The Dissident

by Nell Freudenberger

  “Sorry?” Joan said.

  “From our point of view, during the performance, I am on the left and he is on the right. In the photograph, of course, it is the reverse. I am on the right, and my cousin—the author of the piece—is on the left.”

  “Your cousin,” Joan repeated dumbly.

  “My father’s older brother’s son,” he said slowly, allowing her to get it. “The artist—”

  “Yuan Zhao.”

  The man who was not Yuan Zhao smiled. He retrieved his suitcase from the back seat, and put his bag down on the grass. “Thank you for the ride,” he said. “If you would only not mention—”

  “Yes,” Joan managed to say. “Of course not.” She watched him walk up the flagstone path to greet a motherly figure waiting at the door. She heard the modulated clip of Chinese being spoken before they disappeared inside the house.

  The newspaper photo of the dissident was still hanging on her bulletin board when she got home. She reread the caption: “Yuan Zhao, a leader in the June 4th student protests, ten years later in Tiananmen Square.” Looking closely at the photograph, she didn’t know how she could’ve made the mistake. There was a family resemblance, certainly, but the two men had completely different builds. This dissident had short limbs and a broad, muscular chest, while the man Joan knew was slim, with effeminate, sloping shoulders. The features were similar, but even from this badly printed picture, the difference in their ages was clear. Joan turned on the desk lamp, but the photograph continued to con her: the closer she looked, the more completely it dissolved into its discrete gray dots, the facsimile of a face she’d never seen.

  74.

  THE MESSAGE FROM THE PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE CAME ON MONDAY MORNING. Cece had met periodically with Elise McCoy over the past few months to talk about the internship program, though always on a Tuesday or Thursday. Cece thought Elise must’ve forgotten that Monday wasn’t one of her days, and almost rescheduled, but in the end she kept the appointment. She was eager to stop by the art room and talk with Yuan Zhao.

  His note had been on the kitchen counter when they’d gotten home from the dance concert, underneath the fruit bowl. It hadn’t indicated when he would return. On Sunday morning she wanted to call—just to see whether he would be joining them for dinner—but Gordon had argued against it. Her husband had suggested that the dissident needed a break, an idea Cece resisted. She considered Yuan Zhao a part of the family now, and family members did not take breaks from one another.

  When she arrived at school, Cece discovered that she was already fifteen minutes late. She would have to postpone seeing the dissident until after her meeting with Ms. McCoy. It was only a few weeks before Christmas, but the sky was a cloudless summer blue, the temperature near seventy degrees. In anticipation of the holidays, the girls had become more liberal with their uniforms; as Cece hurried through the crush of students, she noticed sneakers and ratty T-shirts peeking out from underneath the regulation dresses, worn simply to test how far they could go.

  When Cece arrived at the principal’s office, the receptionist ushered her right in.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” Cece said.

  The principal dismissed her apology, coming out from behind her desk. “Thank you for coming in on a Monday. I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow.”

  The secretary stuck her head in to ask whether Cece would like a cup of tea, but something in Ms. McCoy’s expression prompted Cece to decline refreshment. They sat down in the social corner of the office: a mock living room with a carpet, a pair of easy chairs, and a mahogany coffee table, on which a pair of miniature crystal ponies were frozen in mid-gallop. “Class of ’86” was etched in a contemporary font across the base.

  “I don’t know whether I’m right in talking with you,” Ms. McCoy began. “One of the surprising things about this job, for me, is that after ten years I still come up against situations every day that perplex me. That’s the plea sure and the difficulty of working with real people, I suppose.”

  Cece smiled and nodded. She wondered if there had been a problem with one of the internships: for example, Ilana Levy’s involvement with the Arab-American Institute’s Middle East peace initiative. It was Ilana’s idea—a wonderful demonstration of her generation’s commitment to tolerance and diversity—but would Ilana’s father, Rabbi Levy, see the situation the same way?

  “I’ve received some complaints from the parents. Well, to be honest, one set of parents.”

  “The Levys?” Cece guessed.

  McCoy looked confused. “No. I’d rather not name names, if that’s all right. I already feel that I’m crossing a boundary in discussing this with you. But since you’re so much a part of the school now, I decided that in this case it makes sense.”

  “Thank you,” Cece said, but she was starting to feel as if she were one of the girls, brought in on a disciplinary offense. She felt the urge to defend herself:

  “Not all of the girls wound up with their first choices,” she began. “There just weren’t enough marine biologists. Actually there weren’t any marine biologists—”

  “It’s nothing to do with the internship program,” Ms. McCoy interrupted. “It’s about Mr. Yuan.”

  Cece looked down at her hands in her lap. She folded one over the other. She was aware of the principal’s gaze.

  “Are you surprised?” Ms. McCoy asked.

  For the majority of the dance concert, after the stern and (to Cece’s mind) somewhat threatening vice principal had materialized next to their chairs to summon Mr. Yuan, Cece had not been able to keep her mind on the performance. A worry kept resurfacing, like blight on the eugenia, poisoning her enjoyment of each successive dance. Half an hour later, however, when they had exited the auditorium to find an astonishing spectacle—a jacaranda festooned with silver mackerel, emitting a fountain of sparks—Cece had been relieved. There seemed to have been a clear reason that Mr. Yuan had been called out: to legislate a matter of artistic discipline.

  Cece had not put this incredible display together with the name “June Wang” until the next day, when Olivia had returned home from a slumber party at Emily’s. Olivia, who had not seen the spectacle herself (she’d been backstage taking off her makeup at the time) was nevertheless certain which of her classmates had been the perpetrator.

  “But how do you know it was her?” she had asked. “Did you see her?”

  Olivia shook her head: “She did something like that before.”

  “That’s happened before?”

  “Not with the tree,” Olivia had explained. “I just meant the fish. She’s into fish.”

  Cece realized that the principal was waiting for an answer.

  “Sorry,” Cece said. “What?”

  “I asked if you were surprised.”

  “No,” Cece said. “I mean—yes. Very surprised.” Ms. McCoy did not look convinced. “What is the complaint?” she asked.

  “One set of parents believe that Mr. Yuan has behaved inappropriately toward their daughter, as well as toward another girl in the Advanced Placement class.” Ms. McCoy paused to allow the word inappropriately to take on its full implications. Cece remembered Emily hesitating in the doorway, the solemn expression on her rosebud mouth. If you want to know, you can ask June Wang.

  “But what was inappropriate?” Cece demanded. “What do they say he did?”

  Ms. McCoy nodded. “I think the most important thing is not to get ahead of what we know. Which is not much. The second student hasn’t complained. Apparently the first girl—the one who did complain—didn’t say anything to her parents until last week. According to this student, Mr. Yuan also mentioned that he had visited the second girl at her home.”

  “But Emily talked to me months ago,” Cece exploded. “Why would she have waited all this time? If anything really happened, wouldn’t she have spoken out right away?”

  “Emily Alderman talked to you about Mr. Yuan?”

  “Yes,” Cece admitted.

  “That was how long
ago?”

  Cece realized she had made an error. She ought to have heard the principal out before speaking herself. Now there was no going back.

  The principal was staring at her.

  “I was concerned,” Cece said. “I asked her to come back and speak to me again—but she never did.”

  “You should’ve told me!” Ms. McCoy exclaimed. “You should’ve sent her to me immediately!”

  It had been a long time since another adult had raised her voice at Cece. She was startled, not least by the change in the principal. Elise McCoy’s habitual mantle of political reserve had fallen away; her face was pink, in sharp contrast to her lacquered blond hairstyle. It was as if another person were emerging from the principal’s familiar form. Cece tried to summon the appropriate response—anger, contrition, or fear—but she had no precedent for this situation.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I forgot—”

  Ms. McCoy took a breath. “Excuse me. The last few days have been very stressful.”

  “I made a mistake,” Cece said. “I thought—” But what had she thought? That Emily was inventing things? That she was lying? That a girl who shoplifted at Nordstrom’s was automatically untrustworthy on all counts? “There’s been so much going on this fall,” she told the principal. “And I was so surprised to hear her say it. I thought she must’ve been mistaken—I know she must’ve been. Still, it’s inexcusable not to have mentioned it. I don’t know how I could’ve forgotten something like that.”

  But had she really forgotten?

  “I’m as surprised as you are,” the principal said. “I only wish this hadn’t gone so far already. The Aldermans—” She paused and looked at Cece: “I suppose I can say that now. Felice Alderman has already hired a lawyer.”

  Cece stared at the principal. “A lawyer?”

  “We’ve set up a meeting with the school’s counsel. But I assume Mr. Yuan will want independent representation.”

  Was this her fault? Was there something she could’ve done? And if she was to blame, was there any way to fix things now?

  “The second student—” Cece ventured. “Was that June Wang?”

  “Yes.” Ms. McCoy sighed.

  “But what about her? Before we go any further—couldn’t she help explain?”

  Ms. McCoy shook her head. “June Wang has been expelled. To bring her back for questioning at this point is complicated.”

  “Expelled!” In all of Olivia’s years at St. Anselm’s, Cece had heard of only one expulsion: an eighth grader who came to school so drunk that she had thrown up on the floor of the vice principal’s office. To Olivia and her friends this girl had acquired a mythic stature; they spoke about her in the past tense, as if she were dead, instead of only a few blocks away, attending Fairfax High and scooping ice cream after school at the Double Rainbow on Melrose.

  “I was sorry to do it,” Ms. McCoy said. “But illegal fireworks on school property…Someone could’ve been killed.”

  “Do the girls know?”

  Ms. McCoy shook her head. “And if I could ask you not to mention it to Olivia. They’ll know soon enough. I’d like to keep the two incidents separate as long as possible.”

  “But what if they are connected?”

  “That will be something for the lawyers to determine,” Ms. McCoy said. “Do you know whether that will be possible for Mr. Yuan? To hire a lawyer?”

  Cece was trying to concentrate, but she felt as if she were watching the events of the past few months on a tray of mixed-up slides. If only she could have a moment by herself, a few minutes to put everything in order.

  “Mrs. Travers? Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” Cece said. “I’m sorry—it’s a lot to take in.”

  Ms. McCoy nodded. “Olivia is in Mr. Yuan’s class, isn’t she?”

  Cece glanced up. The principal was looking at her with a sympathetic expression. It was infuriating. “This is—” Cece began, but her voice was untrustworthy. She took a deep breath. “This is a mistake,” she said, more quietly. “I’m sorry, but you don’t know him the way we do. If there were anything to worry about, I would be aware of it—if not from him, then from Olivia. I spend so much time with my children.”

  “I understand,” Ms. McCoy said, in a tone she must have perfected over years of dealing with hysterical parents. “I’m very sorry to involve you in all of this. But we have a responsibility to take the Aldermans’ concerns seriously, even if they turn out to be completely baseless.”

  Cece sensed that the principal thought that unlikely. “But do they know he’s a political dissident? Do they understand what’s at stake? It was very difficult for him to get permission to come. His government might even put him in jail again.” Cece had no idea whether this was true, but then, how could you know?

  “I understand,” Ms. McCoy said.

  “What are the charges?” Cece demanded. “What do they say he did?”

  “That’s the problem,” Ms. McCoy said gently. “That’s what we would need the lawyers to determine.”

  Cece stood up. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” she said, and then wondered where that language had come from. “I’ll discuss it with him immediately—I think we’ll both go home now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Excuse me?” said Ms. McCoy.

  “He usually stays a little later than this to—” But in spite of her resolution to be completely honest with Ms. McCoy, Cece could not bring herself to mention the private Chinese lessons. She was fairly certain which student it was who was being tutored.

  “He stays to clean up,” she said. “But maybe we should leave early today?”

  The principal gave Cece a strange look. “But he isn’t here now.”

  “Yes he is,” Cece said. “He stayed with a friend for the weekend, but I’m sure he would’ve been dropped off this morning.”

  “Well, he certainly didn’t arrive at school,” Ms. McCoy interrupted, as if the suggestion offended her. “Willie wouldn’t have allowed it.”

  “Do you mean you turned him away?” Cece couldn’t keep the anger out of her voice. “Why not just give him a sabbatical until the confusion is resolved?” Why would they treat him like a criminal—before they were even sure?

  Ms. McCoy looked confused. “We did give him a leave of absence. Laurel Diller spoke to him on Friday night, during the concert. We hadn’t thought he would come to the dance concert, although of course it makes sense—I mean, it makes sense because he’s staying with you.” Ms. McCoy hurried on: “But the Aldermans were furious, and Laurel felt the best course was simply to ask him to leave.”

  Cece felt lightheaded, as if she’d forgotten to have lunch. The sun coming through the blinds seemed very bright. The principal was looking at her with concern:

  “He didn’t tell you that?”

  75.

  CECE DROPPED HER BAG ON THE FLOOR IN THE FRONT HALL. SHE HEARD the house keeper calling her, but she ignored her, hurrying through the living room and out the sliding door to the lawn. She’d hoped to find the shades lifted in the pool house, the door slightly ajar, and Yuan Zhao quietly working inside. She loved the way he bent over the scroll, holding the brush near its base, making the hair-thin lines.

  She knocked on the door of the darkened pool house, but she could see immediately that he wasn’t there. She took the key from the tin lantern and opened the door. The bed was made, the closet door open, and the clothing gone. Although it was clear to her immediately—he would hardly take all his clothing for a weekend with Harry Lin—she looked methodically, opening drawers and cabinets, searching for some sign that he planned to return. Even the scroll was gone. The desk was empty except for a solitary art book, a volume of Chinese paintings.

  “Missis!” The house keeper appeared in the doorway behind her. “Guess what!”

  “He’s gone,” Cece said. “He left on Friday night, and we didn’t even know.” She couldn’t help sounding accusatory, although Lupe had been off all weekend. No on
e else had any reason to go into the pool house.

  Lupe glanced around the empty room. She shook her head gravely, as if she’d always expected something like this from Yuan Zhao, and then brightened immediately.

  “But Missis—a surprise for you!”

  The last time Lupe had prepared a surprise, it had been to “shine” the leaves of the two potted ficus trees with margarine: a trick from the old country, presumably, which had left the living room smelling of sour milk for weeks.

  “In the garden. Guess who?”

  Cece had an instant of hope. “Not Mr. Yuan?”

  Lupe shook her head, barely containing her merriment. “You go, Missis.”

  Cece pushed past the housekeeper. She crossed the lawn, climbed the steps at a jog, and stopped. The rose garden was empty. Had he come and gone? Her first emotion was embarrassment, as if she’d been the victim of a practical joke. She took a few steps into the garden, out of the house keeper’s line of sight, and sat down on a stone bench.

  The sky was overcast, and there was a breeze. Most of the bushes were bare. The cabbage roses hardly seemed to last through August, and the supposedly stalwart Félicité Parmentiers had been temperamental even in July. Her favorites, the Penelopes, were gorgeous all summer but were now long gone: it was hard to imagine that the cluster of brown and gray sticks at the end of the bed contained instructions for those blowsy white and salmon blooms. Only the Cherry Meidilands and the hardy Great Maiden’s Blush were still thriving.

  Cece started at a sound from the corner of the garden. A raccoon, she thought, or a possum (they had called Animal Rescue on more than one occasion) had broken into the bush baby’s empty hutch, and was thrashing around in the vegetation. She went closer and knelt by the cage, but even when she saw the dark ringed eye peering at her through the ferns, she hesitated to believe it.

  “Fionnula?” she said, as if the animal might confirm her own identity. Had the bush baby returned home like a lost cat, doubled back on her own trail, miles through the neighborhood to find the place where she’d last been cared for? Had she missed the security of her cage? And if so, how had she gotten in through the mesh?