Dreams of Joy (Shanghai Girls 2)

Z.G. makes his way to the podium and stands a slight distance from Chairman Mao. Cameras flash.

“You have come away from your Western ivory tower,” Mao says. “At the same time, you have used foreign techniques to serve China. You have shown me the loyalty of your redness over the expertise of your brush. You have won the grand prize.”

CHRISTMAS COMES AND goes without a single carol, decoration, or present, but life is still festive and fun. Z.G.’s poster of me is everywhere. Posters can be reproduced in about ten hours from conception to final printing, making them almost instantaneous revelations of the Party’s mood, wishes, policies, and positions. As a result of Z.G.’s overnight celebrity, we’re invited to interviews and even more banquets. I’m fed all the famous delicacies—monkey brains, lion’s head, bird’s nest soup, shark’s fin, sea cucumber—and all the rice I can eat. Everywhere we go, Z.G. introduces me as his daughter and his muse. I don’t object, but I still don’t feel like his daughter and I’m not sure I want to be his muse. Since the exhibition I’ve been wondering if I could be an artist. If so, what would be the right kind of art for me—Mao’s idea, Z.G.’s idea, the things I’ve seen in Western art books? Would it contain beautiful girls like my mother and aunt or have beautiful working women as Mao suggested? And what would be my subject? Art that glorifies the revolution, honors heroes, or promotes Party policies? Nothing feels quite right. Emotions are what drive me, and I can think of only one subject: Tao.

I stay out late and sleep long into the day, but I always have time—I need the time—to think about Tao. I spend hours drawing him from memory, trying to recall just one finger. I keep reminding myself of the Song dynasty artists who knew how to capture the essence of something with as few strokes as possible. Sketch after sketch, brushstroke after brushstroke, bring me closer to Tao. That’s how much I love him. Along the way, I notice that my technique has gotten much more refined.

In January, Chairman Mao goes to the city of Nan-ning to give a speech launching what he calls the Great Leap Forward. Listening to him on the radio, I see this is a continuation of what he was telling Z.G. and me at the exhibition. “There are two methods of doing things,” Mao proclaims, “one producing slower and poorer results and the other faster and better ones.” He announces that he’s taking control of the economy. He says China can overtake Britain in steel production in fifteen years, just as he said the night in the gallery, but a couple of weeks later he changes his mind and sets a shorter goal. China can do it in seven years. Not long after that, he sets his sights on America, claiming that China can overtake the United States in steel production and agricultural output in fifteen years. “We need to push ourselves,” he declares. “Hard work for a few years, happiness for a thousand.” No one knows what any of it means, but we’re all enthusiastic.

In February, after just over three months in Peking, Z.G. and I board a train and head south to Shanghai, because he wants to be home for Chinese New Year. When I left Shanghai, it was unbelievably hot and humid. Now, as we step off the train, it’s not as cold as Peking, but it’s still plenty cold. Children wear so many layers of padded clothes that their arms stick straight out from their bodies. The adults don’t look much better.

When we arrive at Z.G.’s house, I see the posters of my mother and aunt in the salon. I’d forgotten about those. Then the three servant girls, all dressed in heavy padded clothes, welcome us. They show me to my room. Big steel-cased windows look out onto the street. It’s winter, so the trees are bare, which allows the sun to warm the room—a good thing since Z.G.’s house has no heat to speak of. I have, for the first time in my life, a vanity, a mirror, and a double bed, plus my very own closet and bathroom. But it’s cold! I put on my flannel underwear, heavy socks, and an extra sweater under the coat Z.G. bought me in Peking. I wrap a muffler around my neck and put on my gloves, prepared to wear them in the house to stay warm.

When I go back downstairs, Z.G. takes one look at me, and says, “This is not appropriate. You’re in Shanghai now. Please come with me.”

I’m not sure what’s wrong with what I’m wearing, since he’s still in his traveling clothes and is as bundled against the cold of the house as I am, but I follow him back upstairs and then up another flight of stairs to the attic. Some of his paintings lean against the walls. Boxes and chests are stacked haphazardly on the floor, but he knows exactly what he’s looking for. He squats, opens a chest, and motions me to come to his side.

“I used to have a studio, where I painted your mother and aunt,” he explains. “I went there when I returned to Shanghai after Liberation. My landlady had kept everything. People go away—to war, to sojourn in other countries, to escape gossip—but we Chinese always come home … if we can. My landlady knew I would return eventually.”

He pulls out a fur-lined black brocade coat.

“Here, try this on. It was your mother’s. She left it at my studio one day.”

I take off the heavy gray-wool blanket thing that kept me warm in Peking and put on Auntie May’s coat.

“It’s gorgeous,” I say, “but isn’t it too showy?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Z.G. assures me. “Women have been wearing fur-lined coats in Shanghai forever.”

I eagerly look to see what else might be in the chest. Z.G. hands me a red satin robe embroidered with a pair of phoenixes in flight. “Your mother wore this for a poster I did where she portrayed a goddess. She was lovely in it. And look, there’s more.”

I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but I have to state the obvious. “These are costumes.”

“You could wear them for special occasions. You should have seen your mother when she dressed as Mulan, the woman warrior …”

I don’t understand old people. Does he think if I put on one of these costumes that I’ll be like May? Can’t he see that I’m not like her at all? I stare at the robe in my lap. The fabric is soft and luxurious in my hands. I look up at Z.G. I still haven’t told him the truth about my upbringing, my father Sam, or the anger I carry toward my mother and aunt.

“It’s hard for children to imagine their parents when they were young,” Z.G. says. “But we had such great fun, your mother and I. Your aunt Pearl was wonderful too, but May was one of those people on whom fortune always seemed to smile. Come, I want to show you something else.”

We leave the attic and he takes me to his bedroom. I’ve never been in a man’s bedroom before. My uncle Vern’s room was filled with model boats and airplanes. My parents’ room was dominated by my mother’s things—lamps with frilly shades, a flowered bedspread, and lace curtains. This is something very different: a heavy four-poster bed in dark wood (clearly a leftover from the colonial who lived here before Liberation) dominates the room. Heavy fabric, the deep red color of the Forbidden City’s walls, covers the down-filled quilt. Everything is tidy and warm, except for over the fireplace, where Auntie May’s portrait hangs. She’s

draped in some kind of diaphanous fabric, but nothing’s hidden. She’s absolutely and completely naked. I’ve known Auntie May my entire life. I slept on the porch with her for six years. I saw her come in late at night from her business dinners—smelling a bit of alcohol and her clothes no longer pin perfect—but I never once saw her like this.

“This is your mother at her most beautiful,” Z.G. says.

My mother Pearl flies into my mind: Compose your face. Don’t let him see your shock. Pretend this is just another piece of art. I nod, trying to be perky, trying to look happy, but I want to throw up. It was one thing to go to the countryside, see the famous sights, and hobnob in Peking, but now I’m in Shanghai, in a house that in many ways is a shrine to my mother and aunt. In just a few minutes here, I’ve gotten a glimpse of what their lives must have been like, of the way they were. These were not the people I grew up with. And my aunt May certainly did not have a great fortune—living in Chinatown, married to Vern, never admitting I was her daughter.

“It’s wonderful,” I say. “Everything is wonderful.” Another wave of nausea hits me. “I can’t wait to hear more about those days, but I haven’t seen Shanghai yet. Do you mind if I take a walk? I’ll be back soon. We have so much time, now that I’m here.”

“Of course. Would you like me to come with you?”

“No, no. I just want to take a little walk. We were a long time on the train.”

I hurry downstairs and step into the night. It’s cold, but the fresh air is a relief. I put a smile on my face. I came here to be happy, and I’m going to be happy. If I smile, then maybe I can convince my body just how happy I am. I look both ways, and decide to venture to the right. I don’t know where I’m going. I just need to walk and keep smiling.

Pearl

SCARS ON HER BREAST