“I’ve missed her,” Z.G. adds. His eyes meet mine, and for a moment I glimpse the love he still has for her.
And then Chairman Mao is at my side. He’s a bit paunchy. His hair recedes from his temples. His face is shiny and full. His smile is warm and embracing. Standing next to him is like standing next to history, and I’m dumb with wonder and astonishment.
“I like this painting very much,” he says. “The girl in it is lovely but healthy too. That girl is you, I believe.”
“She is my daughter,” Z.G. says, with a slight bow.
“Ah, Li Zhi-ge, it’s been a long time,” Mao says slowly. “Many of us had women in the countryside all those years ago. I didn’t know you did as well.” His smile widens. “How many more pretty daughters have you left across China?”
I’m not a product of one of those liaisons, but that doesn’t seem to matter to Mao, who turns his attention back to me. “Has your father told you much about me? We were in the caves together in Yen’an. Remember the old days, Comrade Li?” Z.G. nods, and the Chairman continues. “Your father was a good fighter—for a Rabbit—but I felt he could do more good and conquer more hearts with his brush than with his bayonet.”
Some people say that, once Chairman Mao starts talking, he can’t stop. He doesn’t want to hear other opinions. He doesn’t even want to make conversation the way most people do. You just have to listen and try to understand his meaning.
“As a hero of Liberation, your father has a special place in our society,” Mao goes on. “After Liberation, I wanted him to come to Peking. I had use for his special skills. He would have lived with me and others on the Central Committee. He would have been treated as a prince—a red prince—but this man missed his home. He wanted to go back to Shanghai. So I made him a member of the Standing Council of the Artists’ Association and an adviser to the Shanghai branch. He won prizes at national competitions, but everyone has moments of weakness. Everyone transgresses from time to time.”
Z.G. clears his throat. “I admit that sometimes I’ve taken the wrong road, but I’m not a capitalist roader. I’ve tried to redeem myself by correcting my errors. I went to the countryside—”
“Yes, yes,” Mao says, waving his hand dismissively. He glances at me, his face filled with mirth. “Even in Yen’an, we had to deal with your father’s Rabbit ways. So cautious, so discreet, but he never fooled us. Under his soft blanket of Rabbit niceness is a strong will and almost individualistic self-assurance.” He turns back to Z.G. “Don’t worry about those other things any longer. As they say, the Rabbit always hops over obstacles and calamities to land on his feet. So … I like your portrait of me. It’s a good apology. I think we can do something with it and others like it. Next time, though, make me appear a man of the people—simple trousers, a simple shirt, straw hat, and—”
“A plain background,” Z.G. finishes for him. “So the people see only you.”
But Mao has lost interest in that conversation. Now he speaks to me directly. “You don’t say much.”
“I haven’t said a thing yet.”
The Chairman chuckles. Then his face turns mock serious. “I know the accents from every province, but I’m having trouble placing yours. Tell me where you’re from. I ask because in a few days I’m having the Central Committee issue a new and stricter law—Halting Outflow from the Villages—to keep all peasants from coming to the cities. We’ll be checking the railway lines, highways, river ports, and all points of communication between provinces. So tell me, little one, where did you grow up? Are we going to have to send you back there now?”
To my eyes, he’s an old man—certainly older than my mother and father—but is he trying to flirt with me or scare me out of my wits? How can I respond in a way that won’t get me sent not back to the countryside but to California?
“Her mother is from Shanghai,” Z.G. answers for me, “but my daughter was born in America. She recently came to China.”
“Have you brought remittances with you?” the Chairman asks. “Remittances are most welcome from Overseas Chinese. Foreign money helps build our socialist state.”
Again, Z.G. steps in for me, and for the first time I hear him brag. “She’s done something better. She’s returned in person to help the motherland.”
“Ah, but is she one of those who will seek an exit permit tomorrow?” Mao asks. “To strengthen our united front among Overseas Chinese, we’ve had to relax control over these permits. Too many act like caged birds, waiting for the chance to free themselves from captivity. They complain that their rice rations are mixed with coarse cereals. They say we give no consideration to the old, sick, pregnant women, or newborn babies. The West has corrupted them into valuing personal freedom above all else, but now they must obey the Party. Even I must obey the Party.” He affects the whining voice of an unhappy man who’s returned from overseas: “My stomach is accustomed to cow’s milk and white bread. It won’t accept dried fish and barley.” Mao grunts. “What kind of Chinese is this? A Chinese is his stomach. These Overseas Chinese can’t forget their capitalist roots, and they won’t adapt to the socialist way of living.”
Z.G. ignores all this. Instead, he says, “My daughter has been helping me in the countryside. We’ve been learning and observing from real life—”
“Volunteering to go to the countryside was a very clever hop out of trouble for you, Comrade Li.”
Z.G. cocks his head in question.
“You did well there,” Mao continues, “but then I needed you to go to Canton. You performed well again, so I brought you here. When you first arrived in Peking, I thought you were still about fifty meters from being labeled a rightist. Then I saw the painting done by your student, Feng Tao. It is in line with things I’ve been thinking about since I returned from Moscow. They think they’ve advanced very fast, and they have. They launched Sputnik. Now Comrade Khrushchev says the Soviet Union will overtake the United States economically in fifteen years. Why can’t we overtake Britain in the same amount of time? Soon the East wind will prevail over the West wind.”
A uniformed young woman joins us
. “The judges are ready,” she says.
The Chairman clasps his hands together and shakes them in front of him decisively. “We’ll have to continue our conversation later.”
He steps away, and I take a deep breath. I can’t believe I’ve been conversing with Chairman Mao, standing so close to him, hearing him reminisce about the past and talk about his new ideas. A part of me thinks, I wish Joe could have seen that. And then Joe’s gone from my mind, because Mao has finished consulting with the judges and has moved to the podium.
“I’ve just had a small struggle meeting with the judges.” He grasps the podium, and confides, “They do not want to see anything too popular or that reeks of Western influence. They don’t like the beautiful girls of the past. I have a different opinion. Instead of beautiful girls, why can’t we have beautiful working women—bringing in the harvest, climbing telephone poles, or … picking flowers?”
I grab Z.G.’s arm excitedly as murmurs of surprise rattle through the gallery.
Mao smiles. “Comrade Li Zhi-ge, please step forward.”