Dancers on The Midway

Chapter 1

Mao Is Dead. Long Live Mao.

James

Chairman Mao stares back at me, but it is not the same Chairman Mao who looks out over Tiananmen Square from the walls of the Forbidden City or the Mao who graces the 100 Yuan banknote. It is a painting of Mao in a pink uniform and it hangs in a series of three. In the second, by the painter Yu Youhan, Mao’s hair is blond. In the third, his face is orange, his features are softened to appear effeminate. This trilogy dominates the gallery and is the most important work on display.

“What do you see?” Lisa asks me.

I want to say ‘Mao in drag,’ but art is a serious subject with Lisa, and I would be sleeping alone tonight. She looks good dressed in a plaid wool skirt, black tights, and a dark sweater. Like many Beijing women, she is tall and wears her hair to her shoulders.

But her eyes are her best feature. They are large and almond shaped with dark brown irises that seem to sparkle when she smiles.

I think carefully about my response as tonight is another of Lisa’s tests. It is still early in our relationship. We are at a gallery on Hollywood Road for the opening of a show commemorating the 10th anniversary of the Stars Exhibit in Beijing. The original show is recognized in art circles as the birth of contemporary Chinese art. Tonight’s exhibit features the artists who participated in the original exhibition in Bei Hai Park in 1979, including Wang Keping, Fang Lijun, Wang Guangyi, and Ai Wei Wei. The founder of the Stars Group, Huang Rui, has traveled to Hong Kong for the opening.

I have spent the last weeks passing similar tests, not that Lisa sees them as such. In her mind, she is civilizing the ‘foreign devil,’ ‘the big nose,’ the ‘barbarian.’ The tests reaffirm for her that we have a future together, that it is worth the risk and the pain that will inevitably come because, as she reminds me, “the beautiful Chinese princess cannot fall in love with the handsome American barbarian.” I am now learning Mandarin. I have progressed to the point where I can introduce myself, although Lisa complains that my tones are not clear and that I do not roll my ‘Rs’ as they do in Beijing. I have read the Journey to the West and the Outlaws of the Marsh and will complete the remaining great Chinese classics. I know the dates of the 13 Chinese dynasties in order starting with the Xia Dynasty. I can tell you the date of the founding of the Communist Party of China and the major Party “milestones” since its founding in 1932. I can name all the members of the Standing Committee and the mayors of Beijing, Tianjin, and Shanghai. And when I falter or complain, Lisa will point to the scroll hanging on her living room wall.

Be resolute, fear no sacrifice, and surmount every difficulty to win victory.

“Mao is dead,” I say surprising myself. “Long live Mao,”

When Lisa smiles, I know I have not embarrassed myself. She grabs my arm and guides me to a series of wood carvings against the far wall. They are dark and polished to a bright sheen, each one constructed of irregular shapes rounded and stacked to represent the human form.

“These are by Wang Keping, a sculptor who made his name by exhibiting a bloated face with a cork in its mouth.”, Lisa says. I wonder if I will ever understand modern Chinese art.

We stroll through the rest of the exhibit until we are back at the trilogy of Mao portraits.

“Do you like it?” Lisa asks her attention on the first of the three paintings.

“It is a powerful political statement.”

‘It is so much more than that,” she says. “It is a conversation, one that began in 1919, when students in Beijing protested against the terms of the Treaty of Versailles granting Shandong

Province to Japan. The May 4 Movement forced us to consider how the adoption of Western technology and culture would change China. Do we lose some important element of our Chinese identity in so doing?”

She is pointing at Mao with blond hair. “In 1949, when the Party took over, the conversation stopped as all artists in China were compelled to adhere to the Party line on art. During the 1950s, this meant adopting Soviet-style social realism’ and during the Cultural Revolution, a style called ‘revolutionary romanticism.’ ”

“How does this portrait of Mao with blond hair carry the conversation forward?”

She turns to me. ” As children, we were taught that Chairman Mao was more important to us than our parents. Chairman Mao would provide for us; behind him we would defeat the West and better the world. Without him, we would have nothing. So when Mao died, it was as if our father had died. One million people filed past his flag-draped coffin laid at the Great Hall of the People to pay their final respects. But more than grief, there was a sense of fear for the uncertainty of the future without our father. Our future was clear, and then in a single moment, it all changed”.

The Chairman looks down at me from high on the wall. His hair is curly, and he would fit well in a gallery in Santa Monica or North Beach. I can imagine how shocking this portrait would be to someone who has grown up to see Mao as their father.

She pauses and steps back from the wall. “Now is a special time for Chinese art. These artists pose important questions for people to think about.”

“What is a modern China?” I ask. She smiles and I wonder whether she will invite me back to her flat later.

“Over 5000 years of civilization, and we are still asking this question. How do we modernize and integrate into the world without sacrificing our Chinese identity?”

“Isn’t Hong Kong the model? One country, two systems?” I ask.

“Which of these three Maos do you like?” Lisa asks

“The Blonde Mao is the strangest of the three, the most disturbing.”

“I have a place for the blond Chairman in my living room. My communist parents would be horrified,” she laughs as she turns to find the gallery owner.

Chapter 2

Water

Lisa

“Hello,” James says, giving me a little wave as he walks up the road. I wait for him at the trail head near Hong Kong Park View. He wears a long-sleeved shirt with the letters ‘SU’ printed in red, black running shorts, and a cap with a tree on the front. He looks good and my breathing quickens as I kiss him on the cheek.

We had met a few weeks earlier at an art gallery where a Shanghai painter was opening a show. He asked me what I thought of the work, and I replied that “all good Chinese art makes a political statement, but not this.”, which led to a conversation on Chinese art and a dinner date.

We have both been in Hong Kong for less than a year. James arrived in Hong Kong last summer from the Philippines, where he spent two and a half years as a UN Volunteer living in the mountains of Northern Luzon. He works as an analyst for a hedge fund that invests in Asian equities. I came from London, after two years reading physics at St. Catherine’s College in Cambridge, as I will not return to Beijing. Today, I will meet his two closest friends. It is a step forward in a relationship that for me is unexpected and that I am not sure can last. Ours is an uncertain chemistry as James is from America and I am from China. Not only does culture stand between us, but so does politics as my parents are ardent members of the Communist Party.

Heather and Guy are waiting for us further up the trail. She stands about 5 foot 8 and wears her long blonde hair back in a ponytail. Her blue eyes have a look of amusement as we approach and she smiles and extends her hand to me.

“Heather. Guy. Please meet Lisa.” James introduces us.

“Hello,” they respond together.

“Lisa is from Beijing, attended Cambridge, and works for Minmetals. I’ve already told her how wonderful Heather is and what a dog you are, Guy.”

“Hello,” I reply, a bit embarrassed.

James has told me that Heather was in in his class at Stanford and had made her way to Hong Kong with Lehman Brothers. Heather grew up on a farm and was CaliforniaWomen’s Rodeo Champion and California Rodeo Queen at eighteen. You can see her athleticism from the way she moves, almost gliding up the trail. Guy also works for Lehman Brothers and attended Yale. His mother is Chinese, and his father is Caucasian. He has his mother’s looks.

James hugs Heather, and we pass the barrier and onto the trail. Guy, Heather, and James walk the Hong Kong trails every Saturday morning to prepare for a trip to Nepal in December. I have not done much walking so James has selected a easy hike through the Shek O Country Park to Big Wave Bay where there is a small Thai restaurant for lunch. We walk up the trail heading North towards Jardine’s Lookout. It is early, the day is cool for April, and the walking is easy.

Guy and James discuss the preparations for the climb in Nepal in December. Heather and I follow, with Heather pointing out some of the features visible from the trail. It is a clear and we see the planes make the big turn around Checkerboard Hill before dropping down to the runway at Kai Tak airport. We talk mostly about Cambridge and London, a city she knows well. She asks me if I know her best friend who was at Cambridge when I was, but I do not recognize the name.

The trail steepens, and we are walking through what seems like a tunnel of vegetation, so there is very little to see. The sun is higher now and sweat is running down my neck. We turn right to Big Wave Bay at a junction and descend. The trail ends at distance marker H100 just outside the village at Big Wave Bay, where we celebrate by taking a picture.

I lie on the beach towel with my legs stretched out and my head rests on James’s thigh. Heather is lying next to me with her hat covering her face while Guy waits at the Thai place for our number to be called. The waves are large and the lifeguards have posted signs warning of the undertow. A few surfers bob up and down on their boards waiting to catch one of the big waves that roll in and crash with a crack on the large rocks that line the sides of the small bay.

James lifts the brim of my cap, “What are you thinking?”

“We are having a perfect day.”

“Yes,” he replies. “We are having the perfect day. Can we stay here forever?”

“No. We cannot stay here forever.”

“Why not?” he asks.

“Because I am starving,” I say and pull my cap back down with a grimace.

***

We ride the number 9 bus from Shek-O, passing through the Chai Wan Gap into Central. We have an appointment in Sheung Wan. We sit on the second level of the bus in the first row, next to the big glass window on the front of the bus. We ride above the trees and can see the water below us where the Pacific ocean meets the shoreline. James sits with his feet against the front, knees against his chest, his arms wrapped around his knees to steady himself as the bus navigates the road’s curves. He is looking straight ahead through the large window.

“Well, did I pass?” I ask him.

“Pass?”

“It was a test, right?”.

He continues to look straight ahead, smiling.

“Yes. It was a test,” he says. “Let me give you your marks. Guy is in love with you. Heather thinks you are way cool. And you did great on the hike. High marks all around.”

I laugh and dig my elbow into his side. His sense of humor is one of the things that draws me to him.

We get off the bus in Admiralty and cross the street to the MTR, where we get on the blue line train. We get off at Sai Yin Pun station, and walk a few minutes to a traditional building with a shop on the ground floor and three floors above it. I press one of the buttons by the door, and we are buzzed in.

I am taking James to have our fortune told. We walk up the wooden stairs to the third floor,where an elderly Chinese woman waits for us. She is in her late 60s, dressed in the black socks and white shirt that many of the women of her generation prefer. Her hair is gray with a few strands of black, and she wears it pulled back in a bun. Her skin is smooth except around her eyes, where there are a few wrinkles. She is quite attractive and has a certain authority about her.

I sit in the chair that fronts a large wooden table on which are stacked several volumes of books and scrolls. James sits behind me. A large Chinese calligraphy hangs behind the table, and several pictures of the Buddha are on the walls. The overall effect is one of taste and sophistication, in contrast with the building’s exterior.

The woman sits opposite us and asks me the date of Jame’s birth.

“What is your birthday?” I ask him.

“You know my birthday.”

“She needs to hear it from you.”

“April 24th 1960”

Lisa confirms it for the woman, who reaches for one of the large books on her desk and traces down a large table of data using her finger. She searches for a specific page in the book and takes several minutes to study it.

“She is reading from the Zi Wei Dou Shu or Purple Star Astrology,” I tell James quietly. “It is the study of destiny and uses the position of the cosmos at the time of one’s birth to make determinations about the future.”

The woman speaks, and I translate for James. “You were born on the 20th day of the third lunar month, which makes you a Pig.”

“Pigs are bright with an agile mind and high aptitude. And you are born of the Earth. Earth is your element, the element of harvesttime, abundance, nourishment, fertility. It is the symbol of balance and stability.

“North is your lucky direction; you should sleep with your head toward the North and keep the north side windows open. Your lucky colors are black and yellow, and you should avoid wearing blue. Your lucky numbers are 2, 3, 6 & 13, and according to the charts, your lucky flower is the lily”.

The woman stops, looks at James, and asks me a question before flipping through the book to a new page. A long conversation follows that I do not translate. I wonder if James discerns the look of concern on the older woman’s face. She is sitting upright and runs her index finger back and forth across the page as if to confirm what she is reading.

We make our way down the stairs to the street and turn towards Hong Kong University.

” You know I didn’t understand any of that,” James says. ” Did she have any tips for tomorrow’s race? Like Lucky Star in the 7th race”?

“She is not that kind of fortune teller.” I say. I am still trying to process all that she said. Some of it was concerning.

“What kind of fortunes does she tell?” he asks.

” She read our future.”

“You and me?” he asks.

“It seemed prudent to know in advance how much pain you are going to cause me.” I smile to let him know that I am joking. Maybe.

We walk up a set of stairs and reach a small pond, where we sit on a bench. Dragonflies zip back and forth over the pond, and we sit in the shade of an old banyan tree. There is a slight breeze from the harbor and it is nice on my back.

“The Zi Wei Dou Shu is based on the lunar calendar and the position of the night sky. It is not an infallible guide as to what will happen, but more a way of exploring future possibilities.” I continue. “The knowledge about these future possibilities allows one to gauge the situation in advance and make decisions from a position of clarity. ”

” What are our future possibilities?” Are we going to marry? Have five children.

” Nothing so certain.” I answer. “It is a theory of relationships, how different elements interact. Each of the five elements of Water, Fire, Earth, Wood, and Metal have properties that are associated with them. How these elements interact is the foundation of Chinese astrology.” I pause to confirm that he understands.

“You are born of the Earth. In Chinese teachings, Earth is associated with patience, thoughtfulness, practicality, and worry. The earth element is also nurturing and seeks to draw all things together with itself to bring harmony. It is the season of Spring.”

“So, I am the perfect boyfriend; patient, reliable, stable, empathetic.” he says.

“Except Water is my dominant element,” I reply. “And the interaction between Earth and Water is complicated.”

“Water is the source of life. Water can flow, infinitely y ielding yet infinitely powerful, silent and still, ever-changing. Water will nourish and cleanse, yet it is often dangerous. Water indicates a person is wise and intelligent and capable of thinking clearly. But, as the Zhe Wei Dou Shu cautions – people with “excess” water have difficulty maintaining balance.”

“So, the interaction between Water and Earth is a problem?” he asks.

“It is complex. Water nourishes Earth, so that is a positive. But Earth can absorb water, blocking its flow. And water can cover Earth and, in so doing, wash it away. ‘We’ are complicated.”

“ You seem concerned,” he says.

“At the end, after reading our fortune, she said that there would be a death.” I am not sure I should tell him this.

“You or me?” he asks.

“Just a death. Not necessarily us. She could not or would not say more.”

He is quiet for a few moments, his back straight and his eyes focused on the dragon flies hovering above the pond.

“Is this something you do with all your boyfriends?”

“I’ve never had a boyfriend,” I say shaking my head.

“You never dated in high school?” He seems surprised.

“I never went to high school. I was shipped off to the countryside to tend pigs and make bricks”. He understands from my tone that we will not continue this conversation.

“One last question?” he asks.

“Yes?”

“Did I pass the test?” he asks and pulls me closer.

“It seems so.” I say, as I slip my arm through his and we start up the hill.