Dreams of Joy (15 page)

“My owner hoarded his rice. People left our village to beg. They sold their children. Too many died. When the War Against the Japanese Aggressors ended, we had the War of Liberation.”

When the audience erupts in cheers, Kumei takes a few steps across the stage and brings her hands together in a prayerful manner. Her recitation is amateurish, but now she goes on with more strength. “After our great leader liberated the masses, the people accused my owner of terrible crimes. They killed him and ordered me to make self-criticism. I did this before the whole village. And you”—here she spreads her arms to take in the audience—“remembered my red past as the daughter of a peasant family. You let me live!”

The audience is mesmerized, but I could have done a much better job with the monologue. I would have memorized the actual text sent by the government and not spoken so loosely.

Now Sung-ling strides across the stage. She’s been typecast as a model village woman. “Our great Chairman sent people to teach us. The first lesson: brush my teeth! I obeyed. Later, he instituted land reform. Everyone got a piece of land. Even women like me had our names on land titles and deeds. At last we were free from feudal landlord oppression.”

This isn’t exactly a hard part for Sung-ling to play, since she spouts this stuff every day. Now she leans forward to confide knowingly. “But Chairman Mao was not done. He put us on a path from socialism to communism, and we’ve obeyed. Five years ago, we formed mutual-aid teams. Two years ago, we gave our land, animals, seed grain, and tools to the collective.”

I’ve heard all this before, but for the first time it really sinks in. People had their own land for only three years? But no one here complains. Everyone loves the collective, because …

“We no longer suffer from famine,” Sung-ling declares. “Freed from the bloodsucking landlord, farm profits have increased and even our children are chubby.”

She bows and receives great applause. She raises her head and continues. “Land reform and the Marriage Law came to us at the same time. This is not like learning to brush your teeth or clean your ears. As you will see, we still face much resistance …”

In the next skit, Tao and a girl from the propaganda team portray a young couple. They walk across the stage together, not touching. Tao has just eight lines, and not once has he gotten them right in rehearsal.

“I should ask my father to arrange a marriage for us,” Tao recites in a dull monotone. I tried to help him with his delivery, but obviously I didn’t get through. “Our fathers will negotiate the bride-price and dowry. Then you will come to my home.”

The girl primly steps away from him and shakes her finger from side to side. “No, no, they cannot do that. I am not to be bought or sold.”

Tao garbles his next line, which is supposed to be “But I’ve told you I’m happy to make you my second wife.”

The girl playing opposite him goes on with the show, as Aunt May would say. “No more multiple wives, child brides, or concubines.” Her voice grows sterner as she repeats, “And no more buying of women.”

Tao, the unsuitable suitor, persists, awkwardly gesturing at his would-be bride with about as much ardor as cold taffy. “You’ll be safe with me. You’ll never have to leave the house or the yard. You know the old saying”—and here Tao beams, relieved to be back to something he actually knows—“ ‘Men go to market to sell their wares, but a woman belongs in her home with her mother-in-law and children.’ ”

At this, murmurs of approval ripple through the audience, which surprises me given the wholehearted way people accepted the story of land reform. What I understand in this moment is that many families here—like Tao’s—still keep their wives, mothers, sisters, and grandmothers inside. I’m so distracted by my thoughts about this that Sung-ling jabs me in the back to push me forward into the scene.

I’ve been assigned to play Tao’s sister, just returned from military service. I raise my arm to the sky in the inspirational style found in government
posters I’ve seen. “Brother, it is time you understand that women can no longer be oppressed or exploited. Look at me. I fought with the army. Today I’m liberated from the four walls of my home.”

I have a long monologue, and I’ve worked hard to memorize it. So far I’m really pleased with how I’m doing.

“Brother,” I continue, “ask your bride to go with you of her own choice to the Party leaders of our village to get permission to marry. If she agrees, my sister-in-law will enjoy equal status in your home. If you have a baby girl, you will welcome her. Female infanticide is strictly forbidden! Remember, you are building the New Society. If you persist in following the old ways once you’re married, I myself will take my sister-in-law to court to ask for a divorce. You’ll be struggled against by the people. They’ll weed you out for your counterrevolutionary ways and gladly grant her a divorce if you continue to follow the bourgeois road.”

The people from the propaganda team insisted I use that phrase, but I wonder, what do these villagers—as much as I like them—know about the bourgeois road?

The propaganda team’s director strides to the front of the stage to spell out the lesson. “The groom has realized his mistake and promises to join the right path,” he proclaims. “Our young couple will keep their eyes on their own interests and return radiant from their marriage registration.”

As dusk turns to night, members of the troupe set small saucers filled with bean oil and lighted with cotton wicks at the foot of the stage. This darker atmosphere seems right for what comes next. Comrade Feng Rui, the dead woman’s husband, is brought onstage to make a self-criticism. He keeps his head down, refusing to look at the audience. He wears standard peasant clothes. His hair hangs stringy and lank.

“Remember,” Sung-ling warns, “leniency to those who confess and severity to those who refuse.”

Comrade Feng Rui quietly begins. “I was a bad husband. I didn’t follow the red way.”

That’s as far as he gets before people start jeering.

“We always thought you were a reactionary,” someone yells.

“Your wife called you a wicked element, and she was right,” accuses another.

Sung-ling holds up a hand for silence so she can address Comrade
Feng Rui directly. “Your wife was a woman, but she was also a person. Still, you treated her like a dog. You beat her and cursed her. You let your mother torment her. What do you have to say? Tell us your bad history so we can know who you are.”

Feng Rui mumbles something unintelligible. A part of me feels sorry for him being humiliated in front of the collective. Then an image of his wife’s injuries and her waxy flesh in death comes into my mind. He’s lucky to be getting off so easily.

“You behaved so badly toward your wife,” Sung-ling continues, “that she threw herself into Comrade Bing-dao’s hay cutter. And how do you think he feels now? He took a life, but it wasn’t his fault.”

“It was yours!” people shout from the audience.

I’m at the side of the stage. I’ve changed into my next costume, and I’m supposed to be preparing for our big finale. Instead, I find myself joining the others in their chanting condemnation of Comrade Ping-li’s husband. Adrenaline pumps through my veins as a white ribbon is pinned to Comrade Feng Rui’s chest.

“From now on you will wear this ribbon of denunciation,” Sung-ling declares. “Everyone will look at you and see you for the rightist element you are!”

With that, Feng Rui is led away, ending the struggle-session portion of our show. I’m excited, ready for my starring role. I give my cheeks quick pinches to bring in color, since none of us wear makeup. We must end the evening on an up note, and our last scene will do that.

I take my place at a table with one of the actors sent by the county. His name is Sheng. I don’t have to look all that closely to see that he hasn’t followed the lesson about teeth brushing, and it’s pretty clear he hasn’t washed recently either. We’re playing a husband and wife in an unhappy marriage. We’re both fishermen. We argue about who does the chores, who minds the children, who sews, and who washes the clothes. Then the accusations shift from domestic to public life.

“So you like to go to sea to show your strength, do you?” Sheng mocks me. “That’s like asking a baby chick to swallow a soybean. You’ll choke on it eventually.”

“But I haven’t choked! I’m sailing the seas of revolution like all the people of China. I’m standing against the wind and waves and breaking a new path for women! My female comrades and I have applied Mao Tse-tung
Thought to fishing. My boat has caught over seven hundred tons of fish. Everybody works so everybody eats!”

My husband isn’t satisfied with my response, and he’s even less satisfied with me. I may have beaten my husband at fishing, but now he physically beats me. He won’t give me food. He locks me out of the house so that I have to sleep outside. As a girl on movie sets, I was praised for my ability to cry when the director yelled, “Action.” I let the tears flow now. I’m so sad, so pathetic, it seems I have no way out. I take a butcher knife and prepare to drive it into my heart. Even men in the audience weep in sympathy for my sorry life.

Just then I look up and see a poster about the Marriage Law. I study the pictures, explaining what I see: “A hurried marriage is not a solid basis for a marriage. Suicide is not a solution to unhappiness. Divorce will be granted when husband and wife desire it.”

When I turn around, a panel of judges sits at my kitchen table. I tell them my unhappy tale. My husband gives his version. In the end, I’m granted a divorce in accordance with the Marriage Law. My husband and I part as friends. I go back to my fishing vessel and he goes back to his.

“The dark clouds of misery have been dispelled,” I tell the audience. “A blue sky has been revealed. Harmony has been restored.”

With this conclusion, we take our bows. Our little show wasn’t as professional as a movie or a television show, but the audience loved it. I have the same feeling I have after any performance—exhilaration and joy. As the villagers head home, Tao, Kumei, Sung-ling, and I help the county troupe load their costumes and props into wheelbarrows, which will be pushed to the nearest road, a few miles away. As soon as they leave the square, Kumei and her son walk the few steps back to the villa.

“Thank you for helping,” Sung-ling praises me.

“Thank you for letting me participate,” I respond. “I’m happy I got to—”

“Don’t plump your feathers too high,” Sung-ling cuts me off. “Individuals should never take credit for a good job. The glory goes to our team and to our collective.”

She gives a sharp nod and turns to leave. Tao and I are left nearly alone on the square. I wish we could go somewhere to have a Coke or some ice cream the way I used to do at home, because I’m not ready to go back to the villa. Emboldened by the adrenaline still coursing through my body,
I ask if he’d like to take a walk. It’s too dark to go up the hill to the Charity Pavilion, so we stay on the footpath that borders the stream. After a while, we stop and sit on rocks at the water’s edge. I peel off my shoes and socks and dip my feet in the cool water. Tao slips off his sandals and submerges his feet next to mine. In elementary school, Hazel and I used to tease other girls about their wanting to play footsie with some boy or other. It was the kind of dumb taunting that little girls do when they know absolutely nothing about sex, boys, or romance. But now I let my toes—wet and soft—slip along the arch of Tao’s right foot. The sensations I feel from this are not located in my feet however. The performance has given Tao courage too, because he takes my hand and puts it in his lap. I feel his startling hardness and I don’t pull away.

LATER, WHEN I GET
back to the villa, everyone is in the front courtyard. Ta-ming sleeps with his head in Kumei’s lap. Yong perches on a ceramic jardiniere, her bound feet barely touching the ground. And Z.G. roosts on a step, his elbows on his knees, his head thrust forward. I’m feeling buoyed, but he looks angry, and it really rubs me the wrong way.

“You come from far away, and everyone is trying to be understanding of your different ways.” His tone is stern and harsh. “But no one in this house can afford your bourgeois activities.”

“What bourgeois—”

“Leaving the village with Tao and doing who knows what. This has to stop.”

My first response is indignation.
Who do you think you are? My father?
I want to ask him, except he
is
my father. Well, he may be my father, but he doesn’t
know
me. He can’t tell me what to do. I look for help from Kumei and Yong. We’ve just seen a series of skits on the liberation of women. Kumei and Yong should be on my side, but their faces are white with what I take to be fear.

“We’re in the New China, but one thing hasn’t changed,” Z.G. continues. “Your actions reflect on all of us.”

My actions? I think about the stuff Tao and I just did. Shame, embarrassment, and remembered pleasure burn my face. Still, I respond defiantly. “Nothing happened!”

“If you’re caught,” Z.G. goes on, “you will not be the only one punished. We
all
will have to attend struggle sessions and make self-criticisms.”

“I doubt that,” I say petulantly, like I did when I used to get in trouble
with my dad. I mean, really. I walked in here feeling really high—from the show, from the way the audience reacted to my performance, and from going to third base with Tao. Why does Z.G. have to ruin it?

“
You
don’t know anything about anything. What you’re doing is dangerous for our hosts,” he says. “In the last two years, over two million people have been moved by force to the far west to cultivate wasteland as punishment for criticizing the government, being social misfits, or acting like counterrevolutionaries. Some of those people were peasants like Kumei, Yong, and Ta-ming, who did something to upset the local Party cadre. How long do you think these three would last out there? They would die very quickly, don’t you think?”

“You sound like my uncle,” I retort. “Always crying wolf. I haven’t seen anything bad.”

“What about what just happened to Ping-li’s husband?”