(12 of 13)
I asked her where they came from.
"From the Friendship Store!"
No matter to her that the official line on the Friendship Stores was that they were reserved exclusively for foreign consumers.
For her Canton retreat, Chiang Ch'ing had reserved an orchid park stretching between her villa and the Pearl River. On the fourth day of the interviews, Witke and her guides went to see Chiang Ch'ing in the park.
At a gentle pace we passed through moongates, traversed gardens skillfully landscaped "naturalistically," bypassed rustic tea pavilions, and crossed arched bridges over artificial streams and ponds. In the hazy distance arose a moon-viewing pavilion. Chiang Ch'ing, dressed in luminous silk, was seated on its veranda overlooking a lotus pond.
As we approached her, she greeted us gaily from her wide wicker chair and continued her "work," as she explained. From a basket she lifted rare specimens of orchid plants and laid them upon blotting paper stretched on light wooden frames built by her bodyguard. "You may photograph me at work," she allowed as she kept up her brisk pace, laughing and chatting in accompaniment. So I did. Despite the strong sun of the late afternoon, her bodyguard cast powerful artificial lighting upon her figure. Suddenly, she admonished herself for appearing so frivolous, walked to the balustrade, and affected a neutral expression of officiality against the lotus pond's lush background.
She changed the subject to the evening.
"Change before dinner, and why not wear something brighter? Why did you choose to wear black when you knew I would photograph in color naturally?"
I explained to her that my companions had recommended this somber costume.
"You should never listen to others," she declared. "You should always make your own decisions. Wear what you like and feel happiest in."
THE LAST MESSAGE
In the end, it was her all-too-glib ability to make distinctions between herself and the masses—whether in regard to movies, clothes or weightier matters—that would count against Chiang Ch'ing. Her fall, four years after her interviews with Witke, ended one of the century's most dramatic and important political careers. Mao himself had warned his wife of the extreme perils she would eventually have to face. In a 1966 letter to her, he speculated that after his death, anti-Communist rightists would make a bid to seize power. Then ...
Ten years later Mao sent Chiang Ch'ing another message in the form of a poem. She circulated it among her supporters while he was still alive, as if it were his last testament.
"You have been wronged," he told her. "Today we are separating into two worlds. I am old and will soon die. May each keep his peace. These few words may be my last message to you. Human life is limited, but revolution knows no bounds. In the struggle of the past ten years I have tried to reach the peak of revolution, but I was not successful. But you could reach the top. If you fail, you will plunge into a fathomless abyss. Your body will shatter. Your bones will break."
* [Mao's first marriage, to an illiterate peasant girl, was