Dreams of Joy (Shanghai Girls 2)

She points to a tall man wearing wire-rimmed glasses. His hair is rather long and falls in a loose mop across his forehead. He’s definitely the right age—somewhere around forty-five—and strikingly handsome. He’s dressed in a Mao suit, but this one is different from the ones I saw on the street. It’s crisp and well cut, and the fabric looks richer. My father must be very famous and powerful, because the others follow closely behind him, practically pushing him to the street.

As they leave the building, I hurry after them. Once on the sidewalk, the others fall away, melting into the throng of pedestrians. Z.G. stands still for a moment, looking up through the buildings to a patch of white sky. Then he sighs, shakes his hands as though relieving stress, and begins to walk. I follow him, still lugging my suitcase. What will happen if I walk up and announce I’m his daughter? I don’t know him, but I sense this isn’t a good moment. Even if I thought it was, I’m filled with apprehension. At one point he stops at an intersection, and I pause at his side. Surely he has to notice me since I look so different—after all, everyone else has noticed me—but he seems completely preoccupied. I should say something. Hello, you’re my father. I can’t do it. He glances at me, still registering nothing, and then crosses the street.

He turns onto a quieter lane. Official-looking buildings give way to apartments and little neighborhood shops. He walks for a few blocks, then swings onto a pedestrian walkway lined on both sides with pretty Western-style, two- and three-story homes. I stay at the corner to watch where he goes. He passes the first three houses, and then he opens a low picket fence, enters a yard, climbs the stairs to the porch, and disappears through the front door. I take a few steps onto the walkway. I see patches of lawn, cymbidiums in bloom, and climbing vines. Bicycles lean against porches and laundry hangs on poles that jut from windows. The houses themselves are lovely—with tile roofs, nicely painted façades, and iron grillwork in art deco patterns covering windows, as peek-throughs for doors, and as decoration along the eaves and around mail slots.

This isn’t how Joe and my professors described Red China. I expected utilitarian Communist quarters or even an artist’s single room. Instead, my father lives in an elegant art deco house with a lovely garden. What does this say about him exactly?

I take a deep breath, and then I climb the steps and ring the bell.

Joy

TWO SHADOWS LENGTHENING

A YOUNG WOMAN answers the door. She wears loose black trousers and a light blue tunic with woven frogs that button at her neck, across her breast, and under her armpit.

“May I help you?” she asks.

Is she Z.G.’s daughter? My half sister?

“I’m here to see Li Zhi-ge.”

“What is this about?” Her melodious voice tightens into something like irritation or maybe fear.

“I’ve come a long way.” I give a little lift to my suitcase. Quite apart from that, she must be able to tell I’m not from around here. “It’s a private matter, and it’s very important

that I speak with him.”

The girl steps aside, and I walk into the house. The foyer is large. Polished mahogany floors stretch down a long hallway. To my right is a living room filled with Ming dynasty furniture. To my left, the dining room is decorated similarly. Having grown up in Chinatown, I know the real from the fake, and this is real and of fine quality. But what’s on the walls shakes me. I see my mother and aunt in poster after poster. They are young and radiant, clad in pretty outfits, and doing all kinds of activities—getting ready to dive into a pool, stepping off airplanes and waving, and drinking champagne at a tea dance. My mother and aunt often reminisced about being “beautiful girls.” Now, here they are, framed and displayed as if in a private museum. I’m conflicted because I’m still upset with them, but seeing their faces gives me courage.

“Please sit,” the young woman says. I obey, and she pads quietly out of the room. A few moments later, another young woman, dressed in identical trousers and tunic, enters. Without a word, she pours me a cup of tea and then backs out of the room.

My father has servants! This isn’t at all how I envisioned his life.

“What do you want?” a man asks.

It’s him. Suddenly I’m shaking so hard, I’m afraid to stand up. I’ve come so far and ruptured so many ties …

“May I speak to you?” I ask, aware of the tremulous quality to my voice. “Are you busy?”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” he answers curtly. “I’m getting ready to go to the countryside. You must know that. So please leave me to my packing. I have many things to do—”

“Are you Li Zhi-ge?”

“Of course, I am!”

“A long time ago, you used to go by a different name. People called you Z.G. Li—”

“Many people had different names in those days. Back then, I followed the wind by adopting Western customs. I understood my mistake. I changed with the times and I continue to change.”

“Are you the same artist who used to paint beautiful girls?”

He stares down at me impatiently. He gestures to the walls. “You can see that I am. I regret those days too …”

“Did you ever paint Pearl and May Chin?”

He doesn’t respond—again, the answer is on the walls—but his face goes gray and his posture deflates. “If you’re here to punish me further, don’t bother,” he says stiffly.

What’s he talking about?