It wasn’t easy, it wasn’t at all easy, he thought, his fingers trembling nervously. His eyes hurt, he was tired, and felt rather sorry for himself. Instead of being able to look forward to the concert in peace, like everyone else, he had to go on working right up to the last minute.
Behind the scenes in the theatre where the concert was to be held,there was the usual bustle before the show. People ran to and fro, Male and female dancers vanished into the make-up rooms, dressed as magicians, princesses, eunuchs, or priests preparing for human sacrifice. Not to mention those merely swathed in long strips of silk, who were to represent parts of the serpent or of the dragon’s tail. Former stars of the company, directors and the various technicians appeared and disappeared, looking worried. Some of their anxiety transmitted itself to the faces of their colleagues, even those of the dancers, which were covered with such thick layers of cosmetics you wouldn’t have thought they could reject any expression bet those that had been painted on them.
It wasn’t surprising if they were worried, Like all official concerts this was a great event: in theory all the top executives of Party and state were coming, and so was the diplomatic corps. Moreover, rehearsals had been punctuated by visits from mysterious officials not usually seen in artistic circles. Some people said they were there on the orders of Jiang Qing, and even that she herself might come to the dress rehearsal Others suggested that the visitors were from the Zhongnanhai, and this really scared everyone. But no one had been able to find out for sure who the visitors were. What was certain was that changes had been made right up to the last minute — even at the dress rehearsal the night before — changes affecting certain scenes, the lighting, the movements of the principal dancers and the colours of their costumes. Most of the company had been told something of the significance of these changes; in any case, they already knew how important a part symbols played in the theatre, especially on an occasion like this, But they didn’t really understand much, and if the organizers themselves were somewhat better informed, even their notions on what was going on were very hazy. Not that there had been any shortage of rumours on this subject in recent years! Some anti-Party theatre companies, such as the Three Villages group, were said to have used their productions to exchange messages about sinister possibilities like the overthrow of Mao, or events like Peng Dehuai’s plea for mercy from his judges. But even after the plot had been unmasked and many of the company’s artists and administrators arrested, no one ever found out exactly how their messages were sent.
And now it was being whispered that at the end of the first scene, and somewhere around the middle of the second, and also at the yellow stork’s exit just before the interval, something of the highest importance was concealed in the movements of the second woman dancer and in the lilac tints of her costume. It might have something to do (“Not so loud! Put your mouth closer to my earl”) — it might have something to do with Mao’s approaching death and the question of who was to succeed him. Just to hear such things made your blood run cold. What was more, there might be world-wide repercussions; the messages might have to do with terrorism in general, or with massacres in various parts of the globe, or with heaven knew what! It was more like a calamity than a concert!
The second woman dancer leaned against a pillar in the wings, gazing at the agitation all around her. Because of her heavy make-up, her face looked as if were set in plaster. The only sign of life was the worried expression in her eyes, all the more striking because of her impassive mask.
She looks terribly anxious, thought one of the make-up men as he went by. Perhaps she’d found out the meaning of the symbol she was being made to convey. The make-up man himself didn’t know much about it. He watched her surreptitiously, wondering what feature of her performance would act as a signal for the massacre of the intelligentsia that some people were predicting^ always supposing it wasn’t a delusion.
“Are you worried?” one of the oldest dancers in the company asked her younger colleague. “There’s no need. You’ve nothing to reproach yourself with…A few years ago I myself was accused of driving two ministers to commit suicide, bet it wasn’t my fault at all …I know it’s different in your case — people are talking about wholesale massacres — bet that’s no reason why yoe should fret. It’s not your fault, is it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about," the girl replied, “You’re the second person who’s spoken to me like that, and I still don’t understand what it’s all about.”
“I thought you were worrying about…”
“Not at all! I was thinking of something quite different. Do you know what?…If I tell you, Lin Min, you must promise not to breathe a word to anyone else.”
“You can count on me!”
The girl looked at her for a moment, hesitating, then made up her mind.
“I don’t even want to know what you were talking about, Lin Min. I don’t understand such things. All I can think of is when the show is over and the foreign members of the audience come up on the stage to congratulate us… Perhaps I’ll be lucky and one of them will kiss me …You see, Lin Min, at the last concert, in October, there was a fair-haired man who smelled so delicious …I shall never forget him…”
As the young ballerina was speaking, her colleague looked at her with an expression that might have been either envy or pity.
Then the older woman went away, and the young dancer was alone again. She tiptoed over to the heavy velvet curtain, pulled it aside a little, and looked through the gap into the auditorium, where the seats ail looked weighed ‘down under the same red plush. The audience weren’t there yet. An oppressive silence seemed to rise up from the great empty space. The girl sighed and let the curtain fall back into place.
To Hua Guofeng the chiming of the clock on the wall sounded different from usual For some reason he paused with the comb and scissors in his hand, waiting for the seventh stroke. I’ve only got fifteen minutes left, he thought. As he lifted the comb and scissors to his head again he noticed that his hands were trembling. He was nervous — he should have started getting ready sooner. It wasn’t his fault though…The idea that his resemblance to Mao might be increased had suddenly occurred to him that afternoon. The notion excited him, though he was sorry he hadn’t thought of it sooner. The fact that he looked like Chairman Mao hadn’t gone unnoticed among his friends, who sometimes made rather risqué jokes about it, but it hadn’t occurred to anyone that the likeness could be improved, cultivated like species of fruit. The thought had taken a long while to come to the surface in Hua Guofeng’s own mind, wandering first along devious and mysterious ways, as most ideas do. He’d wondered for some time about Mao’s possible successors, and had occasionally thought of the Kagemushas, the doubles whom medieval Japanese war-lords used to send to replace them in battles and at celebrations. If I were just a little bit more like him, he reflected, I could be Mao’s Kagemusha. Then, as it became more and more difficult for Mao to preside over ceremonies and receive distinguished foreign visitors, and especially when the Politbureau first deliberated over whether he ought to give up appearing in public, Hua thought about the Kagemusha more and more But it wasn’t until the meeting of the Politbureau this afternoon that everything around him seemed to freeze, and the idea of the double suddenly emerged from the depths of his brain, hitting him like a cosmic ray. The meeting had ostensibly been discussing something quite different, but, as usual lately, it was clear everyone was thinking about the succession. The problems involved were well-known; Zhou ill with cancer; Jiang Qing, Mao’s wife; her band of supporters; the Deng Xiaoping faction…People said Zhou would soon be sending Mao his will…Everyone let his thoughts run riot. And it was then that an inner voice cried out to Hua: “Why not you? Why do you stand modestly aside? The others are no closer to him than you are. You have a definite advantage in your face and physical appearance. As for the soul, no one can see that” Then a host of chaotic thoughts crowded into his mind: a case of mass psychosis, a people yearning for its lost leader, their longing to see his face on the rostrum again…