“You won’t have to do that,” Kumei promises. “I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”
We know the price Kumei is willing to pay. Yong grabs Kumei’s hand in gratitude. We wait for Yong to continue. When she doesn’t, Kumei picks up where she left off in her story.
“The master didn’t want me to die, but by then what had happened to me was insignificant. The War of Liberation had been won and things were changing.”
“Two concubines ran away with soldiers,” Yong says. “Number One wife died from an infection. Second Wife, who’d been disgraced by the birth of three daughters, took them to visit relatives in Macau and never came back. Third Wife sneaked away in the middle of the night. Those last days were very hard, very sad …”
“Once the soldiers moved on, the villagers looted the villa, looking for gold, jade, and money,” Kumei continues. “They carried away furniture and burned most of the books. Then they dug up the family’s tombs, so the master’s ancestors would have no peace in the afterworld. They let us keep our beds, the master’s musical instruments, some quilts, cooking utensils, and a few other things. But the villagers were not done. They dragged the master’s sons to the square and used a chopper to lop open their heads until their brains spilled out. The only ones left in these twenty-nine bedrooms were the master, Yong, and me.”
“What happened to your master?” I ask, once again letting my American side show.
“After they let him suffer in heartbreak for another four years, they came for him,” Kumei recounts. “It was winter. They had him strip down to a thin cotton garment. Then they tied him to the scholar’s tree and poured cold water on him. They left him outside all night. By morning he was dead, his clothes frozen into ice on his body. The villagers laughed and said he was wearing glass clothes.” She pauses for a moment before going on. “To tell the truth, in some ways he was already on his way to the afterworld, having said good-bye to all that he’d known and cherished. Some nights when we were alone in his room, he had me dress in old clothes. Remember the costume Sung-ling made me wear for the play? That was one of the things the master put on me. The clothes were soft, shiny, and in beautiful colors.”
“They were silks, satins, and brocades,” Yong translates for her.
It occurs to me that this is not unlike Z.G., my mother, and my aunt—always remembering the past, dressing up, dressing me up. But I have to admit that there’ve been times this winter when I’ve thought longingly of my Levi’s, the fancy clothes Auntie May bought for me, the costumes I wore on movie sets, and the cowgirl outfit I loved as a little girl.
“He would stare at me, play his instrument, and weep,” Kumei continues.
“The violin,” Yong clarifies, using the English word.
“It was not our Chinese music. I didn’t like it, but it always calmed my baby.” Kumei pauses, dwelling in the past. Finally, she resumes. “Even when I saw so much bloodshed, even when common sense told me to run away, I couldn’t leave my master.”
“I couldn’t leave him either,” Yong adds. “We two had been treated the worst by the other women in the villa, but we were the most loyal.”
Kumei sighs.
“The master wasn’t a bad man,” Yong says again, and this time Kumei nods in agreement.
Maybe the two of you didn’t know any better, I think.
“The master could trace his family back thirty generations,” Yong says. “He had imperial scholars in his family, which is how he came to own so much land. He took care of the people in Green Dragon. He truly was a benefactor. He was also a fine musician. When I was a girl in Shanghai, my parents gave me piano lessons. Not so easy with bound feet! I met the master at a recital.” She turns to Kumei. “Did I ever tell you that?”
Kumei shakes her head, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know what a recital is anyway.
“The master and I used to play together,” Yong adds wistfully. “We were educated, like your mother,” she says to me.
Now I understand why Yong and my mother got along so well. Their lives have been different yet similar. Yong has bound feet; my mother was born just four years after footbinding was outlawed. Yong married a wealthy man who brought her to the countryside; my mother married a poor man from the countryside who took her away from the city she loved. Neither had children of her own, yet Yong has Kumei and my mother has me. Both had their lives shattered by political circumstances. Both, for whatever reasons, loved the men they married. But wait…
“At my wedding, you talked about how hard the day of your wedding was and how stern the master was when he lifted your veil,” I say. “But it sounds like you wanted to get married.”
“It wasn’t an arranged marriage,” Yong replies. “My parents insisted I bind my feet, but in other ways they were very modern. They wanted me to marry for love—”
“But at my wedding you said—”
“Aiya! Do you need to have everything explained? I was married to the master and I’m from Shanghai. I can read and play the piano. I’m not like Kumei. I’m not from here. No one will ever have sympathy for me. I say and do what is necessary to survive. If that means lying to a room full of small radishes …”
She drifts off, and I allow what she said to sink in. I’m not from here. I come from imperialist America. I can read and write. I express my opinions too freely. I haven’t been careful enough…
“After the master was killed, new soldiers arrived,” Kumei says suddenly. “They asked if I wanted anything. Why would they do that, when no one was supposed to want things? So I said I didn’t want anything. But the captain looked at my baby and he gave him the violin.”
“And you survived. All three of you are still alive.” After everything I’ve heard, I ask, “How can that be?”
“There came a time when all I could think about was how to save myself and Ta-ming,” Kumei admits. “I thought I could turn on Yong. I thought about joining others when they taunted her. I thought about running away from this place, but where could I go? What could I do? Beg? Sell my body? Who would buy it? And what about Ta-ming? Didn’t I have a duty to him? He was born here. His father was born here. This is Ta-ming’s ancestral village. And Yong?” Kumei juts her chin.
“She had too much goodness in her heart to desert me,” Yong tells me, as though I didn’t understand this already.
“I told myself to look clearly,” Kumei says. “The soldiers were simple and polite. They didn’t steal from us. They didn’t kill the master. It was the villagers who had blood in their hearts, but through it all they hadn’t hurt me or my baby. You see, I may have a black label, but I’m from this village, and for years everyone had seen how I was treated. I was one of them. I’d never demanded special foods or expected people to kowtow to me when I walked through the village. Why would anyone kowtow to me? I was emptying and cleaning the villa’s nightstools in the fields just like other women. But mostly I couldn’t leave, because this was my son’s home. Just as this will be your son’s home.”
“I don’t have a son,” I say, startled.
Kumei and Yong once again glance at each other.
“You’re going to have a baby,” Yong says. “Don’t you know that?”
I wave my hand back and forth. “Not at all! Not possible!”
Yong’s eyes widen. “Didn’t your mother teach you about these things before she went back to Shanghai?”
“My mother didn’t have to tell me anything,” I respond indignantly. “I know how babies are made.” But I have a bad feeling, because yes, I do know how babies are made.
“Have you had the visit from the little red sister lately?” Kumei asks, trying to be helpful. “Your mother-in-law says you haven’t.”
I flush in embarrassment to have what I consider a private subject gossiped about so broadly by my mother-in-law that even Yong and Kumei know about my periods, but it does explain why she’s been kinder to me lately.
“I haven’t had the visit,” I admit. “But I bet you—and eve
n my mother-in-law—haven’t had it either. We haven’t been eating properly or enough.”
“Comrade Joy, you haven’t had the visit because you’ve been doing the husband-wife thing.”
And if I didn’t already know she’s right, I prove it by leaping up, running to the low wall, and throwing up again into what was once the pigsty.
Kumei comes back to her cheerful self. “You’re very lucky. Having a baby changes you. Having a son is even better. It gives you value and worth. Sung-ling is going to have a baby too. Have you heard?”
I hadn’t heard this piece of gossip either. This leads me to suspect that people in Green Dragon truly must consider me an outsider—and that was before I helped Yong.
“You and Sung-ling should become friends, since you’re both pregnant,” Kumei suggests. Then, as if reading my mind, she adds conspiratorially, “She’ll be able to help you after what you did today.”
It starts to sink in. A baby. How can I leave Green Dragon now? I cover my face with my hands.
“Make yourself some ginger tea,” Yong recommends, confirming that my mother-in-law has known about my condition. “It will settle your stomach.”
“You’ll need to eat plenty of fish,” Kumei advises, “because that’s important for the growth of a baby’s hair.”
“And forgive your husband and his family for their actions earlier,” Yong adds. “They were just pulling at the roots of their poverty and hardship. Remind yourself that once they had no rights as human beings.”
I reluctantly leave the villa and walk up the hill to my husband’s home. I’m pregnant. It shouldn’t be a surprise, but it is. I suddenly understand something about my mother and aunt that I never did before. They stayed in arranged marriages to men who were not of their social class—and, in Uncle Vern’s case, not all there. They stayed in Chinatown, a place they didn’t like. They stayed because of me. This, more than anything, shows me the depth of their mother love. They loved me very much and sacrificed for me, just as I’m finding myself filled with love—and fear—and am determined to sacrifice whatever’s necessary for my child. Not two hours ago, I wanted to leave this place, but how can I now? My son—every Chinese mother wishes for a son—belongs here. His family is here and his father is here. This is his ancestral village. I must stay here to show my son the depth of my mother love. But how can I do that, after what I saw in Tao’s face during the struggle session, after the black mark I earned today helping Yong, after realizing the terrible misjudgments I’ve made about communism, communes, and the ideals of village life?
I pause on the terrace of my husband’s home and look out over the fields. What is it about impending motherhood that causes me to see things with such fresh eyes? I don’t know, but how much more rapturous the yellow of the rapeseed looks than it did this morning. For me to survive here—as a wife and mother—I’m going to have to do something for myself, as Auntie May did with her work in Hollywood and my mom did in her care of our home, the café, and all of us. I need to take the images that have been flitting through my brain and put them down. A photograph is too small. A poster is too common. In my mind I see something as big and expansive as the rapeseed fields. While I can’t have a canvas that large, I know of the perfect place to paint what I’m feeling: the walls of the leadership hall where Brigade Leader Lai has his meals and stores the grain for the commune. I’m going to have a baby, I’m going to launch a Sputnik, I’m going to right things with my husband, and along the way I hope to protect myself from the peasants and find my true self.
Pearl
THE LADDER OF LIFE
IT’S APRIL—TWENTY months since I left Los Angeles and five months since Z.G. and I returned from Canton. I’ve gone back to being a paper collector; Z.G. has gone back to his studio. I’m ignored for the street cleaner I am; he’s watched closely to make sure he doesn’t stray from mandated subjects. We follow our daily and weekly routines: painting, parties, and political meetings for Z.G.; working, participating in the life of my house, visiting Superintendent Wu at the police station, political reeducation, and a little time in my garden for me. Z.G. and I still see each other quite a bit. We’ve finally become what we always should have been—good friends, brother-and-sister close.
Right now I sit on the front steps of my family home, letting the last of the day’s sun warm my face. The season’s first roses are in bloom. I hear Dun and the other boarders inside, laughing. I hold two letters in my hand: one from May, one from Joy. I open May’s letter first and find twenty dollars. Nothing in her letter has been censored, and obviously no one took the money. We seem to be in a period of openness, but that could change tomorrow. I put the bill in my pocket and open the letter from Joy—my treat for the day.
I’m pregnant.
I take this news with decidedly mixed feelings. I’m thrilled that I’m going to be a grandmother—who wouldn’t be?—but I worry about my daughter. Is she healthy? Will she be all right having a baby in the commune? But most of all, is she happy? I hope with all my heart that she is. But that’s not enough for me. I want to see her. I want to be part of this miraculous moment. I want to bring gifts, and already I start thinking of things I can make and buy for Joy, the baby, and even all those other children in her household. I’ll visit Superintendent Wu tomorrow and see if I can get a travel permit, but first I need to tell Z.G. the news.
I go to my room, change clothes, and then take the bus to his house. I’m prepared to wait for him to return from some party or other, but he’s home, which is a nice surprise.
“Joy’s going to have a baby,” I announce. “I’m going to be a grandma and you’re going to be a grandpa.”
I try to interpret the emotions that ripple across his features, but I’m unsuccessful.
“I have just stepped up a rung on the ladder of my life,” I go on. “So have you.”
“A grandfather? I haven’t been a father all that long.” He’s trying to be humorous. Or maybe this news makes him uncomfortable. Being a grandfather may not mesh with his view of himself as a bachelor about town. Then, “It’s wonderful! A grandfather!” Then he laughs and I laugh with him.
Later, Z.G.’s driver takes me home in the Red Flag limousine. I say good-bye and enter my house. I get some stationery and find a spot in the salon to sit. Dun is across from me, reading student papers. I’m struck, as I always am, by his dignity during these difficult times. He has a tranquil and orderly way about him, which I find reassuring. The two former dancing girls listen to an evening broadcast on the radio, unaware that their feet move in time to the music. Cook dozes in another chair. I hear the cobbler rummaging in his space under the stairs. The policeman’s widow sits cross-legged on the floor, knitting a sweater for one of her daughters.
I write to Joy, telling her how delighted and excited I am. I ask if she needs anything and when it would be good for me to visit. I seal the letter and lean back in my chair to think before I write to May. I recently turned forty-three. I’ve had many terrible days in my life, experienced many woes, and changed a lot along the way, but now I’m going to be a grandma. I let that word sink in and fill my heart. Grandma! I smile to myself, and then I put my pen to paper.
Dear May,
I’m going to be a yen-yen. That means you’re going to be a yen-yen too. Tomorrow I’ll go to the shops to see what’s available for me to send Joy in preparation. I’ll try to buy some powdered baby milk like the kind we gave Joy when she was born, and maybe you can send some to her directly too, as well as a baby thermometer, diaper pins, and bottles.
Will May realize what I’m saying? Even after Joy married, a part of me believed she would eventually see the light and want to go home. Now, she’ll never leave, which means I can never leave either. My daughter is here. My grandchild will be born here in the fall. The people in this house will be my companions from now on. For the first time, the prospect of remaining in China for the rest of my life doesn’t seem so bad.
I fold the letter and put
it in an envelope. I clear my throat, and the boarders look up. “My daughter’s going to have a baby. I’m going to be a grandmother.”
I let their good wishes and congratulations wash over me. I’m very happy.
THE NEXT DAY, I go to the police station. After a long wait, I’m shown into Superintendent Wu’s office. “This is not the day for your regular appointment,” he says when he sees me.
“I know, but I’m hoping you can help me. I’d like to visit my daughter.”
He rocks back in his chair. “Ah, yes, the daughter you neglected to tell me about when you first arrived in Shanghai.”
“I’ve told you before that I’m sorry about that, but I didn’t know where she was, so there was nothing for me to report.”
“And now you want to see her. Unfortunately for you, the government isn’t issuing travel permits to the countryside right now.”
“What if I go to the Overseas Chinese Affairs Commission? You’ve told me before that as a returning Overseas Chinese I’m allowed to travel wherever I want as long as I asked you first.”
He throws up his hands. “Things change.”
“My daughter is going to have a baby—”
“Congratulations. I hope you get a grandson.”
I’ve known this man for some time now. He’s been promoted from superintendent third class to superintendent second class. He’s warmed up a bit since we first met, but he’s still a stickler for the rules. He’ll never accept a bribe and he’ll make sure I’m punished if I offer one. So when I ask my question, he knows I’m looking for a practical answer.
“What will I need to do to get a travel permit?”
“Go to your block committee. If they give you a written endorsement, I might be able to help you. But, comrade, hear what I’m saying. Might.”