taking a walk. After half an hour we saw the white van appear. Everyone suddenly became animated and began to smile at the van. I smiled as it passed.
Orchid and I were using the restroom when we heard someone practicing a Mao poem loudly while taking a bowel movement in the men’s room. “Four seas stir float cloud water angry,” the man recited, then he stopped. I heard his shit drop. “Five continents shake flutter wind thunder fighting.” Again the sound of shit dropping.
“The Communists are like the seeds.” A girl was singing Mao’s quotation song behind me. “The people are like the earth. We must integrate ourselves with the people wherever we go…” Orchid yelled, Don’t get too excited. You’re going to fall and integrate with the manure. “Bloom and grow roots in the people…” the girl continued.
A week later Yan and Lu were called to headquarters by the farm’s Chief Party Secretary for an important meeting. They came back with an announcement: two women and one man had been selected from the entire Red Fire Farm to go to the film studio for the first regional contest. I was one of them.
I looked at myself again and again with the tiny mirror. Imagining the mirror a huge screen, I practiced all kinds of expressions I thought would look good to the millions in the audience.
Yan told me that I was given the choice of either dancing or reciting one of Mao’s poems during the contest. I decided to recite Mao’s poem “Praising the Winter Plum.” The Winter Plum was Mao’s symbol of the Communist Party and the Red Army. Yan watched me as I prepared the recitation. She sat there like a Buddha statue. When I asked her how I did, she said she saw a golden phoenix soaring out of a chicken coop.
Three days later Yan was assigned by headquarters to take me to Shanghai for the contest. The night before we took off, Yan did not come back until midnight. Without saying a word, she took off her shoes, got into the net and closed the curtain tightly. I knew what was on her mind but could do nothing to help.
Shut the fucking light off, will you, Comrade Lu? Yan yelled from the net. I haven’t done my study yet-Lu sat on her stool firmly. It’s bedtime! Yan shouted. Lu stood up and said, I
I kept quiet. What could I say? It was the possibility of my departure that upset Yan. Regardless of how much she wanted me to leave this place, my taking off would mean that she would have nothing else to rely on. Since her belief in Communism had begun to collapse, she was no longer emotionally strong. I had no idea where I would be taken if I won the contest.
The next morning Yan appeared calm. She poured all her saved sugar into my porridge. Lu watched us as Yan went to pull out the tractor and hurried me on. The soldiers watched in silence. Yan took me to headquarters to get a stamp to leave the farm. We transferred to the truck to Shanghai.
We sat closely together on the farm’s open truck. It began to rain after we crossed the country border approaching the city. I tried not to think too much about what was going to happen: whether Yan and I would be apart forever. Yan took out a plastic sheet from her bag to cover me from the rain. I tried to pull the sheet to cover her. Don’t bother, she said impatiently. I held her arm and said, Maybe I won’t even pass the regional contest. Don’t you dare to shit on my face, she said.
Its gate was more solemn than I had imagined, the Shanghai Film Studio. In front of me was a big flower bed with two dark reddish buildings standing imposingly on each side. Yan and I walked through the studios where we saw painted ocean backgrounds and wood and ceramic naval vessels. We lost our way and ended up in a place where we saw burnt houses and a collapsed bridge. We explored underground tunnels, artificial trees, plastic human body parts dressed in Communist Army uniforms and Japanese army uniforms, and a burnt Japanese flag.
A security guard came yelling after us. We showed him our official letter. He directed us to the performance hall where I saw many young people gathered. We were guided to our seats. I looked around. A red slogan hung above the stage: “Devote all our energy to the Party’s cultural business!” There were two other slogans hanging vertically: “Follow Comrade Jiang Ching!” and “Long live the victory of Mao’s revolutionary line!” In front of the stage was a long narrow table covered with a white cloth. About fifteen judges were seated behind the table.
A girl who sat next to me was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in my life. She told me that she was from the Red Star Farm neighboring mine. She had a cherrylike mouth. Compared to hers, my mouth was as big as a frog’s. She had hips that curved out from the waist. Mine were a straight column. When her name was called, she went on stage calmly and performed without rushing. Her piece was a combination of dancing and storytelling. As she performed, she laughed and cried like real life. I began to feel short of breath. The sounds around me were like layers of echoes. My rivals sitting beside me became blurry figures and heads. I knew nothing about professional acting; there was no way I could compete with them. I kept thinking that I couldn’t even speak Mandarin properly. When my name was called, I panicked. Instead of standing up and walking to the stage, I bent over the front chair and covered my head with my arms.
Yan shook my arms and shoulders, but I could not make myself move. I was shaking hard. The announcer repeated my name and said that it was the last call. I felt that I was going to faint. I had double vision. My legs were strengthless. Yan yelled ferociously in my ear, Get your ass moving, you pig-shit-head! For our ancestors’ sake it’s your only chance to escape from hell! She cried, You pig-shit-head, you louse-won’t-touch corpse, you have disappointed and dishonored me.
I jumped up. I wiped the sweat off my face. My army coat fell from my shoulders. I strode to the stage.
I stood in front of the judges. I saw no expression on their faces. They looked me up and down. The one with the bald head in the center took his glasses off. I opened my mouth, but I was voiceless. My mind went blank-I forgot the lines. Yan rose up from the audience. Her face was purple.
The words spilled out from my mouth by themselves. Chairman Mao’s poem. I was almost shouting, “Praising the Winter Plum”! The sound was resonant and clear like a bugle call. Yan smiled, her mouth was motioning with me:
Yan looked at me with gentleness. She held my hands throughout the trip back to the Red Fire Farm.
As I waited for the results of the contest, the soldiers in the company began to distance themselves from me. I could sense their envy and bitterness. After two months, when I started to believe that I must have been eliminated, Yan brought back an announcement from headquarters saying that I had been selected for the second regional contest.
My parents in Shanghai were glad to have the chance to reunite with me for the weekend. My father warned me not to believe anything. My father was older than his age. As was my mother. They had no more courage left. Their drive was greatly weakened by their experiences. My father was no longer the ambitious astronomer who named his son Space Conqueror. He was crushed under the unit Party secretary’s feet, trampled upon. He was timid as a mouse in shock.
I was sent back to the farm and was called back for three other regional contests. I forced myself not to think
