Dreams of Joy (Shanghai Girls 2)

Tao shakes his head. “No one will tell me.”

“What about you?”

I always thought he had such a beautiful smile. Now his face sets into the death mask I’ve seen on so many corpses on the road—emaciated lips pulled back, too much gum exposed, and teeth looking like dried bones.

“I’m a lesson to others in the village.”

I should ask how the brigade leader found out about Tao’s family’s plan to Swap Child, Make Food, but I really don’t care. I want to weep for the children, but I have no tears. For the others, maybe I should feel more compassion, but I don’t. These people were willing to trade my baby to eat. Beyond that, I’m already calculating how much farther my sweet potato flour will go with only two of us to feed instead of eleven. Because I’m not going to give up. Heaven never seals off all exits. I have to believe that.

I force myself to stand. I pull out everything I own, almost all of it things either my mother or aunt have given or sent me: sanitary napkins, but my system has been so weakened that I haven’t had a period since Samantha was born; the pouch with three sesame seeds, three beans, and three coppers that was supposed to protect me but may become my last meal; the pretty baby clothes from Bullock’s Wilshire that I doubt Sam will live long enough to wear; and my mother’s camera, which she left along with the film to inspire me to take photographs of my new life but which, until this moment, has seemed a useless instrument.

I put together one last, desperate plan. I take out a piece of paper and write a letter to my mother. I have to couch my words in a way that will encourage Brigade Leader Lai to let my letter go through and that my mother will still understand what I’m telling her. I read the letter again and put it in a padded envelope stitched from a piece of cloth. Then I tie Samantha to my chest, pick up the camera and the unsealed letter, and leave the house.

I pass the villa and keep going along the path that borders the stream. I stop at the turnoff to the Charity Pavilion. This has always been a lonely stretch, which is why it was so easy for Tao and me to duck onto it without many people seeing us. I sit on a rock, pull out the other bun the guard on the train gave me, and eat it. My mind needs to be powerful and quick. I drink from the stream, and then I continue on to the leadership hall. I walk all the way around the building, praying I’ll find what I need. Just outside the door to the brigade leader’s private kitchen, I spot a few chicken feathers. None of us have seen an egg, let alone had a bite of chicken, in months, but the brigade leader has had live chickens specially brought in and slaughtered for his meals. I take a few of the feathers and carefully slip them into the bottom of my cloth envelope. I don’t think my mother will know what they mean, but I hope she’ll ask someone. Then I walk around to the front of the building, knock o

n the door, and ask to see the brigade leader. The smell of cooked food permeates the halls as I’m led to his office. Of everyone in the Dandelion Number Eight People’s Commune, Brigade Leader Lai alone has not lost weight. A pistol lies in plain view on his desk. People are too weak to rebel, so is it here to remind those who come begging of his dominance?

“Comrade,” he says, “how can I help you?”

I raise my voice in an effort to project full Great Leap Forward enthusiasm (and not seduction!). “My mother and father must see the mural our commune produced.”

“You want to invite them to visit?” His grimace lets me know that this is not even a remote possibility.

“I’m not inviting them to return.” (But, oh, God, please make them understand I need them to come here.) “I want my father to show our mural to the authorities at the Artists’ Association. I’m sure this organization, the most important for artists in the country, will recognize Tao as a model comrade—”

“You want that after what he and his family just did?”

“Please let me finish. I want the Artists’ Association to recognize the Dandelion Number Eight People’s Commune as a model commune. And, of course, it must also recognize our farsighted brigade leader,” I add deferentially. “We never could have created the mural without your guidance.”

He taps a fingernail on his desk, considering. His first comment is the very one I expect.

“Your husband said the mural’s content was black.”

“He only said that because he was angry with me. I embarrassed him with my request for a divorce. But now, if I help him get recognized as a model artist, he’ll forgive me, as both of us should forgive him. He has lost almost his entire family. The baby and I are all he has left. Besides, your leniency can bring you great honors. As you can see yourself, the mural is very patriotic. Have you not seen the spaceships, the giant radishes, the … Oh, you’ll receive much acclaim!”

The brigade leader likes my explanation, especially since he has so much to gain from it. Still, he doesn’t want any outsiders coming to the Dandelion Number Eight People’s Commune. He feigns indifference, although his desire is quite clear.

“You said you wanted your father to see the mural. How can he do that if he doesn’t come in person?”

I pull out my mother’s camera. “If you help me take some photographs, I’ll send the film to Shanghai. Again, all praise belongs to you and the commune. There will be many honors. No one will come here, but the masses will hear your name over loudspeakers in houses and communes all across the country.” I pause to let him conjure that image. “As you know, all it takes are connections, and my father—”

“Has good guan-hsi,” he finishes for me. He pushes his chair from his desk. “Come. Let’s do this quickly.”

We go outside. I take a few shots to show Brigade Leader Lai how to use the camera.

“You’re doing fine by yourself. You don’t need my help,” he says, stating the obvious.

“I need to be in some of the photographs,” I respond. “Otherwise how will my parents know the mural’s from our commune? Anyone could be sending the film. You don’t want credit to go to the wrong commune, do you?”

“Right, right, absolutely,” he agrees.

I back up, stand next to a part of the mural that shows chickens pecking at the ground, with eggs the size of footballs in nests nearby. Snap. Snap. Slowly we move around the building until we reach the figure of Jesus hidden in the branches and bark of the tree. Snap. Snap.

“Excuse me, Brigade Leader, but could you wait one second? I need to do something.”

He pulls the camera from his eye. I peel off my jacket, take Sam out of her sling, and then hold her up.

“My parents haven’t seen my baby yet,” I say. “I think they’d like to see their granddaughter, don’t you? That will make them feel even closer ties to our commune.”