uniform. I wore that when I was either afraid or proud. My
senses told me that my being chosen by the Beijing upstairs had to do with the Supervisor. His secrecy excited me and frightened me at the same time. I did not like the fact that I was obsessed with him, because I smelled danger in him. We were on an unequal footing. I could see the spell he cast over me. I decided that if I were to see him again I would break the spell. I would count on myself. And I knew I must. I was twenty. I had courage.

White nylon gloves guided me out of the car. I was surrounded by a park of peonies encircled by a forest. What a land! The streams under my feet sang through the stones. A clear path through the pink peonies led into the hills of green. The driver told me to follow the path and he walked back to his car. The car pulled off like the shadow of a bird. Fields of grassland expanded to the end of the sky where the sun was setting. A breath of wind stirred the forest. Clouds swam in the mirrorlike river. My steps were light as if I were riding the wind. Although the nodding of peonies was pleasant, the flowers’ splendidness reminded me of their owner’s social status. I suddenly remembered Yan’s first order upon my arrival on Red Fire Farm: Act like a soldier! I forced myself on.

An old mansion appeared, draped with ivy and brightly colored flowers. There was a dark narrow door. I stopped by the door. A young man with white gloves in a green army uniform opened the door for me. He smiled silently at me and guided me into the hallway. There was another man who was in the hallway before I stepped in,
but I failed to notice him at first because he stood motionless by the doorway like a piece of furniture. Just like the first man, he had a smile that was well trained. He gestured me to follow him to a tearoom where a row of black and white photographs were exhibited. I was seated on a sofa that commanded a master view of the garden. The young man left the room with noiseless steps. Another pleasant-faced young man appeared with a white tray. Trained smile. He offered me a warm wet towel. He left just as the fourth pleasant-faced young man stepped into the room and placed a cup of perfumed tea in front of me. Trained smile. Trained steps. White gloves. Shaved chins. Petallike mouths. Carved-stone features. They swam in and out of the room like fish in seaweed.

As I sipped the tea, I began to look at the photographs. Most of the subjects were flowers and many of them were peonies. Peonies in fog, in rain, at sunrise, sunset, under the moonlight and in the dark. Peonies in snow, in white. Withering peonies, passionately shot. It touched me and for a moment I forgot where I was. As I looked carefully, I found that the photographs were not exactly black and white. They were hand-colored, slightly brownish. The color of yawning petals was delicately handled. I was moved by the way the artist had emptied himself into these pictures.

From the tearoom an arched bridge led toward the garden. The brightness overexposed everything outside. I heard the click of a camera shutter. I heard a familiar voice. It was an expected voice, but still it shocked me.

It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? the voice said. It made
me tremble inside as before. I wanted to say something but my tongue failed me. Come and see my garden, the voice said.

The Supervisor was in a bleached-white cotton blouse, grass-green pants and deep blue straw sandals. His thin, young-girl-like arms folded by his chest. He turned to look at the heart of a peony. He was concentrating on the flower. The perfume he wore drew me toward him. The joy of seeing him again swept me. His short black hair was combed back smoothly. He moved on to another peony. His elegance choked my breath with the desire to be close to him. When his fingers touched the petals of a peony, my whole being quivered inside, remembering the way he touched me.

I did not like my desire because it made me powerless in front of him. He bent to examine a roll-shaped flower. By speaking without a voice, he attracted all my attention. I hated his tricks but was so willing to be seduced. Any comment on the photographs? He spoke. I heard myself say, Were those taken by you? No one else is living here, he said. The photos were taken in this garden.

The pleasant-faced young men were swimming in and out. I felt I was being watched. Their brains are made of metal, the Supervisor said, pointing at the backs of the pleasant-faces. They have square hearts like robots. They do not understand emotions as you do. You are experienced. How is your lover? What’s her name? Oh, no, don’t answer that. I’ve changed my mind.

The way the Supervisor read me scared me. I asked
the reason I was called here. I need you, he said. You are invited for an important screen test, a test which will change some fundamental ideas of our countrymen.

The tea mug in my hand almost fell. Am I to play Red Azalea? I asked, so scared of any answer. That’s correct. He nodded. Remember, you would make me happier if you ask no questions.

How are you prepared for Red Azalea? He asked me as he led me through the garden into another courtyard. We entered a room. I saw a white screen hung from the ceiling. The room had a dark lacquered wall carved with shapes of peonies. Four flower-shaped light fixtures stood by each corner. There were two big yellow sofas placed in front of the screen. The Supervisor pointed for me to sit down on the sofa.

I sometimes sleep here when the night gets too deep and the dark chills me, he said. And I become the saddest person in the whole world after my favorite movie. I cuddle myself in the sofa and let my tears run like an infant. Shouldn’t one let himself go when he feels weak?

A shadow passed by the screen. I turned and saw a projector in the wall. So this is a screening room, I said. It’s a screen on which history is performed and reperformed, said the Supervisor. It is all in our will, he added. The perfumed tea was served quietly by the pleasant-faced young men. The Supervisor stared at me as he sipped the tea. I like the way your face is lit now. Don’t move. Yes, that’s nice. His hands were twiddling my face. Your face possesses the heroic quality I have been looking for. It pleases me so much to look at you. Are you pleased to hear what I say? Show me your appreciation like the
others. Your quietness irritates me, so stop it. I don’t like to be confused. I observed that you would not laugh when silly girls laughed hard. It impressed me, though I am not quite used to your character yet. Your quality is inborn. That is rare. The mopping of the floor made you learn. The saying fits: “Swallow the bitterest in bitter; it makes one the finest in fine.”

He was telling me the story of
Red Azalea
as if it were his own life. She was a Red Army leader, a red goddess admired and loved by all. The story was about a long spiritual march. It was about an indelible faith in Communism, about the worship of Mao, about an incredible will in conquering enemies, about extraordinary military skills in conducting monumental battles.

The story did not grab me as much as the talking head before me. He was an opening peony. A hand-colored peony, like the ones in his photographs. The almond eyes were as bright as ever. The porcelainlike fine skin spoke well of his elegance. He was a man and a woman. His story was bad liquor. It poured into my throat and made me drunk with heat.

This is what I want to see in your eyes, he said. A million bulls rushing down a hill with their tails on fire.

He waved his hand. The room turned dark. I want to show you one of my favorite movies, he said into my ear. I asked what the movie was called. It is
The Battle of Ancient Rome.
I said I do not understand foreign languages.
He said that was why he was sitting next to me. He wanted to be an interpreter for me.

The film began to roll. The projectionist adjusted the lens. The blurred image came into focus. The round starting cue looked like a huge eye spying on me from behind. The Supervisor’s face was inches away. I could smell his perfume. He began his translation. His voice reminded me of bushes shivering in the wind.

The voice of the Supervisor mixed with the sound track of the movie. His voice filled with sorrow as he interpreted the ending of the story. It was about the fall of an empire and the suicide of its princess. The music was tragically austere. I saw the glittering in his bright almond eyes. Pearls dripped slowly down his cheeks like a broken necklace. His interpretation became fragmented and then his breath came harder. He stopped, unable to continue as the movie went on.

I
received a document with red characters on the cover. The characters said “Top Secret Instructions.” It was an order from the Supervisor. I was ordered to view one of the stage versions of
Red Azalea.
I was sent to see a local theater troupe which had been playing
Red Azalea
for years. The troupe rehearsed the play without being given a date of performance. The actress who played Red Azalea was three inches shorter than I and did not wish to talk to me. It seemed that all the troupe members knew
who had sent me. Behind their politeness was distance and cold feelings.