Dreams of Joy (52 page)

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 clanging 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.”

He gives me a contemptuous look in the rearview mirror: don’t you know what you want? I give him the directions I remember from my visit three years ago. The driver nods, makes a U-turn, and continues down the crowded roadway.

“I told Tao that Wah Hong was Grandfather Louie’s home village,”
Joy says nervously in Mandarin. “That’s the first place the authorities will look for us.”

“Yes, it is,” I agree. “But it will take them a while to get that information. Tao doesn’t speak Cantonese, after all. So yes, the police will go to Wah Hong, but we’ll be gone by then.”

“What are we—”

“We’re going to stop in Wah Hong for a few minutes, so we can get some provisions and leave a false trail,” I explain before she can complete her question. “After that, there’s only one place to go—Yin Bo, my natal family’s home village. Hopefully someone there will be able to help us. Superintendent Wu knows the name of my home village, because I’ve told it to him every month for years now, but it will take the authorities a while to track down that information. We’ll be out of the country by then,” I finish, trying to sound confident.

I pull Ta-ming onto my lap and hold him tight.

REMEMBERING Z.G.’S
and my drive to Green Dragon, I’m fearful of what we might see once we turn off the main highway. But we encounter no dead or dying people either on the road or in the fields as we bounce along the dirt road. We see no children abandoned in pits. Yes, it’s November and the climate is warmer this far south, but Kwangtung province is also farther from the capital. It doesn’t seem to have been as badly affected by the strategies of the Great Leap Forward. What’s the old saying? “The mountains are high and the emperor is far away,” meaning that the farther you are from the capital and the emperor’s policies, the easier it is to live your own life.

The driver drops us off just outside Wah Hong, since the village was built centuries ago and was not designed for automobiles. We hurry to the cousin’s house. He’s surprised to see us, but he welcomes us, offering tea and giving thanks.

“If not for the money your sister sends,” he says, “we would have gone hungry.”

“Soon you may not be so grateful,” I tell him. As I explain our situation, his eyes become hooded. “We need clothes for Z.G., whatever food you can spare, and water. As soon as we leave, you must take the money May has sent to the village and bury it. Don’t lie to the police when they come. Tell them you saw us and you chased us off.”

“Where shall we tell them you went?”

“Macau.”

This is not where we are going, but it will be safer for the Louie relatives if they don’t know the truth. But the main thing is they’ll send the police in the wrong direction.

We’re in Wah Hong for less than an hour. Z.G. trades his elegant Mao suit for a set of dirty peasant clothes. Remembering my escape from China many years ago and how the bandits who boarded our ship recognized a well-off girl from the rest of us by her shoes, I get Z.G. to trade his Shanghai street shoes for a pair of sandals. I give the cousin five twenty-dollar bills. He falls to his knees and puts his forehead on my feet in gratitude. Then we walk out of Wah Hong. I hold Ta-ming’s hand, Joy has the baby in her sling, and Z.G. carries several water flasks and a basket filled with rice balls. He still looks out of place—like a goat without fur.

So, on to my family’s home village, Yin Bo, a place that has lived in my memory. I left when I was three, so I don’t know how to get there. We know we shouldn’t walk together, but we’re afraid to separate. When we see someone coming toward us—a peddler or a farmer taking produce to market—some of us split off from the group, go into a field to pretend they are working, or walk ahead or lag behind, while one of us asks the way to Yin Bo. It sounds like it will be about a ten-mile walk along dirt roads or on the raised pathways that separate rice paddies. Not for one second does Dun leave my mind. I’m scared and worried for him, but I keep putting one foot in front of the other.

After two hours, we see a car approach. The desire to run is fierce. I slow down, Joy speeds up, and Z.G. and Ta-ming—who don’t speak Cantonese—step into the fields. The car stops next to Joy. After leaning down and listening to the driver, she points to her left. The car comes to me and stops.