What about letters? I asked. What’s so urgent about writing letters? Soviet Wong suddenly turned to me; suspicion rose in her voice. Her long thin eyebrows twisted into a knot in the middle. I reacted quickly to this sign of danger. I said, Oh, nothing, I was just asking.
She did not believe me. I could tell that she went on with her own thinking. You have dark circles under your eyes, which shows that you don’t sleep well. What’s your problem? We hope your promise to the Party was not a fake one. She turned to Sound of Rain and said, We must take preventive measures against possible calamities.
I was offended but I knew I must not show my feelings. The engine of my brain sped up to its limit. Nothing is more urgent than the assignment I have been given, I said, trying hard to sound sincere. It might be my late Mao study habit that causes the dark circles around my eyes. She asked, Why don’t you tell us the name of the person you would like to write to so we could check to make sure that it is good for you to keep the correspondence?
Although I couldn’t see her motive, I sensed that Soviet Wong’s offer was insincere. I have no one to write to, really. I slacked off my tone to make the words carry no eagerness. Soviet Wong stared at me; eye-to-eye, we wrestled. Sound of Rain took a look at his watch and said to Soviet Wong, We should not worry. He went to whisper to her. I heard a phrase. A virus-free egg, he said to her.
Pushing open the door of the little house, Sound of Rain and Soviet Wong called, Come out, girls, let’s meet a new comrade. Four young women stepped out one after another like snowflakes dancing in the air. I blinked my eyes. Their beauty astonished me. They looked terribly alike, like sisters. I said hello. Sound of Rain and Soviet Wong stopped me and said, Speak in standard Mandarin. No local dialects. I introduced myself in an awkward Mandarin. I said I was from Red Fire Farm.
The young women gave their names shyly. The first one said that her name was Firewood. She was a worker in a steel factory and was the daughter of three generations of workers. Her head was the shape of an egg. Features spread out from the nose. She had a small thin mouth. So small that it looked like the anus of my hen Big Beard. Her double-lidded big slanting eyes were pleasant, though they were drawn very close together and reminded me of the eyes of a fox. She was in a bright vermilion shirt. Two long pigtails swung on her back. Her enthusiasm was like her name.
The second woman introduced herself as Cheering Spear. Her look held a gripping power. One would submit oneself in front of her beauty without wanting to. She stood there and just shone. She was about my age. She had a low voice, cool eyes which sent out a message that she knew what she wanted. She was confident. Her hair was combed up like the horns of a sheep and tied up with brown rubber bands. She had thick eyelashes. She spoke to me but did not look at me. I stared at her moving mouth. I did not understand why she did not look at me. Her Mandarin was more than correct. She articulated each syllable making sure the “er” sound found its way into all the sentences. She spoke “dee-fang” (place) as “dee-er.” She said she was a journalist from the Beijing Daily. She said she was from the people. Finally, she turned and looked at me. She looked at me but showed that she was not interested. It was a pair of rival’s eyes. There was an unfriendliness behind the friendly face. She wanted to roll me over, I sensed. I used to be a horse rider, she said. I dealt with the toughest horses. I worked three years in Inner Mongolia raising horses for military usage. I could do acrobatics on horseback. I play accordion. She went and picked up an accordion from her bag and played out a string of notes. She sang:
Riding toward the sun, I sing and raise my whip high.
I raise horses to support the world’s revolution.
Fearless, I ride the horse
Toward the red capital Beijing,
Toward where the sun rises,
Toward where Chairman Mao lives.
She stopped, raised her head, looked at me. She said that it was difficult to describe herself. She gave a fabulous smile at Soviet Wong and asked her to help with the words. She said to Soviet Wong, You are the only one who knows me best. Soviet Wong looked pleased. She said Cheering Spear was a modest youth that everyone should learn from. Learn enthusiasm, learn healthy thinking, learn honesty from her.
Sure, I said. I moved to the third one in the rank. She was thin, wearing a golden-yellowish cotton shirt. She introduced herself as Little Bell. She said her father was a soldier who was an orphan before the Liberation. He was sold to a public bath station to work for the rich as a foot massager, she said. It was in his miserable memory of the past that I grew up. I don’t think I am beautiful, she said. I really don’t. Good looks don’t make a person beautiful. She made a shy smile toward Sound of Rain, who was staring at her. Please forgive my shyness, she said. Little Bell lowered her head, smoothing her hair down with her fingers.
Very well expressed, Little Bell, Sound of Rain said in a low muffled voice that sounded as if it came from a jar. Good looks don’t make a person beautiful. The matter is not about how you look, it is about how your looks can serve the proletarian purpose. This is said by our Supervisor from Beijing. I asked who was the Supervisor. Sound of Rain replied that he was the one who was solely responsible for Comrade Jiang Ching. A great genius of arts, he said.
When Sound of Rain mentioned the word “Supervisor,” everyone’s expression all of a sudden filled with deep respect. I immediately sensed the man’s importance. When someone in this country was called by his title instead of his name, he was beyond general importance. For example, Mao was called the Chairman, and Chou, the Premier. The omission of the last name displayed the power of the persona.
The fourth woman spoke. Her name was Bee OhYang. I did not see threat on this face. It was a face of innocence, a face lacking knowledge, a face of purity. She said she wished she were like her name. By that she meant a bee had a sharp thorn, but she did not. I lack a fighting spirit. I’d like to learn to correct my spirit. She said she was from an old village in the South. All the villagers had one surname, OhYang. The village was poor. It produced nothing but babies. I am the glory of the village. But I say that I belong to the Party. My mind, my heart and soul. As she spoke, tears welled up. She was moved by her own words. Bee was a dark-skinned beauty. She had a sculptural look, a full mouth, melon-seed-shaped face, shining short hair cut to the earlobe. Her heavy southern accent made her Mandarin hard to comprehend.
The room was sunny. It smelled of wood mold. There were five beds all hung with mosquito nets. My thoughts went to Yan and our mosquito net.
It is very nice, I said. I wish I had arrived earlier to help with the cleaning. That is fine, said Soviet Wong. You will have plenty of opportunities to make up for it. Ha, ha. Everyone in the room cheered.
From tomorrow on, Sound of Rain said, you will have to learn everything from scratch, including walking, talking, eating and expressing, because—he made a long pause—because only one of you will be finally chosen for China’s new screen. It is the last competition you have to go through. You will have a year to perform at your best. The Supervisor will make his decision after that.
We were taken to a hospital for a medical checkup. The doctors acted secretively. I was put in a room and I undressed. The lower part of my body was being checked by three women doctors. A big woman doctor put on rubber gloves and carefully inspected my private parts. A few minutes later the big woman took off her rubber glove and recorded something in her notebook. The other two women let their grips loosen and allowed me off the bed. No word was said as they shuffled out. When I was taken out of the room, I saw Little Bell weeping. I was about to go up to her but was signaled back by Firewood. Firewood said in my ear that they had doubts about whether she was a virgin.
The whole afternoon we read Mao’s talks on the arts. I was bored but feigned interest. We sat in a circle. Read and read. At dinner I ordered two bowls of noodles. Soviet Wong showed me the correct way to hold chopsticks. A discussion was held after dinner in our room. The girls talked about how importan
t Mao’s work was as our guide to the future. Little Bell was happy again. She was considered still a virgin after a serious record check. Sound of Rain and Soviet Wong yawned but did not leave until crickets sang loudly in the yard. The door slammed behind them. The smell of mold grew stronger.
We washed ourselves by the sink and poured the water into the grass. A cricket followed me as I came back into the room. Cheering Spear went to turn off the light. The cricket began to sing excitedly in the room. Cheering Spear got up holding a flashlight to search for it. I heard her foot tap five times. She shut the cricket up. The room became deadly quiet. In the dark I realized that it was a lion’s den I had entered. The darkness silenced a roaring cry. The coldness of thoughts froze me. I could hear the sound of my dream’s spine breaking. I knew that I had to succeed so I would be able to help Yan one way or another in the future. With that thought I drifted into sleep.
I was awakened by the noise of someone exercising her voice outside the window. It was six in the morning. I got up and stepped outside. The dog-tail grass swayed in the rising sunshine. With one hand behind her ear, Firewood pushed her voice until it cracked. We said good morning to each other and I heard her voice crack again. Firewood told me that she was frustrated by her voice. She asked me if I could show her my voice. I said, We are not going to be trained to serve the opera troupes, are we? Firewood slid down into a split. She did not answer me as her facial muscles twisted in pain. Do you know Comrade Jiang Ching? Firewood asked. I looked at her, I looked at that proud face. I knew the question need not be answered. Firewood swung her torso left and right. I know a little thing about her, she said, bending toward me. She likes to watch western movies, especially American Hollywood movies. What are Hollywood movies? I asked. Firewood gave me a secret smile, then went back to her exercises.
I leaned my head backward and stretched my arms toward the wall. It surprised me to see three figures standing behind me. My other roommates—Cheering Spear, Little Bell and Bee OhYang—had been listening to the conversation. I made a friendly smile at them. They spread out and started stretching their limbs.
A guard stopped sweeping leaves by the gate with a broom made of bamboo and walked over to our little house. He was a middle-aged man with a dark beard. His name was One Ounce. He said, Sound of Rain sent me to tell you to get ready. You are going to be inspected by the Supervisor.
We put on outfits that would make a good first impression. Firewood put on another vermilion shirt and sea-blue navy trousers. Cheering Spear dug out a garment printed with square patterns. Bee OhYang took out two slightly different-colored white shirts and tried to make up her mind. I decided to wear my old uniform, the one given to me by Yan.
We sat in the room by our beds, all dressed up, waiting. The temperature in the room rose with the sun. I saw a lump of muddy stuff in the corner under Cheering Spear’s bed. It was the body of the cricket that had followed me into the room last night. It was motionless on the floor.
Cheering Spear was standing by the door, where a little mirror hung. Looking at herself in the mirror, she played with her hairpins. She tried to curl her bangs. Her face displayed her ambition. She took a cotton ball and rubbed a pimple underneath her nose. She rubbed back and forth, moving her features up and down.
Observing Cheering Spear, I suddenly felt short. Her beauty discouraged me. I tried to ignore my fear.
I took a pen and made some scratches on the paper. Dear Yan, I wrote, and then scratched it. Dear Yan, I wrote, and scratched it again. Selected works of Mao Tse-tung, I wrote. Criticism of revisionists. Yan, how are you? I tore up the paper. The Supervisor did not come.
I had a nightmare that night. Yan had become a faceless figure who wandered the fields of the farm. A sleepless night followed. It rained at dawn. The dropping sound of the rain took me back to Red Fire Farm into Yan’s mosquito net.
After lunch a whistle blew. At the gate we saw Soviet Wong. Behind her were about twenty young men. They marched past the gate. These are the chosen boys, Soviet Wong introduced them. You will be working together in the future. The men had one similar face—big double-lidded eyes, thick eyebrows, Buddha-like nose and mouth. They looked as similar as if made from the same mold. No one said hello. We stood. One man suddenly flushed. Soviet Wong asked him to tell the reason why his face flushed. The young man tried to tackle the question. He scratched the back of his neck. He said it was because he was not used to looking at women. Soviet Wong said, Is your mother a woman? Don’t you dare say that you have never looked her in the eyes before. The man went speechless. Soviet Wong continued, If one has no guilty thoughts, one’s face should not flush. The man who had flushed lowered his head. The redness went down to his neck. The others who were standing next to him gave him pitiful looks. You may weigh my words later, said Soviet Wong.
These young men had been brought to Shanghai to play supporting roles in Red Azalea, and in all the time I was at the studio we never spoke, except to read lines to each other.
Soviet Wong took us to an old building covered with ivy. Behind the huge rusted iron door a heavy smell of mold rushed out. I covered my nose with my hand. Soviet Wong immediately showed irritation. I cannot believe someone who used to be a peasant is afraid of bad smells. Is the smell worse than pig shit in rice paddies? I put down my hand quietly.
One Ounce turned up a dim light. We were in an unused studio with a stage set like a cave and a few rows of benches. Soviet Wong sat us down. We began to read Mao’s talks on the arts again.
I had a hard time concentrating on Mao. My mind kept flying away. For three weeks we had had classes on politics, Mandarin, acting technique and Wu Shu—various kinds of Chinese traditional boxing and fencing. Comrade Jiang Ching was trying to develop something new in China, trying to combine film and opera, although no one knew how to make films work. The result was films with a strong flavor of opera—the makeup, the lighting, the stylized voice and pose. And now it was the proletariat, and in particular women, who were the heroes. People all over China had to see the films, or be labeled reactionaries.
With all the lessons, life seemed full every day. But secretly we had been waiting, waiting to be inspected by the Supervisor. The waiting seemed endless. Sound of Rain showed up once in a while, always delivering a report on the new achievements in the arts: Mao and his Politburo members had just watched and praised Comrade Jiang Ching’s new model opera. Sound of Rain would drop a stack of newspapers and a copy of the opera’s manuscript, asking us to read them and write study reports. We read and wrote. We discussed Mao’s idea of the proletarian arts.
One day we were told that we now had become special material. We were ready to compete for Comrade Jiang Ching’s big assignment.
It was the title role of Red Azalea. Red Azalea was Comrade Jiang Ching’s ideal, her creation, her movie, her dream and her life. If any of us grabbed it, we grabbed the dream of stardom. The story of Red Azalea was a story of passion in the midst of gunfire. It was about how a woman should live, about a proletarian love unto death. To me, it was not only about the past wartime, about history, but it was also about the essence of a true heroine, the essence of Yan, the essence of how I must continue to live my life.
Soviet Wong read through the screenplay. Her tears spattered down on the script. At first I thought that she was moved by the story, then I sensed it was something else. Her sadness did not come from the story but from despair, the despair that she could never be allowed to play the role she desired. She had to teach us to play the role she wanted to play. Her youth and beauty would be wasted on teaching us. She was assigned to teach people she wished to stab. She was tormented and murdered by our growth.
We took turns reading the parts. I saw the other three, Firewood, Little Bell, Bee OhYang, falling out of the race. They were not in touch with the role. They were not feeling the pulse of Red Azalea. Cheering Spear was different. Cheering Spear was approaching the role. She was getting closer, even closer than I. Too close. She put me in dan
ger. She was taking away my hope.
Cheering Spear had been in touch with everything. There was never a moment she had nothing to say; everyone else had their mouths shut and sat nervously. She always had something to say. Things that were useful to advance her future. She said that she admired Soviet Wong, that just being near her made her happy. She did not say this in Soviet Wong’s presence; she said this at meetings, meetings at which the secretary on duty would take notes, which Soviet Wong would get to read later on. Cheering Spear said that she was not even close to being as good-looking and talented as Soviet Wong. Then she would contradict herself and say that she resembled Soviet Wong a great deal, while in fact their looks were as different as an elephant and a pig. Cheering Spear was never ashamed of her flattery.
Soviet Wong did not talk more to her than to the others. But things moved for Cheering Spear. She was put onstage to lead the crowd in the reading of Mao’s new instructions. Cheering Spear became the center of attention. The newspaper and magazine reporters and photographers spoke with Cheering Spear. They interviewed her. They asked who she was and where she was from. Cheering Spear never changed her words. She said, I am Soviet Wong’s student. I am what she made of me. I am the soil and she is the cow who cultivates me. I am her harvest. Cheering Spear did not say anything else; she only said what was useful. The newspaper praised Soviet Wong as an example of the Party’s loyalty.
The race for Red Azalea came down to Cheering Spear and me. Soviet Wong said we must practice hard because the Supervisor from Beijing would soon come to take his pick for Comrade Jiang Ching. Nothing was said about the others. No one told them that their chance was thinner than a thread. Soviet Wong decided to call Cheering Spear candidate A and me candidate B. It was becoming obvious that Soviet Wong preferred her over me. But she had to leave me in the race at least for a while, because it would have been too blatant if she had not. She could not put me aside when it was always Cheering Spear and I who gave the right answers to the questions in class. Our scores had always been close. In Mandarin class we were the only two who were able to get the one-hundred-syllable pronunciation table right. Soviet Wong had to show her fairness, because she represented the Party.