Dreams of Joy: A Novel (29 page)

“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 even 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.
”

Despite his caution, I leave the police station feeling optimistic. Cook is the director of our home and is very powerful on the block committee. He’ll make sure I get a positive recommendation.

Except it doesn’t turn out that way. The two former dancing girls accuse me of being a secret capitalist. “She keeps vestiges of her decadent past in her room,” one of them tells our neighbors. “She brings home posters of herself and her sister from former times.”

“Even little pieces—an eye or a finger,” adds her roommate.

This is startling news, because it means they’ve been in my room when I’m not there. What else have they found?

“She wears clothes from before Liberation.” This comes from the cobbler. “She puts them on to teach one of our boarders English!”

“And she hides food,” the widow chimes in. “She only shares with us when it suits her.”

In my mind, I haven’t done anything wrong. After all, I strip posters off walls as part of my job, I wear my old clothes so I won’t be wasteful, I teach Dun because he asked me to, and I share food to be a good comrade. I’ve heard of others who fight back when they’re criticized, believing they’re innocent or morally, ethically, or politically right, and I want to fight back, but that won’t help me get a travel permit to visit my daughter.

Following the slogan “Leniency to those who confess,” I rush to make full disclosure: “I lived in an imperialist country, I’m too accustomed to weak Western ways, and my family was bad.” They seem fairly satisfied with that, but I’m sure I’ll be accused again. As worried as I am about Joy, I’m thankful she’s in the countryside, where she’s liked for who she is and not under suspicion for where she came from.

Of course, all this is reported to Superintendent Wu. “You have no hope of getting a travel permit right now,” he tells me when I see him. “Just wait. Behave. And maybe you’ll be able to get one in time for your grandchild’s birth.”

I’m horribly upset, but what can I do?

I WAS FOOLISH
to keep the scraps of May and me I’d stripped off walls in the box under my bed, and I need to get rid of them in a way that won’t draw more attention to me. I used to knit and sew for Joy when she was a girl, and now I’ve hit on a project—making homemade shoes for her and her family—that will also prove to the boarders who complained about me that I was actually being a good and frugal socialist in gathering this particular paper and that I am arm in arm with our comrades in the communes. I have two friends in the house, and I decide to ask for their help. The following Sunday, I first approach Dun. I’ve come to rely on him for many things, and he is, as always, happy to see me at his door.

“We have a good time together, you and I,” I begin. “You’ve shown me all the places I can go for tastes of the past.”

And truly he has: to the last White Russian café in the city to serve borscht, to a little place to buy cream so I can make butter, to a flea market to buy bread pans so I can make my own bread for toast.

“I enjoy spending time with you,” he says. “I’d like us to do more things together, if you’d like.”

“I’d like that very much,” I respond. Then I tell him about my project.

“That’s perfect!” Dun says. “But do you know how to make shoes?”

“No, but Cook does.”

Even though Cook let me be attacked by the block committee, I know he loves me very much. In fact, as I think about it, he may have let the criticism against me be voiced so that I wouldn’t be attacked in a harsher or more dangerous way sometime down the line. Maybe Cook was planning ahead to the baby’s birth. After all, how many travel permits can one person get?

I go to my room, get my box out from under the bed, and then Dun and I go downstairs to the kitchen. Since it’s Sunday afternoon, most of the boarders are out—window-shopping, visiting friends and relatives, strolling along the Bund—but Cook is home, too old and frail for excursions. He gives me a toothless grin and rises to put on water for tea for his Little Miss.

“Director Cook,” I say, addressing him formally, “when I was a little girl you used to make soles for shoes right here on the kitchen table. Do you remember that?”

“Remember?
Aiya!
I remember how mad your mama used to get at me. She didn’t like the mess. She said she’d give me a pair of the master’s shoes if I’d stop mixing rice paste in her kitchen—”

“Do you think you could show us how to make soles? I’d like to make shoes to send to Joy and the children in her family. Most of them don’t have any shoes.”

I open the box and dump the scraps of May and me on the table. Cook gives me another toothless grin. “Smart, Little Miss, very smart.”

Cook gets up and makes a paste from rice. Then he shows Dun and me how to glue sheet upon sheet of paper in a time-consuming process to build a sole. The final step involves sewing cloth onto the soles, which I’ll do later in my room. What could be tedious work becomes a bit of a game as we try to guess which mouths, eyes, ears, and fingers are May’s and which are mine. Dun is particularly adept at singling out pieces of me in the pile, which pleases me greatly.

“Paper collectors from the feudal era would have been very upset to see us doing this,” Dun says. I watch his fingers as he picks up another of my noses, brushes it with glue, and applies it to the sole he’s been making for Jie Jie, the oldest of Tao’s sisters.

I smile and shake my head. He can’t help himself. He’s such a professor. “Which part?” I ask. “That we’re making shoes or that we’re using these funny pieces of paper?”

“Both,” he replies. “Does a paper sole show reverence for lettered paper? Not at all! You should never tread on lettered paper.”

“But not all of this is lettered,” I point out. And it’s true. While there’s writing on some of the slivers of May and me, most of the writing was at the bottom or along the sides of beautiful-girl posters.

“Nevertheless, the whole piece of paper was an advertisement,” Dun responds. “In olden days, this would have been considered a deliberate act of disrespect. Our lives could have been shortened by five years—”

“Ten years!” Cook corrects.

“Because we’d go to jail?” I ask.

“Nothing so simple,” Dun replies. “Maybe lightning would find you. Maybe you’d develop runny eyes or go blind or be born blind in your next life—”

“I remember a woman in my village who hid coins in her socks,” Cook says. “The coins had words on them. She tripped, fell in a well, and died.”

“And I remember a warning my mother gave me as a boy,” Dun adds. “She said, ‘If you use lettered paper to kindle the fire, then you will receive ten demerits in the underworld and you will be given itchy sons.’ ”

“As a paper
collector
, I should be eligible for an incredible reward then,” I say.

Dun nods. “My mother always said that he who roams the streets, collecting, storing, ritually burning, and then depositing lettered paper into the sea will receive five thousand merits, add twelve years to his life, and become honored and wealthy. His children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren will be virtuous and filial too.”