Dreams of Joy

by Lisa See

  I’ve got to hold myself together. I really do. Think! I’m going to need a hotel. I’m going to need to return to the Bund for a fresh start. First, though, I need something to eat and drink.

  I find my way back to Nanking Road and after a short walk come to a huge park, where I see a couple of vendor carts. I bought a salty cake stuffed with minced pork and chopped greens wrapped in a piece of wax paper. At another cart, I buy tea served in a thick ceramic cup, and then sit on a nearby bench. The cake is delicious. The hot tea makes me sweat even more than I already am, but my mom always claimed that a cup of tea on a hot day has a cooling effect. It’s late afternoon and the temperature hasn’t dropped at all. It’s still so humid—and without a hint of a breeze—that I really can’t tell if the tea has a cooling effect or not. Still, the food and the liquid revive me.

  This isn’t like any park I’ve been in before. It’s flat and appears to go on for blocks. A lot of it is paved so that it seems like it’s more for mass meetings than for play or recreation. Even so, there are plenty of grandmothers minding small children. The babies are tied in slings to their grandmothers’ backs. The toddlers paddle about in pants split at the crotch. I see one little girl squat and pee right on the ground! Some of the older kids—not one of them over four or five—play with sticks. One grandmother sits on a bench across from me. Her granddaughter looks to be about three and is really cute, with her hair tied up in ribbons so that it sprouts from her head like little mushrooms. The child keeps peeking at me. I must look like a clown to her. I wave. She hides her eyes in her grandmother’s lap. She peers at me again, I wave, and she buries her face back in her grandmother’s lap. We go through this a few times before the little girl wiggles her fingers in my direction.

  I take my ceramic cup back to the tea vendor, and when I return to the bench to get my suitcase, the little girl leaves the safety of her grandmother and approaches me.

  “Ni hao ma?” I ask. “How are you?”

  The little girl giggles and runs back to her grandmother. I really should be going, but the child is so charming. More than that, playing with her gives me a sense that I belong and that everything will work out. She points at me and whispers to her grandmother. The old woman opens a bag, fishes around, and then places something in her granddaughter’s tiny hand. The next thing I know, the little girl is back in front of me, her arm fully outstretched, offering me a shrimp cracker.

  “Shie-shie.”

  The girl smiles at my thank-you. Then she climbs up next to me and starts swinging her legs and jabbering about this and that. I thought I was pretty good at the Shanghai dialect, but I don’t understand her nearly as well as I’d hoped. Finally, her grandmother comes over to where we’re sitting.

  “You’ve met our disappointment,” she says. “Next time my husband and I hope for a grandson.”

  I’ve heard things like this my entire life. I pat the little girl’s knee, a gesture of solidarity.

  “You don’t look like you’re from Shanghai,” the old woman goes on. “Are you from Peking?”

  “I’m from far away,” I respond, not wanting to tell my whole story. “I’m here to visit my father, but I’m lost.”

  “Where do you need to go?”

  I show her my map.

  “I know where this is,” she says. “We could take you there, if you’d like. It’s on our way home.”

  “I’d be very grateful.”

  She picks up her granddaughter, and I pick up my suitcase.

  A few minutes later, we reach the Artists’ Association. I thank the old woman. I look through my purse, find the last of a roll of Life Savers, and give it to the little girl. She doesn’t know what to make of it.

  “It’s candy,” I explain. “A sweet for a sweet.” A memory of my aunt saying that to me gives me a sharp pang of anguish. I’ve come this far and still my mother and aunt are with me.

  After a few more thank-yous, I turn away and enter the building. I was hoping for air-conditioning, but the lobby is just as oppressively hot as the street. A middle-aged woman sits behind a desk in the center of the room. She smiles and motions me to step forward.

  “I’m looking for an artist named Li Zhi-ge,” I say.

  The woman’s smile fades and blooms into a scowl. “You’re too late. The meeting is almost over.”

  I stand there, bewildered.

  “I’m not going to let you in there,” she snaps harshly, gesturing in annoyance to a set of double doors.

  “You mean he’s in there? Right now?”

  “Of course, he’s in there!”

  My mother would say it’s fate that I should find my father so easily. But maybe it’s serendipity. Whatever it is, I’m lucky, even if it’s only dumb luck. But I still don’t understand why the receptionist won’t let me in.

  “I need to see him,” I plead.

  Just then, the doors open and a group of people stream out.

  “There he is now,” the receptionist says with a sneer.

  She points to a tall man wearing wire-rimmed glasses. His hair is rather long and falls in a loose mop across his forehead. He’s definitely the right age—somewhere around forty-five—and strikingly handsome. He’s dressed in a Mao suit, but this one is different from the ones I saw on the street. It’s crisp and well cut, and the fabric looks richer. My father must be very famous and powerful, because the others follow closely behind him, practically pushing him to the street.

  As they leave the building, I hurry after them. Once on the sidewalk, the others fall away, melting into the throng of pedestrians. Z.G. stands still for a moment, looking up through the buildings to a patch of white sky. Then he sighs, shakes his hands as though relieving stress, and begins to walk. I follow him, still lugging my suitcase. What will happen if I walk up and announce I’m his daughter? I don’t know him, but I sense this isn’t a good moment. Even if I thought it was, I’m filled with apprehension. At one point he stops at an intersection, and I pause at his side. Surely he has to notice me since I look so different—after all, everyone else has noticed me—but he seems completely preoccupied. I should say something. Hello, you’re my father. I can’t do it. He glances at me, still registering nothing, and then crosses the street.

  He turns onto a quieter lane. Official-looking buildings give way to apartments and little neighborhood shops. He walks for a few blocks, then swings onto a pedestrian walkway lined on both sides with pretty Western-style, two- and three-story homes. I stay at the corner to watch where he goes. He passes the first three houses, and then he opens a low picket fence, enters a yard, climbs the stairs to the porch, and disappears through the front door. I take a few steps onto the walkway. I see patches of lawn, cymbidiums in bloom, and climbing vines. Bicycles lean against porches and laundry hangs on poles that jut from windows. The houses themselves are lovely—with tile roofs, nicely painted façades, and iron grillwork in art deco patterns covering windows, as peek-throughs for doors, and as decoration along the eaves and around mail slots.

  This isn’t how Joe and my professors described Red China. I expected utilitarian Communist quarters or even an artist’s single room. Instead, my father lives in an elegant art deco house with a lovely garden. What does this say about him exactly?

  I take a deep breath, and then I climb the steps and ring the bell.

  Joy

  TWO SHADOWS LENGTHENING

  A YOUNG WOMAN answers the door. She wears loose black trousers and a light blue tunic with woven frogs that button at her neck, across her breast, and under her armpit.

  “May I help you?” she asks.

  Is she Z.G.’s daughter? My half sister?

  “I’m here to see Li Zhi-ge.”

  “What is this about?” Her melodious voice tightens into something like irritation or maybe fear.

  “I’ve come a long way.” I give a little lift to my suitcase. Quite apart from that, she must be able to tell I’m not from around here. “It’s a private matter, and it’s very important
that I speak with him.”

  The girl steps aside, and I walk into the house. The foyer is large. Polished mahogany floors stretch down a long hallway. To my right is a living room filled with Ming dynasty furniture. To my left, the dining room is decorated similarly. Having grown up in Chinatown, I know the real from the fake, and this is real and of fine quality. But what’s on the walls shakes me. I see my mother and aunt in poster after poster. They are young and radiant, clad in pretty outfits, and doing all kinds of activities—getting ready to dive into a pool, stepping off airplanes and waving, and drinking champagne at a tea dance. My mother and aunt often reminisced about being “beautiful girls.” Now, here they are, framed and displayed as if in a private museum. I’m conflicted because I’m still upset with them, but seeing their faces gives me courage.

  “Please sit,” the young woman says. I obey, and she pads quietly out of the room. A few moments later, another young woman, dressed in identical trousers and tunic, enters. Without a word, she pours me a cup of tea and then backs out of the room.

  My father has servants! This isn’t at all how I envisioned his life.

  “What do you want?” a man asks.

  It’s him. Suddenly I’m shaking so hard, I’m afraid to stand up. I’ve come so far and ruptured so many ties …

  “May I speak to you?” I ask, aware of the tremulous quality to my voice. “Are you busy?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am,” he answers curtly. “I’m getting ready to go to the countryside. You must know that. So please leave me to my packing. I have many things to do—”

  “Are you Li Zhi-ge?”

  “Of course, I am!”

  “A long time ago, you used to go by a different name. People called you Z.G. Li—”

  “Many people had different names in those days. Back then, I followed the wind by adopting Western customs. I understood my mistake. I changed with the times and I continue to change.”

  “Are you the same artist who used to paint beautiful girls?”

  He stares down at me impatiently. He gestures to the walls. “You can see that I am. I regret those days too …”

  “Did you ever paint Pearl and May Chin?”

  He doesn’t respond—again, the answer is on the walls—but his face goes gray and his posture deflates. “If you’re here to punish me further, don’t bother,” he says stiffly.

  What’s he talking about?

  “My aunt is Pearl Chin,” I continue. “My mother is May Chin. I’m nineteen years old.” As I speak, I watch him closely. His gray diffidence fades into ghostly white. “I’m your daughter.”

  He sinks into the chair opposite me, staring at my face. He glances at the posters on the wall behind me, and then comes back to me.

  “Anyone could make that claim.”

  “But why would they?” comes my sharp retort. Then, “They named me Joy.” I say “they” and hope he doesn’t ask why. I’m not prepared to tell him everything right now.

  “I heard Pearl and May died—”

  “They didn’t.”

  I fumble in my purse, pull out my wallet, and show him a photo taken earlier this summer, when we went to Disneyland for the first time. My mother and aunt thought we needed to be properly attired. Auntie May wore a cotton dress with a cinched waist, full skirt, and petticoat. Mom wore a pleated skirt and a tailored blouse. They’d both gone to the beauty salon to have their hair done, and they’d tied silk scarves over their heads to protect their bouffants. To complete their looks, they wore high heels. Naturally, we’d fought like mad over what I should wear. We’d finally agreed on a pencil skirt, a sleeveless white blouse, and ballet flats. My dad took the photo of the three of us outside the Peter Pan ride.

  My eyes begin to mist, and I blink back tears. Z.G. studies the photograph with an expression I don’t comprehend. Loss? Love? Regret? Maybe it’s the realization that what I’ve told him is true.

  “May.” He draws out the syllable. Then, aware I’m watching him, he straightens his shoulders. “Well, then, where are they? Why haven’t they come with you? Why would they send you here alone?”

  He’s saying “they” too, and I’m not about to correct him.

  “They’re in Los Angeles.” Then, to make it sound better, I add, “Haolaiwu—Hollywood.”

  He doesn’t seem to notice I haven’t answered his other questions, because he says, “May always wanted to go to Haolaiwu.”

  “Have you seen her in the movies? She’s in lots of movies. Me too! We used to work together. First we were extras, and then … Have you seen us?”

  He looks at me like I’m a creature from another planet.

  “Joy, it’s Joy, right? This”—he motions around him—“is China. We don’t see Hollywood movies here.” Then, “Where are you from? How did you get here?”

  “Sorry, I thought I told you. I’m from Los Angeles. I’ve come to meet you and to join the revolutionary struggle!”

  His head rolls back on his neck as if to contemplate the ceiling. When his eyes return to mine, he asks, “What have you done? Are you stupid?”

  “What do you mean? I needed to meet you,” I say. “Don’t you want me?”

  “I didn’t know you existed until a few minutes ago.”

  He looks over my shoulder to the foyer. He frowns when he sees my suitcase. “What are you going to do? Your Wu dialect is not quite right. It’s passable, but most people will know you aren’t from here. Even if your Shanghainese were perfect, you don’t look like you belong here with your hair and clothes.”

  Why does he need to make it so grim?

  “Your mother and aunt can’t possibly have approved of your being here,” he adds. I can tell he’s trying to get more information from me, but that’s still not going to happen.

  “Your government has asked people like me to come here,” I say, trying to voice the enthusiasm I’ve felt for months now. “I want to help build the New Society.” But it’s like a lid being lifted off a rice pot. All my steam has escaped too quickly. Why isn’t he happier to see me? Why hasn’t he hugged or kissed me? “I’m not the only one, you know.”

  “You’re the only one who is … who is …” He swallows. I wait for him to say the words I need to hear. “Who is my daughter.” He falls silent and squeezes his chin with his fingers. Every once in a while, he looks at me, weighing, considering. It seems like he’s trying to figure out the solution to a difficult problem, but what’s the problem? He’s already acknowledged I’m his daughter. Finally, he asks, “Are you an artist?”

  Strange question. I don’t think anyone would call me an artist, so I lie. “Yes! People have always said so.”

  “Then tell me about the four kinds of art.”

  So I’m to be tested? I bite my lip to keep my disappointment from showing and try to remember things I’ve seen in Chinatown. Everyone had calendars for Chinese New Year. Even Pearl’s Coffee Shop made a calendar that we gave to our most loyal customers.

  “There are New Year’s calendars,” I say tentatively.

  “That’s right. They are one of the four accepted art forms. They are for peasants—like folk art—and therefore good for the masses. Political portraits and propaganda posters would fall into this category as well.”

  I remember something I learned at the University of Chicago, and I begin to recite. “Mao said art is to serve workers, peasants, and soldiers. It should be closely associated with revolutionary practice—”

  “You haven’t finished with the four kinds of art. What about Socialist Realism?”

  This I absolutely remember from college. “It gives an almost scientific likeness—like a mirror—of the real world: the masses building a dam, young women making cloth in a factory, tractors and tanks rolling down a country road side by side uniting workers and soldiers. Like what you did for China Reconstructs. My mother and aunt”—again I don’t specify who was who—“used to save the issues with your artwork.”

  “May saw those?”

  May,
again. He seems to have more curiosity about her than he does about me.

  “Yes, she pinned them to the wall above her bed.”

  A slight smile comes to his lips. I can see he’s flattered.

  “What else?” he asks.

  About May? About art? I stick with art.

  “There are cartoons. Good for politics …”

  He nods, but I can see his mind is still enjoying that someone far away in another country still aches for him.

  “And the fourth?” he asks.

  Blood flushes my cheeks. It’s as though everything I’ve ever learned or seen has abruptly left my brain. In my mind, I’m looking at the walls in our house in Chinatown, in the cafés and curio shops I’ve been in all my life, in the garages and stores …

  “Landscapes! Flowers and butterflies! Pretty ladies gazing into a pond or lingering in a pavilion! Calligraphy!” One of those has to be right.

  “Traditional Chinese painting,” he says approvingly. “It is at the opposite spectrum from New Year’s calendars. It is far removed from the lives of soldiers, workers, and peasants. Some consider it too elitist, but it is an accepted art form nevertheless. So which is your specialty?”

  “People in Chinatown always said my calligraphy was uncorrupted …”

  “Show me.”

  Now I’m to do calligraphy for this man—my father? Why do my artistic skills matter? Is this an investigation to see if I’m really his daughter? What if I fail?

  Z.G. gets up and motions me to follow him to the desk. He pulls out the Four Gentlemen of the scholar: paper, an inkstone, an ink stick, and a brush. He calls for one of his servants to bring water. Then he watches me grind the ink on the stone and mix in water until I have the desired opaqueness, and then the way I hold the brush and sweep it across the paper as I write a couplet. I don’t want to write a common saying, such as “May you be blessed with peace and safety in the coming year.” A good couplet requires symmetry—sentence for sentence, noun for noun, and verb for verb. I remember one I did for our neighbors a couple years ago. For the first part of the couplet, I write the characters winter gone, mountains clear, water sparkles. As soon as I’m done, I begin the second part, which would hang on the other side of the door: spring comes, flowers fragrant, bird sings.