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The Game of Mao

by Emma Victoria

The Game of Mao has only one rule: don’t explain the rules to the game of Mao.

It’s the only rule we may be told — the rest are clouded in secrecy and it is up to us to figure them out through trial and error. We must follow this set of ambiguous rules exactly, without knowing what they are. There are, in fact, so many rules that many times they go forgotten; it is impossible to memorize them all, so we only remember the common ones, the ones that carry the most serious implications, the ones we’ve decoded after years of experiments.

Today is a Tuesday, which means the rule of Tuesday applies: you cannot walk on sidewalks, all purchases must be made in dimes, and hats must be worn at all times.

I cross to the left side of the street and pull my baseball cap down to hide my face. I’m passing by the Grand Master’s lair, and it’s an unspoken rule to never show your face to anybody inside the iron gates. The Grand Master is the mastermind, after all. He is Mao, and we must play his game.

Suddenly there is a crack of static and a monotone voice comes through the system. “Meeting.”

A flurry of activity occurs: people rush from place to place and begin talking in hushed whispers. “Eve,” I hear, then turn around.

“Tess.” I quickly embrace my friend, knowing I only have a few minutes before talking must cease. There is no time for small talk — there is barely enough time to accommodate what needs to be said. “I left my ration cards underneath your doormat.”

Her eyes narrow. “I appreciate your offer, but I can’t let you starve.”

“Who said I was starving? Give them to your brother. A gift — tell him that, from Nathaniel.”

Moments pass before the corners of her mouth melt into a sad smile. “In that case,” she says, “give him our thanks.” She takes my hands, spinning me around in some kind of mock dance until I laugh. The expression is foreign on my face, the sound exotic to my ears. “Look at you,” she says, her eyes glimmering. “Look at you.”

Suddenly, she slips on the ice. She grabs my hand, and it is enough to keep her from falling but not enough to prevent a single misplaced step. She removes her foot from the sidewalk the moment she regains her balance, but it’s too late. The mistake has been made. The Red Guards surround us immediately. I freeze, going mute, my heartbeat pounding in my chest. The guards are dressed in black, with triangles over their eyes. Their faces are turned toward me, and for a moment I think I must’ve done something wrong. But when they glide straight past, I realize that they’re going for Tess, who is now curled on the ground.

Onlookers stare but hurry away, thankful they aren’t in our place. I want to turn around too but my feet are rooted to the ground. The lead guard raises his gun and points it at Tess — my friend, my other half, the only person who can coax out a smile when all I want to do is cry. “Infraction of the rule, Tuesday.”

No. The words are stuck to the roof of my mouth. She didn’t. It was an accident. But two guards are holding me back and I can do nothing but watch as the guard squeezes the trigger.

It clicks.

A scream escapes me but is lost in the sound of Tess’ gasps as she kneels over, vomiting into the pristine white snow. She’s not dead. It’s the only thing my mind can wrap around, clinging to the three words like a lifeline. She’s not dead.

The guard pushes the barrel of his gun against her head; on impact, she falls forward once again. I know what he wants, but in her shock, Tess might not remember. Say it, I think, the only phrase that fills my mind. “Say it,” I whisper, my voice laced with urgency, and, as if she hears, she coughs and utters the words expected from each of us. “Thank you.” The guard is satisfied. He stashes his gun and turns away, the rest of the dark-hooded figures following. I only briefly sag in relief before rushing forward, grabbing her hand, and pulling her up. “Tess.” She stares at me, glassy-eyed. I want to shake her, to slap her out of her stupor. “You can’t ever do that again. You hear me?”

“But Eve,” she says, breathless. “I was ready. I was so ready.”

“You’re not going to die.” My voice rises but it’s futile. I know I am only trying to convince myself. I am hysterical; I am out of control. “We are not going to die–”

“Meeting adjourned.” The loudspeakers cackle twice, then go silent. I stare at my friend, my mouth suddenly sewn shut with a string of words I’m unable to say. Tess blinks, her hand moving to the back of her head. A bit of gunpowder still remains; she touches her gloved hand to her lips, leaving a stain.

Something snaps in my mind when I look at the vomit mixed with gunpowder sinking into the snow, then at my friend, the model citizen, who has spent her entire life tiptoeing through the rules of the game. What did that matter to the guards? She slipped up once, and that superseded everything else. She could have been a saint and still been killed in the name of the game.

That’s when I realize that obedience is an illusion, fabricated by the rule makers, an elusive concept that we lose our lives trying to achieve. Truly, none of us are safe. Simultaneously, I know what I must do. I must do the impossible, do the only thing that will let me run outside the lines that govern our world.

I must win the Game of Mao.

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When I get home, the sky is a deep shade of purple. Pedestrians weave through cars, steering clear from the sidewalk like it is made out of burning embers. The air is filled with the sound of drivers, beeping their horns because it’s the only way they can voice their frustration. I open the door and step inside, instantly thrown backward by the force of my six-year-old brother’s hug.

Nathaniel, I sign, and he grins, peeling away the layer of duct tape that covers his mouth so he can stick out his tongue at me.

There is food on the table so I sit, motioning for him to take a plate. I pile mine high with bread and close my eyes when I take a bite trying to erase the scenes of the day from my mind. Nathaniel tugs on my sleeve, trying to communicate, but I block him out. Not now.

“Meeting.”

A second meeting. This surprises me, but I instantly start calculating. I want to rush to Tess’ house, but meetings are always brief, always ending before I arrive. So I decide to stay put.

Nathaniel pushes his plate away. “I hate bread. Timothy says he gets jam with his meals.”

I don’t know who Timothy is, but it doesn’t matter. “No, he doesn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because nobody does. We’re all the same.” I explain this to him the same way I would read a bedtime story to a child. “Everybody is equal. What we get, Timothy gets also.”

Nathaniel pauses to consider this. “But we don’t get much.”

Welcome, I want to say, to the Game of Mao. But I don’t. It is a game of survival, and I have played long enough to know I am headed into dangerous territory. So I push the food back at him. “Eat up.”

There is a beep. “Meeting adjourned.”

---

The next day is Wednesday. All rules from Tuesday are lifted, a set of strange new ones to take their place. The Grand Master ruled that on the third day of the week, no long pants may be worn; that is why, on a freezing December morning, I am bundled in a wool skirt, a red coat, and an obligatory matching scarf.

I am cold, Nathaniel signs to me before he leaves for school. He wears shorts meant for summer, with long socks that are defenseless against the snow. I sigh and finish buttoning the last row of his jacket. Thursday will come soon. Then I give him a small smile and turn away, my head already aching from all the new rules we have to remember.

I spend my days playing decipherer, attempting to decode the rules of Mao. It is a hard job; we sit in a circle and flip through files documenting our past. The people of Mao have existed for what seems like forever; there is an infinite number of Grand Masters, each one more ruthless than the last.

During the reign of the last Mao, Tiramisu, for example, meant doubles on Saturday. Whatever you do, you must do twice as much. Twice as much food, twice as many meetings, twice the number of penalties given for each infraction. Too little back then to understand, Nathaniel only associated the name of a cake with more food and more talking time. Now, he still occasionally asks for tiramisu.

Someone hands me a new file and I flip it open, removing a paper with a photo of a smiling girl. Killed on 12/18, the text reads, under the incorrect implementation of the rule ‘card’.

Card is a new one. I look around the circle and hold up my paper, but everybody shakes their head; they don’t know the meaning of the new rule either.

Suddenly the door is kicked down with such force the wood completely gives, splintering across the floor. We jump up, scurrying into the corner as a swarm of Red Guards enter.

I am plastered against the wall, pressed against a boy around the same age. I don’t know him, but I feel a twinge of sympathy as a tear rolls down his face.

The guards surround the room, cleverly fencing us in. Instead of triangles over their eyes, they wear squares instead. The lead guard steps forward and scans the room before his eyes settle on me.

The crowd parts, opening up a direct path for him to roughly shove me forward. My mind is racing; I do not know what I’ve done wrong. The question burns my throat, but I force myself to keep silent. There have been cruel tricks like this before; false arrests made to trick a suspect into talking outside a meeting, an infraction in itself.

When I am pushed into a car, I try to remain calm. It is nothing more than a mistake, I tell myself. I will tell the guards that. I have done nothing wrong.

The car stops outside the Grand Master’s lair, and I cannot help but stare. It is magnificent with its marble tiles and twisting pillars. Rows of soldiers guard the entrance, their faces wiped clean of emotion.

Silently, the guards pull me out of the car and we walk forward, making prints in the snow. We climb sets of winding stairs, my legs tiring quickly. The guards push me along, and soon we are standing right outside the Grand Master’s throne room.

The guard knocks twice and we enter. I feel faint, my mind reeling from the turn of events. Along the far side of the wall are tables, stacked full with every kind of food imaginable. There is bread of all sorts stacked next to rows of butter. Fruit shines in a bowl, tempting me to break out of formation and grab an apple. And in the center, there is a single plate of strawberry jam.

It is not a mistake.

All the blood in my body runs cold as I stare at the silver platter. Nathaniel. I have to concentrate on breathing, telling myself to inhale and exhale. Nathaniel. I should not have told him. He is still too young to understand — I am so stupid, so naive. After all, a strong-headed child like Nathaniel would have never fared well in the Game of Mao. But I had foolishly overlooked the fact, and now I am paying the price for my mistake.

The Grand Master stands and announces, “Meeting.”

The fact doesn’t escape me: even the Grand Master must follow his own rules.

“Kneel,” the guard commands, and I do, dropping to my knees and bowing my head in the presence of the Grand Master. With my eyes down, I do not see him, only his spotless shoes as he moves towards me.

“Child,” he says, his voice just above a whisper. “What have you done?”

I close my eyes and lie. “I have done nothing wrong, Grand Master.”

“Nothing wrong?” he breathes. “You have committed the gravest crime: indoctrinating the children of my regime with your fictitious philosophy.”

“My brother has a very imaginative and stubborn mind, Grand Master. You must excuse all the silly things he says; he does not truly understand what his words mean.”

He takes another step forward. “But these are not his words are they? Nathaniel is simply relaying the things he has heard. They must have come from somewhere. Somebody must have accused the regime of withholding resources from its citizens.”

Despite the dire circumstances, I cannot hold back a laugh. I cannot believe I am about to be killed over jam. A breakfast delicacy.

“I was telling him what I thought, Grand Master. I did not mean to intentionally lie.”

He steps closer, and his next words drip with vitriol. “All lies are the same in the eyes of the regime.”

“There is no rule against making mistakes, Grand Master.” So many rules, twisted around each and every one of us, but no rule for that. My heart is racing, my limbs are shaking, but I force myself to look up at him. “If I honestly do not know the truth, would telling a lie go against the rules, still?”

“Yes,” he hisses. “It would.”

Then he stops. His eyes grow wide with realization just as my heart skips with disbelief.

I asked a question about the Game of Mao, and, going against the most fundamental of rules, he had provided an answer. I scramble up just as he turns white and blanches, falling at my feet.

A Red Guard steps forward and hands me a gun, which I hold, heavy in my shaking hands. It is loaded, the safety off, ready to fire. I take a breath and stare at the Grand Master huddled at my feet. Then, I utter the words that seal both our fates.

“Infraction. Explaining the rules of Mao.”

The recoil catches me off guard, and the weapon slips from my fingers. But it has already done its job: The Grand Master is dead. I am the one who killed him. I have won the Game of Mao. I spin around as outside, a cannon fires, confirming the fall of the regime.

There is a faint rustle behind me. I turn back to see all the Red Guards bowing, their hats sweeping low to the ground. Whispers echo around the room. Grand Master.

I walk to the tall window and look out, observing the city that is now mine. Citizens line the streets cheering, throwing their scarves up into the air. The red wool twists in the breeze, streaking the sky with color.

But then a cold sensation comes over me. My eyes narrow and a dark panel falls over my vision. Tess and Nathaniel — the names are quick to fade away, to detach themselves from reformed identity. My mind focuses on the one thing that has been kept out of reach for years.

Now, it is mine.

I would be a fool not to take it.

I throw the window open and raise my arms, embracing the shouts of Grand Master that come from below. I reach for the intercom and announce, “Meeting adjourned.”

Instantly the crowd is silent. My voice is the only thing they hear, and with each syllable, my past crumbles. “The Game of Mao has now begun.”