The brigade leader likes my explanation, especially since he has so much to gain from it. Still, he doesn’t want any outsiders coming to the Dandelion Number Eight People’s Commune. He feigns indifference, although his desire is quite clear.
“You said you wanted your father to see the mural. How can he do that if he doesn’t come in person?”
I pull out my mother’s camera. “If you help me take some photographs, I’ll send the film to Shanghai. Again, all praise belongs to you and the commune. There will be many honors. No one will come here, but the masses will hear your name over loudspeakers in houses and communes all across the country.” I pause to let him conjure that image. “As you know, all it takes are connections, and my father—”
“Has good guan-hsi,” he finishes for me. He pushes his chair from his desk. “Come. Let’s do this quickly.”
We go outside. I take a few shots to show Brigade Leader Lai how to use the camera.
“You’re doing fine by yourself. You don’t need my help,” he says, stating the obvious.
“I need to be in some of the photographs,” I respond. “Otherwise how will my parents know the mural’s from our commune? Anyone could be sending the film. You don’t want credit to go to the wrong commune, do you?”
“Right, right, absolutely,” he agrees.
I back up, stand next to a part of the mural that shows chickens pecking at the ground, with eggs the size of footballs in nests nearby. Snap. Snap. Slowly we move around the building until we reach the figure of Jesus hidden in the branches and bark of the tree. Snap. Snap.
“Excuse me, Brigade Leader, but could you wait one second? I need to do something.”
He pulls the camera from his eye. I peel off my jacket, take Sam out of her sling, and then hold her up.
“My parents haven’t seen my baby yet,” I say. “I think they’d like to see their granddaughter, don’t you? That will make them feel even closer ties to our commune.”
The brigade leader nods again and holds up the camera.
“Oh, please, Brigade Leader, step a little closer. Yes, a little closer still.”
I’m exhausted from fear and concentration, but I smile for the camera. I know exactly the message this photograph will send. Samantha and I are starving. We may be days from death. If you get this, please help us. If you come too late, at least you’ve seen your granddaughter. If Brigade Leader Lai doesn’t send the film, then there’s nothing to be done.
The brigade leader hands me the camera. I follow him back inside the leadership hall. He sits behind his desk. I keep standing as I take the film out of the camera. I start to put the roll in the envelope with my letter and the chicken feathers.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“The film has to go in an envelope, doesn’t it?”
The brigade leader’s eyes narrow. “What else is in there? Are you trying to communicate with the outside? This is against the rules.”
“I can’t send the film without a letter,” I say.
“You may not send a letter.”
“All right.” I remove the film and put it in my pocket. I turn to leave.
“Wait! What does your letter say?”
I remove the piece of paper, careful not to disturb the feathers, and hand it to him. He quickly scans the lines with their abundant praise of Brigade Leader Lai for his foresight and guidance, and an explanation of what’s on the film, noting that the mural is certainly the best in the county, that it was painted by Tao and other comrades, and that it sends a Great Leap Forward message to the masses. At the end, I added that, although we eat chicken every night, I hope my mother will send more of her special treats. (I asked for food knowing that the brigade leader has confiscated it before.) But all these are just words. The real message is in the film and with the chicken feathers. When the brigade leader finishes reading, he looks up. I’m pretty confident he’ll send the letter, but to make sure I hold out the camera.
“You can keep this,” I say.
He puts the letter in my hand as I put the camera in his. I tuck the letter and the film inside the cloth envelope. The brigade leader watches as I stitch it closed, making sure I don’t add or subtract anything. When I’m done, I give it to him.
“The sooner they receive this, the sooner you’ll have your acclaim,” I say. I bow and then back out of his office, like I’m a lowly servant from feudal times.
I go home, rummage through my belongings again, and pull out the pouch my aunt gave me. I lay Sam on one of the sleeping mats, put the pouch over her head, and then push it down around her distended belly like a belt so there’ll be no chance of strangulation. Then I lie down next to her. I don’t know how quickly my package will leave here or what will happen to it when it passes through the censors’ hands in Shanghai. Will my mom receive what I’ve sent in a few days, a week, never? I’ve done what I can, but the end is coming. I have only a little baby formula left. If I take the bits and pieces of my mother and aunt that I pasted over the window and boil them, I might be able to extract enough rice paste to make a weak milk to keep Sam alive for a while. For now, she sucks at my empty breast, too weak to complain. The Boar always suffers in silence.
I close my eyes. I hear the voices of the past in the wind and in the beating of my heart. My two mothers, my two fathers, and my dear uncle all tried to tell me I was wrong about the People’s Republic of China. In the beginning, going all the way back to the University of Chicago, I thought socialism and communism were good, that people should share equally, that it wasn’t fair that my family had suffered in America when others drove fancy cars, lived in big houses, and shopped in Beverly Hills. I ran away and came here in hopes of finding an ideal world, to find my birth father, to avoid my mother and aunt, and to crush my guilt. None of that worked the way I expected. The ideal world was filled with hypocrisy and with people like Z.G., who went to parties while the masses suffered. In finding my birth father, I only remembered how wonderful my father Sam was. He loved me unconditionally, while Z.G. wanted me as a muse, as a pretty daughter to show off, as a physical manifestation of his love for Auntie May, as an artist who would reflect how great an artist he is. I thought I could use idealism to solve my inner conflicts, but in healing my inner conflicts I destroyed my idealism.
As I gaze into my daughter’s face, everything becomes very clear. My mother and aunt loved me, stood by me, and supported me, no matter what. They were both good mothers. My greatest misery and grief is that I have not been a good mother and I can’t save my daughter. I pray that in our finals days and hours Samantha will know how much I love her.
Pearl
SEPARATED BY A THREAD
AT THE BEGINNING of April, I come home from a day of paper collecting to find a package from Joy. Finally! I hurry upstairs to my room and close the door. The package is in pristine condition, which means that no one has opened it or read the contents. I’m so excited that my hands are clumsy as I snip open the hand-sewn seams with scissors. A roll of film and a few feathers fall on the bed. I pick up one of the feathers and examine it closely. Why would Joy send these? Then I push the lot of them aside. But how happy I am for the film. At last I’ll get to see my granddaughter. The letter dated from two weeks ago is filled with information that raises my spirits: “See the kind of plenty we have here? We eat chicken every night.” (Which may explain the chicken feathers.) She writes about the baby. She describes the mural Sputnik the commune created and goes overboard in her gratitude to Brigade Leader Lai for his role in seeing the project completed. She ends with a request for me to send special treats. It’s just as I’ve dared to hope. Things are better in the countryside. I’m relieved and delighted she’s doing so well.
I go to the pavilion and knock on Dun’s door. I read him the letter and show him the film.
“Anything else?” he asks.
“That’s it. Why do you ask?”
“She seems so positive. Do you think these are positive times?”
&
nbsp; “She has a baby and a husband. She’s where she wants to be.” He nods slowly, thinking about that.
“There were some chicken feathers in the package,” I add. “I didn’t think—”
“Let me see them.”
We go back to my room and I show him the feathers. Dun stares at them gravely.
“Pearl, maybe it’s nothing and I don’t want you to get upset, but where my family was from a chicken feather was an urgent distress signal.”
I know nothing of country ways, but Joy must have learned them. My mood instantly turns to anxiety and fear.
I hold up the film. “She may have sent a message here as well. If there’s a message, a camera shop might not give me the prints.” My voice trembles. I cannot be afraid. I hear a Dragon’s strength when I next speak. “Let’s go to Z.G. He’s an artist. He’ll know a photographer who can develop the film.”
It’s seven o’clock by the time we reach Z.G.’s house. The servant girls let us in. Of course, Z.G. isn’t here.
“The master is at a banquet,” the girl with the bob volunteers.
The older servant sighs. She’s never going to be able to train her subordinates, but soon enough we’ve been served tea and the girls have backed out of the room. Dun sits in an overstuffed chair, and I pace impatiently. It’s after eleven before Z.G. arrives. He’s suave—like a movie star—showing no surprise that Dun and I are here so late at night.
“Have my girls been treating you well?” he asks. “Have you eaten yet? Can they pour you more tea?”
Here I am, in a desperate moment, and he’s thinking about manners.
“We think Joy’s in trouble. She sent a roll of film. Do you know anyone who can develop it?”
Dun explains about the chicken feathers, and Z.G. instantly recognizes their significance from a tale his grandmother used to tell. The concern on the two men’s faces terrifies me, but I try to stay calm. Z.G. motions to us, and we follow him back outside. We walk quickly through the deserted streets. It’s nearly midnight. In the New China, there are no late night strollers, people on their way to nightclubs or teahouses for final drinks, no prostitutes waiting to amuse. It’s just the three of us, skirting down one alley after another. We dip into a courtyard and climb four flights of stairs. Z.G. bangs on a door. A man in a gray undershirt and baggy drawers answers.
“Hey, Z.G., it’s been a long time. But it’s late. What are you doing here?” He rubs his eyes to get the sleep out of them.
“Old friend, you need to do me a favor,” Z.G. says, pushing the man back into his apartment.
Within minutes, the four of us are packed into a tiny darkroom illuminated by the glow of a bare red lightbulb that dangles from a cord. The photographer mixes chemicals and develops the film. He hangs the negatives on a line, and we wait impatiently for them to dry. Then he makes contact prints, which are put in a tray with a solution. The first image that comes into focus in its chemical bath shows an owl painted on the side of the leadership hall. The photographer sucks air through his teeth. “Bad,” he mumbles. The other two men nod their heads somberly.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Owls are always taken as criticism,” Dun explains. “Add that to the message of distress from the chicken feathers.”
Z.G.’s friend hangs the first print on the line and then proceeds to develop a series of images showing the mural from each side of the leadership hall, with some details thrown in for good measure. Spaceships, giant corn, and even more chickens. How easy it is to spot my daughter’s work as opposed to what Tao or the other people who must have helped painted. Then come photographs with Joy standing in front of the mural, her face thin, dressed in layers of padded clothes, and holding Samantha, who is equally bundled.
“Why doesn’t she show the baby?” I ask. “I’m the grandmother. I want to see her.”
Despite my impatience, Z.G.’s friend hangs each of these prints on the line. The next photograph shows Joy standing before what looks to me like Jesus on the cross, but maybe I’m seeing things. Once again, the photographer shakes his head. Is he worried for my daughter’s safety or his own? Then he places the last photograph in its chemical bath. He swishes the paper with a pair of tongs. The image that comes into focus is one I won’t forget as long as I live. Joy has taken off her jacket and unwrapped the baby. The person taking the photograph has come close so I can see my daughter and granddaughter. If I didn’t know this was Joy, I wouldn’t recognize her. She looks more like a ghost than a human. We stand in silence for a long moment, each of us absorbing what this means. Dun is the first to speak.
“We have to get her. We have to get her now.”
“He’s right,” Z.G. says. “We have to go out there. We have to get her.”
“But how?” I ask.
“We could submit applications for travel permits, but …” Dun hesitates, not wanting to state the obvious. Even if we applied for travel permits, there’s no guarantee we’d get them. If we did get them, it would probably be too late.
“We could walk,” I suggest.
“It’s a long way,” Z.G. says. “About four hundred kilometers.”
I won’t let that stop me. “My mother, my sister, and I walked out of Shanghai.” I hear the desperation in my voice. But even if I could walk the 250 miles or so, we’d never get there in time. I stare at the photographs, despair creeping over me. Then it hits me. “She’s also sent a hint for how to get her in an official way.”
The others eye me questioningly.
I gesture to the photographs of the mural hanging around us. “Joy said it is a ‘model project made by a model commune.’ ”
Z.G. pinches his chin, slowly nodding, deep in thought. “We’ll get permission to see it,” he says at last. “We’ll go to the Artists’ Association as soon as it opens. We’ll make them send us.”
That seems unlikely, but I have to trust Z.G. or else I’ll go crazy. He pulls the photographs off the line and hands them to me.
“Go home,” he continues. “Get some clothes and—”
“Food,” I finish for him.
“We have some rice,” Dun says.
“And I’ll get more,” I add. Dun frowns. He knows about the special coupons I get from the Overseas Chinese Affairs Commission, but I haven’t told him how much American money I have or that I use it to buy food on the black market. “May has also sent some food. I’ll bring that and what I’ve saved—brown sugar and—”
“You’re a mother,” Z.G. cuts me off. “You know what Joy and the baby will need.” He looks at his watch and frowns. “It’s one now.”
Which means no buses are running. We’ve already hit our first obstacle.
“We’ll go back to your house now,” I say. “We’ll leave at five, when the city buses start running, gather everything, and be back at your house by eight.”
We thank the photographer and retrace our steps to Z.G.’s house. We should sleep, but we can’t. When Dun and I go back to my neighborhood a few hours later, the early morning rhythms are in full swing. We purchase what foodstuffs we can find. We’ll buy ginger and soy milk when we get closer to Green Dragon.
The boarders are suspicious, as well they should be.
“Why are you taking rice from the bin?” the widow asks. “You aren’t allowed to do that.”
“Are you running away together?” Cook inquires. “That kind of thing will not be tolerated in the New China—”
“You’re going to get us all in trouble,” one of the dancing girls complains.
I can’t and won’t listen to them.
We’re back at Z.G.’s by eight. We leave our bundles in the entry and the three of us walk to the Artists’ Association. When the doors open, Z.G. asks to see the director and we’re shown into his office. This man was pudgy when I first came here looking for Joy and Z.G.; now he’s gaunt and gray. Z.G. lays photographs of the mural—minus the ones showing the owl, the Christ figure, and Joy and the baby—on the desk. I read Joy’s lett
er praising the commune and in particular her husband’s role in launching this particular Sputnik.
When I’m done, Z.G. says, “You should bring Feng Tao and his wife to Shanghai.”
“Why would I want to do that?” the director asks, skeptical.
“Because the boy is one of Chairman Mao’s favorites,” Z.G. answers. “His work was submitted to the New Year’s poster contest two years ago.”
“The contest you won,” the director notes.
“Yes, but Feng Tao was my student, and this is a model project from a model peasant,” Z.G. goes on. “If you bring him to Shanghai, then our branch of the Artists’ Association will get the credit, since what he’s accomplished is an outgrowth of your wisdom.”
“Your punishment, you mean,” the director observes wryly, not giving an inch.
“I’ll spend even more time in the countryside teaching the masses,” Z.G. offers, “if that’s what it takes.”
I have a different idea. I open my bag and hold out American dollars. The director takes them, just as he did when I came here the last time.
“You and the woman will go to the countryside to deliver the good news that the mural will be submitted to Peking under the Shanghai Artists’ Association’s auspices,” the director announces. “Bring the boy and his family here. I will send word ahead to the commune cadres, so they’ll know you’re coming. But only four travel permits. This one”—he points to Dun—“has no reason to go.”
I want Dun—I need him—to come with us, but the director won’t be persuaded otherwise.
IT’S NOT GOING to be easy to get to Green Dragon. All boat and train travel has been curtailed. Z.G. has a car but he doesn’t know how to drive, and we can’t ask the chauffeur to take us because he doesn’t have a travel permit. After some discussion, Z.G.’s servant girls dress me in one of their uniforms so I’ll look more like a chauffeur and our appearance won’t be questioned. By noon, Z.G.’s Red Flag limousine is packed and we’re ready to go.