Anchee Min - Becoming Madame Mao

A Mariner Book

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

BOSTON NEW YORK

To Lloyd with all my love

First Mariner Books edition 2001

Copyright 2000 by Anchee Min
All rights reserved

For information about permission to reproduce selections from
this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company,
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Min, Anchee, date.
Becoming Madame Mao / Anchee Min.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-618-00407-6
ISBN 0-618-12.700-3 (pbk.)
1. Chiang Ch'ing, 1910Fiction. 2. Spouses of heads of
stateChinaFiction. 3. ChinaHistory20th
centuryFiction. 4. Married womenChinaFiction.
5. StatesmenChinaFiction. I. Title.
PS3563.14614 B43 2000
813'.54dc21 99-058520

Printed in the United States of America

Book design by Robert Overholtzer

QUM 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12

You are what your deep, driving desire is.
As your desire is, so is your will.
As your will is, so is your deed.
As your deed is, so is your destiny.

Brihadaranyaka Upanishads iv.4.5

as Yunhe (19191933)
as Lan Ping (19341937)
and as Jiang Ching (19381991)

Author's Note: I have tried my best to mirror the facts of history. Every character in this book existed in real life. The letters, poems, and extended quotations have been translated from original documents.

What does history recognize? A dish made of a hundred sparrowsa plate of mouths.

Fourteen years since her arrest. 1991. Madame Mao Jiang Ching is seventy-seven years old. She is on the death seat. The only reason the authorities keep postponing the execution is their hope of her repentance.

Well,Iwon't surrender. WhenIwas a child my mother used to tell me thatIshould think of myself as grassborn to be stepped on. ButIthink of myself as a peacock among hens.Iam not being judged fairly. Side by sideMaoTse-tung andIstood, yet he is considered a god whileIam a demon. Mao Tse-tung andIwere married for thirty-eight years. The number is thirty-eight.

Ispeak to my daughter Nah.Iask her to be my biographer. She is allowed to visit me once a month. She wears a peasant woman's hairstylea wok-lid-cut around the earsand she is in a man's suit. She looks unbearably silly. She does that to hurt my eyes. She was divorced and remarried and now lives in Beijing. She has a son to whom my identity has been a secret.

No, Mother. The tone is firm and stubborn.

Ican't describe my disappointment.Ihave expectations of Nah. Too many perhaps. Maybe that's what killed her spirit. AmIdifferent from my mother who wanted the best for me by bindingmy feet? Nah picks what I dislike and drops what I like. It's been that way since she saw how her father treated me. How can one not wet one's shoes when walking along the seashore all the time? Nah doesn't see the whole picture. She doesn't know how her father once worshiped me. She can't imagine that I was Mao's sunshine. I don't blame her. There was no trace of that passion left on Mao's face after he entered the Forbidden City and became a modern emperor. No trace that Mao and I were once lovers unto death.

The mother tells the daughter that both her father and she hate cowards. The words have no effect. Nah is too beaten. The mother thinks of her as a rotten piece of wood that can never be made into a beautiful piece of furniture. She is so afraid that her voice trembles when she speaks. The mother can't recognize any part of herself in the daughter.

The mother repeats the ancient story of Cima-Qinhua, the brave girl who saved her mother from a bloody riot. The model of piety. Nah listens but makes no response. Then she cries and says that she is not the mother. Can't do the things she does. And should not be requested to perform an impossible task.

Can't you lift a finger? the mother yells. It's my last wish, for heaven's sake!

Save me, Nah. Any day a bullet will be put into my head. Can you picture it? Don't you see that there has been a conspiracy against me? Do you remember the morning when Deng Xiao-ping came to your father's funeral and what he did? He just brushed fingers with medidn't even bother to shake my hand. It was as if he questioned that I was Mao's widow. He was aware of the camerashe purposely let the journalists catch the scene. And the other one, Marshal Ye Jian-ying. He walked past me wearing an expression as if I had murdered the Chairman myself!

Your father warned me about his comrades. But he didn't doanything to protect me. He could he heartless. His face had a vindictive glow when he made that prediction. He was jealous that I got to go on living. He would have liked to see me buried with him, like the old emperors did with their concubines. One should never have delusions about your father. It took me thirty-eight years to figure out that sly fox. He could never keep his hands away from deception. He couldn't survive a day without trickery. I had seen ghosts in his eyes stretching out their claws. A living god. The omniscient Mao. Full-of-mice-shit.

You are a historian, Nah. You should document my role in the revolution. I want you to demonstrate my sacrifices and contributions. Yes, you can do it. Forget about what your father will think about you. He is dead. I wonder what's happened to his ghost. I wonder if it rests in its grave. Watch out for his shadow.

The hands to strangle me are creeping up fast. I can feel them at my throat. That's why I am telling you this. I am not afraid of death if I know my spirit will live through the tip of your fountain pen to the lips of the people, generations to come. Tell the world the story of a heroine. If you can't print your manuscript in China, take it outside. Don't let me down. Please.

You are not a heroine, Mother! I hear my daughter fire back. You are a miserable, mad and sick woman. You can't stop spreading your disease, hike Father said, you have dug so many graves that you don't have enough bodies to lay in them!

Their dinner has turned cold. Nah stands up and kicks away her chair. Her elbow accidentally hits the table. A dish falls. Breaks. Pieces of ceramics scatter on the floor. Grease splatters on the mother's shoe. You have killed me, Nah. Madame Mao suddenly feels short of breath. Her hand grips the edge of the table to prevent herself from falling.

Pretend that you never had me, Mother.

You can't disown your mother!

***

Well, all my hope is gone. I am exhausted and ready to exit the stage for good. The last curtain time will be tomorrow morning at five-thirty when the guards change shift. They are usually dull at that time. The old guard will be yawning his way out while the new guard yawns his way in.

It's dark outside. A beautiful black night without stars. The prison officials have put me on a suicide watch. But they cannot beat my will. I have saved enough handkerchiefs and socks to make a rope.

The rubber walls emit a terrible smell. But all is fine with me now. Tomorrow you will read about me in the news: Madame Mao Jiang Ching committed suicide by hanging. The day to mark is May 14, 1991. Am I sad? Not really. I have lived an extraordinary life. The great moments ... Now as I think about them for the last time, they still make my heart hammer with excitement ...