Dreams of Joy

by Lisa See

“A baby—even a girl—should not be with a mother such as this.” Tao speaks right over me. “Ah Fu belongs to my family and our village, not to an outsider. My wife puts on a red face, but I’ve seen her bourgeois ways. I’ve encouraged her to open her heart to the Party. I’ve told her she needs to be a cog in the revolutionary machine, but she refuses to perform ritual self-examination and self-criticism.”

  Everything my mother said about Tao is true. He is hsin yan—heart eye, tricky. He’s using the safety of his background to denounce me as a way of diverting attention from his having sex with girls on the work teams.

  “She is not red,” he emphasizes. “She is black and she has tried to spread her blackness to all of us by painting a black mural! There are rules for paintings. They must be hong, guang, liang—red, bright, and shining—but what did she choose for her subject on one of the walls? An owl. The whole world knows that the owl is a symbol of bad omens, darkness, and evil.”

  “You are suffering from hong yen bing—red eye disease—envy,” I shoot back. But I’m frightened by his comments, because in my mural I was trying to send the message that the Great Leap Forward is a disaster.

  Then Tao says something even worse, proving to everyone I’m not only a bad wife but also a traitor to Green Dragon Village and the commune.

  “She’s always encouraging me to leave the village. She says I can have a better life if I go elsewhere.”

  “That’s a lie!” I exclaim. “You’re the one who’s always asking me to write to my father to see if he can get you a travel permit or an internal passport. You’ve made it very clear that I’m a weight around your neck, preventing you from leaving the village. You’re the one who’s seeking praise and recognition. You’ve tried to claim the mural as your own.”

  But who are the people in the canteen going to believe—someone they’ve known their entire lives or me? I’ve always thought of Party Secretary Feng Jin as an honest and straightforward man. I turn to him now, my hands outstretched in supplication.

  “You must try to work this out,” he says. “A divorced woman is like a dried-up silkworm—ugly and totally useless to anyone.”

  “But Tao has been sharing his time—”

  “Enough!” Brigade Leader Lai orders. “Sit down, and let us hear from your comrades.”

  Like that, my divorce turns into a struggle session as one after another person gets up to denounce me as a rightist element. They speak in low voices, as though they haven’t had a decent meal in a long time, and they haven’t. Then a young woman I recognize from one of the work teams walks to the area before the tribunal. The way she looks at Tao tells me she’s one of his girls. Seeing her causes my body to tense. Samantha wakes and begins to squirm.

  “You wanted to be the star in the play the propaganda team mounted when you first came here,” the girl accuses. “You were always singling yourself out for special treatment. Ever since then, you’ve chosen to work in an individualistic way.”

  “I came here to help the People’s Republic of China,” I say staunchly. “I wanted to serve the people, and I have.”

  “You use the word I too often,” someone calls out. “I, I, I—that sounds like self-exaggeration, self-expression, and self-glorification of the individual.”

  “You speak too frankly,” another states.

  “And you brag—”

  “Like a foreigner.”

  “And your arm movements are too extravagant and expressive.” (This is true. I am more American than Chinese in this regard.)

  The brigade leader gestures to the audience to quiet down, and then he addresses me directly. “Your comrades are telling you that your individualism has not yet been washed clean. You’ve also refused to open your heart to the Party. Understand, our criticism is meant to help you.”

  Two pairs of arms reach under my armpits and lift me onto a table where people can see me better. More insults and accusations are hurled my way. It’s time for Samantha to eat, and she begins to cry. She’s a tiny little thing, but the sound that comes from her is both angry and desperate. My breasts respond, filling with milk. If I don’t feed her soon, my nipples will begin to leak. My situation should bring some sympathy, but it doesn’t.

  “You’re concealing more serious defects by hiding behind trivial flaws,” Brigade Leader Lai says after another half hour of criticisms. “Let us hear more from the people who know you.”

  Tao’s mother rises. Our relationship has been uneven at best and Tao is her son, but what she says isn’t as bad as it could be.

  “You wanted a wedding ceremony and celebration, but these things aren’t necessary in the New China. You were crowing even then!”

  One of Tao’s brothers steps forward. “Sometimes my sister-in-law gets a letter. She says it’s from her mother or aunt, but we can see it’s written in code.” He’s talking about the alphabet. “We have to rely on what she says is written there. She comes from our most ultrarightist imperialist enemy. How do we know she isn’t a spy?”

  “What is there to spy on?” I ask, indignant. This boy has benefited from me in so many ways—from the packages of treats my mother and aunt have sent to the food that’s literally been taken from my bowl and put into his. Still, I have to be careful. Asking for a divorce is one thing, being labeled a spy is quite another.

  “We sleep together in the main room,” Tao’s brother continues. “She doesn’t do enough to keep the baby from making noise. Just listen to her now.” Samantha helps his case with her cries. “None of us can sleep. My poor brother is so tired he no longer has the strength to paint.”

  I want to say Tao’s tired because he’s hungry, working too hard in the fields, and playing around with too many young women, but I don’t because I’m grateful the accusations have turned back to something far less threatening than my being a spy.

  He sits down and elbows Jie Jie, urging her to get up and say a few words against me. But she shakes her head no. I wish she had the courage to say something in my favor, but she doesn’t do that either. Still, I take her silence as a small victory.

  A few more people criticize me. I didn’t work hard enough during the harvest. I wanted to win the corn-picking contest not for the glory of the team and the country but so I could boast about how important I was. I let my mother hug me in front of everyone.

  I stand there, feeling bitter and angry. This is a great way to take people’s minds off their hunger and fatigue—work all day with no food, then come to a struggle session at night. Then someone kicks the leg of the table. It tips, and the baby and I fall. I turn my body so I can land on my back, protecting Samantha. I look up and see Kumei. I reach a hand out to her, believing she’s come to help me as I helped Yong. Instead, Kumei points a finger at me accusingly.

  “You took baths—naked—in the villa’s kitchen,” she says. It breaks my heart that Kumei feels she must speak against me. But I understand. She has to protect herself, her son, and Yong. Still, this is stunning—shocking—information. The mood shifts yet again, turning ugly. I think of Yong’s struggle session. Fortunately no one has brought up how I helped her that day. Not yet anyway. But everyone’s hungry, everyone’s tired, and this could get violent.

  I get up off the floor. Samantha is what my aunt May would call screaming bloody murder. I look directly at Sung-ling. Please help me. Sung-ling stands and raises her hands for silence. The audience quiets, which makes Samantha’s cries all the more pathetic. The village cadre’s voice is strident and harsh as she addresses me, but her eyes are not. Another show of kindness.

  “We all agree you are too soft,” she says. “You complain too much. But Chairman Mao says, do not fear hardship. Do not fear death.”

  I don’t fear hardship, but I do fear death. Few choices are open to those who are struggled against: hold to your morals and risk further punishment; admit guilt and accept punishment; admit guilt, offer thanks for everyone’s comradely help, and hope for leniency. My father Sam comes clearly to me now. I feel as thou
gh he is standing next to me, his hand on my shoulder, reminding me not only what a parent should do but also how he might have done it differently. I turn and face my accusers.

  “I’m grateful for your criticisms, for I know you’d not have said them if they weren’t true,” I say. “I’ll take them to heart and I’ll improve. I thank my comrades.”

  “Good!” Sung-ling says. “The tribunal will take a few minutes to discuss the case. Everyone remain in your seats. We will return shortly.”

  Brigade Leader Lai, Party Secretary Feng, and Sung-ling walk down the center aisle and out the door. I sit on my bench and face forward, aware of the restlessness of those behind me. I unbutton my blouse, and Samantha’s mouth grabs my nipple. My shoulders relax. Everyone around me calms at the sudden quiet. Tao comes and sits next to me. He doesn’t look at me or check on Samantha. Why is he being so difficult? Why doesn’t he just let me go? He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t even like me. Have I harmed him in some way? Does he want something from me? The only thing I can think of is just what Z.G. said. Tao wants me to help him leave this place. How many times has he asked me to write to Z.G. for a travel permit? Too many to count. And yet this was one of Tao’s biggest complaints about me.

  The tribunal returns.

  “You have quarreled over minor differences,” Brigade Leader Lai says. “Comrade Joy, you will not be made to wear a white ribbon of denunciation, but you must abstain from capitalist thoughts and make sure your husband receives his prerogatives. Comrade Tao, remember that children—whether sons or daughters—do not belong to you. Your daughter belongs to Chairman Mao.” He pauses to create the greatest effect, and then announces, “This divorce is not granted.”

  The entertainment is over and people get up to leave. I catch Kumei’s eye, and she turns away in embarrassment. My mother-in-law, Jie Jie, and the other children group together, waiting. Tao flicks his finger, motioning me to follow him. I have nowhere to go and no other options at this time, but as soon as I get home I pull out paper and a pen. I write a letter to Z.G. begging for travel permits. Tao watches me the entire time.

  The next day I come home from work, feed the baby, and leave her with Jie Jie. Then I take my letter to the pond and wait for the mailman. It’s the beginning of January in the Western calendar. I’ve missed Christmas and New Year’s again. It’s cold and dreary. When the mailman doesn’t come, I walk up the hill that leads out of the village. From here, I can look far across the desolate fields. In the distance, I see a man bicycling toward me. It’s not the regular mailman, which tells me he must be dead. Will this new one be reliable? All I can do is trust and hope, but I know with sinking certainty that my letter will never go through. Brigade Leader Lai will read my request for travel permits, and that will be that. Word of what’s happening here cannot be allowed to leak out from the commune. The only way I’ll be free of Tao is to help him leave the village, and the only way I know to do that is going to fail.

  After handing my letter to the mailman, I turn to walk back to Green Dragon Village. A new welcome sign has been posted by the side of the path:

  1. ALL CORPSES MUST BE BURIED.

  2. ALL BODIES MUST BE BURIED AT LEAST THREE FEET DEEP WITH CROPS GROWN ON TOP. NO SUPERSTITIOUS TRADITIONS WILL BE TOLERATED.

  3. THERE WILL BE NO CRYING OR WAILING.

  4. THERE WILL BE NO BEGGING, HOARDING, OR STEALING.

  5. ALL VIOLATIONS WILL BE PUNISHABLE BY BEATING, LOSS OF FOOD PRIVILEGES IN THE CANTEEN, OR IMMEDIATE DISPATCH FOR REEDUCATION THROUGH LABOR.

  Pearl

  A BRAVE HEART

  “WHERE WERE YOU born?” Superintendent Wu asks again.

  “Yin Bo Village in Kwangtung province,” I answer.

  “Do you have relatives still living there? Can you name them?”

  “I’m related to everyone in the village, but I left when I was three. I don’t remember anyone.”

  After twenty-nine months of meetings, I wouldn’t say that Superintendent Wu and I are friends, but we get along all right.

  “Are your relatives workers, peasants, or soldiers?”

  “I guess peasants, but I really don’t know.”

  “Let’s turn to your daughter. Is she still on the Dandelion Number Eight People’s Commune?”

  “Yes, she is. As you know, I finally heard from her. I have a granddaughter now. She’s ten weeks old. I’d still like to visit—”

  “Tell me about your family in America.”

  “I have a sister. I hope one day for family reunification.”

  And on it goes. The exact same questions.

  After two hours, I’m allowed to leave. The February air is bitingly cold. I pull my hat down and my muffler up. When I get home, I hear arguing coming from the kitchen. I glance in the salon and see Dun reading a book. He wears a coffee-colored sweater and loose brown pants. He’s lost weight; we all have. He sees me and smiles.

  “I have something for you,” he says.

  I glance around to make sure no one is looking, and then I slip into the salon. He reaches down on the other side of his chair and pulls up a bouquet of pink flowers.

  I kneel by his chair and kiss his cheek. “Thank you, but where did you get them?”

  It’s now against the law to sell anything privately. Unauthorized peddlers are sent to jail. All the selling songs and trills I used to hear on the street have disappeared.

  “There are ways to buy things,” he says, “if you know where to look.”

  “I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

  “Don’t worry,” Dun says. “Just enjoy them.”

  But I do worry.

  “Are we visiting Madame Hu tonight?” Dun asks. “I bought flowers for her too. They’re the first of the season.”

  “She’ll like that,” I say.

  How is it that his doing something nice for an old woman can make me feel such openhearted affection for Dun? His thoughtfulness and kindness to my mother’s closest friend have been more meaningful than all the gentle caresses he’s given me. I blush and look down. Dun puts a finger under my chin and lifts my face. He looks into my eyes. Somehow he understands what I’m feeling and thinking. He moves his hand to my cheek, and I rest it there for a moment, soaking in his tenderness.

  On my way to the kitchen to get a vase for the flowers, I stop to straighten a painting—something I bought from a woman in the old French Concession last week. Lots of people are selling treasures, family heirlooms, and porcelain these days in back alleys and from their kitchen doors. Other people’s hunger has been a way for me to slowly bring my home back to what it was. Again, no one is supposed to be selling—or buying—privately, but we all do it to one extent or another.

  Entering the kitchen is like stepping into a typhoon. The arguing never stops. Dinner tonight is rice, wilted cabbage, and two six-inch-long fish steamed with a little soy sauce. Our food must be divided among six people who’ve lived together for over twenty years but are not family and me. The biggest fights have to do with our main staple—rice—its scarcity something unheard of in a country that won the hearts of the people on the promise of an iron rice bowl, meaning reliable and promised food for life. Our other starch comes from flours made from sweet potatoes, sorghum, and corn. Meat and eggs are impossible to find. We’ve been told that Premier Chou En-lai’s wife, to show solidarity with the people during what the government is calling “these years of bad weather,” now serves tea made from fallen leaves to her guests. Other leaders plan to plant vegetable gardens as soon as the weather warms. Even the Great Helmsman says he’ll turn his flower beds into a vegetable plot—or so it’s been reported. This news and our constant hunger make us jittery and on edge. What’s coming next?

  “You aren’t putting your fair share of rice into the cooking pot,” one of the former dancing girls complains to the cobbler. Two weeks ago, she caught him sneaking rice in the middle of the night and she hasn’t been able to shake her mistrust of him.

  The cobbler shrugs off the
accusation. “You don’t count out portions fairly.”

  Cook, who is the reddest among us and has the ability to report any one of us to the block committee, doesn’t like the bickering. “Stop fighting. I’m too old to listen to all this noise,” he orders, trying to muster the command he had when I was a little girl. “I’ve told you before to use this scale to make sure everyone gets an equal amount of food.” It’s a good idea, except that Cook’s eyes are bad, which only causes more squabbling.

  Otherwise, life goes on. I continue to collect paper, Dun teaches at the university, the dancing girls go to their factory, the cobbler labors at his stand, the widow collects her stipend and knits for her grandchildren, and Cook sleeps for most of the day. Every morning and every evening—out of habit and wishful thinking—I still walk along the Bund, plotting a way out of China. I’ve come to the conclusion that escape down the Whangpoo and out to sea would be impossible. Over a thousand vessels come and go from Shanghai every day, and the waters are filled with inspection cruisers. Inspection Cruiser Number Five won a “model” prize last year for most stowaways caught trying to leave the mainland. According to the local newspaper, the crew has vowed to top those numbers this year. The river and the sea are just too risky.

  But people are leaving, just not by choice. The city isn’t as crowded as when I first arrived. The police have done a good job keeping country bumpkins outside city limits. Those who managed to enter two years ago, when new factories were opening, have been sent home, relinquishing that work to the locals. Troublemakers have been sent to labor camps. At the same time, the People’s Government, which has been anxious to expand trade with Hong Kong, has granted some exit permits for family reunification for those who have relatives there. People lucky enough to receive those permits are allowed the equivalent of five dollars to take on their trip, ensuring they have only enough money to visit their families and then come home. If Joy were with me, I’d be going to the police station every day to ask Superintendent Wu for permits. May would be waiting for us in Hong Kong with the money to take us all the way to Los Angeles. What’s that American saying? Hope springs eternal?