ON OCTOBER 1, 1975, the National Independence Day, the Shanghai press led by The Liberation News releases a series of stories on Empress-turned-Emperor Wu of the Han dynasty, around A.D. 200. The reviews praise Wu's wisdom and strength and her success ruling China for half a century. Next to the stories are pictures of Madame Mao Jiang Ching. The pictures document her visits to factories, communes, schools and the military. She appears among the rugged-faced masses. Her expression is firm and her eyes look into the future with a glow. In Beijing the criticism of her continues. The following week the news of Premier Zhou's deteriorating condition in the hospital blankets the pages. A week later, Madame Mao Jiang Ching disappears from the papers and Deng Xiao-ping takes up the scene.
There is one important man the media has been neglecting. It is Kang Sheng. He is terminally ill and suffers from paranoia. In Mao's distance he senses Jiang Ching's downfall. He doesn't want to go down with her. He has played an ambiguous role between the Maos. Mao is not unaware that Kang Sheng has provided Jiang Ching with crucial information that helped her get where she is. To demonstrate his dismay Mao has stopped responding to Kang Sheng's letters and notes.
The man with the goat beard is scared. He has spent his life pleasing the emperor and is now facing dishonor and termination.
I have a terribly important message for you to pass on to the Chairman. From his sickbed Kang Sheng speaks to Mao's personal messengers, Mao's niece Wang Hai-rong, the vice minister of diplomacy, and Tang Wen-sheng, Mao's trusted translator. So many years I have withheld this information. I am near the end of my life and I feel that I owe the Party the truth: Jiang Ching and Chun-qiao are traitors. The record has been destroyed, but the truth remains.
The mouths of the two women hang open.
I would have visited the Chairman myself if he had wanted to hear me, Kang Sheng says in tears. It's just that there isn't much time for me to work for him anymore. He must realize my loyalty.
Kang Sheng shuts his eyes and lies back on his pillow. Now take out your notebooks and record carefully. I shall prove that I am good for the Chairman for the last time.
In a fading voice Kang Sheng produces the year, date, witnesses and the location of Madame Mao Jiang Ching's betrayal.
I disregard my opposition. Kang Sheng can't put me lower than I am. I am working to get closer to the stiffening Mao. He's got to open his jaw and spell my name to the nation. I will try everything. Whatever it takes. Thankfully I find a helper. He is Mao's nephew, Mao Yuan Xin. I let him know that his Aunt Jiang Ching is willing to adopt him as the prince of the kingdom. The man expresses his willingness, and he takes no time making himself trustworthy in his uncle's eyes. Now I don't have to fight the guards and will be able to send messages directly to Mao through Xin.
My enemies and I are racing against Mao's breath. I am no longer aware of the hours or days. I no longer have an appetite. My senses are focused on one thing: the movement of Mao's mouth. Although I have convinced myself that his love for me is long dead, I still wish for a miracle. I've asked Xin to wait by his uncle around the clock with a tape recorder and a camera. I am waiting for Mao's sudden recollection of his prime. There he might see me again and remember to honor this love. I need this now desperately. I need his finger touch. His phrase "Jiang Ching represents me" will settle everything. A dragon's one movement covers a seahorse's ten years traveling. It will save and heal me. I have been even thinking about an alternative. With Mao's words I might retire. I am over sixty. Looking into the future is no longer my biggest interest. Honor, however, I must not live without. I am Jiang Ching, the love of Mao's life.
But he won't do it for me. He will not pronounce my name again. His silence has become the permission for others to force me to vanish; to murder me in cold blood. No matter how hard I try to paint black pink, the truth speaks loudly for itself. Mao is determined to carry on his betrayal. He wants to punish me for being who I am. He wants to blame me for his mistress Shang-guan Yun-zhu's death. He has marked me his enemy.
Then why bother to order a graveyard built for both of us at Ba-bo Hill Funeral Home? Why lie next to me instead of Zi-zhen or Kai-hui? Or Shang-guan Yun-zhu? I will never want to record again the way you used to love me. My eyes hurt from crying for your warmth at night. Why don't you lie by yourself after all this hatred for me?
In the thickening snow of January 1976, Premier Zhou passes away. He had played against the political stream by appearing slow and foolish, blind and deaf. So many times he offered toasts to the demons. However, he is remembered as the people's premier. To Madame Mao's disappointment, the nation disregards Mao's order to downplay the ceremony and mourns Zhou. White wreaths cover Tiananmen Square. To the sick Mao this shows obvious resentment. He suspects that Zhou's friend, the newly promoted Premier Deng Xiao-ping, is plotting a betrayal.
In muttered and half-swallowed words, Mao orders the removal of Deng Xiao-ping. The order is carried out immediately. The nation is confused.
Madame Mao Jiang Ching loses no time. She takes advantage of the situation and comes hopping onto the scene. In Mao's name she promotes her future cabinet members: Chun-qiao as the premier, his disciple Yiao as the vice premier, Wang as the minister of national defense and Yu as the minister of culture and arts.
Yu wants me to understand his suffering. He is withering like overheated summer grass. He is terrified by the new title. But I refuse to let him off the hook. We are standing face to face in my office having an argument. I push the window open to let in the cold air. I am frustrated and upset. The sky is a sapphire blue sheet with clawmark-like clouds pulling through it. I shall stand behind you, I promise. You can be a figurehead boss. Your assistants will sweep up the dust after you. So what if you are an artist? You are expected to do things differently. A great genius is supposed to have horns, I have already told everyone. People will understand.
He growls, mutters and begs.
My voice turns tender. A rainbow is forming in front of you, Yu. All you have to do is open your eyes.
He wipes his moist forehead with his sleeve and his lips begin to stretch. I… can't do it. I am-
Don't tell me about your fear. We have brought in the ship! Yu Hui-yong, the ship is in! Come on, get on deck!
She goes on, her gestures animated, arms shooting out and waving back and forth in the air. One more blow, the fruit of victory will fall into our hands!
Yu ceases struggling.
Madame Mao sits down, sinks into the sofa.
Other cabinet members stare at them.
Yu goes to the windowsill and picks up a flower pot. He gently loosens its soil with his finger. It is a wild kind, he suddenly says. The leaves drape around like a crown. The stems will bear little white flowers. He turns the plant toward the sunlight. I love to watch the way plants lift their leaves and the way they deepen their green. I really do.
Madame Mao stands erect like the statue of Lenin on Red Square in Moscow. There is no sentimentality in her voice. The bottom line is that I will allow no betrayal. You are my man. She pauses to restrain herself but tears suddenly pour. If you have to make me beg, I am on my knees now. I beg you to stop insulting me… I am not cold and without feeling by nature… I have chosen love before. But it didn't bring meaning to life. I have lost the soul of an artist… It is my ill fate. One can cure illness, but not fate. The battle I fight is inevitable. My heart is breaking… Let me remind you, all of you, that there is no way out now. We are all in it together and we are soldiers. So let's run toward where the fire is.
September 9, 1976. The history of China turns a page. At the age of eighty-three, Mao Tse-tung exhales his last breath. Upon learning the news from Xin, Jiang Ching forces her way into the Chrysanthemum-Fragrance Study. She sorts through Mao's letters and documents looking for a will. But there is none. Turning around, she orders a Politburo meeting at the Purple Light Pavilion. She wants to announce the Chairman's death personally.
No one else comes but her cabinet members. She checks with her secretary on what's going on and is told that a new figure, a man named Hua Guo-feng, a provincial secretary and Mao's hometown boy, has taken over. He is planning to speak to her-Mao has left a will appointing him as his successor.
Ridiculous! Absolutely ridiculous! She catches her own echo in the empty hall.
The palace is quiet. The day is windless. Mao's body lies at the Hunan Quarter of the Grand Hall of the People. He is straighter than when he was breathing. His ear-long hair has been combed to the back of his skull. The features look peaceful. There isn't a trace of pain. The arms are folded by the thighs. The gray jacket is starched. The body is covered from the chest down by a red flag with the yellow cross of a sickle and hammer.
Liar! Madame Mao Jiang Ching beats the table with her fists. The Chairman never left any will.
The handwriting style is definitely Mao's, the secretary mutters. It was confirmed by an archaeologist and calligrapher who specialized in xing-shu.
Madame Mao stares at the writing, halting her breath.
It is the funeral of the century. Tiananmen Square is flooded with white paper flowers. On top of the Gate of Heavenly Peace, Madame Mao stands behind Hua Guo-feng, who gives the nation the memorial speech. Dressed in a full black suit Madame Mao's head is covered with a black satin scarf. She can hardly bear sharing the same platform with her enemy.
The crystal casket is large. Mao's cheeks are painted thick with powder. His lips are unnaturally red. The corners of the mouth have been artificially pushed and lifted to form a smile. The body lies like a hill slope-from the chest drops a sudden curve-the emptied intestines make his belly looks like a hollow plain. The head looks enormous.
Madame Mao stands three feet from the casket shaking hands with strangers foreign and domestic. She has been doing this for two hours now. Her neck is stiff and her wrist sore. Pale and nervous she holds a white silk handkerchief and uses it to touch her cheeks now and then. She can't even fake tears. She keeps thinking of what Mao had said to her. You will be pushed and nailed into my casket.
Nah has been sobbing hard next to her mother.
My sky has fallen.
Half sky, Nah.
No, the whole sky.
You are truly a good-for-nothing.
The new head of China, Hua, has the face of an old lizard. His eyelids close halfway over his pupils giving him a sleepy expression. His gray suit copies Mao's. He stands stiffly, a frozen smile on his face. When Madame Mao questions the will, he takes a scroll out of his chest pocket and shows the familiar handwriting, which reads, For Comrade Hua Guo-feng. With you in charge I am at rest.
She laughs hysterically, turns away and walks toward the door, shouting, I have the real version of Mao's will. Mao put it, himself personally, into my very ear. She runs into the seventy-nine-year-old Marshal Ye Jian-ying, who is on his way in to pay his respects to Mao.
How can you witness this and do nothing, Marshal? she cries.
The marshal walks past her and pays no attention.
The Chairman's body has not turned cold and you are all plotting a coup d'état!
Comrade Jiang Ching! Marshal Ye Jian-ying wails, my life will leave me no more than ten years to live. But I am willing to abandon this ten years in order to do this country right.
Early morning, October 5, 1976. A strong wind beats the leaves into the air. Overnight the green in the imperial garden turns yellow. The bare trunks point toward the sky like spikes. In the Hall of Fishermen's Port Madame Mao Jiang Ching hosts a farewell party.
The torch-shaped bronze lamps flare brightly throughout the hall. The hour has passed midnight. Madame Mao entertains the guests with a lavish dinner and her opera film in progress. After the showing the lights come back and the host stands up. In a long, elegant blue dress, she toasts everyone's health and luck. There is nervousness hidden under the smiling mask. She calms herself by cracking jokes. Yet no one is laughing.
The guests are her loyalists from all fields. Among them the famous opera singers. You know what Empress Wu's birthday cake was made of? As if on a stage, Madame Mao speaks. She then answers herself. It was made of dirt, seeds and weeds. Why? It is nutritious!
A few laughs come from the audience. The monologue continues. Subjects change in a disconnected fashion. One moment, Madame Mao criticizes the relationship between the eunuch Li Lian-ying and the empress dowager. At another moment she describes a handmade loom she used in Yenan.
The threads broke for no reason, she laughs. I thought to myself, What an armchair revolutionary am I if I can't conquer a stupid loom! So I stayed up all night until I made it work. Yes, that's me. Stubborn as a mule. Well, enough jokes. I am anxious, as you all can tell. What were we talking about? Yes, we are talking about devotion, at the price of death. Yes, it is not a light subject.
After a moment of silence she carries on. It's my fate either to be the queen or the prisoner. Mao has left me to find out the ending myself. It is his way of teaching. As I have said he hated to be figured out. As an actress, I play the moment. The army is out of my hands. It's my biggest concern. When the Chairman was alive, they dared not touch me. Now they can do anything. Hua Guofeng is no threat to me. The threat is the old boys. Ye Jian-ying and Deng Xiao-ping. I once had a conversation with Mao on the subject. I said that I might be born to play a tragic character. The Chairman responded with humor and said that it was a fascinating comment.
Is it? She looks around the room. Imagine me being caught and slaughtered tomorrow. Take a good look at me. I am standing still. What concerns me is you, your life and your family. Every one of you. They will come after you. They might not kill you but will make you suffer. There is a price to pay for being my follower. What am I going to say? What am I going to say to your children? Am I a worthy cause?…She lowers her head and her tears stream down. What can I do to protect you?
The audience responds with sobs. The opera singer Hao Liang, the lead in The Legend of the Red Lantern, comes forward. Men of courage, he shouts. Let's go to the Politburo, go to where people can hear us, the radio stations, the stages, the newsrooms. Let's voice our deepest wish and petition for Comrade Jiang Ching to be the chairman of the Communist Party and the president of China! Let's make the difference with action. I am sure people will follow us.
The room echoes in one voice. Oaths of loyalty follow. One guest takes out a white handkerchief. He bites his middle finger and writes a line with his blood: Comrade Jiang Ching for the chairman or my brains painted on the Great Wall.
It is a great moment in my life. October 5 in the Hall of Fishermen's Port. The grand passion demonstrated by the great actors. The magic of a stage. Reality is forgotten.
Through my hot tears I see Chun-qiao and his disciple walk into the hall. They call off the party with an emergency message-my enemy has begun their action. Despite Chun-qiao's panic, I take time to say good-bye personally to everyone. I have a feeling that this is the last time.
Hao Liang, I say to the actor, I'd like to thank you for the good work you have done for the film. In the future the films will speak for us. You have brightened my life. Days and nights we have sweated to get the excellence on film. The memory is our gift to each other. I can't offer you enough. But my heart will stay close to you through heaven or hell. The hero you played on stage died in the enemy's hands. Remember me and yourself that way.
At dawn, I call Chun-qiao to touch base. He reports that there have been frequent visits between the old boys and military heads. I ask him to come to my place immediately. Half an hour later he arrives.
Have you spoken with my friends Commander Wu and Commander Chen? I ask. I have cultivated a good relationship with them and they have promised to support me.
You are a fool to think that they will honor the promise they made when Mao was alive. I've checked with them and they don't return my calls.
I am beginning to feel the weight of the sky.
Forget about the army. Chun-qiao grinds his teeth. We have to depend on our own force.
The armed workers in Shanghai?
Yes. But we are short of time.
How long does it take to prepare a takeover? I grab Chun-qiao's hands. We must seize the old boys before they seize us.
At least a few days.
Act now, the ax is dropping! I'm going to Shanghai!
Please, Comrade Jiang Ching, for your safety and health, leave the matter to us.
I don't trust you! she screams. Your pessimistic view disturbs me! The show should be played the other way around, and the characters should be reversed! We are the ones who are holding the ax!
The advancing orders have already been placed. We must leave our faith to Buddha. We must trust… the people. Chun-qiao's voice suddenly loses its energy.
She wills herself on. She tells her secretary that she is going to Jing Hill Park in the afternoon. Get my photographer. Tell him that I'll be at the Quarters of the Apple Trees.
It is a cloudy day. Perfect for pictures. The sky is a natural gauze which helps to even out the light. The park was originally built for emperors of the Sung dynasty. Six hundred years ago Emperor Jing hanged himself here after he had lost his country. I climb to the top of the hill without stopping. Under my eyes is the complete view of the grand imperial city.
The photographer doesn't like the apple trees as the background for my picture. He says that the fruit-laden trees are too distracting. He thinks that I should be by the peonies. But Apple, Ping, used to be my name, I tell him. It connects me to my past. Eternity attracts me today because I smell death. This shot is either going to be my mug shot or the one that replaces Mao on the Gate of Heavenly Peace.
Finally the photographer settles down. He pulls my chair away from the trees as far as he can so the apples will be out of focus. Now he is having trouble with my Mao jacket. I have changed my costume during his battle with the apples. He likes me in the dress better but I insist on looking like a soldier. I'd like to be in these clothes when I die. It is to remind people that I have fought like a man.
The photographer screws his eye into the lens. He asks me to smile. He doesn't want to take pictures of death. But I can't get myself to smile. This morning I saw my face in the mirror. My jaw is shallow and my eyes are blank. I haven't been able to sleep much. The sleeping pills don't work.
The sound of clicking continues. Seven rolls. Finally there is one shot he likes. Which one? The one when you kind of drifted off. Did your mind travel far, Madame? There was this gaze, dreamlike. It brought out the young woman in you. The woman I recognize from the picture of you and the Chairman standing side by side in front of the cave in Yenan.
Oh, that was my favorite.
I studied the image when I was a photography student. I'm glad I have caught the heroine in you again. Your expression moved me. I shall develop the negatives and send you the prints in a few days. You'll know what I am talking about here. It is the best picture I have ever taken.
The negative never makes it to the positive.
October 5, 1976. The war room of the China military headquarters is packed with marshals and generals. With a picture of Mao hanging above the map, action begins. Around the table sits Commander in Chief Marshal Ye Jian-ying. Next to him is Hua Guo-feng, Vice Premier Li Xian-nian, Chen Xi-lian, plus the newly promoted 8341 Garrison head, Wang Dong-xin.
A phone ring breaks the silence. Wang picks up the receiver. After a few seconds he reports. The enemy has made a move. Navy intelligence by the East China Sea has found out that the Shanghai Jiang-nan ship factory has turned two ships into armed vessels. The workers' force have built a defense around the entire bay. A moment ago they came to claim the army's Wu-song artillery base.
The members in the war room sit back in their seats. The only thing that troubles their minds is the consequence of destroying Madame Mao only twenty-seven days after Mao's death. Will the nation agree with the action? Could it backfire?
October 6. Hua Guo-feng calls Jiang Ching to meet at the Hall of Mercy in the evening. Jiang Ching's secretary, Little Moon, asks the reason for the meeting.
The publication of the late Chairman's fifth volume of works. The reply is smooth.
Comrade Jiang Ching will be absent. Little Moon's voice is gentle but clear. Sure, I'll get the message to her as soon as possible.
Madame Mao Jiang Ching appears by the door. She is in a suit with a sand-colored scarf around her neck. My sixty-third birthday is coming, she utters. I've never celebrated my birthdays. There hasn't been much to celebrate. But my life is changing and the people will begin to celebrate my birthday. I trust their judgment.
Like a weed she breaks through the sidewalks. She extends her arms far out and begins to sing like her opera heroine. Cracks the patio pavement, and she will pierce the most desolate corner to find air and light!
Evening wraps the room. Little Moon sits by the phone.
Still no answer from Chun-qiao's office? Madame Mao asks.
No.
What about Yao?
No answer either. By the way, Madame, we have also lost touch with Wang.
There is a sudden collision of thoughts in which fear realizes itself. Madame Mao feels the gradual stifling of her breathing. Pictures pass through her head like a movie, which later proves to match what really happened.
The first shot is the clock hanging on the wall of the Hall of Mercy. The time is seven fifty-five in the evening. At the hall's entrance Chun-qiao enters with quick steps. He is in a Mao jacket and looks small and thin as if in a wide-angle lens. Suddenly behind him two guards appear. They hop on his back and press him to the floor. His glasses are taken off. There is no struggle and he is taken away. The time is eight-fifteen.
The set changes. It is now the Hall of the East Wing. Disciple Yao enters. Two guards come out and block his way. He looks around and falls on his knees. Then comes Wang Hong-wen. When Wang sees the guards approaching he turns around to run but doesn't make it to the gate. He puts up a fight but is tied up eventually.
One guard walks toward the camera. There is elation on his face. He stretches out his arm and turns the camera off.
No one is picking up her calls for help. No one is at home. Everybody has "hospitalized" themselves in order to avoid her.
Suddenly she is attacked by a feeling of worthlessness. Her childhood memories rush back to her. The face of her father. The tears of her mother. Pain surfaces. Terror. The water rises, and now is throat deep. She hears her father's yell. Give it up!
Why is it so quiet here? Why are you, Little Moon, looking at me like a wakening soul? Was my guess right? Have the wolves finally infested my land? Stop it! Stop trembling like a coward!…There is… nothing I can do, I suppose. The military has always been my weak point. The Chairman didn't leave me enough time to manage the warlords. The warlords… maybe… I cannot say that the trap was not set by Mao himself… Come here, Little Moon.
Little Moon rises. Her stick-thin body is stiff and her eyes dwell freezingly.
Come, girl, and sit down by me. Let's chat. Cheer me up. Let me tell you stories of my life. Because in a few minutes it will be a different story. I will be called the White-Boned Demon. Come on, Little Moon, unzip your pursed mouth. It doesn't look attractive when you clench your jaw tight. You are a pretty girl. Why don't you let me fix your eyebrows? Bring me the little scissors. I have to do it now or never. No? What's wrong? Don't stare at me as if you have just swallowed a spoiled egg. Come on, courage!
Little Moon twists her mouth and breathes unevenly.
I'm getting bored listening to the sound of my own voice. Where are the wolves?
Quietly she eats her last meal as Madame Mao. Little Moon is ordered to join her. But the young woman can't make herself eat. She unshells clams with her chopsticks and puts the meat onto Jiang Ching's small side plate.
Thank you. I appreciate your loyalty and I wish you were Nah. It's a mother's foolishness. It seems now… that she was not unwise… Ninxia Desert she has escaped… The realm of laxity… Anyway, this is to cap my life. It's time to be a martyr, to stick a chopstick into my throat-I am preparing myself. A good actress can handle any scene… Where is Yu Hui-yong? I need to hear my operas. Yu is a born coward. It wouldn't surprise me if he ends up killing himself. He is too delicate and lives with feelings and fear. That is an artist's problem. We are artists. That is why Yu will kill himself. So would I, I am afraid. Why am I talking about this? Why am I talking about being an artist? Yu's music makes me cry. I already miss him. Chun-qiao is the toughest among us, and that is his luck.
The sound of her silk skirt has stopped
On the marble pavement dust grows
Her empty room is cold and still
Fallen leaves are piled against the doormat
Midnight, October 6. The Garden of Stillness. Along the deep walls come noises. The sound of steps rises behind the gates. Whispers. Someone is talking with the guard. Yes, sir, the guard answers. A tall shadow approaches. A man leaps. It is Zhang Yiao-ci, the second in command of the 8341. The sound of the gate clashes and locks behind. Zhang Yiao-ci freezes at the entrance. After a moment he advances and enters the mansion. He pounds on the door. His fingers tremble.
It's open, the first lady's voice comes.
Zhang Yiao-ci lunges in. His right hand rests on top of the weapon behind his back.
Madame Mao Jiang Ching sits on the sofa, holding a mug of tea. Her calm freezes the man.
The man looks around. Sweat oozing.
A long-legged bird from the painting on the wall stares down.
Madame Mao speaks, then laughs shrilly. I have long anticipated this day! I have spread flowers all the way from my bedroom to the gate.
The man gasps and wills himself to push the syllables out of his mouth: Jiang Ching, the republic's enemy, the Politburo has ordered your arrest.
When the imaginary curtain comes up the actress presses herself forward. She envisions the billion-large audience cheering at the top of their lungs and waving flags. An ocean of red. The color sears her eyes. She smells the warm sun. In the music of her opera she strides. In her head, the drums and trumpets come together. She remembers once how Yu described his feelings when composing on her order: it is the sound of hundreds of train engines puffing smoke and churning their pistons. The notes tighten and twist to the point of breaking. It is as if the composer were choked by the claws of the madness and took each note separately off of his mind's hook and threw them all together into a giant bucket and began to stir.
Then there is a pause. She can hear Yu's sob. It is followed by a silence so complete that she hears the crack of time. A shooting star falls.
Once again, she sees her life as a film. And once again she is a young woman standing on top of a roof overlooking the city of Shanghai and dreaming of her future. She sees the gingko-nut boy and hears his selling drill: Xiang-u-xiang-lai-nu-u-nu! The boy's tone is smooth and mindless. Still clear. The midnight wind sweeps through the long dark lane. The boy squats in front of his wok holding an armful of firelight.
She sees herself in the cell of Qin-Cheng national prison where Vice Chairman Liu's wife, Wang Guang-mei, spends a dozen years before her. Madame Mao sits facing the wall. She is ordered to make dolls for export. She has to meet the daily production objective. The dolls will be sold in children's stores all over the world. She sews tiny colorful dresses onto the tiny plastic bodies. Tens, hundreds and thousands of dolls between 1976 and 1991. She embroiders spring on the dresses, draws flowers from her imagination. When guards are not watching, she secretly embroiders her name, Jiang Ching, onto the inner edges of the dresses. And then she is found out and is stopped. Nevertheless, it is too late to retrieve the ones that had already been shipped. Baskets of dolls, with her signature. Out of China and into the world. Where would they land? In a child's forgotten bin? Or a display window?
It is time to empty the stage. Remember, you will always come across me in the books about China. Don't be surprised to see my name smeared. There is nothing more they can do to me. And don't forget that I was an actress, a great actress. I acted with passion. For those who are fascinated by me you owe me applause, and for those who are disgusted you may spit.
I thank you all for coming.