Chapter 42

The Forbidden City

 

I missed the next Writer’s Academy meeting.  Jiks wouldn’t let me go.  We were in the midst of shooting Siberian Solace, and it was not going well.  And yes, much of the problem was me.  That opening scene where my employer takes me to the brothel?  We did five or six walk throughs and six takes before Jiks decided enough was enough and he would use one of the takes.  The problem?  They hired a real Russian to be my employer.  What an ass.  His grip on my wrist?  Painful.  And I was sure he intended it to hurt.  I resisted.  Hell, I wanted to punch the guy.  But Jiks insisted a Russian servant might object, but in the end she would be servile.  Maybe.  Maybe not.  I wanted to play it rough.  I wanted her to fight every step.  Jiks pulled me aside, told me to calm down, look sad, maybe cry, but go along.  Hmm. 

It was an important scene, but not worth more than three days on set.  I don’t think Jiks was the only one tired of how I was reacting.  And, truth be told, the better scenes were ahead.  Me in the brothel (no on-screen nudity or sex, but lots left to the imagination), and then the fight scenes.  Actually I wanted to see the fight scenes too.  I liked the idea of seeing my “employer” get his ass kicked by the kung foo guys.  Yes, it was all fake fighting, but I do know some of the kicks landed.  The Russians definitely wanted the fight scenes done in a single take.

So, we were very busy, and I missed the monthly Academy gathering.  And I missed Sheng.  I missed him far more than I should have.  Wonderful lover, but it had just been two nights of passion.  Definitely nights to remember, but they were behind me now, weren’t they?  Maybe he would give me another “tour” when I was next in Beijing, but maybe he wouldn’t.  Maybe my answer to “now what” was friendly smiles and a warm handshake as he saw me at meetings.  Could be.  Who knew?  I certainly didn’t.

So I missed one meeting and did my job.  I went to the studio every morning and home to Jiks every night.  I cooked, I cleaned, I gave Jiks sex in whatever form he wanted.  I was a good wife.  He was a fairly faithful husband.  We settled into our old routine.  Parties, dinners, smiles and expensive gowns.  We did the Shanghai social scene.  Hell, we led the scene.  He had his following, I had one too.  Mine was smaller but growing.  People who tracked such things (our huge PR department) told me my social media presence was becoming significant.  Not a super star, but enough to ensure there was buzz about our new film.

Fine.  Another month passed, and another invitation arrived.  This time Jiks let me go.  Back to Beijing, and back to…  Well, I had no idea what I was going back to.  Maybe two days of old men reading old poems.

That’s exactly what I got the first day.  Words I often didn’t understand, and phrases I could not appreciate.  I was hearing the best poetry in China, and I might as well have been deaf.  My loss.  I sat in my back row chair, listened carefully, and applauded when the other members applauded.

Late in the afternoon the recital wrapped up.  Time for a group dinner.  I followed along, wondering what corner of the room they might sit me in.  And then I saw Sheng.  Beautiful, big chested, wide shouldered Sheng.  The same suit coat he had held around my shoulders, the same tie I had pulled from around his neck, the same pants… Well, you get the idea.  I stopped, I looked, and I wondered – now what?

“You look lovely, Mary.  Keep wearing red.  It looks good on you, and good in your position.”

I was in red silk, and this time I was showing more chest and a bit of knee.  Still formal, but, well, you know what I was trying for.  And of course the minute I got off the morning plane I had freshened my makeup and recombed my hair, my face framed, my long hair across my back.  I stood still and let him look.  One thing about being in films.  I was getting better at letting men look.  I certainly wanted this man to look.

“Thank you.”

Should I have said more?  Like, feel free to take my silk off, the sooner the better?  If he was paying attention, he would have already seen that in my eyes.  So, I stood, looked, waited, and wondered, you know, what next?

“The banquet will be excellent, but I wonder if you might rather see a bit of Beijing instead.” 

Hell yes.  And jump me any time.  But that’s not what a lady says.  So I said very different words, hoping they would ultimately get me to the same place.

“I would love to see more of Beijing.  Thank you for offering.”

He smiled, I smiled, two good friends off to see the sights.  Where did we go?  Just a few blocks.  The Forbidden City.  Big crowds, endless tourists.  Tiananmen Square was packed.  Eight or ten football fields in size, all waiting to cross the street into the Forbidden City.  Did I want to see the ancient palace?  Sure.  Some day.  But the palace had been there centuries.  It could wait a bit longer for my visit.  I wanted Sheng.  Alone.  Naked.  Someplace for just the two of us, not us and about a million others.

This might have been the time for me to remind Sheng I had a hotel room.  Happy to take a tour of that room.  It certainly would have been my preference.  Not very subtle.  And maybe not appropriate.  So, I kept my mouth shut and sedately walked beside him, up the street from the People’s Hall and into the Forbidden City.  Me and a fairly large portion of the world’s population.

The Forbidden City?  You’ve seen it.  Huge wall, a surrounding moat, a picture of Mao over the Tiananmen Gate.  Sheng had tickets.  We entered.  Tourists had their cameras out, their faces covered by their phones.  Phones up, they walked into the first open spaces, looked at the major palaces, cameras recording every step they took.

Sheng let them pass.  We stood.  We looked.  He talked.  Briefly.  1400s, Ming and Qing dynasties, almost a thousand buildings, built by a million workers, taken by the British and French during the Opium wars, lost by the Dowager empress in 1900 and by the final emperor – Puyi in 1924.  History.  And some architecture – how the buildings were built to impress - to intimidate.  Foreigners were to be humbled.  Okay.  I guess I was humbled.  But I was also impatient.  Sheng, get me out of this crowd.  Get me some place private.  I promise you will be pleased.

He talked, I stared, I waited and of course wondered – was this really going to be a history tour?  The palace was fascinating, but well, I was hot for the guy.  Sorry.  I just was.  Was he?  What came next with this guy?  More talk?  A very formal, very complete tour?  Would there be a quiz at the end?  I didn’t know.  I stood, I listened, I waited.

A thousand buildings.  I stood inside the first, then finally crossed another open area and climbed the stairs to the second palace.  At the rate I was moving, we would take about a year just to see a dozen buildings.  Sheng gave me some additional description.  He seemed in no hurry to move on.  A thousand buildings.  We had now seen two.  Mostly he stood at my side and waited.  And, at some point he let me take his hand.

Two things happened over time.  Tourist numbers seemed to drop.  The city was closing for the day.  No more admissions.  And second, we walked into the endless rows of residences.  Long, one story wooden buildings where thousands had lived.  Some were special.  We looked into the Empress Dowager’s residence.  Small, really.  A small yard.  A shade tree.  A source of power hidden among hundreds of other residences.  Sheng talked a bit.  I listened, but mostly I looked.  I tried to feel her world.  A woman ruling a nation from a tiny set of rooms buried in a jumble of other tiny rooms.

We moved on.  At some point I was aware that we were alone.  We wandered through the residences, row after row after row.  A slow walk along wooden buildings centuries old.  Most were closed – locked, visible through windows only.   We walked, we looked, Sheng made a comment now and again, but mostly we enjoyed silence.  Twenty-first century ghosts wandering through homes built and used seven centuries.  Silence seemed the right response.  I held his hand.  I looked at the residences, but I also looked up and down the alleys as we walked.  Fewer and fewer tourists.  I was finally getting my time alone with him.

He had a destination.  That was clear.  No hurry on his part, but no random touring either.  Off in a corner.  Up an alley.  Under a row of oaks.  A long row of residences.  All locked.  He led me to one and pulled out a key. 

I stepped inside and wondered if it had been last used in 1924.  Maybe by a lady friend of Puyi (he was just a boy when forced out, but the place did have a feminine feel).  The bed was huge.  Mahogany.  Darkly lacquered.  A headboard that reached the ceiling.  A footboard almost as tall.  A frame held side curtains.  They had been parted to show embroidered pillows and comforters.  There was also a table in the room.  And a picnic basket.  So, the man had planned for this.  I felt much better.

I stood by the bed.  My time had come.  Finally.  Except it didn’t.  He made me wait.  He stood and looked at me.  Like an examination.  No words.  Just him staring.  I let him look.  I even turned a full circle so he could see all of me, my skirt rising slightly as I turned, my hands at my hips pulling my skirt around.  Did he like what he saw?  I thought so.  I hoped so.  I waited for a word.  A sign.  Short of throwing myself back onto the bed, I wasn’t sure what more I was to do.

Finally, I stepped into his arms.  Last time I had undressed him.  Time to do it again?  No.  I reached up toward his shoulders, but he pushed my hands down at his waist while his arms wrapped around my shoulders and held me tight.  Very tight.  I studied his face.  I rose on my toes to kiss him.  He put a hand into my hair and held my head.  He bent my head back and kissed me.  A long kiss.  Forceful.  His mouth took mine.  His other arm pulled me tighter.  I couldn’t move.  I could barely breathe.  He took me.  He held me.

He kept me helpless in his arms, his mouth still on mine.  Time passed.  The two of us alone in a room, alone in a palace quickly emptying of people.  My realization emerging.  He would do what he wanted with me.  I had initiated sex last time.  This time would be his.  It would take whatever form he wished.

He undressed me.  Slowly.  The sun had gotten lower in the sky.  The shadows of the oaks lengthened and darkened the room.  My clothing came off one item at a time forming a puddle around my ankles.  I reached up for his tie, my turn to undress him, but he brushed my hand away.  He pulled his tie free, moved my hands behind my back, and bound my wrists.  And he stared at me.  A naked woman standing in that ancient room.  I stood, he looked.  He touched my hair, pulling it a bit more over my shoulders, a bit more over my face and over one breast.  He left it like that.  He looked.  I stood.  His to do with as he wished.

He pulled his phone from his pocket.  His camera.  He took a dozen pictures.  A video.  He moved me a bit.  More pictures.  He pushed me back onto the bed.  Pictures in multiple positions.  On my back.  Then on my stomach, my face turned back over my shoulder, looking up at him.  So many pictures.  I lay still.  I waited.  I wondered – as always – now what?

He sat on the side of the bed and slowly reviewed his pictures.  He turned the camera so I could see a few.  I said nothing.  I waited.  Eventually he set the camera aside and undressed.  He spread my legs and lay over me.

“No.  You won’t fuck me like this, Sheng.  Not with my wrists bound.  I am not your sex slave.  I am your lover.”

“Mary, this is important.  You belong to me now.  You can go home to your film director and your studio, but you will know you belong to me.”

“I was yours on the Wall.  You needn’t do any of this.”

“All of this is needed.”

His arms tightened around me, his mouth lowered onto mine, and he entered me.  He fucked me, my wrists bound and helpless.  He fucked me.  I lay still and felt him take me.  Lying in that ancient bed, closed up in a room five or six centuries old, alone with him.  He took me.  And he was right.  I was his in a whole new way.  Unable to move.  And not wishing to move.  I felt his arms, and his kiss, and his heat.  I heard myself moan.  And I heard myself tell him I loved him.

When he was done, he slid to one side, his arms still around me, his mouth still on mine.  We rested.  Waited while the last of the light left the room.  Complete darkness.  I could feel his arms.  I could hear him breathe.  I could not see him.

“Mary, tomorrow morning you will find a form at your place in the auditorium.  An application to join the Chinese Communist Party.  You will sign it.”

I shifted under him.  He felt me move and tightened his grip around my shoulders.

“Trust, Mary.  Tomorrow three things will happen to increase our trust in you.  First, we will move money from your Shanghai bank to your bank in Wisconsin.  A million dollars into your account.  A hundred thousand to your mother.  She has been forwarding your mail.  She deserves to be paid for her efforts.”

“You will alert every agency in Washington.”  

“Our concern is the agency at Fort Meade.  They will see, and we think they will understand.”

“But.”

He put a hand over my mouth.

“A time to listen, Mary.  A time to listen carefully.”

He paused, even took the time to kiss me and play with my hair.

“You were compromised by the drawings you brought from Ford and the money you received.  Now you will also be compromised by these photographs.  They are beautiful by the way.  You are a lovely woman.  Copies will be sent to agencies that will keep them on file.  They may pull them out from time to time to enjoy them, but the main purpose is to remind you that the pictures can be used.  They will trust you more knowing they have that control over you.”

He kept his hand over my mouth.  No words from me, and a long time before there were more words from him.  He wanted me to absorb his message.  Absorb, understand, and accept.

“Your party membership will be the third important act.  An act of allegiance.  A bond between you and your new country.  A bond that may be interpreted harshly in your former country.  It will weaken those bonds while strengthening your bonds here.”

I wish I could describe his face as he said this.  Calm.  He was announcing a calamity in my life as if he were describing a restaurant selection.  I saw no evil satisfaction in his face.  No animosity.  It was a simple act he was trying to clarify for me.  I twisted my head to one side, and he removed his hand.

“I won’t sign.”

“You will.

“You can’t make me.”

“We don’t need to force you.  You will sign willingly.”

“No I won’t.”

He played with my hair and kissed me, his arms still holding me close.

“Sleep, Mary.  Sleep.  We will talk more in the morning when you are rested.”

He slowly stroked my hair.  Long, slow strokes.  Endless strokes.  His hand seemed to go on forever.  And in time, I slept.