“My aunt is Pearl Chin,” I continue. “My mother is May Chin. I’m nineteen years old.” As I speak, I watch him closely. His gray diffidence fades into ghostly white. “I’m your daughter.”
He sinks into the chair opposite me, staring at my face. He glances at the posters on the wall behind me, and then comes back to me.
“Anyone could make that claim.”
“But why would they?” comes my sharp retort. Then, “They named me Joy.” I say “they” and hope he doesn’t ask why. I’m not prepared to tell him everything right now.
“I heard Pearl and May died—”
“They didn’t.”
I fumble in my purse, pull out my wallet, and show him a photo taken earlier this summer, when we went to Disneyland for the first time. My mother and aunt thought we needed to be properly attired. Auntie May wore a cotton dress with a cinched waist, full skirt, and petticoat. Mom wore a pleated skirt and a tailored blouse. They’d both gone to the beauty salon to have their hair done, and they’d tied silk scarves over their heads to protect their bouffants. To complete their looks, they wore high heels. Naturally, we’d fought like mad over what I should wear. We’d finally agreed on a pencil skirt, a sleeveless white blouse, and ballet flats. My dad took the photo of the three of us outside the Peter Pan ride.
My eyes begin to mist, and I blink back tears. Z.G. studies the photograph with an expression I don’t comprehend. Loss? Love? Regret? Maybe it’s the realization that what I’ve told him is true.
“May.” He draws out the syllable. Then, aware I’m watching him, he straightens his shoulders. “Well, then, where are they? Why haven’t they come with you? Why would they send you here alone?”
He’s saying “they” too, and I’m not about to correct him.
“They’re in Los Angeles.” Then, to make it sound better, I add, “Haolaiwu—Hollywood.”
He doesn’t seem to notice I haven’t answered his other questions, because he says, “May always wanted to go to Haolaiwu.”
“Have you seen her in the movies? She’s in lots of movies. Me too! We used to work together. First we were extras, and then … Have you seen us?”
He looks at me like I’m a creature from another planet.
“Joy, it’s Joy, right? This”—he motions around him—“is China. We don’t see Hollywood movies here.” Then, “Where are you from? How did you get here?”
“Sorry, I thought I told you. I’m from Los Angeles. I’ve come to meet you and to join the revolutionary struggle!”
His head rolls back on his neck as if to contemplate the ceiling. When his eyes return to mine, he asks, “What have you done? Are you stupid?”
“What do you mean? I needed to meet you,” I say. “Don’t you want me?”
“I didn’t know you existed until a few minutes ago.”
He looks over my shoulder to the foyer. He frowns when he sees my suitcase. “What are you going to do? Your Wu dialect is not quite right. It’s passable, but most people will know you aren’t from here. Even if your Shanghainese were perfect, you don’t look like you belong here with your hair and clothes.”
Why does he need to make it so grim?
“Your mother and aunt can’t possibly have approved of your being here,” he adds. I can tell he’s trying to get more information from me, but that’s still not going to happen.
“Your government has asked people like me to come here,” I say, trying to voice the enthusiasm I’ve felt for months now. “I want to help build the New Society.” But it’s like a lid being lifted off a rice pot. All my steam has escaped too quickly. Why isn’t he happier to see me? Why hasn’t he hugged or kissed me? “I’m not the only one, you know.”
“You’re the only one who is … who is …” He swallows. I wait for him to say the words I need to hear. “Who is my daughter.” He falls silent and squeezes his chin with his fingers. Every once in a while, he looks at me, weighing, considering. It seems like he’s trying to figure out the solution to a difficult problem, but what’s the problem? He’s already acknowledged I’m his daughter. Finally, he asks, “Are you an artist?”
Strange question. I don’t think anyone would call me an artist, so I lie. “Yes! People have always said so.”
“Then tell me about the four kinds of art.”
So I’m to be tested? I bite my lip to keep my disappointment from showing and try to remember things I’ve seen in Chinatown. Everyone had calendars for Chinese New Year. Even Pearl’s Coffee Shop made a calendar that we gave to our most loyal customers.
“There are New Year’s calendars,” I say tentatively.
“That’s right. They are one of the four accepted art forms. They are for peasants—like folk art—and therefore good for the masses. Political portraits and propaganda posters would fall into this category as well.”
I remember something I learned at the University of Chicago, and I begin to recite. “Mao said art is to serve workers, peasants, and soldiers. It should be closely associated with revolutionary practice—”