I could probably be tossed out of the business for telling you this — it violates every journalistic principle in the book — but once, long ago, in the course of my work as a reporter, an international man of mystery pressed upon me a gift of rare jewels, and to my shame, I accepted.
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MONSIEUR BUTTERFLY Shi Pei Pu, circa 1965.
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Shi Pei Pu, Singer, Spy and ‘M. Butterfly,’ Dies at 70 (July 2, 2009) The man’s name was Shi Pei Pu, the Beijing opera singer and spy who died in Paris last week. True, he was not out of the James Bond mold of international men of mystery or even the Austin Powers mold: He was a delicate, theatrical, otherworldly little man who beguiled an employee of the French Embassy in Beijing into espionage during the Cultural Revolution by claiming to be a woman. In the course of their affair, he even produced a child.
I was working as a reporter at People magazine, back in 1988, when I saw the Broadway show the case inspired, David Henry Hwang’s wonderful “M. Butterfly,” and it raised many questions: How could a guy make love to another guy for months and not know? Where had the kid come from? How could I get to Paris, where the two men were now living after spending time in prison, on somebody else’s dime?
There were also Shi Pei Pu’s own singular demands: He wished to promote himself as a Beijing opera star (though there was no evidence he had ever been one in China). He would do an interview only if the magazine arranged for him to perform on television. As luck would have it, People was about to launch a television show, so this was not a problem.
Also, this story happened long, long ago, at a time when there was money to be made in journalism. Especially at People magazine. Arriving at work, one had to wade through it in specially made money boots, so as not to stain the feet. In keeping with that spirit, the photographer and I checked into the Lancaster Hotel, on the Right Bank, where Richard Burton and Liz Taylor once shacked up. We were soon joined by a TV producer, TV reporter, interpreter and video crew. Even by People magazine standards this was getting to be a pricey enterprise. It got pricier as the days passed and we waited for Mr. Shi (pronounced Shuh) and his retinue to show up.
One hates to speak badly of the dead, but it has been now five, maybe six days, and I think I may be forgiven for saying Shi Pei Pu was one of the more maddening subjects I have ever met. It took him days to admit he had a physical affair with Bernard Boursicot, the embassy worker, and although police records showed otherwise, he denied that he had pretended to be a woman. He could, however, have taught a course on charming manipulation. Despite his ordinary masculine dress, the baggy turtleneck and blue trousers, he managed to convey the impression of a tragic, exiled and fragile porcelain princess who, pushed too hard, might shatter.
Also, he told great stories; flowery, Chinese-French bodice rippers. He and Bernard in the days of the Cultural Revolution, when it was forbidden for Chinese and foreigners to meet, sitting across Changan Avenue and staring at one another; or Bernard so in love with Pei Pu that he ran waving and yelling after his bus. Later, Bernard would tell the same story with Pei Pu running after him, but no matter.
Shi Pei Pu’s televised Beijing opera recital turned out to be a major production: The hotel rooms the magazine had arranged were deemed too small, new space had to be found and paid for, fittingly in the town of Versailles. Pei Pu’s musicians had to be paid. Finally, it was over. Pei Pu, in the manner of wanna-be divas to whom attention has finally been paid, was giddy with delight and appreciation.
Finding me in my room at the Lancaster later that day, Pei Pu told me, through the translator, that he wished to give me a gift; then, with a delicate but mesmerizing flourish, he presented me with a long string of pearls. They were his grandmother’s, Pei Pu said. He wished me to have them.
Reporters are forbidden to accept gifts; in extremis the general rule is that one can accept something if the worth is under $25. A 20-inch string of antique pearls was definitely out. I tried explaining this to the translator. There was a great deal of flowery back and forth which, with subtext, went something like this.
Me: “No, no, no, no, I could not possibly. Especially because you have not yet told me how you hid the fact you are man, you devious little snake.”
Shi: “Yes, yes, yes, you must. After all, it was you, cher Madame, who got me on American television. I guess it would be too much to hope you know an agent.”
Finally, the translator, in a private aside to me, said: “You must accept. If you do not, it will be a great insult.”
I saw no way around it. If this kept up much longer, the Lancaster would hit us up for another night. I accepted the pearls, thinking I would figure out a face-saving way to return them — maybe turn them into a bracelet and send it to Pei Pu’s son when he married. When I got home I put them in a drawer where they languished for years. I wrote a book about the case, but Shi Pei Pu wouldn’t speak to me for it because he hadn’t liked the People magazine story. Too much sex.
Then one day, heading up to the Diamond District to have a bracelet repaired, I remembered the pearls in the drawer.
“Tell me these are under $25,” I told the man in the repair booth.
His examination barely required a glance.
“They’re not only fakes, they’re very bad fakes,” he said.
“Perfect,” I said.
I had them made into a three-strand bracelet: the Pei Pu pearls. I wear them sometimes to the theater. They’re very bad fakes, but for sure, one of a kind. Rest in peace, Shi Pei Pu. You told a helluva story.
By JOYCE WADLER
NY Times
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