Dreams of Joy Read online

  I catch up to Z.G., who stands before a painting titled An Abundant Harvest of Food Crops. “You’ve seen most of the entries,” he says. “Which one will Chairman Mao want to see win?”

  Before I have a chance to answer, a commotion erupts across the gallery, where the judges have clustered around one picture. We hurry over, joining others who want to see what’s so disturbing.

  “This could have been painted twenty years ago,” one of the judges complains. “The pose … The colors … This is not Socialist Realism.”

  “The artist has been tainted by foreign elements,” another adds roughly. “Our great Chairman has told us that art must be analyzed and divided into fragrant flowers and feudal dregs. This is the dregs.”

  “The roses are redolent of capitalist ideology,” a third judge criticizes. “Do you see the way she has one hand behind her head? We all know what that means. She’s selling herself, beckoning us with her bad ways, just like a prostitute.”

  With disgusted grunts, the judges move on. As the crowd disperses, I edge forward. The painting is of a young peasant woman standing in a field of roses, holding a basket filled with her pickings, and tucking one of the blooms behind her right ear. Who is the central figure? Me! Z.G. has painted me! All those times I saw him with his sketchbook on the edge of the fields at the Green Dragon Village Collective, he was drawing me. Just as with Z.G.’s Mao portrait, this one is a mixture of fact and fantasy. I’m wearing Kumei’s clothes—a yellow blouse and light blue trousers—as I often did in Green Dragon, but my hair is longer and braided in the style of so many country girls. I stand in a field of pink roses. I never saw a single rose in Green Dragon.

  “You look like your mother,” Z.G. says in a soft voice.

  I blush. Auntie May has always been considered beautiful. I’ve never thought of myself that way, but looking at the painting, I can’t help wondering.

  “I’ve missed her,” Z.G. adds. His eyes meet mine, and for a moment I glimpse the love he still has for her.

  And then Chairman Mao is at my side. He’s a bit paunchy. His hair recedes from his temples. His face is shiny and full. His smile is warm and embracing. Standing next to him is like standing next to history, and I’m dumb with wonder and astonishment.

  “I like this painting very much,” he says. “The girl in it is lovely but healthy too. That girl is you, I believe.”

  “She is my daughter,” Z.G. says, with a slight bow.

  “Ah, Li Zhi-ge, it’s been a long time,” Mao says slowly. “Many of us had women in the countryside all those years ago. I didn’t know you did as well.” His smile widens. “How many more pretty daughters have you left across China?”

  I’m not a product of one of those liaisons, but that doesn’t seem to matter to Mao, who turns his attention back to me. “Has your father told you much about me? We were in the caves together in Yen’an. Remember the old days, Comrade Li?” Z.G. nods, and the Chairman continues. “Your father was a good fighter—for a Rabbit—but I felt he could do more good and conquer more hearts with his brush than with his bayonet.”

  Some people say that, once Chairman Mao starts talking, he can’t stop. He doesn’t want to hear other opinions. He doesn’t even want to make conversation the way most people do. You just have to listen and try to understand his meaning.

  “As a hero of Liberation, your father has a special place in our society,” Mao goes on. “After Liberation, I wanted him to come to Peking. I had use for his special skills. He would have lived with me and others on the Central Committee. He would have been treated as a prince—a red prince—but this man missed his home. He wanted to go back to Shanghai. So I made him a member of the Standing Council of the Artists’ Association and an adviser to the Shanghai branch. He won prizes at national competitions, but everyone has moments of weakness. Everyone transgresses from time to time.”

  Z.G. clears his throat. “I admit that sometimes I’ve taken the wrong road, but I’m not a capitalist roader. I’ve tried to redeem myself by correcting my errors. I went to the countryside—”

  “Yes, yes,” Mao says, waving his hand dismissively. He glances at me, his face filled with mirth. “Even in Yen’an, we had to deal with your father’s Rabbit ways. So cautious, so discreet, but he never fooled us. Under his soft blanket of Rabbit niceness is a strong will and almost individualistic self-assurance.” He turns back to Z.G. “Don’t worry about those other things any longer. As they say, the Rabbit always hops over obstacles and calamities to land on his feet. So … I like your portrait of me. It’s a good apology. I think we can do something with it and others like it. Next time, though, make me appear a man of the people—simple trousers, a simple shirt, straw hat, and—”

  “A plain background,” Z.G. finishes for him. “So the people see only you.”

  But Mao has lost interest in that conversation. Now he speaks to me directly. “You don’t say much.”

  “I haven’t said a thing yet.”

  The Chairman chuckles. Then his face turns mock serious. “I know the accents from every province, but I’m having trouble placing yours. Tell me where you’re from. I ask because in a few days I’m having the Central Committee issue a new and stricter law—Halting Outflow from the Villages—to keep all peasants from coming to the cities. We’ll be checking the railway lines, highways, river ports, and all points of communication between provinces. So tell me, little one, where did you grow up? Are we going to have to send you back there now?”

  To my eyes, he’s an old man—certainly older than my mother and father—but is he trying to flirt with me or scare me out of my wits? How can I respond in a way that won’t get me sent not back to the countryside but to California?

  “Her mother is from Shanghai,” Z.G. answers for me, “but my daughter was born in America. She recently came to China.”

  “Have you brought remittances with you?” the Chairman asks. “Remittances are most welcome from Overseas Chinese. Foreign money helps build our socialist state.”

  Again, Z.G. steps in for me, and for the first time I hear him brag. “She’s done something better. She’s returned in person to help the motherland.”

  “Ah, but is she one of those who will seek an exit permit tomorrow?” Mao asks. “To strengthen our united front among Overseas Chinese, we’ve had to relax control over these permits. Too many act like caged birds, waiting for the chance to free themselves from captivity. They complain that their rice rations are mixed with coarse cereals. They say we give no consideration to the old, sick, pregnant women, or newborn babies. The West has corrupted them into valuing personal freedom above all else, but now they must obey the Party. Even I must obey the Party.” He affects the whining voice of an unhappy man who’s returned from overseas: “My stomach is accustomed to cow’s milk and white bread. It won’t accept dried fish and barley.” Mao grunts. “What kind of Chinese is this? A Chinese is his stomach. These Overseas Chinese can’t forget their capitalist roots, and they won’t adapt to the socialist way of living.”

  Z.G. ignores all this. Instead, he says, “My daughter has been helping me in the countryside. We’ve been learning and observing from real life—”

  “Volunteering to go to the countryside was a very clever hop out of trouble for you, Comrade Li.”

  Z.G. cocks his head in question.

  “You did well there,” Mao continues, “but then I needed you to go to Canton. You performed well again, so I brought you here. When you first arrived in Peking, I thought you were still about fifty meters from being labeled a rightist. Then I saw the painting done by your student, Feng Tao. It is in line with things I’ve been thinking about since I returned from Moscow. They think they’ve advanced very fast, and they have. They launched Sputnik. Now Comrade Khrushchev says the Soviet Union will overtake the United States economically in fifteen years. Why can’t we overtake Britain in the same amount of time? Soon the East wind will prevail over the West wind.”

  A uniformed young woman joins us
. “The judges are ready,” she says.

  The Chairman clasps his hands together and shakes them in front of him decisively. “We’ll have to continue our conversation later.”

  He steps away, and I take a deep breath. I can’t believe I’ve been conversing with Chairman Mao, standing so close to him, hearing him reminisce about the past and talk about his new ideas. A part of me thinks, I wish Joe could have seen that. And then Joe’s gone from my mind, because Mao has finished consulting with the judges and has moved to the podium.

  “I’ve just had a small struggle meeting with the judges.” He grasps the podium, and confides, “They do not want to see anything too popular or that reeks of Western influence. They don’t like the beautiful girls of the past. I have a different opinion. Instead of beautiful girls, why can’t we have beautiful working women—bringing in the harvest, climbing telephone poles, or … picking flowers?”

  I grab Z.G.’s arm excitedly as murmurs of surprise rattle through the gallery.

  Mao smiles. “Comrade Li Zhi-ge, please step forward.”

  Z.G. makes his way to the podium and stands a slight distance from Chairman Mao. Cameras flash.

  “You have come away from your Western ivory tower,” Mao says. “At the same time, you have used foreign techniques to serve China. You have shown me the loyalty of your redness over the expertise of your brush. You have won the grand prize.”

  CHRISTMAS COMES AND goes without a single carol, decoration, or present, but life is still festive and fun. Z.G.’s poster of me is everywhere. Posters can be reproduced in about ten hours from conception to final printing, making them almost instantaneous revelations of the Party’s mood, wishes, policies, and positions. As a result of Z.G.’s overnight celebrity, we’re invited to interviews and even more banquets. I’m fed all the famous delicacies—monkey brains, lion’s head, bird’s nest soup, shark’s fin, sea cucumber—and all the rice I can eat. Everywhere we go, Z.G. introduces me as his daughter and his muse. I don’t object, but I still don’t feel like his daughter and I’m not sure I want to be his muse. Since the exhibition I’ve been wondering if I could be an artist. If so, what would be the right kind of art for me—Mao’s idea, Z.G.’s idea, the things I’ve seen in Western art books? Would it contain beautiful girls like my mother and aunt or have beautiful working women as Mao suggested? And what would be my subject? Art that glorifies the revolution, honors heroes, or promotes Party policies? Nothing feels quite right. Emotions are what drive me, and I can think of only one subject: Tao.

  I stay out late and sleep long into the day, but I always have time—I need the time—to think about Tao. I spend hours drawing him from memory, trying to recall just one finger. I keep reminding myself of the Song dynasty artists who knew how to capture the essence of something with as few strokes as possible. Sketch after sketch, brushstroke after brushstroke, bring me closer to Tao. That’s how much I love him. Along the way, I notice that my technique has gotten much more refined.

  In January, Chairman Mao goes to the city of Nan-ning to give a speech launching what he calls the Great Leap Forward. Listening to him on the radio, I see this is a continuation of what he was telling Z.G. and me at the exhibition. “There are two methods of doing things,” Mao proclaims, “one producing slower and poorer results and the other faster and better ones.” He announces that he’s taking control of the economy. He says China can overtake Britain in steel production in fifteen years, just as he said the night in the gallery, but a couple of weeks later he changes his mind and sets a shorter goal. China can do it in seven years. Not long after that, he sets his sights on America, claiming that China can overtake the United States in steel production and agricultural output in fifteen years. “We need to push ourselves,” he declares. “Hard work for a few years, happiness for a thousand.” No one knows what any of it means, but we’re all enthusiastic.

  In February, after just over three months in Peking, Z.G. and I board a train and head south to Shanghai, because he wants to be home for Chinese New Year. When I left Shanghai, it was unbelievably hot and humid. Now, as we step off the train, it’s not as cold as Peking, but it’s still plenty cold. Children wear so many layers of padded clothes that their arms stick straight out from their bodies. The adults don’t look much better.

  When we arrive at Z.G.’s house, I see the posters of my mother and aunt in the salon. I’d forgotten about those. Then the three servant girls, all dressed in heavy padded clothes, welcome us. They show me to my room. Big steel-cased windows look out onto the street. It’s winter, so the trees are bare, which allows the sun to warm the room—a good thing since Z.G.’s house has no heat to speak of. I have, for the first time in my life, a vanity, a mirror, and a double bed, plus my very own closet and bathroom. But it’s cold! I put on my flannel underwear, heavy socks, and an extra sweater under the coat Z.G. bought me in Peking. I wrap a muffler around my neck and put on my gloves, prepared to wear them in the house to stay warm.

  When I go back downstairs, Z.G. takes one look at me, and says, “This is not appropriate. You’re in Shanghai now. Please come with me.”

  I’m not sure what’s wrong with what I’m wearing, since he’s still in his traveling clothes and is as bundled against the cold of the house as I am, but I follow him back upstairs and then up another flight of stairs to the attic. Some of his paintings lean against the walls. Boxes and chests are stacked haphazardly on the floor, but he knows exactly what he’s looking for. He squats, opens a chest, and motions me to come to his side.

  “I used to have a studio, where I painted your mother and aunt,” he explains. “I went there when I returned to Shanghai after Liberation. My landlady had kept everything. People go away—to war, to sojourn in other countries, to escape gossip—but we Chinese always come home … if we can. My landlady knew I would return eventually.”

  He pulls out a fur-lined black brocade coat.

  “Here, try this on. It was your mother’s. She left it at my studio one day.”

  I take off the heavy gray-wool blanket thing that kept me warm in Peking and put on Auntie May’s coat.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I say, “but isn’t it too showy?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Z.G. assures me. “Women have been wearing fur-lined coats in Shanghai forever.”

  I eagerly look to see what else might be in the chest. Z.G. hands me a red satin robe embroidered with a pair of phoenixes in flight. “Your mother wore this for a poster I did where she portrayed a goddess. She was lovely in it. And look, there’s more.”

  I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but I have to state the obvious. “These are costumes.”

  “You could wear them for special occasions. You should have seen your mother when she dressed as Mulan, the woman warrior …”

  I don’t understand old people. Does he think if I put on one of these costumes that I’ll be like May? Can’t he see that I’m not like her at all? I stare at the robe in my lap. The fabric is soft and luxurious in my hands. I look up at Z.G. I still haven’t told him the truth about my upbringing, my father Sam, or the anger I carry toward my mother and aunt.

  “It’s hard for children to imagine their parents when they were young,” Z.G. says. “But we had such great fun, your mother and I. Your aunt Pearl was wonderful too, but May was one of those people on whom fortune always seemed to smile. Come, I want to show you something else.”

  We leave the attic and he takes me to his bedroom. I’ve never been in a man’s bedroom before. My uncle Vern’s room was filled with model boats and airplanes. My parents’ room was dominated by my mother’s things—lamps with frilly shades, a flowered bedspread, and lace curtains. This is something very different: a heavy four-poster bed in dark wood (clearly a leftover from the colonial who lived here before Liberation) dominates the room. Heavy fabric, the deep red color of the Forbidden City’s walls, covers the down-filled quilt. Everything is tidy and warm, except for over the fireplace, where Auntie May’s portrait hangs. She’s
draped in some kind of diaphanous fabric, but nothing’s hidden. She’s absolutely and completely naked. I’ve known Auntie May my entire life. I slept on the porch with her for six years. I saw her come in late at night from her business dinners—smelling a bit of alcohol and her clothes no longer pin perfect—but I never once saw her like this.

  “This is your mother at her most beautiful,” Z.G. says.

  My mother Pearl flies into my mind: Compose your face. Don’t let him see your shock. Pretend this is just another piece of art. I nod, trying to be perky, trying to look happy, but I want to throw up. It was one thing to go to the countryside, see the famous sights, and hobnob in Peking, but now I’m in Shanghai, in a house that in many ways is a shrine to my mother and aunt. In just a few minutes here, I’ve gotten a glimpse of what their lives must have been like, of the way they were. These were not the people I grew up with. And my aunt May certainly did not have a great fortune—living in Chinatown, married to Vern, never admitting I was her daughter.

  “It’s wonderful,” I say. “Everything is wonderful.” Another wave of nausea hits me. “I can’t wait to hear more about those days, but I haven’t seen Shanghai yet. Do you mind if I take a walk? I’ll be back soon. We have so much time, now that I’m here.”

  “Of course. Would you like me to come with you?”

  “No, no. I just want to take a little walk. We were a long time on the train.”

  I hurry downstairs and step into the night. It’s cold, but the fresh air is a relief. I put a smile on my face. I came here to be happy, and I’m going to be happy. If I smile, then maybe I can convince my body just how happy I am. I look both ways, and decide to venture to the right. I don’t know where I’m going. I just need to walk and keep smiling.

  Pearl

  SCARS ON HER BREAST

  I’M ON MY way to Z.G.’s house, as I usually am at the end of the day. It’s February 15 in the Western calendar and three days before Chinese New Year. I’m a Christian, a one-Goder, but I could only carry the spirit of Christmas in my heart. On Valentine’s Day, I could only think of Joy and the cards she used to make for her classmates when she was in elementary school. Now all around me people are busy with their New Year’s preparations: buying clothes, sweeping their front steps, shopping for special ingredients. I see Joy everywhere. The first time I stumbled on Z.G.’s New Year’s poster with Joy I was overwhelmed. Now it’s pasted on walls in cafés, shops, doctors’ offices, and schools. I’ve heard that close to 10 million copies have been sold. Every piece of paper I collect and turn in I hope will be milled and recycled into another poster of my daughter, because her smiling face lets me know that she’s all right.