Dreams of Joy (Shanghai Girls 2)

Pearl

A PERFECT CIRCLE

BIRTH, GROWTH, DECLINE, death. All Chinese festivals remind us that we are a part of that cycle. It’s the fifteenth day of the eighth lunar month, around mid-September in the Western calendar. The bumper crop has been harvested, but, in the effort to make steel or compete in contests, whole fields have been ignored, with melons, cabbages, and turnips literally rotting on vines, on stems, and in the earth. The rice has been brought in, although even this most precious grain was left on stalks in the paddies or can be found in the dirt on the main square, where we did the threshing, sorting, and drying. We’ve been encouraged to eat, eat, eat. This is contrary to just about everyone’s way of thinking, because you never know when hard times will come, but we obey and enjoy ourselves in the process.

I’m told this is the usual time of quiet and celebration, but this year is different. Brigade Leader Lai has ordered teams to plow under what’s left in the fields so the farmers can get the winter wheat planted. The seeds are going in as densely as possible—forty to fifty jin of seed per mu instead of eighteen. Some of us are sent back into the cornfields to harvest the stalks to add heft to the existing walls and roof of the canteen before winter comes. Trees still need to be cut and brought down from the hills to keep the blast furnaces going. It seems like most metal has been fed into those furnaces, and yet the bang, bang, bang of metal utensils can still be heard from before dawn until long after dark, driving what remains of the sparrows to their insane deaths.

These may not be traditional times, yet some things are still fixed and certain. Tonight the moon is closer to earth than at any time of the year. They may call it Mid-Autumn Festival now, but it will always be the Moon Festival to me. Tao’s family has invited Kumei, Ta-ming, and me to join them to celebrate family togetherness, the harvest, and the moon. The canteen has made moon cakes filled with a sugary paste of dates, nuts, and candied apricots. The tops are embossed with images of a three-legged toad and a rabbit. I take a box of cakes to Joy’s house. Tuanyuan, the word for reunion, literally means a perfect circle, and that is what the moon, the moon cakes, and our family are on this night. Jie Jie and some of the children stretch out on the ground or sit on their haunches, staring up at the moon. I hand out the cakes. The children aren’t old enough to have bittersweet memories, but the adults are. We see the cakes and we remember the past—people now gone, happy holidays.

“This year I hope we can create new memories for the future,” Joy says.

I’ve been here six weeks. Joy still comes for her nightly bath in the villa. She’s stopped complaining about her mother-in-law and never seems upset about living in such cramped quarters with so many people, most of whom are children. I’ve watched her paint and discovered a part of my daughter I never knew existed. I’ve seen her work in the fields—with a smile on her face even as her skin burns. She’s turned a corner. Even though she’s had her tragedies, she can laugh, be content in her marriage, and work happily and with enthusiasm at something that truly is bigger than she is. So, as much as I love Joy, I’ll go with Z.G. to the Chinese Export Commodities Fair in Canton when he comes for me. My daughter is a married woman now. She’s chosen a life I wouldn’t pick, but it is her life and sh

e’s going to have to figure things out for herself—as a woman. It kills me to let her go, but it’s the best and only thing I can do as her mother.

When it’s time to place some of the moon cakes on the ground as offerings, we sit together—mother and daughter—with a bunch of wiggling children gathered around us. There’s no need for bean-oil lamps tonight. Illumination comes from the moon. It’s bright, and moon shadows dance around us. Joy takes my hand in hers and balances it on her knee.

“This is a special night,” she tells the children. “The Moon Lady will hear your wishes and grant your requests, but only if they are one of a kind and never heard by anyone else.”

Joy looks up to the moon, and so do the children. I too stare at the rabbit in the moon, forever pounding out the elixir of immortality. My wish is simple. Let my daughter continue to be happy.

AT THE END of October, Z.G. walks back into the village. That night, I pack my bags, thank Yong and Kumei for their hospitality, and promise Ta-ming I’ll send him books and paper. In the morning, Joy escorts us to the top of the hill. “Write to me,” I say. “When the fair in Canton ends, we’ll go right back to Shanghai. I’ll be close by, if you need me.” Then Joy watches as Z.G. and I make our way down the dusty path toward the main road. I keep looking back and waving, until finally I don’t see her anymore.

This is one of the few times in my life that I’ve been completely alone with Z.G. In the past, May was always with us. Since I’ve come back to China, we’ve almost always been accompanied by Joy. During these past months, Z.G. and I have gotten to know each other again. He is Joy’s father and I am her mother, and that links us on a deep level. Now that we’re by ourselves, I think we both feel anxious about what could happen. I’ve told myself I don’t want anything to happen. I love my sister too much, and I don’t want to upset the balance Z.G. and I have found with Joy, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say there is the awkwardness of expectation between us—first on the bus and then later on the boat to Canton. I don’t know what to say, and he doesn’t know where to look.

When we reach Canton, we check into a hotel—separate rooms, of course. We have a casual dinner with the rest of the Shanghai delegation—all strangers to both Z.G. and me. Toasts are made with mao tai, a fiery liquor. We eat bowls of noodles and then drink more toasts. Everyone laughs and tells jokes, and I’m reminded of when Z.G. and I were young and every night was like this. When it comes time to disband, I’m surprised by how woozy and light-headed I am. Z.G. is in even worse shape, weaving unsteadily down the hall to our rooms. We reach his door first. When he pulls me into his room, I don’t resist. I tell myself the mao tai is making me incautious and that I’ll leave in a minute. But the next thing I know, I’m in his arms and we’re kissing, fumbling at each other’s clothes, and pushing each other toward the bed.

I know, I know. A widow should never go with another man. She’s expected to spend the rest of her life in chastity. But I’ve loved two men in my life—Sam and Z.G. The love I felt for Sam stemmed out of gratitude, reliance, and respect. My love for Z.G. began when I was just a girl. He has been the big love of my life—the big passion of my life. May called it infatuation and maybe that’s true, but here I am and here is Z.G., and we’re both a little more than tipsy and we’re lonely for the people we really love. And, if we’re honest, men are attracted to women who are crazy about them, as I was for Z.G. in the past. Suddenly, it’s all so easy—the hotel room, our defenses down because of the alcohol, and the opportunity. No one knows us here. No one will ever know. And besides, wouldn’t it be strange if it didn’t happen? Still, we have enough wits about us to take precautions.

“I don’t want you to get pregnant,” Z.G. says.

“I can’t get pregnant,” I reply. Fortunately, he doesn’t ask why.

He has the sense to get up and get a towel from the bathroom. And that gives me a second to think. What am I doing? Then I watch him walk back to the bed. He’s naked and, you know, ready. A proper woman would look away, but I stare right at him, looking at everything. His body is beautiful. He slides the towel under me on the mattress so any fluids that escape will be caught there instead of on the sheets, which the chambermaids might report to the floor monitor, who, in turn, might push this knowledge to higher-ups. And then … And then…

He knows exactly where to touch me, saying, “I know the shape of your body because I painted it so many times.” I feel safe, forgetting for the first time what happened to me during my rape. I have no sense of duty or obligation, which I often felt with Sam even though he was kindness itself. I’m not going to say everything is perfect in that low-down area, but I feel something I’ve never felt before.

Afterward, as we lie naked, Z.G. touches the pouch I wear around my neck.

“Joy wears something just like this,” he says. “What is it?”

“My mother gave one to May and one to me.” As I say the words, I feel my connection to Z.G. slipping away. “May gave hers to Joy when she was born.”

I sit up and pull the sheet over my breasts, abruptly shy and embarrassed. I love my sister and what I’ve just done may not be the worst thing in the world, but it wasn’t very good either.

“We have to think about May,” I say.

“I agree,” he says, sounding much more sober.

“You’ve lived a long time without May, but I’m certainly not the only other woman you’ve had in your life.” Why am I saying that? To make myself less culpable?

“I’m a man, and it’s been more than twenty years,” he says.

I silently take that in.

Then he asks, “Have you heard of Ku Hung-ming? He lived at the end of the Ch’ing dynasty. He said, ‘One man is best suited to four women, as a teapot is best suited to four cups.’ ” He laughs sheepishly. “I always thought that if that philosophy was good enough for Chairman Mao, it was good enough for me.”

“But it wasn’t. You love May.” Finally, after all these years, I seem to have made peace with that.