Dreams of Joy: A Novel (19 page)

“Honey, your dad’s suicide wasn’t your fault. Don’t ever think that. Yes, maybe the FBI used you as a pawn, but they were always going to win the game.”

“Nothing you can say or do will change what happened, what I did, or where I’ve ended up. You can never punish me as much as I’ll punish myself.”

“Is that why you came here?” I ask. “To punish yourself? But this is too much punishment for anyone.”

“Mom, you don’t understand a single thing. I want to be part of creating something bigger than my own problems. I want to make up for all I destroyed—Dad’s life, our family. It’s my way of atoning.”

“The best thing you can do is come home. Uncle Vern misses you. And”—this is hard for me to say—“don’t you want to get to know May in a new way? And even if you are right—which you aren’t—Red China is not the place to atone.”

“Pearl is correct,” Z.G. says. “You should go home, because you don’t understand what you’re seeing and experiencing. Lu Shun wrote, ‘The first person who tasted a crab must have also tried a spider, but realized it was not as good to eat.’ You’ve only tasted the crab.” He glances at me and then back at Joy. “The last time I saw your mother was twenty years ago. I didn’t know about you. I didn’t know what happened to your mother and aunt. Why? Because I went to join Mao. I fought in battles. I killed men.”

He begins chronicling his hardships over the past two decades, because somehow he thinks this is about
him
. I guess we’re supposed to believe he’s really telling us his life story, but I once knew Z.G. very well and I can see there’s a lot he’s not revealing. And why would he? He’s only just met Joy. It’s nice to have your daughter look at you with eyes of love and respect, but I’m tired of lies.

“You ran off,” I say to him. “You became a famous artist and you destroyed May’s and my lives.”

“Destroyed? How?” Z.G. asks. “You got out. You got married. You had a family. You had Joy in your life. Some might say I’ve been successful in the regime, but others might say I’ve sold my soul. Let me tell you something, Pearl. You can sell and sell and sell, but sometimes that’s not enough.” He turns to Joy. “Do you want to know the real reason I went to the countryside?”

“To teach the masses,” she answers dutifully.

“I can try to teach all I want, but I cannot teach the uneducated.”

Did I forget to say a Rabbit is also a snob?

“Maybe you’re a bad teacher,” I say.

Z.G. gives me a look. “I’ve been teaching my daughter, and she’s learned a lot.”

“And you taught Tao too,” Joy adds.

I hear a sudden lightness in her voice as she says that name. “I praised him because I had to praise someone,” Z.G. says. “He’s not very good. Surely you see that.”

“I do not,” she says hotly.

Her face radiates indignation. It’s a look I recognize from when she was a very little girl and she was told something she didn’t want to hear. Her reaction makes me want to know who this Tao person is, but Z.G. asks again, “Do you want to know why I went to the countryside?” This time he doesn’t wait for an answer. We’re going to hear it whether we want to or not. “Last year, Shanghai was very different than it is now. Jazz clubs reopened for people like me—artists and, well, those who were part of the old elite. We also had dancing, opera, and acrobats. Then Mao launched Let a Hundred Flowers Bloom.”

I remember how excited Joy was about this and how she got into fights with her uncle Vern, who believed the campaign would come to “a no-good end.”

“We were told we could say what we wanted without fear of recrimination,” Z.G. continues. “We criticized the things we thought hadn’t worked in the first seven years of the regime. We aired our views without reserve, and the complaints covered everything: that there should be a rotation of power, that cozying up to the Soviet Union was a mistake, and that contact should be renewed with the United States and the West. Artists and writers had their own list of complaints. We wanted to liberate art and literature from the Party. We didn’t feel that all art and all writing should serve workers, peasants, and soldiers. By May, Chairman Mao didn’t want to hear criticism. By summer, he didn’t like it, not one bit. When he made a speech about ‘enticing snakes out of their lairs,’ we knew the Campaign Against Rightists had begun. The spear hits the bird that sticks his head out.”

I’m not sure why Z.G. has gone off on this tangent, but Joy is mesmerized. She sits down and listens raptly. His story is hitting her in some deep place, that very place that so far I’ve been unable to reach. Is he sharing his miseries with Joy, who he’s just learned has tragedies, sorrows, and guilt of her own—whether justified or not—to give her perspective? I join Joy on the couch and force myself to listen more closely.

“When rectification began, some cadres were sent ‘up to the mountains and down to the villages’ in remote areas to take up unimportant posts or work in the fields. It was even worse for writers and artists. When someone asked Premier Chou En-lai why this was happening, do you know his response?”

Neither of us answers.

“He said, ‘If intellectuals do not join in
manure
labor, they will forget their origin, become conceited, and be unable to wholeheartedly serve the laboring masses.’ But shoveling manure isn’t enough punishment for those who’ve been labeled counterrevolutionaries, rightists, spies, Taiwan sympathizers, or traitors—”

“I don’t see what any of this has to do with my taking Joy home,” I say.

“She sees only what she wants to see, and I’m trying to make her understand,” Z.G. explains. “When things changed, I was accused of being a poisonous weed and no longer a fragrant flower. The day Joy arrived in Shanghai, I was being struggled against at the Artists’ Association, where my friends accused me of being too Western in my outlook, of using Western techniques of shading and perspective in my paintings, and of being too individualistic in my brushstrokes. I didn’t go to the countryside to teach art to the masses. I didn’t go to observe and learn from real life. I went to avoid being sent to a state camp for reform through labor.”

“That can’t be right,” Joy says, uncertain.

Oh, how sorry I feel for her. To have to see things in a whole new way … again. To know that the person she’s run to has also been running.

“Think about it, Joy,” he says. “They housed us in the landowner’s villa because that’s where they put the other unsavory and questionable people in the Green Dragon Collective.”

“You’re wrong,” she insists.

“I’m not wrong. Kumei, Yong, and Ta-ming were the landowner’s concubine, one of his bound-footed wives, and his only surviving son.”

“Kumei couldn’t have been a concubine—”

“You thought the villagers were treating us as special guests, but I’m telling you they put us in the villa as punishment.”

“But we were serving the people,” Joy argues. “We were helping with collectivization.”

“In volunteering to go to the village, I was trying to control my punishment,” Z.G. says. “I expected to be in Green Dragon for at least six months, but that would have been better than the years I might have spent in a labor camp … if I ever even got out. Your arrival on my doorstep complicated things. How could I have a daughter from America—our most ultraimperialist enemy? If anyone asked about your mother, what was I going to say? That she was a beautiful girl? Everyone would have concluded she had Nationalist ties, otherwise she wouldn’t have left China. That would have been another black mark against me.”

“But Chairman Mao likes you,” Joy practically whines. “He told me all those things you did together in the caves in Yen’an.”

“We were comrades then,” Z.G. acknowledges, circling back to the past. “I met up with him and became a member of the Lu Shun Academy of Art in the winter of 1937. I trained those who joined our cause to do cultural propaganda. Who better to do this than someone who’d been making advertising posters for so many years? It’s not hard to switch from painting beautiful girls in imaginary landscapes to painting people like Mao, Chou, and other Party leaders posing in imaginary situations with smiling workers, soldiers, and peasants.”

“Those things aren’t imaginary—”

“Really? Have you seen the Great Helmsman actually walk through the fields with peasants?” Z.G. asks. He waits for an answer, and when he doesn’t get one, he goes on. “As he told you, when we marched into Peking, he offered me an important post, but by then I was disenchanted. In feudal times, people said, ‘Serving the emperor is like a wife or concubine serving her husband or master. The greatest virtue is to be loyal and submissive.’ This is what Mao wants from us, but I’m afraid I’m good at being loyal and submissive only if the alternatives are labor camp or death. Fortunately, my rehabilitation came after only a couple of months. It began when Mao sent me to Canton.”

I hear the word
rehabilitation
and I think of Sam. He too was persecuted by the government, but there was no rehabilitation for him. Joy doesn’t seem to pick up on this.

“But Chairman Mao likes you,” she repeats weakly.

“He likes you,” Z.G. responds. “It pleased him to see such a pretty girl leave America to come here. Thank you for helping with my rehabilitation.”

“Rehabilitation?” Joy echoes, finally hearing the word.

“Don’t you remember his conversation with us at the exhibition?” Z.G. asks.

I don’t know what they’re talking about, but Joy nods in understanding.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks.

“I tried, but you wouldn’t listen. When we were in Canton, I wanted you to leave the country.”

“That’s right,” Joy acknowledges. “You did.”

“Well, obviously you didn’t try hard enough,” I cut in. They both turn to me, remembering I’m here.

“The truth is,” Z.G. admits, “I didn’t want her to leave.”

“She’s your daughter! You should have been protecting her!”

“She is my daughter,” Z.G. says. “I hadn’t known she existed. I was selfish. I wanted to know her.” He now addresses Joy. “But that doesn’t mean you should stay here.”

“I don’t want to stay here. I want to go back to the Green Dragon Collective.”

Concern passes over Z.G.’s face. I don’t know what this place is, but I know my daughter doesn’t belong in a collective.

“People are shaped by the earth and water around them,” he says. “You’re an American. You don’t know hardship or how to survive. If you go back to Green Dragon, you’ll be giving up city life. You won’t be able to return to Shanghai. And you certainly won’t be able to leave China.”

“I don’t want to leave China,” Joy says stubbornly. “This is my home now.”

“How do I explain things to her so she’ll understand?” Z.G. asks me. Joy stiffens at that, and I keep my mouth shut. He turns back to Joy. “I begged Mao and Chou for forgiveness with my paintings, but who knows what could happen tomorrow? Mao won’t admit when he’s wrong. He purges anyone who disagrees with him. Since the recent class struggle, everyone with a brain or a backbone has been sent to labor camp or been killed. Those who remain, like Chou En-lai, are afraid to go against Mao, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s stopped listening to others anyway. Who will protect China from bad ideas?”

Looking at my daughter’s lovely face, I can tell she doesn’t care about any of what Z.G. is saying. He has tried reason—self-centered though it may be—but my daughter is suffering from something that can’t be touched by logic. The dead can claim the living, and guilt and sorrow have claimed my girl.

“Joy,” I say softly, “will you come home with me? You’ve never seen the house where May and I grew up.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because I’m your mother and I’ve come all this way.”

“No one asked you to come here.”

“Joy!” Z.G.’s voice is startling in its sharpness. She rapidly blinks her eyes, ashamed of herself, fighting back tears. Then to me, he says, “This is all very sudden. We need time to accustom ourselves to things. Let Joy stay here a few days, and then I’ll bring her to you.”

Pearl

THE SORROW OF LIFE

February 15, 1958

Dear May,

Our girl has finally come back to Shanghai. She’s healthy and she’s in one piece. These are the most important things to remember. I’ve been so focused on finding her that I haven’t thought enough about how she would feel when she saw me or what should happen next. I don’t know how to say this except just to say it. Joy doesn’t want to come home. She believes, and this hurts more than I could ever express, that she’s to blame for Sam’s death. As much as I don’t want to accept it, she’s at least partially right. If she hadn’t joined that club, the FBI never would have investigated us.

As you know, I’ve blamed you for everything that happened. It’s only because Joy ran away and I needed your help that I even stayed in contact with you. You’ve tried to tell me how you feel—at the airport and in your letters—but I haven’t listened or acknowledged you. A part of me is still angry with you, but listening to Joy speak the same words you told me, I heard them in a different way. Amnesty. Do you think they really would have given Sam and me amnesty? I didn’t believe your reasons when you told me what you did. I thought you’d say
anything
to protect yourself. But I was wrong. You didn’t report us to hurt us. You reported us because you wanted to protect Sam, me, and, I suspect, Joy most of all.

Amnesty. I keep repeating the word, and every time I punish myself a little more. If I was wrong, then Sam must have been wrong too. If we’d confessed, Sam would still be alive and the family would still be together. Oh, May, you should have seen Joy’s face when she talked about Sam. It was a knife in my heart. There’ve been so many mistakes that have resulted in so many tragedies over the years, and now here we are. Sam is dead, and Joy is so torn by guilt that she refuses to come home—either to Los Angeles or even to our old house here in Shanghai. Tell me what to do.

Pearl

I didn’t write about Z.G., because I don’t want all that old business festering between us. I didn’t mention the Green Dragon Collective, Joy’s political views, or Tao, who I presume is a young man she met in her travels. When I think about this Tao, my mind fills with the examples of bad judgment my daughter has already shown. In this regard, she’s too much like her birth mother. But what will be accomplished if I write those things? I fold the letter, put it in an envelope, and write our address in Los Angeles. Then I put that envelope inside a larger envelope addressed to the Louie cousin in Wah Hong Village, along with a note to the man at the family association in Hong Kong to send my letter by airmail.

A letter arrives from May the next day. It was written twelve days ago. I’ve been receiving regular packages with hidden money from my sister since her first package arrived last October. This is the first time I’ve received a simple letter. It has been opened, which is dismaying. Fortunately, not a single word has been crossed out.

February 4, 1958

Dear Pearl,

Sadness upon sadness. Vern died last week. He was never the same after Sam’s death, and after you and Joy left. I think he gave up, but Dr. Nevel says I shouldn’t think that way. “Tuberculosis of the bone never has a happy ending.” That’s what he told me. “And then there were his mental problems.” Yes, Vern was always a little boy in his mind, but he never hurt anyone. He was kind. He bore his ailments and his pain quietly. And we both know how generous he could be.

These past few days, I’ve looked at my life very differently. I was never a good wife to Vern. I was out all the time. I counted on you to take care of him, and you did, as you’ve taken care of so many things for me. I’ve never believed in guilt or remorse. I’ve always resented the way you held on to misfortune. But they’ve come to me now. When I watched the undertaker and his helpers take Vern out of the house …

Now all that’s left of my husband are the lingering odors of his sickness and a few of his model airplanes and boats that weren’t broken on the terrible night Joy ran away. When I think of how I belittled him for those models … When I think of how I always left you and Sam to deal with Vern’s diapers, sores, and smells … Since you and Joy left, he had only me and the occasional visit from the uncles and their families. Oh, Pearl, now I understand how you felt after Sam died, and he was so much more of a man and husband than my Vern ever was.

I arranged for Vern’s funeral to be held at your church. The reverend welcomed me and didn’t once reproach me for not coming to services. The women—Violet and the others—treated me as one of their congregation and not as someone who used to laugh at them for their bad clothes and old-fashioned hairstyles. I’m grateful to everyone, because who else would have seen Vern to the afterlife? His funeral banquet was small—only two tables. I came home and lit incense on the altar. Whether he is in Chinese Heaven or your Heaven, I hope he is with Father Louie, Yen-yen, and Sam. Once again, he’ll be surrounded by the love he deserved.

I try to imagine you reading this letter. Are you thinking, My sister, what a useless, selfish, and self-centered woman? I’ve been all those things. Is it too late for me to change?

Pearl, even though you are far away, please know that I think of you every day. Why has it taken me so long to understand the important things in life? I’ve always relied on others to take care of me. Now I’m alone in this house and in my life. Please come back, Pearl. Please. I need my sister.

Love, May

I weep at the sorrow of life. I pray for Vern and hope that he’s finally been released from the pain he suffered all these years. It hurts me to think of him with only May in his last days. It seems like she’s finally understood the man she was married to and what a good person he was, but what about Vern? He must have thought of her as an exotic bird that would swish into his room late at night or early in the morning, only to disappear again. His only real companionship had come from Sam and me. I’m so tired of weeping. I’m so tired of heartbreak. I’ve found Joy, but will I ever have joy in my heart again?

I pull out a pen and paper and begin to write:

We all did the best we could, but sometimes that isn’t enough. Vern lived longer than his doctors ever expected. I wish I were there with you, because I understand your pain only too well.

Z.G.’S “A FEW DAYS”
turns into a couple of weeks. I go back to my old routine: taking the bus to work, surveying the harbor, and collecting paper. I stand in line at the various shops to buy oil, meat, and rice with my coupons. I make time for prayer, go in for my monthly interview with Superintendent Wu at the police station, and keep up with my political meetings. And I swing by Z.G.’s house once or twice a day, always changing the time. When I wear my paper-collecting clothes, Joy and Z.G. don’t notice me.

I look through the windows, watch the comings and goings of the servants, and learn a lot. Joy sleeps late, has breakfast in bed, takes a long bath, dresses, and then she and her father leave the house around noon. I see them step into a Red Flag limousine with blue curtains drawn shut to keep them protected from prying eyes as they’re whisked to parties or wherever it is they go. Sometimes I see Joy in clothes I know. They’re costumes May and I once wore for sittings with Z.G.

Z.G. and Joy are conspicuously visible. She seems to relish the attention. In Los Angeles, Sam was forever a former rickshaw puller. In Shanghai, Joy’s father is a celebrity. It disturbs me to see the way they live, and I don’t understand why Joy doesn’t rebel against all the privilege. Worse, they don’t care to see much of me. But what hurts the most is that it feels like they’re deliberately leaving me out. I’m completely preoccupied with my daughter. I see her every day, and yet in many ways she’s still very far away.

Then something happens which prompts me to write to May. I worry that sending so much mail to Wah Hong will alert the authorities. That said, May needs to hear this.

March 20, 1958

Dear May,

Today is Joy’s twentieth birthday. I invited her to celebrate at our home. I even asked Cook to make some of our favorite dishes from the old days—steamed eel, shrimp with water chestnuts, and eight-treasures vegetables. But the whole thing was a disaster. You and I always loved our house, but it doesn’t look like it once did. These past months, as I’ve written before, I’ve bought some of our old furniture at pawnshops. Every time I find something, I’m filled with the sense that I’m righting things. But the way Joy looked at it all? It made me feel very poor in spirit. And what was I thinking when I asked Cook to make dinner? Our meal was overcooked and tasteless. How can a mediocre dinner in our old dining room compete with the banquets Joy has been attending?

Again, I have to tell you she looks good. She’s been taken to the best seamstress in the city. This woman is no Madame Garnett, but what she’s made for Joy is far more elegant than the usual clothing I see on the street. Maybe she can still experience a little of the Shanghai we loved, or at least what’s left of it.

It’s only been a little over a month, but I keep waiting for the moment Joy will say, “Mom, take me home.” We’re a long way from that, I’m afraid. It doesn’t help that I think she’s in love. She hasn’t told me much about this Tao, but when she speaks of him a pretty pinkness comes to her cheeks and her eyes shine. The best I can say is that Joy and I have come to an uneasy truce.

Love, Pearl

Again, I don’t write about Z.G. I don’t tell May how carefully he held on to Joy’s elbow as he walked her through my house. A couple of times, she looked like she was going to flee—when she saw the grime in the kitchen I haven’t yet had a chance to clean, when she saw the posters of my sister and me in our bedroom, when she met Cook. I saw Z.G.’s knuckles turn white as he held her in place. I wonder what he said to her before and then after they left.

I don’t receive a response from May to my last two letters. Have they been held up? Am I to be arrested? Has May been too busy to write? Or has she been worn down by grief, mourning, and guilt? I know what that’s like. I wait a month and then write a short note:

Is everything all right? Have you received my letters? In case you haven’t, I found Joy and I’m sorry about Vern. Please write as soon as possible.

And then I wait for a response. I don’t receive one, which means I don’t have to write to May about the poster of Joy, which would, in turn, lead back to Z.G. I don’t have to write about the day when Joy visited unannounced and by herself for the first time either. I looked out the window and there she was, staring at the first rose to bloom along the fence. I was extremely pleased to see her, convinced that Joy had experienced a sea change. I made tea, and we sat in the salon. Joy’s coming here was her way of reaching out, I’m sure of it, and yet she only made small talk. She told me that she’d reported to the police station and the block committee in Z.G.’s neighborhood. “It wasn’t a big deal,” she said. She’d also gone to the Overseas Chinese Affairs Commission and had been given the same special coupons that I’m entitled to receive. “But I don’t need them,” she said with a shrug. “I can get whatever I want at Z.G.’s house.”

As she spoke, I wanted to cry, because sometimes it’s just so damn hard to be a mother. We have to wait and wait and wait for our children to open their hearts to us. And if that doesn’t work, we have to bide our time and look for the moment of weakness when we can sneak back into their lives and they will see us and remember us for the people who love them unconditionally.

I have my worries, but life continues elsewhere. Z.G. has a new poster, which shows Mao—as the Chairman himself asked to be painted, according to Joy—in simple trousers and a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck against a plain background. He looks like a benevolent god—of and for the people. I honestly can’t go anywhere or do anything without seeing his face. He’s literally everywhere—on the sides of buildings, in restaurants, in private homes. I’m told that 40 million copies of this poster have been sold across the country. In any other part of the world, this would make Z.G. an extremely wealthy man. Here, it earns him privilege and party (Party!) invitations for him and Joy.

And still no letter from May. Do I write another note to her or stop writing completely for a while? I don’t know where or what the problem is. In case there’s been an issue with the content of my letters, I decide to write something pro-political about the Great Leap Forward. I’m still careful, but that’s easy. All I have to do is echo the enthusiasm I hear on loudspeakers, see on posters, or read in the newspapers. May and I are sisters. I expect her to look for hidden meanings in my words.

May 15, 1958

Dear May,

Chairman Mao, our Supreme Leader, is leading us into wonderful times. He has come up with a slogan that we all joyously repeat: Hard work for a few years, happiness for a thousand. You remember how people used to starve in China? Now China will be a land of abundance and wealth. Other nations will no longer look down on us. We will accomplish this with help from “two generals”: agriculture and steel. If we all work hard, soon everyone will dress in satins and silks. We’ll live in skyscrapers—with heating, air-conditioning, telephones, and elevators. We’ll have leisure time to spend with our families.