Red Azalea

From the tearoom an arched bridge led toward the garden. The brightness overexposed everything outside. I heard the click of a camera shutter. I heard a familiar voice. It was an expected voice, but still it shocked me.

It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? the voice said. It made me tremble inside as before. I wanted to say something but my tongue failed me. Come and see my garden, the voice said.

The Supervisor was in a bleached-white cotton blouse, grass-green pants and deep blue straw sandals. His thin, young-girl-like arms folded by his chest. He turned to look at the heart of a peony. He was concentrating on the flower. The perfume he wore drew me toward him. The joy of seeing him again swept me. His short black hair was combed back smoothly. He moved on to another peony. His elegance choked my breath with the desire to be close to him. When his fingers touched the petals of a peony, my whole being quivered inside, remembering the way he touched me.

I did not like my desire because it made me powerless in front of him. He bent to examine a roll-shaped flower. By speaking without a voice, he attracted all my attention. I hated his tricks but was so willing to be seduced. Any comment on the photographs? He spoke. I heard myself say, Were those taken by you? No one else is living here, he said. The photos were taken in this garden.

The pleasant-faced young men were swimming in and out. I felt I was being watched. Their brains are made of metal, the Supervisor said, pointing at the backs of the pleasant-faces. They have square hearts like robots. They do not understand emotions as you do. You are experienced. How is your lover? What’s her name? Oh, no, don’t answer that. I’ve changed my mind.

The way the Supervisor read me scared me. I asked the reason I was called here. I need you, he said. You are invited for an important screen test, a test which will change some fundamental ideas of our countrymen.

The tea mug in my hand almost fell. Am I to play Red Azalea? I asked, so scared of any answer. That’s correct. He nodded. Remember, you would make me happier if you ask no questions.

How are you prepared for Red Azalea? He asked me as he led me through the garden into another courtyard. We entered a room. I saw a white screen hung from the ceiling. The room had a dark lacquered wall carved with shapes of peonies. Four flower-shaped light fixtures stood by each corner. There were two big yellow sofas placed in front of the screen. The Supervisor pointed for me to sit down on the sofa.

I sometimes sleep here when the night gets too deep and the dark chills me, he said. And I become the saddest person in the whole world after my favorite movie. I cuddle myself in the sofa and let my tears run like an infant. Shouldn’t one let himself go when he feels weak?

A shadow passed by the screen. I turned and saw a projector in the wall. So this is a screening room, I said. It’s a screen on which history is performed and reperformed, said the Supervisor. It is all in our will, he added. The perfumed tea was served quietly by the pleasant-faced young men. The Supervisor stared at me as he sipped the tea. I like the way your face is lit now. Don’t move. Yes, that’s nice. His hands were twiddling my face. Your face possesses the heroic quality I have been looking for. It pleases me so much to look at you. Are you pleased to hear what I say? Show me your appreciation like the others. Your quietness irritates me, so stop it. I don’t like to be confused. I observed that you would not laugh when silly girls laughed hard. It impressed me, though I am not quite used to your character yet. Your quality is inborn. That is rare. The mopping of the floor made you learn. The saying fits: “Swallow the bitterest in bitter; it makes one the finest in fine.”

He was telling me the story of Red Azalea as if it were his own life. She was a Red Army leader, a red goddess admired and loved by all. The story was about a long spiritual march. It was about an indelible faith in Communism, about the worship of Mao, about an incredible will in conquering enemies, about extraordinary military skills in conducting monumental battles.

The story did not grab me as much as the talking head before me. He was an opening peony. A hand-colored peony, like the ones in his photographs. The almond eyes were as bright as ever. The porcelainlike fine skin spoke well of his elegance. He was a man and a woman. His story was bad liquor. It poured into my throat and made me drunk with heat.

This is what I want to see in your eyes, he said. A million bulls rushing down a hill with their tails on fire.

He waved his hand. The room turned dark. I want to show you one of my favorite movies, he said into my ear. I asked what the movie was called. It is The Battle of Ancient Rome. I said I do not understand foreign languages. He said that was why he was sitting next to me. He wanted to be an interpreter for me.

The film began to roll. The projectionist adjusted the lens. The blurred image came into focus. The round starting cue looked like a huge eye spying on me from behind. The Supervisor’s face was inches away. I could smell his perfume. He began his translation. His voice reminded me of bushes shivering in the wind.

The voice of the Supervisor mixed with the sound track of the movie. His voice filled with sorrow as he interpreted the ending of the story. It was about the fall of an empire and the suicide of its princess. The music was tragically austere. I saw the glittering in his bright almond eyes. Pearls dripped slowly down his cheeks like a broken necklace. His interpretation became fragmented and then his breath came harder. He stopped, unable to continue as the movie went on.

I received a document with red characters on the cover. The characters said “Top Secret Instructions.” It was an order from the Supervisor. I was ordered to view one of the stage versions of Red Azalea. I was sent to see a local theater troupe which had been playing Red Azalea for years. The troupe rehearsed the play without being given a date of performance. The actress who played Red Azalea was three inches shorter than I and did not wish to talk to me. It seemed that all the troupe members knew who had sent me. Behind their politeness was distance and cold feelings.

Every morning at eight o’clock the actors began reading aloud from their memories. The play had no energy. The actresses brought knitting to the set and the actors smoked packs of cigarettes. At lunchtime I asked a troupe member why everything seemed so slow. He asked if I would allow him to escape from Red Azalea for a second. I was confused by his attitude. He nodded at me and then asked me to listen when he turned on his radio. He turned the dial back and forth, exploring every station. It was opera, opera and opera. The operas we knew by heart for years. Kids in the street joined in the music, singing. The man said, smiling bitterly, The revolutionary operas are what we breathe. He spat on the ground and wiped his nose with his fingers. I turned away. Excuse me, he said drowsily. He drifted off to his nap, leaving the radio on. It was boredom he exhaled.

I was not bored by the operas, nor bored with Red Azalea. I paid a price at Red Fire Farm to get to play the role. Yan and millions of youths were still struggling with leeches. Just to think of it sent a chill through me. I no longer cared whether other people would enjoy Comrade Jiang Ching’s opera heroines. Red Azalea had become my life.

I put on a respectful face each morning. I stepped into the rehearsal hall elegantly and sat down modestly. At lunch I ate a bowl of rice topped with a few pieces of preserved sour vegetables. I did character studies. I ran through the lines until I could recite them by heart. I continued my waiting.

The Supervisor sent for me. He sent for me with a set of new army uniforms he wanted me to wear. Later in the afternoon I went to him in a new outfit. He smiled. He was a peony. He was in uniform as well. A piece of long hair lingered on his face. He greeted me by the gate, and suggested that we take a long walk in his garden. We dipped ourselves in the green, into parks of peonies. We arrived at a stone boat beside a lake. He told me the fable of the stone boat. It was the gift of a son to his mother. The son was an emperor. He asked his mother what she wanted for her ninetieth birthday. The mother said she had always been fascinated by boating but was afraid of water. The son built the boat in stone right by the dock so the mother could be on a boat without water. The mother enjoyed her birthday boating party immensely, and the fable spread through the nation as an example of piety.

We sat in the stone boat. I watched the reflections in the water. You should be thinking about the big picture- the Supervisor suddenly interrupted my scattering thoughts. The life of a true hero is like acrobatic dancers on a tightrope. You can never be fully prepared.

The sun dropped and the sky looked like a golden fan. The rosy clouds, as if painted with ink and water, were glowing and tinting the sky. We are the hands that should be writing history, he said, standing up and walking toward the edge of the stone boat. He stared into the water. The water had changed color from dark green to deep black. I am not afraid of water, he said as he lifted his chin, gazing far into the sky. I looked at this gaze. I saw pure devotion. The gaze condensed the evening fog into dew. He asked me to abandon my old self to live up to the