In spite of the smaller venue and the limited public access, the play became quite popular. It was performed in the Great Hall of the People for three months. Many top leaders of the CCP went to see it. President Liu Shaoqi and his wife Wang Guangmei liked the play so much so that they met the acting crew and Yomei and took a photo with them, which was published in major newspapers. Zhou Enlai, a lifelong theater lover, saw the play again and praised its unique sensibility and its colloquial language. Zhu Deh also loved it, but he was so frail that Sun Yang had to go with him twice to let the old man finish seeing the entire play. Zhu Deh told Yang, “Your sister is extraordinary, already a master of stage directing. She’s still so young and has a brilliant career ahead of her. Your father in the netherworld must feel proud of her now.”
That year, 1963, Yomei was forty-two. Compared to the other top drama directors in China, she belonged to the rising generation, among whom she stood at the forefront as the most accomplished. Yet such a distinction gave her more unease than peace.
Late that summer, she received a phone call from Jiang Ching’s office inviting her to a private meeting with Ching. What’s up now? she wondered. On the phone she asked Ching’s secretary about the purpose of the meeting, but the young man sounded unclear and just said Comrade Jiang Ching would like to discuss some cultural issues with her. Yomei felt that this invitation was ominous—Ching might have a new knife to grind. Yomei had just undergone appendicitis surgery, which had for a week made her feel as if her right leg was shorter than her left leg, and she wondered whether to tell Ching that her medical condition prohibited her from coming. But she decided not to mention the surgery, which was minor in any case. She was loath to appear as a malingerer, even in Ching’s eyes. Thank heaven she’d always been in good health.
The following week, she went to Ching’s office in Copious Garden, which was Mao’s residence in Zhongnanhai. The moment Yomei was ushered into the living room, Ching stepped in with splayed feet and waved at a servant to pour tea for the guest. Ching sat down and crossed her legs at the knees. She was wearing green beaded slippers. Yomei observed Ching’s feet, both in dark-blue socks, and wondered if Ching had six toes on one foot, as legend said. Ching began, “Congratulations, Yomei, on The Brothers Yershov. It’s a remarkable achievement, and the awards it has received are all well deserved.” The Ministry of Culture had just given the production team prizes for best dramatic creation and the best performance of the year.
“Thanks. I’m glad you like the play,” said Yomei. “That means a lot to me.”
“I guess the Soviets won’t be pleased by our dramatic adaptation. Your play is sharper and more poignant than the novel. Also it’s beautiful in a stark way, gutsy and austere, which I greatly admire.”
Uncertain what Ching was really driving at, Yomei tried to tone down the talk about her success a bit, saying, “Truth be told, I can’t feel complacent about this. Our work was adapted from Kochetov’s novel. Whatever our accomplishment, it is derivative by nature.”
“Still I was very impressed. What’s your next project?”
Yomei was startled, yet managed to reply, “We’ve been doing a new play, The Fen River Flows Forever.” In fact, she wasn’t sure of this new project, which had run into resistance from some official censors who were set against it, saying it was vulgar in its presentation of the current countryside—mainly a reference to the loud folk music and the frolicsome folk dances Yomei had put onstage. She couldn’t help but wonder whether Ching might have a hand in posing the obstacles to their new production. It was so hard to do genuine theater nowadays, especially in the capital. The positive acceptance of The Brothers Yershov was largely due to political circumstances, also because few people dared to speak against a project sponsored by the CCP’s Propaganda Department.
Jiang Ching asked again, “Have you seen the play Cuckoo Mountain staged by the Shanghai Youth Theater?”
“No, I’ve heard that the Central Youth Theater is going to mount it in Beijing. I’ll go see it when it’s staged here.”
“It was a good play but still has some problems. I would like to convert it into a Beijing opera. You’re an expert and a renovator in theater arts, and your input will be invaluable to me. Can we collaborate to turn Cuckoo Mountain into a Beijing opera?”
Unsettled, Yomei said, “What do you expect me to do, Ching?” She knew the play was about how a peasant armed force in the Hunan region fought the local bandits three decades before and eventually joined the Red Army on Jinggang Mountain, so she suspected that Chairman Mao might be behind this play: Jinggang Mountain used to be his base. Within the Party he had often bragged that he was always primed to go there and wage guerrilla warfare again if he failed in any power struggle with his political rivals.
“The play obviously has some serious problems,” Ching said in an edgy voice about Cuckoo Mountain. “We’ll have to fix those problems first so as to tell a good and correct story, then we can figure out how to make it into a Beijing opera.”
“Ching, I’m afraid I can’t participate in such a project. First, if the play has problems, we should point them out and let the production crew make the changes. It’s their play, so we can’t just take it away from them and turn it into a different thing. In other words, they have the copyright and we ought to handle this professionally.”
“Nonsense. The notion of copyright is obsolete, it’s a capitalist idea. Nobody should make money from the rights anymore. We must produce some revolutionary model plays to set high and correct standards for China’s theater. Chairman Mao says there’s too much foreign and feudalistic stuff on our stage and screen nowadays. You’ve produced many foreign plays. Do you think you have committed no political mistakes in your productions?” Ching’s lens flashed at Yomei while her lips were pursed.
A silence ensued. Yomei was somewhat petrified by Ching’s insinuations. The woman could always find fault with her work, one way or another. Such a person could even pick a bone in an egg. What should Yomei say now?
“Sister Ching,” she finally managed to respond, “we’ve known each other for more than two decades. You know I can’t hurt our colleagues’ feelings like that. Honestly, your request is hard for me, like a nail in my head I don’t know how to pull it out.”
“If working together with me will hurt you that much, then forget it. I’m sure our paths will cross more often in the future. Let us leave the door open for now. I will need your help, so consider my offer of collaboration seriously and give me your final answer soon. OK?”
“I’ll think about it for sure.”
Yomei talked to Jin Shan about Jiang Ching’s request. He was alarmed, knowing the woman could be retaliatory and vicious and wouldn’t leave Yomei alone, so he suggested she speak to Father Zhou and see if the premier could come up with a solution. Jin Shan believed there must be some political motivation in Jiang Ching’s effort to break into the field of theater again, so Yomei must be cautious and avoid becoming a target of Ching’s attack.
That Saturday evening, Yomei went to West Flower Hall, the Zhous’ residence. She told Father Zhou the series of operas that Jiang Ching had been doing: The Legend of the Red Lantern, Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy, and now Cuckoo Mountain. And there was also the ballet The Red Detachment of Women. Probably some other theater projects were also underway, since Ching, as the First Lady in the CCP, had infinite resources and could make use of many people, organizing them into teams and utilizing their talent and creativity for her plays. Father Zhou looked amazed. He said Jiang Ching couldn’t be acting on her own. He seemed to imply that Mao was the mastermind behind Ching’s efforts, but Father Zhou wasn’t explicit about this. Yomei sensed he meant that Mao had been using his wife to regain control over the field of arts. Probably Mao wanted to return to the center of political power through the avenue of arts and propaganda. By occupying the stage and the screen, he could place himself as the supreme leader in the minds of the multitudes again.
Father Zhou sighed, then said, “Jiang Ching might intend to take over the fields of culture and arts. That’s her way to impact people’s mental life. So don’t contradict her.”
“All right, I’ll be extra-cautious, but I can’t humor her either,” Yomei said. “The way she treats others’ work is unprofessional and amounts to robbery, like plucking fruits from others’ orchards without paying the owners. I can’t lower myself to her level.”
“Don’t ever tell her what you think. She might take it out on you if she feels insulted and frustrated. She’s unpredictable, like a nasty child’s face.”
“What should I do then?”
“Let me think about this. There must be a way to do your own work without getting in her way.”
“But I’ve never interfered with her work at all. She has come to me again and again in spite of my refusal to collaborate with her. Each time she makes me feel as if I’ve just eaten a bug. She’s unscrupulous and at times even threatens me, saying I may have made some political mistakes in producing so many foreign plays. Gosh, she politicizes everything. For her, art must be part of the revolutionary machine and must serve politics unconditionally—artwork must function as a banner or a weapon.”
“That’s Chairman Mao’s stand too. So don’t argue with Jiang Ching about this principle, which has already been adopted as our Party’s policy on literature and arts. It’s already sacrosanct. If you’re not sure how to respond to Jiang Ching, just keep mum or change the topic. Give me a little time so I can figure out a solution, OK?”
“Sure, I’ll listen to you.”
Yomei felt agitated afterward, knowing she’d have to take up a new project soon or Jiang Ching, seeing her unoccupied, would return to her again. She and Jin Shan talked about Ching’s efforts—the operas and the ballet. He saw more implications in her projects. Apparently, by weaponizing theater, she intended to play a more powerful role in politics and society. It looked like Mao was behind her, using arts as a breakthrough point to regaining the controlling power he had lost to Liu Shaoqi and Zhou Enlai after the great famine, so at all costs Yomei must stay away from the vortex of the political struggle. Having known Ching for decades, Jin Shan believed that she would settle old scores with those artists who had once slighted her or just surpassed her, and she would show them who was boss in China’s theater and cinema now. It looked like Yomei might have no choice but to cope with Ching.
A week and a half later, Mother Deng called and asked Yomei to come for dinner the following Saturday. Yomei went over alone. This time Premier Zhou made a bold suggestion: She should leave Beijing for a remote place where she could continue with her theater work. He had in mind Daqing, the oil field in Heilongjiang Province, since there must be rich material from which she could draw inspiration for her art. She was taken aback by such a suggestion and didn’t see the full implications yet. The oil field was far away, in the wilderness between Harbin and Tsitsihar. She said, “Little Lan is just ten years old and still needs me. What should I do about her?”
“You can take her with you,” piped in Mother Deng, dipping a porcelain ladle back into the fish casserole sitting in the middle of the table, which was covered with a mauve cloth. Evidently, the Zhous had talked about this between themselves.
“Yes, why not?” Father Zhou said. “That will give her a different kind of education—to live among the masses at the bottom of society would toughen up Little Lan mentally and physically. There’s nothing to lose for her.”
“That’s true,” Yomei agreed. “It can be a salutary experience for her. I’m going to talk with Jin Shan and will let you know my decision soon.”
“Take this as a temporary assignment. It will be safer for you to stay away from Beijing for a couple of years. You can come back once you finish your work at the oil field. Let’s hope by then Jiang Ching will have something else to occupy herself with and will leave you alone.”
“Do you think I should invalidate my Beijing residence?”
“Of course not. Treat your move to Daqing as taking a long stint far away.”
“I see. I’ll talk with Jin Shan about this.”
Mother Deng joined in with a smile, “I can see you are so nice to Jin Shan. He ought to cherish you as a devoted wife, a great wife, I’d say.”
“I do love him, Mom.”
Father Zhou interjected, “I hope he will live up to your love, though.” He sounded a touch piqued.
Maybe he still viewed Jin Shan as a rival for her love. No wonder Jin Shan hadn’t come to see the Zhous in recent years, giving the excuse that he’d feel awkward. Probably besides feeling ashamed, as he claimed, he sensed some negative vibes at the Zhous’.
When she explained Father Zhou’s suggestion to Jin Shan, he was astonished and kept silent for a good minute. Then he said, “That’s not a bad idea actually. I have a gut feeling that there must be real drama in the life of the oil workers and that we can create genuine art in the northeast.”
“You said ‘we.’ Does this mean you will join me there?” Yomei asked.
“Of course I’ll go with you. I’d be restless if you went alone. Our family will move to Daqing and stay there a few years. The world is so vast, we shouldn’t cocoon ourselves in a single place like Beijing. What’s more, the oil field belongs to the Ministry of Petroleum Industry, which is within the domain of the State Council.”
“What do you mean?”
“Father Zhou can protect you that way, since you will work under his jurisdiction.”
“I see. That’s why he suggested I go to the northeast—to stay beyond Jiang Ching’s reach.”
“That’s right. Everyone knows Ching is vendetta personified. The farther you stay away from her, the better.”
“True, we can keep out of her way, if we can’t join her in hurting others. She views anyone who refuses to collude with her as her enemy.”
“What’s more,” Jin Shan continued, “Chairman Mao said recently that Chinese theater and cinema must devote more attention to the workers and peasants and soldiers. So it will be safer for us to go join the oil workers and create fine plays about them.”
“That’s a good reason for us to head for the northeast. If we make plays about the oil field, no one can find fault with our work. We may even blaze new ground in spoken drama if we are lucky.”
Yomei was pleased that her husband would be able to move with her to Daqing, and Jin Shan’s decision cemented her resolve to leave Beijing.
Ever since he had recovered from the heart attack, Jin Shan had been semiretired and didn’t go to the provinces alone for movie or drama projects anymore. He preferred to stay home, just to keep Yomei and Little Lan company. Every morning he’d go to a nearby park to practice tai chi, and he also enjoyed picking up groceries at the marketplace and cooking for his family. Now, even though his health had stabilized, he still didn’t want to strike out on his own again, so he wanted to go to Daqing with Yomei if she was headed that way.
Once they decided to accept Premier Zhou’s suggestion, Yomei wrote a letter to Jiang Ching to inform her of her job change—from now on, she would live and work at Daqing Oil Field as a kind of “education” so as to find dramatic inspiration “from the actual struggle of the workers in the northeast.” In short, thanks to this new job assignment, she’d be away for some years at least. This implied she wouldn’t be available for the dramatic projects under Ching’s auspices from now on.