The Cult of Mao

THE

CULT OF MAO

A Novel

James Suriano

Copyright © 2017 James Suriano

All rights reserved.

Distributed by Smashwords

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

For my grandfather, my Sui

Also by James Suriano

Inbiotic

The Antarcticans

Dark

Aeon

To Catch a Breath

Truco (2018)

"A man who conquers himself is greater than a man

who conquers a thousand men in battle."

—Buddha

Table of Contents

1. Awakenings

2. Down to the Countryside

3. Journey

4. Touch

5. A Familiar Boy

6. Giving Gifts

7. Past Transgressions

8. Praise

9. Tipping Hands

10. The Khelidiam Society

11. Neglect

12. Secrets

13. Red Guards

14. King of the Fireflies

15. Escape

16. Open Water

17. The Shā Yú

18. Forbidden Country

19. Francis

20. The Chance of Destiny

21. The Khelidiam Society

22. The Past Is Never Behind Us

23. Starting Again

24. Mothers

25. Letter of Truth

Afterword

About the Author

Awakenings

The first time I heard Chairman Mao’s name—I mean, really heard it—was in 1968, when I was ten years old. The Chairman was at the height of his popularity in China at this time. Until he appeared in my life, I was more worried about where my friends were meeting up in Shanghai to try to stir up trouble, or finding out the name of the girl who flirted with one of my friends. But Mao, unbeknownst to us, had a vision for his country that, apparently, I was part of.

Yes, of course we believe magic is real. Those were the words I heard as I crept from my room one night around midnight into our darkened apartment, awakened by the opening of the front door and the voices of my parents.

Late-night calling in Shanghai was unusual, especially for a family of affluence like mine.

An older man with salt-and-pepper hair sat with my father at the dining room table, talking in a slow, measured rhythm; from where I stood, I could only hear parts of his sentences. He wore a tightly buttoned blue military coat, with embroidered red epaulets, along with shiny gold medals affixed to the right side of his chest in perfect diagonal formation. His hat sat on the chair next to him.

I ascended the stairs to the second-floor bridge, which led to my father’s office. This room was his domain and he’d expressly forbidden me to enter it. But the noise downstairs had woken me, and I was curious. The stairs and bridge were covered in darkness; the only light in the apartment came from a small jade lamp with a mica shade, casting yellowed light from the middle of the dining room table. I could peer down at them unnoticed as their voices traveled up and bounced off the curved ceiling and into my ears. I had done this before when I wanted to overhear household conversations. This was my perfect listening post.

Mother stood beside them and poured tea for my father and the man, who kowtowed three curled fingers and tapped them lightly on the table in thanks. When their cups were full, she set the pot in front of them on our best carved rosewood tray and stood back. It was unusual for her to serve anyone, but when conversations of great importance took place, she slid into her ceremonial duties effortlessly.

But what have you seen? Chairman Mao has made it clear that nothing supernatural is to take place in his country. My father seemed perturbed at the insistence of this so-called magic. I saw heaps of worry in his dark-brown eyes.

The man continued. Even the Chairman has said—in private, of course—that in his childhood village of Shaoshan, he witnessed great demonstrations of supernatural ability: fantastical healings, people taking flight as birds would, even a person who could disappear at will. In fact, he believes that a golden thread runs through the Chinese people, a great blessing to his land. But when he was young, he says, this magic was used against his family to keep them poor, and now he is intent on controlling it. I don’t know any more than that. He grasped his delicate teacup in two hands and gingerly sipped the steaming brew. Is there some reason you called me from my family to discuss a point of the Chairman’s policies? It seems—out of character for you.

I must tell you something. My father bowed his head; it seemed he was asking permission to voice something unmentionable.

Go ahead.

Father looked at Mother and nodded for her to be excused. She walked backward until she reached the kitchen door then disappeared behind it.

My son, Xiajao… I’ve seen things with him. At night, when he’s sleeping, strange lights come from under his sheets. They illuminate his room.

The man chuckled. Are you sure he isn’t just reading under the covers with a flashlight? You’ve told me your boy is quite the intellectual.

Father’s tone grew more serious. He’s always sound asleep. I’ve waved a hand over his closed eyes while it happened and reached out to touch his hands. But startling vibrations came from them, so much so that I feared I would suffer injury if I came too close.

My mind spun at the idea. I pulled my hands up and stared at them. They looked benign and were dark shapes from where I sat. I felt nothing from them. I clearly recalled dreams of battling dragons and mythological creatures with my special powers, but these were just fantasies, things I wished I could do.

You should send the boy away, the man said, leaning forward, his hands steepled. "Give him a venue for expression, somewhere he’ll feel comfortable. There is a rice village known for its superstitions. Individuals with abilities are somewhat tolerated there. We keep a close eye on it for potential. Special powers must be harnessed for the good of the People’s Republic and certainly they should never be allowed to leave the country. Imagine the outcome if a nation used them against us."

And then? my father asked, sounding surprised at the suggestion.

The man shrugged. And then if what you say is true, the boy will no longer be your problem.

I won’t have my son be an experiment or let anyone know about this. It would be an embarrassment to my rank and position. He pushed his tea forward in a subtle act of defiance.

Then do it quietly. Pull some strings here and there. Move like a fox through a forest. But be careful. When magic is suppressed, it only grows stronger.

I could tell the conversation was coming to an end, so I tiptoed downstairs then kept my back to the wall of the hallway that led to my bedroom on the other side of the apartment.

Meemaw, my caretaker, stood in my room, fluffing my pillow. She gave me a sideways squinted eye when I entered.

Those kinds of conversations aren’t meant for young ears, she whispered.

I stood next to her, beside the bed, knowing I could confide anything from my world to her. But Father said he’s concerned about strange lights that come from my hands when I sleep.

Your father says a lot of things. She patted the bed, encouraging me to get in.

Is it true? Have you seen these things as well? I searched her chubby face for answers as I climbed into bed.

I see what is important to see. She kissed my forehead and pulled the sheets up to my chest.

But Meemaw… I drew out her name, whining.

There are things we can all do. And sometimes, if you look deep into your dreams, you’ll find the answers to your waking questions. Now, shhh.

Down to the Countryside

Xiajao, Xiajao, get your things together. Your father’s last-minute string pulling got you into one of the peasant rice fields in Zhejiang. You should be eager to make him proud of you. My mother, Yi, was fussing about in front of her vanity. Her strong chrysanthemum-and-rose-scented perfume wafted through our apartment.

But Mama, I’ve never even heard of Zhejiang. It sounds so far from here.

I flashed back to my father’s late-night conversation the week before and felt uneasy.

It’ll do you good to get you out of this high-rise, congested Shanghai life. You don’t know it yet, but a man should make his way in the world. Chairman Mao has made that possible for everyone. She peered above her vanity to the picture of Chairman Mao on the wall.

I won’t go! I stood there with my skinny arms, which had never seen a hard day’s work, crossed.

You won’t go? My mother spun around on her rabbit fur-covered stool to face me. Your father engineered the Down to the Countryside movement personally with Chairman Mao. You will not dishonor him. Now go to your room or you’ll find more than sharp glances coming from me. She picked up a black pencil from her vanity, leaned in close to the mirror, and drew lines around her eyes. She stared deep into her reflection as she traced the delicate skin beneath her long lashes. She looked like a mannequin in a store window. Her skin appeared as though it were always perfectly lit, without a crease or pore. Even when she was mad, her face never contorted.

Tears streaming down my face, I ran out of the room; I didn’t want her to see me cry. Meemaw stood in the foyer as I charged for the front door. I put my hand up to her. Don’t look at me, I shouted, as I ran past her and into the elevator.

I walked the side streets of Shanghai, jumping over holes in the pavement and bamboo scaffolding that surrounded buildings under construction. I intentionally didn’t look back to see if Meemaw had followed me out of the building. I dodged the Soviet women in their long coats lined with exotic furs. I looked in the alleyways among the cluster of businesses with upscale Russian and Chinese names. I caught my tear-stained face in the window of a store that was decorated with the colors of the New Year; delicate chocolates were piled high. I wanted any trace of those tears gone before I met up with Sui.

I had a map of the streets of the Lujiazui district imprinted in my brain, but I never knew where Sui would set up his cart until the smell of his special pork bun dumplings cut through the greasy city air to announce his location. I turned into the next alleyway, under the cover of the balconies that lined the second floors of the buildings there, following my nose until Sui came into sight. His cart was stationed under a New Year banner that displayed a large golden monkey. He was handing a pork bun—wrapped in the thin, pink, dyed rice paper with Chairman Mao’s watermark fitting perfectly under the bottom of it—to a young man dressed in a tailored black suit. The man dropped a few coins in Sui’s till, pulled the bun up to his face, and inhaled the steam wafting out of the paper’s flowery pink folds.

Xiajao, my boy. Business is good today. The pink paper you suggested has made all the difference. He winked at me, then reached down into the cart, pulled out a bun, and tossed it to me. I hear you’re leaving for the summer?

Sui would have been my grandfather’s age if I’d had one. He was tall by Chinese standards, his silver hair was slicked to the side, and his prominent nose reminded me of the Greek soldiers I’d learned about in my books.

How do you know that? My mother just told me.

Old Sui hears many things sitting on the street all day. He pointed his thumb at his chest. The pink paper will be a seasonal offering. Make sure you come see me before you leave. He patted my back. Don’t worry. The summer will go by quickly. He said this as if he could read my mind.

My father, Bao, was one of those men who heard many things as well, as he was connected to the underworld and the one above. He effortlessly glided between Chairman Mao’s elite crowd and the common world. I couldn’t relate to him and always felt like Sui was my guide. He was an adult who talked to everyone and really listened.

After I saw Sui, I wandered the city. I wanted some time to take everything in. I felt nostalgic for my city, knowing I’d be gone for several months. Peasants held the poles of their rickshaws, with foreign businessmen seated behind them, and ran through the streets, deftly avoiding the trolleys and throngs of people. Finding myself next to a flower vendor, I bought a chrysanthemum, my mother’s favorite. I didn’t always mean to give her such a hard time. More time passed, and I was walking along the Huangpu River, navigating around the dockworkers, who were rolling massive boxes on and off the boats. They avoided me as well, wheeling around me, never complaining. I knew this was because of my school uniform. They knew that boys only from certain kinds of families went to my school. A school and a life they’d never have access to. I chose an empty dock, walked to the end, and sat down, hanging my feet over the edge, and stared into the murky river water, watching swirls of discarded food float by.

An hour or so later, when I arrived back in the foyer of our apartment, I saw the paper tickets, each one with an embossed gold dragon on top. My parents were talking quietly in the dining room. I walked toward the long table, keeping my eyes on my father. He was in his military uniform, his gray-speckled black hair slicked into place, as he leaned over a bowl of steaming watercress soup.

I gripped the back of the chair at the head of the table. You’re all dressed up. Where are you going?

I have a business trip. Annoyed with my interruption, he wiped his forehead and glanced at my mother.

Mother said I’m leaving soon. Are you going to take me to the rice fields?

Xiajao, my mother said in a hushed tone, as if she were a state librarian, forever advancing the cause of quietness and reverence.

My father shook his head. I won’t be back in time for that. You’ll be fine. Meemaw will see you off. He picked up the bowl in both hands and sipped his soup.

Why are you always leaving? Why can’t you be around like Sui? I felt Meemaw’s hand on my shoulder.

As my mother backed her chair away from the table and stood up, I realized she was dressed for an outing. She wore a white sequined dress with a red design that hugged her lithe frame. She glided through our apartment and out of sight. I couldn’t see where she had gone because I was facing my father once again, refusing to give in to him.

He looked sternly at Meemaw, who was standing in the doorway, and shooed me away, like I was a pest she should remove from his presence.

You’re never here. I raised my voice as Meemaw tried to push me toward the hallway where our bedrooms were.

My father shot up from the table, his chair skidding on the floor and his soup splashing onto the table. A vein in his wide forehead pulsed as he pointed at me, his finger vibrating in the air. He turned to Meemaw. That boy needs to be broken, he snapped, droplets of spittle falling on me.

Meemaw pulled me back from him and nodded in deference.

Journey

Two nights had passed since my mother had told me I was leaving. I hadn’t seen my father since then. I looked out the car window at the pouring rain, as Xing, my father’s driver, carefully pulled in front of our building. He opened the door for me, and I jumped out of the backseat without looking, trying to get under the covered walkway as quickly as possible to avoid the typhoon that was threatening to drown Shanghai. Before my soles could make contact with the pavement, the torrent of water gushing down the narrow street knocked me from my feet. I put my hands out to stop my fall, but my face landed in the filthy water, the current passing beneath my body lifting me up and floating me toward the storm grate, which was greedily gulping down the runoff. I grasped at the grate in fear of being swept into gutter, then grabbed on to a jagged piece of the concrete street curb. From the market upstream, mucky fish entrails wrapped around my wrists. Xing picked me up by my backpack and set me down on the covered walkway. He was perpetually calm and always there when I needed him.

Upstairs, my custom-made uniform dripped cloudy storm water onto our apartment’s polished travertine tiles. I ran for my room, afraid I’d be reprimanded if my mother or father saw me. I rummaged through my closet for something to wear, balled up my wet uniform, and stashed it in the back of my closet. I had three buttons secured on my shirt when my mother walked in and sat on the chair next to my bed.

Your new home for the summer has been arranged, Xiajao. You’ll leave tomorrow morning. You’re old enough to pack yourself. And I don’t expect any tantrums like what you threw the other day. Your father was very disappointed in you.

Yes, Mother. I paused. But is there any way I could spend the summer with Meemaw? Just one more summer? I looked at her with my best pleading face. I supposed I looked rather pitiful, with my drenched black hair clinging to my head.

Xiajao, you know that isn’t the will of Mao.

My stomach lurched down, pulling with it the light hopes of summer dreams, with shortened school days and long nights outside with my friends. I’d planned to continue learning how to swim; read an incredible adventure book about America that my friend, Qualee, had somehow gotten a hold of, in violation of the censorship laws; and maybe even investigate where my father really went on all his trips. But as much as I reveled in the idea of freedom from my rigorous studies at school, I knew I’d be tossed into the unknown wilderness of a prefecture I’d never heard of and people I didn’t know.

Yes, Mother. I went to my closet and pulled my bright-blue suitcase off one of the shelves.

…

Meemaw came to my room to wake me while it was still dark outside. I looked at my windup clock. It was 3:00 a.m. I hadn’t slept much; I was too upset.

It’s time, she said softly. Her hair, which usually was wrapped tightly on top of her head with chopsticks holding it together, fell down onto my face, and I smelled the most comforting scent in the world: Meemaw’s special soap, which she made from sugar and discarded fruits from our kitchen. It was a sweet, aromatic mixture with a hint of the spice cakes everyone baked for the New Year. She double-checked everything I had packed and added a few garments from my closet. I didn’t pay attention; clothes were the least of my worries. Then she hurried me out the door to the car, where Xing was dutifully waiting for us. Meemaw and I sat in the backseat. She was wearing her uniform, all blue, baggy, and loose, with a red armband. She had embroidered a pink-and-white flower on the collar of her shirt. My father tolerated it, but I remember the first time he noticed it—he definitely wasn’t pleased. She reached over with her small, plump hand and patted my leg. Then she turned her wide, heart-shaped face toward mine and gave me a reassuring, sympathetic smile.

Fifteen minutes later, Meemaw and I found ourselves at the edge of the train platform in the dark morning. The walls were covered in red posters of Mao rising as the sun over the Chinese people. I knew Mao was the greatest man who’d ever lived; I knew because everyone had told me this. But I felt something different, something buried in me that I kept a very deep secret.

Meemaw grasped my hand as the train approached. The wind blew the steam from the train over us, covering us in fine black soot. She handed our tickets to the man in the uniform, and we found two open seats. I pushed closer to Meemaw over the armrest; we sat in silence for the first hour.

Why is Mother like that? I finally asked her.

She shrugged. It’s her nature. And don’t forget to be thankful for the wonderful home and school she and your father provide for you.

I couldn’t argue with her; she always saw the best in every situation. The train was only four cars long. The car we were in had only a few other passengers scattered in the seats. I fell asleep with my head on Meemaw’s arm.

Xiajao, wake up. She jostled my head. You’ve been sleeping for three hours.

The ground we stepped out on in Lishui wasn’t the neat, square, brick platform of the Shanghai station. It was uneven, and we were surrounded by the bustle of the morning crowds. Rickshaws were lined up on a patch of packed red dirt, waiting for train passengers to disembark and the train vendors to set up their wares. Meemaw made eye contact with one of the drivers and waved at him. For a moment, I thought she might leave me on the steps of the train, since she broke into the fastest stride I’d ever seen her take. They embraced, and she said something in his ear I couldn’t hear. His rickshaw was covered in red-and-green fabric with gold tassels dangling over the wheels. It felt like something that might be on a stage in one of the plays my parents often dragged me to. The long seat cushion was worn in the shape of two rear ends. I was lost in the impression, as I was apparently much smaller than the typical passenger. As we bounced along the road, other rickshaw drivers yelled and cursed. Our driver cursed back and swerved wildly through an army of bicycles, foot traffic, and other rickshaws. The colors of the town looked like someone had squeezed a bunch of oil paints together and swirled them with a brush.

The driver glanced over his shoulder and asked us, Are you okay or what?

He smiled and I could see a black, tarry, chewing substance stuck between his bottom lip and the hole formed by his missing tooth. He gripped his handlebars hard, and the rickshaw dipped down, then launched a couple of feet into the air, over a small ditch filled with brackish standing water. When we landed on the other side, something made Meemaw’s face scrunch up; I guessed it was the risky move the driver had made without warning us. It looked like the face that Mother gave Father when he did something she didn’t approve of but that she didn’t dare question him about.

The rest of the ride was calm as we left the small city center and made our way onto the packed-earth road, its well-worn grooves meandering between fields. The rubber wheels fit snugly in the earthen tracks, and the sound they made after what must have been an hour lulled me into a trance. The sun peeked over the horizon and lit the pastures next to us, where donkeys pulled carts filled with harvested rice and hundreds of people worked tirelessly. I knew they worked from sunup to sundown; we’d learned about them in school: the great engines of our country. Eventually the pastures turned into hills, and the hills turned into dramatic terraced mountains, green and infinitely flowing. The road ended abruptly, and a small shack appeared, its sun-bleached wood held together by thick rusty nails. We climbed out of the rickshaw and Meemaw put her hand on my shoulder. I knew this was as far as she would go.

Don’t worry. You’ll be back in the city again soon. She handed me a small red silk sack. Open this when you miss your home so much it hurts. She smiled and lightly kissed my forehead. I’ll miss you the whole time you’re gone, starting now. She turned away from me as she said it.

Knots filled my stomach. My mind flashed to Chairman Mao, and I silently cursed him.

Meemaw pointed me toward the shack and urged me on. There was no door, and when I stepped in front of the entrance, I saw my guide lying on a small wooden bench, sleeping. His donkey stood next to him.

I looked back at Meemaw, unsure what to do. But she was already back in the rickshaw, talking with the driver. The donkey stepped forward when it saw me and nuzzled its black, wet nose into my ribs. Then he made a loud hee-haw sound that woke up the guide.

The man jumped up from his bench and stared at me for a moment. He wore a long robe made of a single piece of fabric. He was filthy, and his black hair was long and tied up behind his head. His hands looked short yet strong, how I imagined Sui’s were when he was young.

His disorientation didn’t last long. Xiajao Ying? he asked.

I nodded. After unlooping the donkey’s reins from a knob on the wall, he yanked the animal toward my belongings, which sat on the ground. He strapped my suitcase full of clothes and a few toys to the donkey and hoisted me onto its back. Then he grabbed the reins and walked the donkey onto the path. I looked back; the rickshaw was kicking up a cloud of dust as it took Meemaw back to the train station. As we climbed through the terraces of the hillside, I gripped the donkey’s mane tightly, afraid I’d tumble off into the oblivion. The sun went over our heads and back down behind us. My legs and butt ached from sitting on a bony spine.

How much farther? I asked the guide.

Be quiet! He waved a hand at me as if I might disturb something in this desolate countryside.

I heard voices pierce the repetitive drum of the donkey’s hooves. When we turned a corner and the narrow path opened up into a wide road, I saw three soldiers smoking and slapping each other on the back, laughing. I knew there were checkpoints between each of the provinces but I’d never been through one. I started to say something, but the guide shushed me again, then walked over to hand one of the soldiers a slip of paper. They exchanged some gruff words; when the guide mentioned my father’s name, they waved him on, told him not to come through this checkpoint again without the proper documents. Then they lit the paper on fire and ignited a cigarette with it.

The road was smooth, the donkey’s hooves clacking against the stones. I thought about the story I’d read about tiny dragons meddling about in the hills, too small to bother the local farmers but a bit too fierce to ever capture as livestock. As the night overtook us, and the scrub moved with the westerly winds, pushing forward from the middle of the country, my eyes played devilish tricks on me. Glimmering in the underbrush were creatures that could have been dragons. I kept a diligent eye, looking for a scaly tail or horned head sticking out. I was sure these hills were infested with magical beasts. The stories of my childhood in the concrete city jungle featured a host of spirits and creatures that swirled around the living like a swarm of angry hornets just out of sight.

Several hours later, we finally arrived; one house on the outskirts marked the delineation of the village from the wide-open steppes. It was the fires I noticed first, each house dispensing a cascading glow onto the roads, the small furnace in each structure keeping the inhabitants warm. As we passed each home, I peeked in, trying to catch a glimpse of what my new life would be like. Who were these people who lived so far away from everything I knew? Some folks peered back at me, their work-worn faces lit from the flames. Each house was surrounded by animals and large leafy plants. The thatched roofs looked like tiny forests stacked neatly on top of mud-brick walls. The noise of our donkey trudging along the road brought spectators to their doorways and outside their houses. One woman was squatting on a small flat stone, working a weave of some sort. When she saw me, she nodded, set her weave down, and stood up proudly, clasping her hands behind her back.

To describe her is to describe what a lifetime of manual labor looks like. Although she stood only as tall as the donkey’s back, her stance was powerful and grounded. Her hair was long, with tricolored flowing braids: gray, brown, and light brown. Her eyes and skin resembled each other: dark and worn, like a leather hide worked soft by years of rubbing. Her long red dress couldn’t hide the knots of muscle and the arthritis rippling through her body like a gnarled tree, her feet the firm roots upon which the tree stood. As I looked from her feet to her face, wondering if she was frightening or kind, her mouth opened into a massive smile.

The guide stopped walking, and our donkey sniffed the ground for a blade of grass to eat. I jumped off the beast’s back, ran past the smiling woman, and found the nearest tree to relieve myself on. The long, bumpy ride had taken its toll on