Chapter 35

I Write a Script

Were things perfect?  No.  I didn’t like the bank account.  It was a threat.  It hung over me.  It had been built with a purpose.  Keep me in China, or something more?  It had been built over time.  There was careful planning.  Starting with Lee.  I think the term is “compromised.”  I had done Lee a favor (with NSA agreement), and he had used it to entrap me.  He had passed the trap on to Jiks.  How many others were in on the trap?  And, having entrapped me once, what might they ask next?  Could NSA get me out?  Not from a Chinese court case.  My best defense was my new husband.  My secret husband.  My private husband. 

I made him somewhat less secret.  I had kept Lee’s engagement ring.  I had earned it.  Now I took it out of my jewelry box and started wearing it again.  Jiks noticed.  He frowned but didn’t make me take it off.  I found myself looking down at my hand and smiling.  Not just that I had a ring, but that Jiks had let me wear it.  My first test of our marriage.  He had passed.  I had passed.  It was a good start.

I was determined to be a good wife.  I had dinner ready for him when he got home.  I had myself ready.  Hair, makeup, a red dress with a very short skirt.  My face might be a six or seven, but I had pretty good legs.  I used them.

I also did my homework.  He had left me three scripts to read.  I finally gave them a careful review.  I didn’t like what I found.  I wondered if Lori was right.  There were Americans in each script.  Ugly Americans.  Americans who could not be trusted.  Americans who were brutal.  Americans who needed to be removed from China.

He was still putting me in historical dramas.  In the first script I was the wife of a missionary again.  And I was a villain again.  This time I was out washing myself at a backyard pump when I saw a boy staring at me over a fence.  I get upset, make accusations, and bad things start to happen.  Nothing good, everything bad.  I read the script and hated the character I played.  I waited until after dinner to talk with Jiks about it.  After I had fed him, after I sat close, after I put his hand on my very short skirt.

“The missionary script.  I have some suggestions.”

“Screen writers hate it when actors make changes.  They always want bigger roles.”

“I don’t want a bigger role.  I want a happy ending.  The current script will make people angry.  Okay, but why will they pay money to see it?  They need more anger in their lives?  I bet it is a box office bomb.”

“And you have a happy ending?”

“Yes.  Try this.  Older missionary.  Younger wife.  He abuses her.  Yelling, spanking, a belt to her backside.  Never satisfied.  He is a failure in bed but blames her.  Pious bastard, all smiles and platitudes in his tiny church, but a brutal husband.  Everyone in town can see this, everyone can hear his shouts and her cries. 

“One day he is upset with his dinner.  Doesn’t like the way it is cooked.  He raises his hand to her and charges.  She has a kitchen knife in her hand.  He charges onto it.  The wound is deep, but no artery is cut.  He lies on the floor while she tries to stop the bleeding.  She cannot.  No doctor will come to help.  He finally bleeds out.

“Local authorities take no action against her.  She is a foreigner.  It is for foreigners to deal with the matter.  She sits in her house and waits.  Weeks pass.  She is out of food, out of money.  Finally the local Confucian has her brought to his house.  He takes her in as a servant.  She is treated well.  She is grateful and happy.  In time the Confucian takes her as a concubine.  She falls in love.  For the first time in her life she loves a man.  They have a good life together.  They have a happy ending.”

He let me finish.  He even sat a few minutes to think about my story. 

“You give yourself a bigger role, but I think women will come to see the film.  I will talk with our screen writers and see what they think.  The dialog will be important.”

“Thank you.”

Two weeks later I had a new version of that script.  The screenwriters had written the story almost exactly as I had told it to Jiks.  My husband.  He had backed me up.  That felt pretty good.  No, it felt very good.  I felt the ring on my finger.  It might be a secret marriage, but it felt real enough.  I had a husband.

We went into rehearsals two weeks later.  The cast was assembled.  I recognized the man cast as the missionary.  He had done some work on American TV in the 90s.  Old.  Haggard.  A man who had hit far too many bars in his life.  Come to China for some quick money.  He was perfect for the part.  He did make a play for me after one rehearsal.  I kneed him in the groin.  He left me alone after that.  In truth, I think he was in the stage of his life where he preferred a bottle to a woman anyway.

We did the whole film at the studio.  Some long days, but we were all home in our own beds at night.  We got the missionary scenes done first so we could get the old American off the set.  Once he was gone, everyone seemed to get along better.  We were all more relaxed.  We all spoke Chinese, we had all worked together before, things just seemed to flow.  The film went to the editors two weeks earlier than scheduled. 

A couple final thoughts about that film.  Jiks surprised me by listing me as one of the screen writers.  I actually shouted when I saw it on the credit crawl.  And I was right about the film’s popularity.  Young women loved it.  I had overcome abuse and found love.  Young women found it reassuring.  They thronged the premiere and had a million comments to make.  I stood on the runway for over an hour talking to fans.  My fans.  Me in another skin-tight red dress looking like a real film star.  What a night.

At home, things were good, but not great.  Jiks treated me well, but he was still careful about sex.  In the shower he generally pushed me to my knees.  I didn’t mind pleasing him, but he knew what I really wanted.  In bed he wore a condom.  Every few weeks I was able to get him into a position I wanted, but it was clear my pregnancy would involve planning and a continuing struggle as he made up his mind about parenting.  Fine.  I had time.  I wasn’t going anywhere.

Evenings I was at his side at parties, at dinners.  I held his hand.  My left hand and that big ring were there for all to see.  Nothing said.  No need.  Me at his side, a ring on my finger.  That tells the story, doesn’t it?

There were times when two or three men would pull Jiks from me.  “Business talk.”  Fine.  I usually found a group of women, and we had lots to say.  An hour or so later Jiks would be back at my side, and we would work the room.  Good evenings.  Pleasant dinners.  Nice people.  Beautiful locations.  I liked being a star.  I was comfortable as a star.  I was confident as Jiks’ wife.  Life was good.  And then…