{"product_id":"forbidden-city-isbn-9780399178825","title":"Forbidden City","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eNATIONAL BESTSELLER • A teenage girl living in 1960s China becomes Mao Zedong’s protégée and lover—and a heroine of the Cultural Revolution—in this “masterful” (\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e) novel.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“A new classic about China’s Cultural Revolution . . . Think \u003ci\u003eSuccession,\u003c\/i\u003e but add death and mayhem to the palace intrigue. . . . Ambitious and impressive.”—\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR: \u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post, PopSugar \u003c\/i\u003e• Longlisted for the Joyce Carol Oates Prize\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the eve of China’s Cultural Revolution and her sixteenth birthday, Mei dreams of becoming a model revolutionary. When the Communist Party recruits girls for a mysterious duty in the capital, she seizes the opportunity to escape her impoverished village. It is only when Mei arrives at the Chairman’s opulent residence—a forbidden city unto itself—that she learns that the girls’ job is to dance with the Party elites. Ambitious and whip-smart, Mei beelines toward the Chairman. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMei gradually separates herself from the other recruits to become the Chairman’s confidante—and paramour. While he fends off political rivals, Mei faces down schemers from the dance troupe who will stop at nothing to take her place and the Chairman’s imperious wife, who has secret plans of her own. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the Chairman finally gives Mei a political mission, she seizes it with fervor, but the brutality of this latest stage of the revolution makes her begin to doubt all the certainties she has held so dear. \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eForbidden City \u003c\/i\u003eis an epic yet intimate portrayal of one of the world’s most powerful and least understood leaders during this extraordinarily turbulent period in modern Chinese history. Mei’s harrowing journey toward truth and disillusionment raises questions about power, manipulation, and belief, as seen through the eyes of a passionate teenage girl.“In . . . her masterful new novel \u003ci\u003eForbidden City\u003c\/i\u003e, Vanessa Hua reflects that ‘fiction flourishes where the official record ends.’ Her novel bears this out: Hua dares to pen the story of the women who fought, sacrificed and endured during China’s Cultural Revolution. . . . Sweeping . . . [Hua’s] novel is eye-opening, vital and timely now more than ever.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Make room for a new classic about China’s Cultural Revolution. . . . Think ‘Succession,’ but add death and mayhem to the palace intrigue. . . . The echoes [of time] I heard in \u003ci\u003eForbidden City\u003c\/i\u003e—narcissistic leadership, a revenge-thirsty body politic, women and girls treated as things—both unsettled and compelled me to consider the present anew. I can think of no higher praise for this ambitious and impressive novel.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ambitious . . . [Hua is a] quietly unstoppable author.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNob Hill\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eGazette\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Vanessa Hua has written a grand, cinematic, and captivating novel. With robust and compassionate imagination, Hua brings to life a heroine who has been relegated to the dustbins of history.”\u003cb\u003e—Cathy Park Hong, author of \u003ci\u003eMinor Feelings\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In this intriguing and suspenseful story, Hua tells of a girl who becomes a lover and worshipper of Chairman Mao, plotting revolution after revolution. How to negotiate the maze of the Forbidden City? How to escape?”\u003cb\u003e—Maxine Hong Kingston, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Woman Warrior\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eForbidden City\u003c\/i\u003e is a wonderful novel, immersive and fascinating. Vanessa Hua writes with an audacious mix of intimacy and narrative sweep about one of the most enigmatic figures and most misunderstood moments in history.”\u003cb\u003e—Jess Walter, author of \u003ci\u003eBeautiful Ruins\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Arresting, beautiful, and epic, \u003ci\u003eForbidden City\u003c\/i\u003e left me breathless by the last page. Hua’s writing is propulsive and packed with rich historical details and exquisitely crafted characters. Mei’s story will stay with you long after reading.”\u003cb\u003e—Lara Prescott, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Secrets We Kept\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Gripping and vital, \u003ci\u003eForbidden City\u003c\/i\u003e charts the sensual, intellectual, and moral awakening of a young woman who forges her own identity from beneath the shadow of Mao Zedong.”\u003cb\u003e—C Pam Zhang, author of \u003ci\u003eHow Much of These Hills Is Gold\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Hua’s provocative latest (after \u003ci\u003eA River of Stars\u003c\/i\u003e) follows a bold and shrewd woman as she navigates China’s political scene amid the Cultural Revolution. . . . Hua masterly presents Mei’s attempts to leave the Lake Palaces with their ‘power, secrecy, and isolation’ behind as she processes her trauma. This finds a brilliant new perspective on familiar material via its story of a young woman’s brush with power. It’s magnificent.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eVanessa Hua \u003c\/b\u003eis a columnist for the \u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle \u003c\/i\u003eand the author of the novel \u003ci\u003eA River of Stars \u003c\/i\u003eand a story collection, \u003ci\u003eDeceit and Other Possibilities\u003c\/i\u003e. A National Endowment for the Arts Literature Fellow, she has also received a Rona Jaffe Foundation Writers’ Award, the Asian\/Pacific American Award for Literature, and a Steinbeck Fellowship in Creative Writing, as well as awards from the Society of Professional Journalists, among others. She has filed stories from China, Burma, South Korea, and elsewhere, and her work has appeared in publications such as \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times, The Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eThe Atlantic\u003c\/i\u003e. She has taught most recently at the Warren Wilson MFA Program for Writers and the Sewanee Writers’ Conference. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her family.\u003cb\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Party official arrived in early summer, the rumble of his jeep echoing along the rutted road. Vehicles didn’t often travel through our narrow valley, still as remote as in the days when news of an emperor’s passing arrived years afterward. I leaned on my hoe, my shoulders aching. Beside me, my two sisters had also stopped working, listening until the sound drew so close that we ran in from the fields, joining the shouts and cries of excitement.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe halted at the sight of the jeep parked in the plaza, its red flags rippling with importance on the hood. The official spoke with the headman, who pointed at a neighbor, at me, at each girl in the cultural work troupe, and gestured to a spot by the acacia tree.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Line up. Quickly, now. Don’t keep Secretary Sun waiting,” the headman barked. He had a squat neck and a body powerful in its flab. He was curt as usual, but seemed apprehensive, shifting around on his feet. As I took my place, my blood jittered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA dozen of us performed patriotic songs and skits on festival days. With few entertainments in the village, we always drew an audience, but we hardly seemed worthy of a Party official.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSecretary Sun had the look of a serpent, with high cheekbones and hooded eyes. He carried himself with a disciplined air, all tucks and polish. His thick black hair glinted gold, then red-brown in the sunlight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI tried not to fidget. Perhaps he wanted to consider our troupe for a special performance in the city? Or maybe he was checking whether the lessons from the capital had made their way here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy father, sitting beneath the acacia, tipped the brim of his hat at me, and I hitched up my sagging pants, hand-me-downs from my sisters that were short and threadbare.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSecretary Sun walked along the line, his steps slow and precise, pausing before each girl: the bony ones, the short ones, the village beauty renowned for her deep dimples and petal-soft skin. At last, he stopped at me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll of us had volunteered for the troupe to get out of field work, but we hadn’t practiced in months. Ten thousand hours of rehearsals wouldn’t have improved our performances. Only my neighbor, who accompanied us on his bamboo flute, possessed any talent. With a nod at us, Fatty Song played an old tune, one that my grandparents had hummed as children about the long days of summer, of sunshine and dreams. The words had been changed and put into the service of the people.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs we sang about victory and freedom, we acted out each verse. We raised our arms above our heads, to imitate the sun rising from the east—the east, where the dawn, where revolution began. I stretched as high as I could, a taut line from my toes to the tips of my fingers, and set my jaw, trying to look fierce. When I glimpsed the girl beside me, though, I almost laughed out loud—her face squinched up as if she was suppressing a gigantic sneeze. Then I faltered, wondering if I might look like her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfterward, we lined up again. Our shuffling feet had kicked up the tickling scent of chickens, dust, and straw. Taking my place at the end, I hunched over, panting, sweat dripping down my back. I was the tallest girl, broad-shouldered and gangly, awkward as a baby calf.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSecretary Sun examined each candidate for a second time. Everyone in my village shared the same surname, Song. Our neighbors knew my parents, had known my grandparents. They recognized the inherited shape of my ears, my temper, and my fate, and had me determined while I was still in the womb.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was 1965, a time ripe with prospect, even if in my village, the buckets of night soil still turned rank and the Party’s painted slogans cracked in the heat. That year, our persimmon trees hung heavy and heady with fruit. In late autumn, we’d heap them into luminous piles, treasures rich as any robber-king’s.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCicadas droned, their song monotonous yet haunting, punctuated by the flick of their wings. Such tiny creatures, yet together, they were deafening. To my left, my neighbor sucked on the end of her braid. To my right, another tugged on her tunic and rubbed her nose, covered by a glistening mole.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy two sisters, too old to volunteer to perform for the troupe, pushed to the front of the crowd. As the official looked over us again, I prayed to the Chairman, asking him to grant me the opportunity to serve. The people’s republic had been born the same year as me, and we were both still testing our limits, still ricocheting between extremes as we figured out who we would grow up to be.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBesides performing revolutionary songs, I could dig a ditch, spin wool, and demonstrate other skills that our leaders might want to review. I imagined the Chairman beaming, his hand outstretched, and mine reaching up to meet his. My looks didn’t matter, only my courage.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFemale heroes were few but vivid in the tales we learned at school: A teenage spy beheaded after she rallied villagers against enemy soldiers. A factory worker burned to death after she stopped a huge fire. A peasant killed when she held together a collapsing kiln. I wanted the official to pick me for this duty and to separate me from the rest of the girls in the village, from everyone here. I wanted to live like a hero.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf the official didn’t select me, in a year I might get married. In time, I would have a baby, then another and another. I had to act now; it might be my only chance. Catching Headman Song’s eye, I floated my hands in a gesture only he would understand. I swiveled my head over the length of the crowd as if to say, I will tell everyone. When his mouth twitched, I knew he understood. Headmen elsewhere in Hebei province had been beaten for lesser offenses, for the people hungered to humble the powerful. To listen to their confessions, strip their authority, force them to clean latrines and catch flies in a jar. Even if only some believed the secret I held, the headman’s reputation would suffer, for such was the strength of accusation in those days.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe cicadas rose in pitch, a teeming, throbbing sound. Headman Song took the pipe from his mouth, turned to the official, and they spoke with their heads bowed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Secretary Sun returned and stopped in front of me, resting his hand on my shoulder, I didn’t shy away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo one else in the village knew what I’d seen. Two years ago, a traveling musician had sought shelter here. Although he wore the same rough clothes as the rest of us, his pale skin glowed, and his high haunting voice silenced us in a performance fit for the Chairman. He sang of heroes, of a mischievous monkey king who rebelled against the heavens, while he plucked at a pipa, the melody spooling from his fingers. Every family volunteered to house the musician that night, for we’d never had such a remarkable visitor. Headman Song prevailed, and he moved his wife and four children to his brother’s home to provide quiet for his guest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the middle of the night, I slipped out and crept to the headman’s house in the hopes of another song. Instead I heard grunts, and through a crack in the front door, I saw their shadows on the wall come together and apart, flickering in the firelight. I moved away, but then peeked back in. The musician kneeled on all fours, the headman behind him. Their hands reached, touched, twined. As the headman let out a low moan, their rocking mesmerized me until both men had shuddered and gone still. I bumped against a stack of baskets. Though I caught them in time to keep the baskets from toppling over, the headman burst through the door, naked. His nipples, large and flat, were startling, an unblinking pair of eyes. Scowling, he gripped my wrists, and his body was heavy with a thick soapy smell. I didn’t scream, and after a long moment, he released me. He must have known I would keep his secret—until today, when I floated my hands as the traveling musician once did over the strings. Over the headman.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat night, Ba gave me the biggest portion of millet porridge, the one reserved for him. Our family sat cross-legged at the low table that rested upon the raised brick bed. When the nights chilled, we’d stoke fires in the hearth beneath the bed to keep us warm. My sisters watched, their faces pinched with hunger, with jealousy, as he plucked mushrooms drizzled with soy sauce from his own bowl and dropped them into my porridge. I inhaled the scent. Our village was famed for its soy sauce, its dark fermented flavors redeeming our bland, insubstantial meals. We fermented the sauce in giant urns, pungent proof that the simplest ingredients could be transformed with time. I pushed the mushrooms to the side of the bowl, saving them for last.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Our Mei Xiang,” he said. Fragrant Plum Blossom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI looked up. He almost never called me by my name. In our family—like all the families in our village—we referred to one another by our titles, by our roles: Ma and Ba, First, Second, and Third Daughters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs the stove flickered low, Ba went outside, where he fell into a fit of coughing. He might have been trying to hide it from us; all of us pushed through our illnesses. The stinking herbal brews Ma prepared never cured us completely.National bestseller; Author of A River of Stars","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302544920805,"sku":"NP9780399178825","price":22.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780399178825.jpg?v=1767727558","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/forbidden-city-isbn-9780399178825","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}