Dreams of Joy (32 page)

These may not be traditional times, yet some things are still fixed and
certain. Tonight the moon is closer to earth than at any time of the year. They may call it Mid-Autumn Festival now, but it will always be the Moon Festival to me. Tao’s family has invited Kumei, Ta-ming, and me to join them to celebrate family togetherness, the harvest, and the moon. The canteen has made moon cakes filled with a sugary paste of dates, nuts, and candied apricots. The tops are embossed with images of a three-legged toad and a rabbit. I take a box of cakes to Joy’s house.
Tuanyuan
, the word for
reunion
, literally means
a perfect circle
, and that is what the moon, the moon cakes, and our family are on this night. Jie Jie and some of the children stretch out on the ground or sit on their haunches, staring up at the moon. I hand out the cakes. The children aren’t old enough to have bittersweet memories, but the adults are. We see the cakes and we remember the past—people now gone, happy holidays.

“This year I hope we can create new memories for the future,” Joy says.

I’ve been here six weeks. Joy still comes for her nightly bath in the villa. She’s stopped complaining about her mother-in-law and never seems upset about living in such cramped quarters with so many people, most of whom are children. I’ve watched her paint and discovered a part of my daughter I never knew existed. I’ve seen her work in the fields—with a smile on her face even as her skin burns. She’s turned a corner. Even though she’s had her tragedies, she can laugh, be content in her marriage, and work happily and with enthusiasm at something that truly is bigger than she is. So, as much as I love Joy, I’ll go with Z.G. to the Chinese Export Commodities Fair in Canton when he comes for me. My daughter is a married woman now. She’s chosen a life I wouldn’t pick, but it is her life and she’s going to have to figure things out for herself—as a woman. It kills me to let her go, but it’s the best and only thing I can do as her mother.

When it’s time to place some of the moon cakes on the ground as offerings, we sit together—mother and daughter—with a bunch of wiggling children gathered around us. There’s no need for bean-oil lamps tonight. Illumination comes from the moon. It’s bright, and moon shadows dance around us. Joy takes my hand in hers and balances it on her knee.

“This is a special night,” she tells the children. “The Moon Lady will hear your wishes and grant your requests, but only if they are one of a kind and never heard by anyone else.”

Joy looks up to the moon, and so do the children. I too stare at the rabbit in the moon, forever pounding out the elixir of immortality. My wish is simple.
Let my daughter continue to be happy
.

AT THE END
of October, Z.G. walks back into the village. That night, I pack my bags, thank Yong and Kumei for their hospitality, and promise Ta-ming I’ll send him books and paper. In the morning, Joy escorts us to the top of the hill. “Write to me,” I say. “When the fair in Canton ends, we’ll go right back to Shanghai. I’ll be close by, if you need me.” Then Joy watches as Z.G. and I make our way down the dusty path toward the main road. I keep looking back and waving, until finally I don’t see her anymore.

This is one of the few times in my life that I’ve been completely alone with Z.G. In the past, May was always with us. Since I’ve come back to China, we’ve almost always been accompanied by Joy. During these past months, Z.G. and I have gotten to know each other again. He is Joy’s father and I am her mother, and that links us on a deep level. Now that we’re by ourselves, I think we both feel anxious about what could happen. I’ve told myself I don’t want
anything
to happen. I love my sister too much, and I don’t want to upset the balance Z.G. and I have found with Joy, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say there is the awkwardness of expectation between us—first on the bus and then later on the boat to Canton. I don’t know what to say, and he doesn’t know where to look.

When we reach Canton, we check into a hotel—separate rooms, of course. We have a casual dinner with the rest of the Shanghai delegation—all strangers to both Z.G. and me. Toasts are made with
mao tai
, a fiery liquor. We eat bowls of noodles and then drink more toasts. Everyone laughs and tells jokes, and I’m reminded of when Z.G. and I were young and every night was like this. When it comes time to disband, I’m surprised by how woozy and light-headed I am. Z.G. is in even worse shape, weaving unsteadily down the hall to our rooms. We reach his door first. When he pulls me into his room, I don’t resist. I tell myself the
mao tai
is making me incautious and that I’ll leave in a minute. But the next thing I know, I’m in his arms and we’re kissing, fumbling at each other’s clothes, and pushing each other toward the bed.

I know, I know. A widow should never go with another man. She’s expected to spend the rest of her life in chastity. But I’ve loved two men in my life—Sam and Z.G. The love I felt for Sam stemmed out of gratitude,
reliance, and respect. My love for Z.G. began when I was just a girl. He has been the big love of my life—the big
passion
of my life. May called it infatuation and maybe that’s true, but here I am and here is Z.G., and we’re both a little more than tipsy and we’re lonely for the people we really love. And, if we’re honest, men are attracted to women who are crazy about them, as I was for Z.G. in the past. Suddenly, it’s all so easy—the hotel room, our defenses down because of the alcohol, and the opportunity. No one knows us here. No one will ever know. And besides, wouldn’t it be strange if it
didn’t
happen? Still, we have enough wits about us to take precautions.

“I don’t want you to get pregnant,” Z.G. says.

“I can’t get pregnant,” I reply. Fortunately, he doesn’t ask why.

He has the sense to get up and get a towel from the bathroom. And that gives me a second to think.
What am I doing?
Then I watch him walk back to the bed. He’s naked and, you know,
ready
. A proper woman would look away, but I stare right at him, looking at everything. His body is beautiful. He slides the towel under me on the mattress so any fluids that escape will be caught there instead of on the sheets, which the chambermaids might report to the floor monitor, who, in turn, might push this knowledge to higher-ups. And then … And then…

He knows exactly where to touch me, saying, “I know the shape of your body because I painted it so many times.” I feel safe, forgetting for the first time what happened to me during my rape. I have no sense of duty or obligation, which I often felt with Sam even though he was kindness itself. I’m not going to say everything is perfect in that low-down area, but I feel something I’ve never felt before.

Afterward, as we lie naked, Z.G. touches the pouch I wear around my neck.

“Joy wears something just like this,” he says. “What is it?”

“My mother gave one to May and one to me.” As I say the words, I feel my connection to Z.G. slipping away. “May gave hers to Joy when she was born.”

I sit up and pull the sheet over my breasts, abruptly shy and embarrassed. I love my sister and what I’ve just done may not be the worst thing in the world, but it wasn’t very good either.

“We have to think about May,” I say.

“I agree,” he says, sounding much more sober.

“You’ve lived a long time without May, but I’m certainly not the only
other woman you’ve had in your life.” Why am I saying that? To make myself less culpable?

“I’m a man, and it’s been more than twenty years,” he says.

I silently take that in.

Then he asks, “Have you heard of Ku Hung-ming? He lived at the end of the Ch’ing dynasty. He said, ‘One man is best suited to four women, as a teapot is best suited to four cups.’ ” He laughs sheepishly. “I always thought that if that philosophy was good enough for Chairman Mao, it was good enough for me.”

“But it wasn’t. You love May.” Finally, after all these years, I seem to have made peace with that.

“Pearl—”

“You don’t have to apologize for anything.” I put a hand on his arm. “You’ll never know how much this”—I motion to our rumpled bed-clothes—“meant to me, but it can never happen again.”

I pull the sheet with me as I get out of bed. Z.G. tugs the quilt over himself, but I’m careful not to glance his way. I pick up my clothes off the floor, go in the bathroom, and get dressed. I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My cheeks are still flushed from the
mao tai
and the husband-wife thing, but to my eyes I look different. I’m finally over Z.G. and my fear of sex. Those two circles have closed. It’s unclear what this will mean for me—a widow—but I feel possibilities are now open to me that I haven’t had since I was a young woman.

I give Z.G. a rueful wave, check to see if the hall is deserted, and then sneak out of his room and make my way to my own. In the morning, we meet for breakfast, as though we’re good comrades, and then go to the fair. We will never speak of what happened again, but before we leave Canton I write a letter to May. I can’t erase what I did with Z.G., but I can soothe her mind. I’m so close to Hong Kong, I wish I could go there, fly home, and tell her myself. Instead, my letter will go to nearby Wah Hong, be put in a new envelope, and make the usual journey across the border and on to Los Angeles Chinatown.

“HOW MANY FLIES
did you kill today?” Brigade Leader Lai inquires as he walks between our two rooms as part of his newly instituted cleanliness inspection. Tao’s little brothers and sisters show him a cup where they’ve saved their dead flies. “That’s good,” he praises them, “but did you kill any rats or mice?” We haven’t, which is not good. “How about sparrows?” he asks.

“There aren’t many left,” Tao’s father answers.

“I hear this from others in the commune,” Brigade Leader Lai acknowledges. “But why do I still see them flying in the sky? You must try harder! Now, what has your family done to eradicate other insects?”

“It’s winter,” Tao’s father says. “Look.” He points to the paper we’ve pasted over the window openings with rice paste to keep out the cold. “We don’t get many insects now.”

“Take down the paper,” the brigade leader recommends. “Keep a lantern going on the table in the main room. In the morning, you’ll have many dead insects.”

I’d be more upset about this, except that rice paper isn’t exactly the same as a windproof glass windowpane.

“Shall we keep what we kill to show you?” Tao’s father asks.

“Absolutely. It won’t be an inspection if I don’t see what you catch.”

When Brigade Leader Lai leaves, the children roll out their sleeping mats on the floor. Tao’s mother and father go to the other room. They’re trying to make another baby. As Chairman Mao says and as my mother-in-law
reminds me every day, “With every stomach comes another pair of hands.” As soon as my in-laws are done, Tao and I will take our turn.

Is marriage what I expected? Not at all. That first night? It wasn’t romantic, and Tao wasn’t very gentle either. I realize that who he is and how he acts are partially determined by being raised in this place, but also making out with him was very different from actually going all the way. But what bothers me isn’t limited to sex. I hadn’t entered Tao’s house until that day, so I hadn’t realized how dirt poor his family is. I didn’t have a marriage bed like I did in the villa. I didn’t have a suite of bedroom furniture brought to my home piled on the back of a bicycle like I’d seen traveling through the streets of Shanghai, Canton, and Peking. I had enjoyed roughing it in the villa, but here I didn’t have privacy to use the nightstool, not with twelve people living in two rooms. That night when I undressed, Tao told me to take off the pouch Aunt May gave me. He said I was safe and didn’t need it to protect me anymore. I obeyed because he was my husband. I told myself I didn’t require money, furniture, or a talisman to love and make love. Still, none of it was what I expected. It’s one thing to have a sort of camping adventure in a villa for a couple of weeks and quite another to realize that I’m going to have to live like this for the rest of my life.

Here’s what I’ve learned in three months of marriage: Even in the New Society, women must care for the husband, children, and older members of the family. They must look after the house, clean, make and wash clothes. All this they do and work outside too. Since the inauguration of the communes, a few adjustments have been made. Three rules now apply to working women: No women may labor in wet places during the visit from the little red sister. Expectant mothers will have light physical tasks. Mothers will toil near their homes. There are some unwritten rules too. At the end of the day, women should be ready to make another baby for the great socialist nation. In return, we are to be happy with a few words of praise or a pat on the arm. I grasp at these things and hold them to my heart as proof of Tao’s love and my worth.

The alternative isn’t so great. “Criticism and self-criticism should apply in marriage,” Tao tells me almost every day. “Unity is possible only when one side wages the essential and proper struggle against errors committed by the other.” Now that we’re married, I commit a lot of blunders in Tao’s eyes.