Chapter 45

I Meet Tiny Lady

 

How’s this for a twist?  I know it surprised the hell out of me.  Two months into post-production, Jiks called the cast back.  He wanted to reshoot the ending.  Who does that?  And why?  And yes, I know I was sleeping with the man.  Think he told me in advance?  Nope.  He disappeared in Beijing for a couple days and came back with a new agenda.  I thought he went up there to screw another actress, but apparently he had met with his “financial” people.  They wanted another ending, so he shot another ending.

The new ending?  In this version the other nurse and I rush to the Shanghai docks.  Us and the Communist troops.  Lots of shooting.  Bodies everywhere.  Some of the Nationalists grab a boat and escape.  Bullets flying as they head down river and out to sea.  But.  As the bodies are sorted out on shore, we find our two friends have somehow survived.  Not carried off, not injured, huddled together and crying, but then reunited with us.  We hug, we cry together.  It is a happy ending.

The cost of the scene?  I don’t know, but it had to be serious money.  Big cast of extras, lots of pretend explosions, boats racing down the Yangtse…  None of this is cheap.  But Jiks wanted it, and Jiks got it.  We spent a week on those docks and another week on a sound stage.  Now the film had a totally different ending.  You could still be pissed at the Nationalists for trying to take our two friends, but they were saved in the end.  Whatever music would be scored for the new ending, it would be very different from the drumbeat that would have been recorded for the previous ending.

Why the change?  I asked Jiks every night.  I asked at dinner.  I asked if we were at home sitting on our couch.  I asked in the car if we were off for some party or event.  And, of course, I asked in bed.  I held him, looked up at him, ran my fingers through his hair, and asked.  Why?  His answer?  He was doing what he needed to do.  My follow-up question?  Which ending would be released?  His answer?  It was still being determined.  I didn’t have to ask who would make that decision.  Obviously, it was not him or me. 

I emailed my mother about the new ending.  I was confident a much longer addition was added to my email and forwarded to Fort Meade.  Maybe there was enough information in that email to clarify things for the NSA.  Nothing was very clear to me.

About a week later, I got an invitation to an event.  Party members only.  A “salute” to China’s artistic prowess.  In Beijing of course.  At the Great Hall of the People.  I flew up earlier in the day.  Time in my hotel room to change into a formal red gown.  Not quite what I might wear on a runway, but close.   Floor length, sleeveless, scoop-necked (but not too deeply scooped), form-fitting (and maybe too tight, but I had noticed no one wore Mao jackets anymore, and I did represent the cinema, so they shouldn’t be too shocked if I showed a bit of ass.)  I did my best work on my hair and makeup and kept the driver waiting before going down.  Yes, a bit of a prima donna, but they had invited me.  What did they expect?

There was a bit of a reception line at the Great Hall.  A hand to help me out of the car (I needed it.  The skirt was not easy to move in).  Far too many steps, then another reception line inside the Hall.  Every woman wore red.  Every man wore black.  Every chest sported a Party button.  I shook hands with people I had never seen before.  I heard names I instantly forgot.  I finished the line, happy to see Sheng waiting for me.  Waiting, and looking.  And wanting.  I was pretty sure how this evening would end.  Good for me.  I just needed to get through a few hours of art, and I would be where I wanted to be.

I took Sheng’s arm and let him lead me to a huge atrium.  Three story ceiling, stonework everywhere, crystal chandeliers.  My feet glided over marble.  Waiters offered finger food and champagne.  Karl Marx would have had a heart attack.  Good.  Crazy old man.  We modern Communists knew how to party.

This particular party?  Easily a thousand people wandering through exhibits.  Artwork hung from carefully lighted temporary partitions.  Quartets performed in every corner.  Ancient poets recited to audiences of ten or twelve.  And, against a far wall, a projector showed a piece of my last film - we girls doing laundry and dreaming of our futures.  It seemed to recycle every five minutes.  Pretty girls on display, talking of a future every member of the Party knew to be as beautiful as the girls since, after all, the Party led the people so well.

I held Sheng’s arm and wandered, a champagne flute in my hand.  I was the youngest woman at the event.  Youngest by at least two decades.  Others had worked far harder and far longer to earn admission.  I felt no guilt over cutting to the head of the line.  I was here because they wanted me in the Party.  They had their reasons for asking.  I had my reasons for accepting.  My price for admission would come if I ever returned to the US. 

I’m not sure what more to say about the exhibits.  The artwork was interesting.  The music very good.  The poetry readings were, well, probably excellent to people who spoke better Chinese than me.  Sheng and I stood here and there, looked at this, listened to that, snacked on very fine food, and drank more champagne. 

A couple hours passed.  I wondered how many trips around the room were expected of me.  Sheng seemed to be in no hurry.  I didn’t ask the obvious question – your room or mine?  I was confident he would take me somewhere. And I was confident I would enjoy whatever he had planned.  I just needed patience.

And eventually I needed the bathroom.  Sheng led me to the general vicinity.  I pushed my way into a stall and carefully lifted a very tight skirt.  I came out of my stall to find four women staring at me.  Three big women, one tiny woman.  The three big women were in their twenties or thirties, dressed in red, but in much looser skirts.  They also wore matching jackets that seemed to have large pockets.  I saw one of them move to the bathroom door, lock it, and stand with her back to it.  The other two women stood on either side of the tiny lady, hands at their sides, looking like Marines on guard duty.

The tiny lady was ancient.  Had to be in her eighties or nineties.  She was standing on platform shoes that gave her an extra three or four inches, but she was bent so far forward she seemed to give the inches right back.  Maybe she was five feet tall.  Her red dress had probably been tailored for her when she was five two.  Now it seemed to hang on her.  It had long sleeves with cuffs that covered part of her palms, maybe to cushion the hands that each held a cane.

Face?  Lots of makeup couldn’t hide the underlying skin tone.  Life had left that face years earlier.  Left was a tiny mouth, wrinkles across her upper lip, and eyes that were hidden under folds of skin.  Eyes like embers hidden under ash.  Eyes that never left my face.

“Take off your shoes, please.”

I hesitated.  Had I heard her correctly?  But then I understood.  I am just five six, but I was wearing four-inch heels.  I towered above her.  I leaned back against a wall and unbuckled my shoes.  The floor was cold.  She approached.  Slowly.  I could see her pressing up on her canes, gaining maybe an inch or two.  But she was still shorter than me.  Not something she would accept.

She stood close, then put aside her canes and took hold of my thighs.  Her ancient fingers were like claws.  She grasped me and pushed down.  As my knees buckled, I slid down the wall.  Down until we stood eye to eye, then down another inch or so.  I was now looking up at her.  My response?  My hands went to her shoulders.  I held her, maybe to prevent an attack from her, maybe to keep her ancient bones from falling over. 

“You are an attractive woman.”

She took my chin between her thumb and index finger.  She moved my face from side to side, studying me.  I felt her hips press against mine.  I smelled lilac perfume and old age.  Obviously, I was curious about the woman holding my face.

“May I ask your name?”

Seemed a reasonable request.  Obviously she was a party member, and obviously she warranted a large bodyguard.  Someone famous.  Maybe famous enough for me to know.

“In time, you might do a film about me.”

Her fingers kept their grip on my chin.  I guess I had just gotten all the answer I was going to get.

“I have looked at your pictures.”  She paused so I had time to understand which pictures she meant.  “Sheng says you did not resist.  Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“You should resist a little.  Play with them.  You have so much power over them.  Use it.”

She moved her fingers from my chin to my cheek.  I felt a slight tremor as she touched me.

“If I were much younger, I would move you to my home.”

She kissed me on the lips.  A brief kiss.  A dry kiss.  Her eyes watched me as she did it.  I wondered if she was teasing me.

“You prefer men.  Traditional.  Marriage.  Children.  Which will it be – Sheng or Jiks?”

“Jiks.”

“Yes, much better choice.  He wanders, but not too far.  And he is obedient.  He knows his place in the world.  You have talked of children?”

“He says he is too old.”

“Is he?”

She had a wide grin.  She moved her hand from my cheek and showed a finger straight, then limp.

“No, not too old.  Not like that.  But too old for children in his life.”

“They won’t be in his life.  They will be in yours.  You will bear them, you will care for them, you will wipe their butts and their noses.  He will read the occasional bedtime story and spend his evenings fucking actresses.”

“I have asked him.  He has said no.”

“He is obedient.  He will make you pregnant when we tell him.”

Her fingers were back on my cheek.  Her hips pressed against mine.  I could feel her warmth.  I wondered if she would kiss me again.

“You have been helpful to us.  And we have made you rich and famous.  It is a fair trade.”

“I did not come here to be rich or famous.  I came here for the love of a man.”

“He married another, yet you stayed on.”

“There can be love outside of marriage.”

“Three nights a week.”

She smiled at me and moved her hand into my hair.  She used her grip on my hair to pull herself close and kiss me again.  Still brief.  Still dry.  Still followed by her eyes studying me.

“You sent me Jiks?”

“We owed you that for your help with our cars.  And you look good on camera.  The numbers on your tourism videos were impressive.  Mary Motor Pool.  The face of America.  Now the face of China.”

“Now the face of the Party.  Whether I wish it or not.”

“The Party gives you Jiks and Sheng.  It will give you a family very soon.”

“I wish Jiks to be my husband because that is what he wishes.  I want him to be the father of my children.  Children he will love and care for.”

“You will have that.  You deserve that.”

Her fingers were in my hair, her hips were pressed against mine, her lips nearly touched mine.  A moment of intimacy.  A moment of intensity.  But.  A key word – “but.”  Do you ever get that?  You are listening to someone, and you know the next word from them will be “but”?  She wasn’t done with me.  I would hear the word.

“We ask a favor.” 

She paused.  Maybe I was to ask about the favor.  I didn’t.  No need.  She would tell me what she wanted.

“You have been in China over three years.  I am sure your poor mother misses you.  We ask that you visit her.  We have put even more money in your bank account there.  Spend it.  Enjoy it.  Buy clothes and eat cheeseburgers.  Sit with your mother and tell her of China.”

“I have no wish to leave China, or Jiks.  My life is here.”

“Good answer.  You will be a good wife.  But you are also a Party member.  You will obey the Party.”

I looked up into eyes that were somehow brighter, more intense.  She was used to having her orders followed.   I understood this conversation had waited until they had three levels of control over me.  I felt her breath on my face and her hips pressed against mine. 

“Please don’t ask this of me.”

“You will do as the Party orders.”

“How long must I stay in America?”

“A week.  Maybe two.  Time to talk with your mother.  Time to speak with others.”

“And who else should I tell of China?”

“I am sure you will have visitors.  Old friends.  They will want to talk.  They will be especially interested in your newest film I think.”

“Which ending will they want to learn about?”

“Both.  They will want to know about both.”

She smiled – and kissed me again.  Longer, her hand now at the back of my head holding my mouth to hers.  A victory kiss, I think.  She had gotten what she wanted.  Now she celebrated.  I noticed she closed her eyes.  I felt her hips press hard against me.  She breathed slowly, and carefully.  I waited.  I didn’t think she was quite done with me yet.

“Someday I may send you an invitation to visit me.  Would you come?”

“Yes.”

It was the right answer with three large women staring at me.  It was the right answer to an old lady who wanted a friend.

“I will treat you well.”  She kept her face close to mine.  She wanted me to see sincerity.  “But for tonight I return you to Sheng.  Enjoy him.  Let him take more pictures, if you wish.  I enjoy them.”

She retrieved her canes and moved to the door.  Two of her guards preceded her.  One stayed behind long enough to make sure I stayed against the wall until they were gone.  I waited, then buckled my shoes again.  So much taller.  But somehow not as big as Tiny Lady.  I doubt she weighed ninety pounds, but she had commanded that room.  She certainly had commanded me.  She punched her canes into that floor, already heading out toward her next challenge.  I will admit it.  I was in awe of her.