In this book, Dr Li explains Mao’s sexual preference. It was for frequent sex with as many young girls as possible, without ever coming himself. Of course, this was not due to some crackpot neurosis. No, no. Mao’s sexual preference derived from the noble teachings of Daoism.
‘The Daoist prescription for longevity’, writes Dr Li, ‘requires men to supplement their declining yang — the male essence that is the source of strength, power, and longevity — with yin shui — the water of yin, or vaginal secretions — of young women. Because yang is considered essential to health and power, it cannot be dissipated. Thus, when engaged in coitus, the male rarely ejaculates, drawing strength instead from the secretions of his female partners. The more yin shui is absorbed, the more male essence is strengthened. Frequent coition is therefore necessary.’
This was no ordinary sex life. This was a considered sex life. But — such is fate — disease can strike even here, even where life is purest. One young woman contracted Trichomonas vaginalis. She very quickly passed it to Mao, who in turn passed it to his other partners.
Like thrush, Trichomonas vaginalis is very painful for girls, but the boys feel nothing. This makes it more difficult to persuade a boy to have treatment. Boys are, sadly, very proud. They will not admit to a disease they cannot feel. Since Mao was the carrier, the presidential epidemic could be stopped only if Mao himself were treated. But it is difficult to persuade someone without any symptoms that they are carrying a sexually transmitted disease.
‘The Chairman’, writes Dr Li, ‘scoffed at my suggestion.
“It’s not hurting me,” he said, “so it doesn’t matter. Why are you getting so excited about it?” I suggested that he should at least allow himself to be washed and cleaned. Mao still received only nightly rubdowns with hot towels. He never actually bathed. His genitals were never cleaned but Mao refused to bathe. “I wash myself inside the bodies of my women,” he retorted.’
Perhaps Mao’s comments seem haughty and defensive. They do seem kind of mad. But maybe there is a more human side to Chairman Mao. Maybe he was just embarrassed. Nothing he said could not be explained by a perfectly natural embarrassment. It is not easy, admitting to your doctor that you are the carrier of a sexually transmitted disease. Even Moshe found it difficult, and Moshe is a much less public person than Mao. Perhaps this anecdote just demonstrates the necessity for tact when discussing someone’s sexual health. ‘I was nauseated,’ writes Dr Li. ‘Mao’s sexual indulgences, his Daoist delusions, his sullying of so many naive and innocent young women, were almost more than I could bear.’
Now, I agree with everything Dr Li is saying. I just think it is more complicated. I am going to quote Dr Li one last time. ‘The young women were proud to be infected,’ he says. ‘The illness, transmitted by Mao, was a badge of honour, testimony to their close relations with the Chairman.’
You see? You wouldn’t have expected that, would you? I do not think it has been understood precisely enough, sexually transmitted disease. It can be romantic, sometimes.
And Nana and Moshe were romantic. They were romantic in their way. They loved each other. They said they loved each other. It was true.
And this was their first ‘I love you’.
‘Did you want to say enthing in paticyular?’ Nana teased. Moshe said, ‘No.’ They sat there. He said, ‘I really like you, you know.’ ‘You really like me?’ she said. ‘Yeh I like you,’ he said. ‘Wha do you like?’ asked Nana. ‘I like evrething about you,’ said Moshe. ‘I love your pubic hair,’ said Moshe. ‘I love the colour of your pubic hair. I love your, I love your. I just love you,’ said Moshe.
‘I didn’t mean to say that,’ said Moshe.
Even their first ‘I love you’ was unromantic. It was a mistake. That’s how mean I am.
‘Of course,’ said Nana. ‘I mean I can’t,’ said Moshe. ‘Uhhuh,’ said Nana. ‘I mean we’ve only known each other what, a month, a coupla months,’ said Moshe. ‘Uhhuh,’ said Nana.
Actually no, it was quite romantic. I take my meanness back. It is quite possible, I think, to have known someone for no more than two days but still believe that you could love them. You feel that you love them already. It is just not sayable. You just cannot say that you love them. So saying it, against all social laws, was romantic. Moshe and Nana’s ‘I love you’ was romantic.
‘Do you think you could?’ said Nana. ‘What?’ said Moshe. ‘Love me,’ said Nana. ‘What already?’ said Moshe. ‘I don’t know,’ said Nana. ‘Well I don’t know,’ said Moshe. ‘Maybe.’ ‘Maybe,’ said Nana. ‘Well alright,’ said Moshe. ‘Alright what?’ said Nana. ‘Well I kind of think that I love you,’ said
Moshe. ‘I kind of think I love you.’ Nana wondered at ‘kind of’.
She said, ‘You know I do think you’re so pretty?’
Nana thought Moshe was pretty! What a love story this is!
She said, ‘Yeh, oh. Yes. I love you too.’ ‘You love me,’ he said. ‘Yeh,’ she said. ‘You love me,’ he said. She kissed him. He kissed her. ‘So,’ said Moshe. Moshe was grinning. ‘You’re in love with me.’ ‘No, I don’t love you,’ said Nana. ‘You don’t love me?’ said Moshe. ‘Yes I do,’ said Nana. ‘But I,’ said Moshe. ‘Fuck you,’ said Nana.
But Nana was not nasty. She said ‘Fuck you,’ and then she kissed him.
5. Intrigue
1
One evening, moshe was astride Nana’s stomach. His legs were bent back on either side of her ribby chest. And he was giggling to himself. He was telling himself that it was crucial to stay calm. He looked at his penis. His penis was red.
Nana was staring at his maroon penis. She was thinking that dying was ever so melancholy.
This is a short chapter, but a necessary one. I am afraid we need another peek into Nana and Moshe’s sex life. And I know what you are thinking. You are thinking that you have had quite enough of their sex life. You want something else entirely. You want a description of a mining community in Sakhalin, Siberia. You want more shopping. Well, I’m sorry. Their sex life was important.
Nana and Moshe were home alone, in Edgware. Their original plan had been eating. But then eating had somehow got sidetracked. After discovering a bottle of Hill’s absinthe in Papa’s stash behind the saucepans, eating had become drinking.
Absinthe, however, is a technical form of drinking.
The happy couple opened out the pine kitchen drawers, looking for Nana’s limegreen lighter. They found it among the utensils, trapped inside a whisk. Then Nana draped the flame round the rim of a stainless-steel salad spoon, cooking the absinthe. The absinthe matched the limegreen lighter. It fizzed. There was a blue and white bag of Tate Lyle caster sugar beside them, with its sticky crumpled flap. It was the sugar that was fizzing.
They got as far as the living room.
Moshe leaned, sexysleepy, against a leg of the sofa. He was nestling and snuggling against the curvy end of the cushion with his curvy neck. He looked very domesticated, lying there on a background of William Morris white chrysanthemums. And Nana fed him sips of absinthe.
It was a lustful situation — being spoonfed sugar-crunchy mouthfuls of lukewarm absinthe by the girl of Moshe’s dreams.
Nana said, ‘You, you, staring, what are, ystaring.’ And Moshe replied with something weird, not a word, just a sound like ‘Uuohoohyr’, and then smiled. It made her happy. She was happy that Moshe was happy. And because she was happy, as a treat, Nana took off her bra.