• Seventy-Two •

But throughout the summer, the persecution of Yang continued. Some people from the Central Committee of the Cultural Revolution went down to the university and kept talking about Sun Yang as a traitor and a foreign agent. Yomei finally saw that Jiang Ching had ignored her appeal and might even enjoy seeing her suffer on Yang’s account.

On September 6, both Jiang Ching and Kang Sheng spoke about Yang at a public meeting attended by the revolutionary masses from various colleges in Beijing, including many from the People’s University. Kang Sheng announced, “Sun Yang is a major secret agent, no doubt about that. The People’s University is a hotbed for evil elements like him.” Jiang Ching told the Red Guards, “You must teach Sun Yang a lesson. Don’t treat him with any leniency. He’s an agent serving the Japanese, the Soviets, the Nationalists—he used to be in cahoots with the Blue Shirt Society, which was a fascist organization in the old China.” Most of the college students had never heard of that name and couldn’t tell how bad that secret society had been, so back on campus they got more violent in abusing Yang. Jiang Ching’s words stoked the fury of those blind, ruthless young people.

Yomei became more agitated. If she didn’t get Yang out of incarceration soon, he might perish in the Red Guards’ hands. As a last resort, she decided to go see Mao in person and beg the Great Leader to help rescue her brother. She knew that Ching, even as Madame Mao, couldn’t see him freely, because they already lived separately, and that to see him, Ching would have to schedule an appointment beforehand. So this would be a challenge to Yomei too. Worse, if Ching came to know she had seen Mao personally, Ching might go berserk and became more vengeful. But at all costs, Yomei had to save her brother and his family. Since she didn’t care what might happen to herself, she began to think about how to make an appointment with Mao.

Long ago she had happened to befriend a nurse on Mao’s medical staff, calling her Sister Wu. Yomei phoned Wu and asked her to put in a word for her. “Just tell Chairman Mao that Sun Yomei would like to see him in person,” she told Nurse Wu. “If he doesn’t respond, don’t mention it again. If he agrees to see me, ask him what time I should come. It’s kind of urgent, Sister Wu. I beg you to help my family and me.”

“You have to be more specific about why you want to see him. That’s required.”

“OK, tell him that Sun Yomei wants to report her work to him.”

“I’ll do that, but I can’t promise any results.”

“Understood. Whatever the outcome, I appreciate your help.”

“Don’t forget to send me some play tickets.”

“Goodness, Sister Wu, I wish I could offer you some again. But nowadays we can’t stage any new plays except the revolutionary model plays produced by Comrade Jiang Ching. I assume you’ve seen them, haven’t you?”

“Yes. I don’t need tickets for them.”

Nurse Wu knew Yomei was the Red Princess and hers was a revolutionary family that had given the Party a number of martyrs, so she agreed to help her. Above all, Yomei knew Mao personally, so the nurse was willing to help. At her mention of Yomei to Mao, his eyes flickered and his lips curled a bit. He said, “Certainly I’d like to meet her. I’m glad she hasn’t forgotten me.”

Nurse Wu was amazed by the reply; obviously the Great Leader seemed interested in receiving Yomei. Few people could get close to him these days. He was already celebrated as a red sun, casting warm rays on everybody and everything in the country.

The time was settled on the following Monday, at midafternoon. Yomei wondered if she should let the Zhous know her move, but decided against it. For more than a year she hadn’t gone to see them, and Father Zhou seemed to be having difficulty in keeping his own skin intact. Yomei had seen big-character posters exposing the premier, saying he had opposed Chairman Mao over the past four decades. She’d also heard that at a small meeting Jiang Ching had even slapped the premier’s face, but Zhou Enlai had just smiled without losing his composure and even urged the First Lady to keep her temper. Later Ching apologized to him and admitted she’d been mistaken to act that impulsively. Zhou forgave her in front of many people, and those who witnessed the reconciliation between the two all praised the premier for his magnanimity. “What a gentleman,” they said. But Jiang Ching also griped to some people in private, “Zhou Enlai can start a rebellion even when he’s on his knees.”

When Yomei arrived at Copious Garden in Zhongnanhai, after entering Mao’s room, where most of the books lining the walls were thread-bound editions, with yellowed spines, she was surprised to see him so aged, his bulky face a little bloated and his eyes barely open. Nurse Wu has said he was just up from a siesta. Indeed, he still looked sleepy. Since their return trip from Moscow seventeen years earlier, Yomei had seen him a few times, only at public gatherings, where he had appeared rather spirited and healthy, and was sometimes seated under his own oversize portrait. But now she could see clearly that he was ill and exhausted, wearing cotton shoes, whose low black uppers were squeezing his ankles, which must be swollen. One of the shoes had a hole at the toes, revealing the white sock he was wearing. His hands looked waxy and marked with age spots. Both of them rested on his lap, with their fingers interlaced. Yomei could tell that he was a senile wreck, and then she realized he was pushing seventy-four. Mao’s dotage reminded her of a line in one of his early poems: “I believe a human can live two hundred years.” What irony! Then again, with his kind of pressure and strife, even a man with an iron constitution might go to pieces quickly. Beyond question, Mao was already in the twilight of his life. This realization cast a shadow on her mind.

He smiled, revealing tea-stained teeth, and his face looked a little doughy. He said, “I’m glad to see you, Yomei. I’ve heard you are very active in theater circles and produced some fine plays.” Behind him on the wall hung a scroll of wild, flowing calligraphy by Huai Su, an eighth-century monk from Mao’s home region. The words in the piece had been inscribed so freely and erratically that Yomei couldn’t recognize their meanings at first glance.

She suppressed the urge to observe the calligraphy more carefully and said to Mao, “I’m a stage director at the Central Experimental Theater and enjoyed my work there. But lately because of the Cultural Revolution, things have gone topsy-turvy, and we can’t stage plays anymore.”

“I’ve heard of disruptions here and there, but they are unavoidable. We’re in the midst of a revolution, which has to break the old stuff to create something new.”

“You mean we are going to have a new kind of theater?”

“Correct. There was too much foreign and feudalistic stuff on the stage and the screen in our country. It’s high time we started over. That’s why Jiang Ching has been active in producing the model plays.”

“I see. I wish I had understood the purpose of her efforts earlier. She’s been very active indeed.”

“You’re an expert in spoken drama, and you should help her. We need new arts that serve the masses instead of just the elite.”

“I see. Thank you for the instructions.”

He tried to laugh, but the laugh seemed to have stifled itself. His upper lip curled a bit. They went on talking about life in general. Yomei mentioned the disappearance of order and rules, to which he listened attentively. She then brought up her brother’s case as an example of the absence of law now. She said, “Chairman Mao, you know Yang. In a way, you saw him grow into a revolutionary soldier and then into a capable cadre of our Party. How could he become a traitor and a secret agent for foreign powers? The Red Guards at the People’s University have jailed him in a basement and beat him every night. If this continues, he might die in there. Worse, he has three small kids. With such a criminal name labeled on him and with his absence from home, his family will be destroyed by the masses. Please take pity on him and help him get released. He’s red at the bone, you know that.”

Mao sighed and bowed his head a little. He said, “Throughout our Party’s history, there has been constant abuse of power and mistreatment of our own comrades. We should look into Sun Yang’s case. Thank you for telling me about him.”

Mao’s assistant, a curvaceous woman in her midthirties, stepped in to remind the visitor that it was time to wind things up. Indeed, Mao looked tired. Yomei stood to take her leave. Before turning away, she stretched out her hand, which he held for half a minute before letting it go.

Riding the bus home, she mulled over her meeting with Mao. She was unsure if Mao would help rescue Yang and could tell that Mao had been behind Jiang Ching’s interference with the world of arts and theater. So evidently, by refusing to collaborate with Ching, she might by chance have been pitting herself against the highest power in China. Such a thought gave her a chill, though the air was balmy and sultry and even the chocolate-brown vinyl seat on the bus was hot under her thighs. By instinct she could tell that Mao was no longer attracted to her—there was no longer the kind of subtle sparks from his features as there had been seventeen years before. Maybe he was just an old man now, too feeble to be sexual anymore, or perhaps she’d lost her beauty and vivaciousness. But she wouldn’t worry about the loss of her charm, believing it was a natural part of aging. She was more concerned about Yang’s safety and sanity. She was told that people had heard him screaming at night. Apparently they applied electric rods to him, besides whipping him with leather belts.

That night she talked with her husband about her meeting with Mao. Jin Shan was alarmed by Mao’s urging her to help Jiang Ching with the theater revolution. This indicated that all the attacks on their colleagues and on the plays they’d produced in recent years had been orchestrated remotely, by Mao himself. It also signified that nobody, not even Premier Zhou, could protect them if Jiang Ching took them as her enemy. So at least for now they had to appear more conciliatory, and not confront or provoke her. Jin Shan was also unsure if Mao would help get Yang out of jail. Clearly Mao disliked the idea that Zhu Deh’s biographer remained at large. In his book, Yang described Marshal Zhu as the founding father of the Chinese Red Army. That was the high crime that Jiang Ching’s collaborator Zhang Chunqiao in the politburo had accused Yang of. Evidently, Mao must be behind the scheme for getting rid of all the forces assisting Zhou Enlai and Zhu Deh. Very likely, Yomei was regarded as a disciple of the premier’s. She was already in a dangerous plight and had to figure out how to save herself.

Jin Shan’s analysis of the situation made sense to Yomei, but it was already too late for her to reconcile with Jiang Ching. Besides, she simply couldn’t do anything to please that power maniac, never mind produce model plays for her. She had to find another way to deal with her.

As Jin Shan predicted, Yang was more severely abused in the following weeks. Yolan, a mere Russian teacher at Beijing University, was allowed to see Yang once a week. She reported to Yomei that their brother’s face was bruised and swollen and that he could hardly speak now. “If this continues, he might die in their hands soon,” she told Yomei. “He seemed delirious, and kept saying he felt too antiquated to keep abreast of the revolution anymore. I think he must be depressed.”

“Anybody can get depressed if abused like he has been. Yang should’ve never come back to Beijing.” Yomei heaved a long sigh.

“That’s true. Our folks in Sichuan have been safe. This place is dangerous, too close to the emperor.” Yolan stuck out her tongue to show that was a slip. An elongated dimple appeared above her chin.

To preempt further attack from Jiang Ching, Yomei sneaked to her aunt Jun’s home to inform her of their family’s woes. After stepping in, Yomei took off her cap, and at the sight of Yomei’s bald head, Jun burst into tears. She’d heard that Yomei was under investigation and interrogation by the Red Guards but hadn’t expected to see her maltreated like this. Yomei used to have abundant, wavy hair, but now it was all gone. Evidently those so-called revolutionaries intended to humiliate her so as to break her spirit. But Yomei smiled and said, “I’m already accustomed to those crazy bullies. Sixth Aunt, I came to remind you to get rid of everything associated with the top leaders of our Party, particularly with Jiang Ching.”

Puzzled, Jun said, “I have nothing to do with her. After the new China was established, I’ve never run into her. She and I revolve in different orbits—our paths have never crossed.”

“How about the photo she signed with her former name, Lan Ping? Remember she gave each of us a picture of herself before she was leaving for Yan’an thirty years ago?”

“You mean the ones she presented to us when we were at the Shanghai Eastern Spoken Drama Theater?”

“Yes, she gave each of us a headshot of herself and signed it.”

“I might still have it in my album.”

“Get rid of it right away, because it can be evidence against you. Jiang Ching has gone out of her mind with vengeance and wants to eliminate any trace of her past. So whoever knows about her past may be in jeopardy now. If she sees that photo, she might label you as a counterrevolutionary and wipe you out.”

Jun seemed incredulous. “I know Ching is flighty, but Chairman Mao should be able to restrain her, shouldn’t he?”

“It’s not that simple, Sixth Aunt. I went to see Mao last week and begged him to help get my brother Yang released, but Mao was noncommittal. I had the impression that he was no longer his former self. He might be behind Jiang Ching, instigating all the violence and disorder in society.”

Jun frowned, her bangs half-gray now. She mentioned Yeh Qun, Lin Biao’s wife, who had been quite active of late. Jun said that that was another vengeful woman who hated Yomei. Now that Yeh Qun had also come to the foreground of the political arena, she could be destructive too. Yomei promised to be careful and to play the fool if the investigators questioned her about Jun and her husband Yida. Jun said she’d do the same and refuse to admit to any recent communication with Yomei. In brief, the more separated they appeared from each other, the safer it would be for both of them.