Dreams of Joy Page 39

  I make dinner. Everyone sits around the table in the dining room. We listen to the day’s gossip. One of the former dancing girls got a promotion at the textile factory. This has infuriated her roommate. The two bicker as only two women who have shared the same small room for twenty-three years can. Yes, everything is exactly as it should be. Even when Cook announces the marriage between Little Miss and the professor, no one seems particularly surprised.

  “There are no secrets in this house,” the cobbler says, as he raises his cup of hot water for a toast.

  My mother looks from face to face. She takes in the faded wallpaper and the art deco sconces she bought at a pawnshop. Her fingers glide along the surface of the dining table, memorizing it. I can see she’s fighting back tears. I have a momentary fear she’ll give away everything, but then she blinks, clears her throat, and picks up her chopsticks.

  Pearl

  A PLACE OF MEMORY

  I LEAVE MY family home almost as I arrived. The boarders crowd around me in the hall, offering words of advice. They part when Cook enters. The knowledge that I’ll never see him again burns in my chest, but I say, “Take care of things until next Tuesday.” Then I address everyone. “Don’t forget the cleanliness campaign. I don’t want to come back and find—” “We know, we know,” the others sing in chorus. Then I pick up the bag I brought into China and walk out the door and down the steps into the garden. Joy carries the baby. Dun holds Ta-ming’s hand. I open the front gate for the others to pass. I don’t look back. Then together we go to the corner and board the first of a series of buses that will take us to the airport.

  As a paper collector, I spent a lot of time on the Bund, watching ships go up and down the river, trying to figure out if there was a way to leave Shanghai on the Whangpoo. Even now, I would have guessed we’d take a boat or train to Canton, but Z.G.’s superiors at the Artists’ Association insisted that he, Tao, Joy, the baby, and her amah fly to Canton. Plane tickets are expensive, they told Z.G., but we’d be gone for a shorter time and they wouldn’t have to provide us with as many rice coupons. I used my money to buy additional seats for Dun and Ta-ming.

  We wait six hours in the terminal. Some of us exchange worried glances. Z.G. and Tao are to give their demonstration at the fair’s opening festivities first thing tomorrow morning. What if the plane doesn’t take off today? If we can’t be in Canton by tomorrow morning, then there’ll be no reason for Z.G. and Tao—and therefore the rest of us—to go to Canton. We wait and wait. Babies wail, children fuss. People huddle together in layers of padded clothes—taking extra clothes in a way that won’t look suspicious, except it does. The acrid smell of damp humans, dirty diapers, cigarette smoke, and pickled turnips is sticky at the back of my throat. The linoleum floor is a mess of spit, nicotine-flecked phlegm, bags, baskets, and satchels. Soldiers patrol the aisles, stopping occasionally to check papers and photo identifications. The wait, the anxiety, the worry every time the armed soldiers pass is nerve-racking. Even so, pallid faces and hollow looks have been replaced by glimmers of hope. Maybe things will be better in the south.

  Finally the aircraft is ready for departure, but flying on a Chinese propeller plane is not at all like my transpacific Pan Am flight. Samantha screams the entire way. Ta-ming holds his father’s violin case in his lap, handing it to me just before he leans over and throws up in the aisle. Tao and Z.G. smoke nonstop, as do most people on the plane. It’s a long and bumpy ride. I stare out the window, watching China’s mainland pass below.

  When we step off the plane in Canton, the first thing I notice is how much warmer it is than Shanghai. It feels like Los Angeles, and I love that. Then I hear Cantonese. I look at Joy. This is the sound of Chinatown. We’re still in China, but we’re getting closer to home. We both grin and then just as quickly compose our faces, remembering we must seem as though there’s no particular reason for us to be happy.

  We take double-seat pedicabs to the hotel. Refugees are everywhere on the streets, with their bundles, children, and treasured goods. Everyone wants to get out. But the hotel is just as I remember it. I remember as well the things I did with Z.G. here. When he catches my eye, I know he’s recalling those things too. Embarrassed, I look away and edge closer to Dun. We’re given three rooms: one for Z.G., one for Tao and Joy (poor thing), and one for the children, Dun, and me, since I’m here as the amah.

  Tao barely reacts to the lobby. He’s come a long way from washing rice in the toilet. However, I can see, for the first time, a trace of nervousness in him. Everyone speaks Cantonese. He’s become relatively proficient in the Shanghai dialect, but Cantonese is nothing like Mandarin, the Wu dialect of Shanghai, or his home dialect from Green Dragon Village. We all have to remind ourselves that Tao cannot suspect a thing, but I just can’t express how exciting it is to be only one hundred miles from Hong Kong.

  IN THE MORNING, Joy comes to our room, and together with Dun we go over our plan one last time. We wear clothes appropriate for the opening festivities. Joy—wife of the model peasant artist—in the simple cotton blouse and pants she wore when I pushed her in a wheelbarrow out of Green Dragon Village; Dun in an ill-fitting Western-style dark suit, which we hope will give the impression that he is a Hong Kong Chinese visiting the fair; the children in matching black outfits to show they’re from the countryside; and I wear what I wore out of China, back into China, and, we hope, back out of China later today—the peasant clothes May bought for me many years ago. “I’ll carry the baby,” Joy recites.

  “I’m responsible for Ta-ming, and I have our money in my pants,” I say.

  “I have our papers right here.” Dun pats his jacket. Then, “We all have to be present when the painting exhibition opens at nine.”

  We agreed we had to do this, but it will be hard when we’re so anxious to flee. However, it would look strange to Tao if we didn’t show up and stranger still to the fair organizers, who invited Tao, his wife, and their baby girl to this special event.

  “Once Z.G. and Tao’s demonstration begins, we’ll sneak out of the hall and go to the train station,” Joy picks up. We’re talking about something terribly dangerous, but she sounds calm and determined. My Tiger daughter is leaping yet again.

  “And then it’s just two hours to Hong Kong,” I say, gathering courage from Joy.

  We head downstairs to the dining room, where we join Z.G. and Tao. Z.G. wears one of his most elegant Mao suits, befitting his status. Tao also wears a Mao suit, but of inferior fabric and cut. Unlike Joy, who still must appear a peasant wife, Tao is showing the world that he is Z.G.’s protégé. He walks proudly erect with a big smile on his face.

  The fair is international, and so is the buffet: hard-boiled eggs, yogurt, and savory flatbreads for attendees from India and Pakistan; stewed tomatoes, bangers, limp bacon, and toast with butter and jam for the English; and porridge, pickles, and piles of dumplings for the Chinese. It’s crucial for the government to project that nothing is wrong in the country; the Great Leap Forward is great! Ta-ming loads his plate with more food than he could ever eat, but then so do we all.

  Just before nine we walk to the fair entrance, where we’re greeted by the organizer, an officious man with a shiny, round face. He escorts us into the great hall. On the stage at the front of the room are several easels draped with red silk.

  “As soon as the doors open, we’ll make the introductions, and then your paintings will be revealed,” the organizer explains in Mandarin, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He pauses and frowns, concerned. “Members of the Canton branch of the Artists’ Association will give you proclamations, and then you’ll do your demonstration. But please make all of this fast. People have come here to buy our products, and they’ll want to go on to the exhibition floor quickly.”

  Hundreds of attendees are let in. Tao sticks close to the organizer, probably hoping to make connections, while the rest of us wait for the program to begin. Naturally, there’s a little more to it than we were told. A dragon dance with clangi
ng cymbals, banging drums, and colorful costumes sets a celebratory tone. Then the organizer, with Tao still trailing him—not for the first time do I look at my son-in-law and think what a greedy, foolish man—steps up to the podium.

  “Welcome all guests to the People’s Republic of China’s Export Commodities Fair,” the organizer begins in Cantonese. He repeats his welcome in Mandarin and then continues using Mandarin, the official language of China. “This year you will see—and we hope buy—even more of our wonderful tractors, textile machines, alarm clocks, and flashlights. You’ll see we make the best and cheapest merchandise in the world. There is nothing the masses can’t do!”

  The audience applauds. The organizer holds up his hands for silence.

  “I know you’re all eager to get inside, but first we have a special treat for you. We open today by unveiling a major art exhibition,” he continues. “From here it will travel to Peking for the annual New Year’s poster competition. Then it will go on tour to cities around the country. If you’ve been here before, you’re already familiar with Li Zhi-ge, one of our nation’s best artists. He’s come again, and in a moment I’ll bring him up here, but let me first introduce Feng Tao.”

  More applause as Tao waves, smiles, and bows several times as he’s learned to do at other events since he recovered.

  “Feng Tao is red through and through,” the organizer goes on. “But he’s more than that! He is what we call both red and expert.” This is the highest compliment that can be given these days, and it refers to peasants like Tao, who are “red” through their millennia of suffering and “expert” through their ignorance. “He’s here to show the world that anyone can be an artist. Surely he’ll win the award in Peking for the best New Year’s poster.”

  I glance at Z.G. to see how he’s taking this. How hard it must be to have listened to this kind of nonsense for the past several months, but he keeps his expression bland and indifferent. I feel Joy shifting impatiently at my side. She knows she’s about to be called up there to be displayed as Tao’s model-comrade wife, who came to the motherland from imperialist America.

  The organizer asks the delegation from the Canton branch of the Artists’ Association to join him onstage. They begin to pull the red silk from each of the easels, revealing several of Z.G.’s recent works—glorious round-faced women driving tractors, robust women waving red flags and smiling at a column of tanks on Chang’an Boulevard during the People’s Republic of China’s tenth anniversary parade, and Chairman Mao striding through the countryside, appearing taller than the mountains, greater than the sea. Tao’s paintings couldn’t be more different. They show village life in clean but simple strokes, all rendered in bright colors.

  People applaud appreciatively. Then one of the men from the Artists’ Association pulls one of the red cloths off an easel and I hear Joy’s sharp intake of breath. I peer around the heads to see what has upset her, and there on the stage is something so beautiful I can’t fully absorb it. It’s a watercolor of my sister, Joy, Samantha, and me rendered in the old-fashioned beautiful-girl style. My first thought is that Z.G. must have painted it.

  “That’s mine!” Joy says loud enough for a few people to turn her way and stare. Z.G. puts a restraining hand on her arm. She looks up at him, her face flushed in anger. “He stole my painting. He’s going to take credit for this too.”

  Those around us from other countries don’t seem all that impressed by anything that’s happened so far, and they carry resignation in their bodies—this is China and we have to tolerate the greetings, proclamations, and demonstration before we can enter the exhibition hall—but the Chinese listen to this exchange with great interest, edging closer, drawing attention our way.

  “He must have crated it with the other paintings when I wasn’t looking,” Z.G. says quietly. “But you can’t worry about that now.”

  That’s right, because there’s something much worse to worry about. Onstage the members of the Artists’ Association speak animatedly among themselves and gesture furiously at the organizer and Tao. I understand why—Joy’s painting recalls the beauty of the past and the deep emotions of mother love in a style that’s been deemed bourgeois and ultrarightist—but I’m very proud of her. I’m happy and honored too. She might never be able to express her feelings in words, but through her brushstrokes she’s given me indisputable proof that she has forgiven my sister and me.

  The organizer moves again to the microphone. He’s flustered and clearly trying to make the best of a disastrous situation. “We’re sorry that this piece of black art has been put before your eyes. Fortunately, in the New Society, even the worst criminals are given an opportunity to confess.” He motions to Tao with a flick of his hand. “Please step forward and explain yourself to our guests. Let them see our great country at work building socialism and communism.”

  As Tao saunters to the podium, I sense what he’s going to do. This won’t be like the mural, where he took credit for Joy’s work. Instead, he’s going to name the artist and accuse Joy—and maybe Z.G. too—for trying to lead him down a black path. By targeting them, he’ll raise his status in the government as a model artist, who is red, expert, pure, and a brave defender against and accuser of hooligans, who should and will be punished.

  “We’ve got to go,” I say. “We’ve got to go now!”

  As I start pushing the others toward the door, I hear Tao’s voice. “I did not paint this evil atrocity, but I saw it being birthed. My wife was criticized in our commune for being a right opportunist. My father-in-law has a decadent past. They are the ones to blame—”

  “Hurry!” I exclaim.

  “Where is the real artist?” Tao calls out. “Step forward! Accept criticism!”

  I disliked Tao from the first moment I saw him. I’ve despised him since Joy told me about Swap Child, Make Food. He’s a country bumpkin, and I wish with all my heart, Christian though I am, that he would just die.

  “Where is the artist?” Tao demands again.

  “I am the artist,” Z.G. suddenly shouts. We’re so close to the door, but we stop, horrified at what he’s done. “You can recognize my technique from years ago.”

  “Dad!” This surprising word comes out of my daughter’s mouth.

  “You can’t—”

  But onstage, Tao doesn’t make the correction.

  “My father-in-law taught me that art should serve workers, peasants, and soldiers, but you can see he is only concerned with beautiful women,” Tao prattles, relishing his role as accuser.

  I see it now: Tao would much rather target Z.G. than Joy. If Tao can push Z.G. aside, then he’ll become more than just a model peasant artist. He’ll take Z.G.’s place.

  “It’s not too late for you to confess your many crimes,” Tao proclaims. “You are a poisonous weed. Step forward! Show your face!”

  Someone up front shouts, “Where is this rightist?”

  “There he is,” Tao says, pointing to our group.

  Dun turns to me. “You have to save the children. Go!”

  “What are you saying?” I ask.

  In the chaos around us, Chinese faces move closer.

  “Where is the traitor?” another voice calls.

  Suddenly, Dun shoves me into Z.G.’s arms.

  “Go now!” Dun implores urgently. I look up into Z.G.’s face and watch his reaction as I hear my husband, who’s behind me, call out, “I’m right here. I’m the artist.”

  As Z.G. pulls me from the room, I look back to see people close in around Dun, enveloping and trapping him. I can’t possibly leave him. I fight Z.G. as hard as I can, but he drags me out the door and into the center’s lobby. Joy, holding the baby and looking terrified, is there already. Ta-ming is at her side, white faced.

  “Come on!” Z.G. says.

  Again, I try to yank my arm loose. “I’m not going!”

  Z.G. looks at Joy. She nods and grabs my other arm. Together they pull me through the lobby, out the door, and into a Russian-made car converted to
a taxi for foreigners at the fair.

  “Drive!” Z.G. demands in Mandarin.

  The driver stares at us in his rearview mirror. He doesn’t seem to understand what Z.G. said, plus he has three out-of-breath adults, a baby, and a frightened little boy in his backseat.

  Joy, who grew up speaking Cantonese, says, “Take us to the train station.” The car pulls away from the curb and drifts into bicycle traffic, then Joy turns to me. “Mom, we have to keep going,” she says, switching to Mandarin so the driver won’t understand. “If we don’t go now, we’ll never get out.”

  “What about Dun?” I ask.

  “We can’t go back,” Joy answers. “You know that. He saved us. Don’t you understand?”

  “They won’t do anything to him,” Z.G. promises.

  “Your promise means nothing, if we leave,” I say. “You know that!”

  “They’ve probably already discovered he’s not me,” Z.G. counters. “That means they’re already looking for us. The authorities will want me, and Tao will want Samantha.”

  “Tao doesn’t want the baby,” Joy says. “She’s a girl. Tao doesn’t even like her. He calls her Ah Fu.”

  “He’s her father, of course he wants her,” Z.G. responds.

  “Nothing is more precious than when you might lose it,” I add.

  I bend over and bury my face in my hands. The others will do as I say, leaving me with a horrible choice. My husband, or my daughter, granddaughter, and the little boy I’ve just adopted? Dun said I have to save the children, and I do. I push my emotions down into a little ball, and then I sit back up.

  “Dun has our papers,” I remind the others. “We can’t leave by train now.”

  In all the excitement, apparently Joy forgot this, and now her body deflates. “What will we do?” she asks, panicked.

  I put a hand on her arm to calm her as I speak to the driver. “Please take us to Wah Hong Village.”