I think Henry Miller and his friend Van Doren, remind me of the worse of men. Particularly Van Doren. What is this passion with youth in women? I know what it is, this destruction. I know these men are small. What can I do? Anais, like I did Mao, has the illusion of being heard by this man but these men, they are detached from their emotions, they are not passionate. They are not a mystery. Mao had a great charm. These men are like buffoons. Mao had poetry that talked of loved and life, these men seem to simply regurgitate their pessimism & talk of art. Swine. I would have never chosen such a man. Nothing to show for himself. I hear them talk of the art but they lack the emotion. What is art without emotion? Power? The little ballerinas of the Peking operas, they represented a country, a philosophy. These men, they call their work art but I see nothing but an exaggerated preoccupation with the self and every detail of their petty existence. They have no cause. They seek nothing above and beyond themselves. They are the dogs that lay the bitch when in heat, which feeds itself when it is hungry and bites when it is scared. Henry himself says "I am a coward" and I agree. Here, too, women disposable. There is not even an attempt.

I am on a ride with this strange man. I do not find him attractive. I am 13, now. He says he is my father. In the evenings, he makes love to me. To me, it does not matter, it is a matter of survival. That is why I am here.

We go across the hill now, very far. I do not know where my mother is. I think that he has killed her, but I am not sure. I think, maybe, he will kill me too, I am scared to find out, so I do whatever he says. We are riding, still, a long time, and I see many things that amuse me. I do not miss my mother, for she is gone now. I do not miss my father, for I do not know him. I do not think it will be good to continue this journey, but for now, my spirit is dead, and I cannot fight back. So in the evening, I endure. I hope that you understand that as a child, I was not strong, although I had to be. It was later, when everything became so hard, and difficult, and painful, that is when I learned. I know, today. I know what I know now, but I did not know then. And I have no regrets. That man, you see that man, over there? He has been my lover. Because once my spirit is broken, nothing else matters. There is no risk. This man does not suspect anything, that is how it is possible for me to go on, in the shivering body of a child, in the cold. Understand me, I did what I could. There is no more to be done. I could not protect my body against this man because I needed him. Do you know what it is like to have to survive? I know. Have you ever gone hungry? I swore that I would never sell myself like my mother, but here, as a child, with a man who pretended to hold me in order to love me, I was hopeless. For I never had a father that showed a kindness to me.

Madame Mao in Black Water

Madame Mao arrives at the moment the girl begins to drown. She has an observant look, she is sober. She has matured somewhat. In the other world, she is in her seventies. She knows she is completely powerless. Although she has the power, as was seen in her dialogue with Zackeya to communicate with those who are alive, their path will not simply change for her words.

Black water. Black water. Drowning, the young child. See, look at her. See how she attempts to scream? Look, I see her cheeks, full of water. And there is no more rose in her cheeks. See how she fights? It makes me want to cry. I love her, like a child. I see the water, circling all around her, and she is sinking. The man, let's see, maybe he will save her? No? Where is he running to? Crying? Is he crying? To leave her to die and to cry? Preposterous. I do not understand the ways of man. I have told you this before. I see this child drowning and there is nothing I can do. I feel so hard. My heart has grown cold, so I cannot cry. God, help this child. Understand me, she must not go down this way.

I went down, a long time ago, but I want her to live. Can I take her body? Can I drown while she continues to live? Can I offer her that? It is so sad, my heart breaks because I cannot change events. Nothing can change, now, not even the end of this child.

So this young child will die? What more can be done? I see that it is all lost. The passion. A young child. I read this book. After observing the sad fact. And the language is different. It is the language of death. It is a young girl, but she cannot see, and she cannot breathe. And I think that I was like this too, although it was a long time ago. And I think I drowned in different waters. I think I could not choke. God allowed me to live, he allowed me to look up but I was drowning in the waters of my misery. My heart cries for this child. This girl who does not understand the ways of this world. This girl who followed a man as if he were a prophet, as Zeinab did the evil Mayor, as I, too followed Mao. Is there a need for a young girl to see a man as a God? I think I will chose this for my life. I want to die a thousand times like this young girl did, while in her innocence. I don’t want the long, incessant battle that was my life and made me cold and bitter. And this girl, she had a safe childhood, and food, and a father that did not beat her. And she had a friend. I have never had a friend. Not a female friend. I understood the love between man and woman only.

She sits on a chair

I would have liked to reach out to this young girl and tell her she is not alone. But she is. The vines are choking her, because men can be so cold. Perhaps they have been built that way, to let a young girl die. In vain I waited for remorse from my father, always, he turned the other way, as Mao did. Never did I find release. I needed someone to admire and I found it in Mao. I chose to believe he loved me because I needed it so desperately to have a reason to live. It is different from this girl, she is not at the bottom of society, as I was. She is respected and she has never suffered from hunger in her life, as I have. She has never been beat, and she has never been cast aside as if she were trash. And yet she wants to die, and I wanted to live. But now I think she was wiser to die. Black. Black. In the West, black is the symbol of death, in my home in China, it is white. So I cannot relate to this black because the death is the resurrection. If she dies, she will never, die. She is pure and innocent. My sins weigh upon me. At her funeral, people will cry genuine tears. Perhaps the American heart is softer.

I chose this death, it is the death for me, and it is the life.

They use my husband’s name. And they use my name. But I do not recognize myself in this book. It is very European, or American, or Western. A man who goes off alone. Who goes to a foreign land after being locked up in his room for years? It is the battle of the intellect. Not of ideas. I do not know what to think. I do not see why he choses to die. It seems to me I would not chose to die for a man I did not know. So desperate for adventure? There has been much adventure and much danger in my life, and I would not seek it out. It is a luxury to seek out danger. Everywhere I turned, danger was all around me, and I think that it began to excite me, but it killed my spirit or made it into another form, not beneficial to others. I am an ignorant woman, I do not play with words, but I have a connection to reality this man does not have, because no one seeks their own destruction if they are in tune with the survival instinct. And my survival has been everything I have had.

Madame Mao has finished the journey. She choses the universe of Black Water, because an early death would be less painful. She choses the death of Black Water because she could die with a father and mother who loved her and did not abandon her. She would never run out of food. And she would not give over her destiny to the man who choses her, because her life will be interfered with. A Higher Force will intervene before her spirit can become corrupt, before she can be cast aside.

Thank you, God, for this journey. Thank you for showing me the way to a different path, on a different land. Thank you for showing me that everywhere women suffer, that, in a way, I was a success because I was not completely a victim. But that my overcoming made me bitter, I cannot accept. I chose the life of comfort of the young girl in Black Water. I chose to take on a different direction. Still a part of history, still forever part of the history books. And yet not hated. A fond memory. Perhaps a forgotten memory. A select few to cry genuinely. An American girl with all the attributes. Thank you.

Madame Mao exits off stage, very slowly, very dramatically. To the sound of bongs in slow funeral like rhythm.