Dreams of Joy (6 page)

He motions to me. Something about the way his fingers beckon makes me follow him closely. Although from the outside there seemed to be a massive roof, the interior of the temple is more of an open-air courtyard, which allows the last of the day’s summer light to stream in. Huge wooden pillars painted blood red support those parts of the roof that rim the courtyard. The middle of the floor is sunken and filled with water. Carp swim desultorily. Green moss covers the stones. The pond gives a feeling of coolness, although the air temperature is no brisker or less humid than anywhere else I’ve been. Even with the open roof, the smell of gasoline lingers, but again, I haven’t seen any cars, motors, or engines since I’ve arrived.

People—young, old, men, women, and children—sit on the stone floor along the hall’s edges. The women are dressed almost identically, in loose blue pants and short-sleeved blouses with a tiny floral print. A few wear kerchiefs over their hair. Most have braids. The men also wear loose blue pants, only with sleeveless undershirts—the kind my father and uncles wore when they sat around the dinner table on hot summer nights but what my girlfriends in Chicago always said was a marker for bad boys, like Marlon Brando in
A Streetcar Named Desire
.

A well-fed man steps forward with his hand extended. He looks to be about thirty-five, and he has puffy half moons of fat under his eyes. “I am Party Secretary Feng Jin, the highest-ranked cadre in the village,” he says. After shaking hands, he points to his wife, a plump woman perched on a stone bench, her heavy legs spread wide like a man’s. “That’s my wife, Sung-ling. She’s the second-ranked cadre. We’re in charge of all activities in the collective.”

Z.G. tips his head in greeting. “My daughter and I are honored to be here—”

“No one said anything about a daughter,” Party Secretary Feng says bluntly.

“She received permission to come with me,” Z.G. assures him. Until now, I hadn’t realized that maybe I shouldn’t have come with Z.G. or that I might be a problem for him, and I try to keep my face as impassive as his. “She also wants to learn and observe from real life.”

The Party secretary eyes me suspiciously—I really need to get some different clothes—but after a long moment, he shifts subject and tone. As he speaks, it’s as though his words are meant less for us than for the villagers. “After Liberation, our great Chairman ordered all temples, shrines, and monasteries closed. Diviners and fortune-tellers were banished or arrested. Folk songs, operas, and love songs were banned. Feasts and festivals were discouraged. It’s my duty to make sure these rules are followed, but I change with the government. If I’m told to reopen the temple for village meetings, then I obey. If planting songs are once again allowed, then so be it. I’ve now been told we’ll have art lessons.” He motions to the peasants sitting and waiting. “We’ve done our work in the fields and are ready to learn.”

He leads us farther into the temple along a wall covered with posters that seem to form a time line of life in Green Dragon Village from before Liberation to now. The first shows Red Army soldiers, smiling and helping peasants repair a break in a dyke. In the next poster, people hold slips of paper. This must be when land was redistributed. Another poster illustrates daily life: a man with a bag of wheat slung over his shoulder, another man screwing in a lightbulb, yet another talking on a telephone, while fat children play at their feet. The slogan at the bottom is straightforward:
COLLECTIVIZATION MAKES EVERYONE PROSPEROUS AND CONTENT
.

“I’m honored to see that some of my work has come to your collective, Party Secretary Feng,” Z.G. says. “I hope it has been an inspiration.”

“You did these?”

“Not all of them,” Z.G. replies modestly.

The people seated nearby take in deep breaths of admiration. A few cheer and clap. Word ripples quickly around the room. This isn’t just any artist. This artist helped shape their lives.

Z.G. isn’t shy or uncertain as my father was. He bounds up a couple of stone steps, takes a position in the middle of the temple, and addresses the villagers. But before he gets very far, an old woman in the front row calls out, “But what do I do? I know how to grow rice in summer and cabbages in fall. I know how to weave a basket and wipe a baby’s bottom, but I’m not an artist.”

“I can teach you how to hold a brush and paint a turnip, but you have something within you that is even more important to create a great painting,” Z.G. responds. “You are red through and through. I’m here to teach you, true, but I want you to teach me too. Together we will find redness in our work.”

Tao and Kumei help me hand out paper, brushes, and premixed ink poured into saucers. Then Z.G. tells us to sit down and get ready to work ourselves. Yes, he said I would be his helper and that I might know more than the peasants, but I’m happy to learn with the others. This is the kind of equality and sharing I’ve heard about and was hoping for. Z.G. instructs us to paint a sprig of bamboo. I’m pleased with this assignment, because I did it many times in Chinese school in Chinatown. I dip the tip of my brush into the ink and let the bristles glide across the paper, remembering to be light with my strokes without losing control. Next to me, Tao copies the way I hold my brush and with a look of determination bends over his own sheet of paper.

Painting a sprig of bamboo appears to be a simple assignment, and people work quickly. Z.G. circulates through the hall, making comments such as “Too much ink” or “Each leaf should look exactly the same.” Then he comes to Tao and me. He examines my work first. “You cannot be blamed for not understanding the deeper essence of bamboo, but you need to be wary of too much self-expression and too much ink play. With just a few simple brushstrokes you can call to mind the spiritual state of the subject. You want to evoke nature, not copy it.”

I’m disappointed that I haven’t impressed him and embarrassed to be criticized in front of the others. My cheeks burn and I keep my eyes down.

Z.G. moves on to Tao. “You’re very good at the
hsi-yi
style of freehand brushwork,” he says. “Have you trained elsewhere, Comrade Feng?”

“No, Comrade Li. This is my first time with a brush.”

“Don’t be modest, Tao,” that old woman from the front row calls out again. She gestures for Z.G. to come closer. “Even as a little boy, Tao entertained us with his drawings in the dirt.”

“When he got older,” someone else adds, “we would give him paper and a cup of water to practice painting. He used his finger as a brush. The water would go onto the paper, and for a few seconds we would see mountains, rivers, clouds, dragons, fields—”

“And even the butcher’s face!” yet another says enthusiastically. “Then the water would evaporate and Tao would begin again.”

Z.G. stands there, staring at Tao’s painting, pinching his chin with his thumb and forefinger, seemingly not listening to the villagers’ crowing. After a long moment, he looks up. “That is enough for tonight.” As the others get up off the floor and file out, Z.G. gives Tao’s shoulder a congratulatory shake. I grew up in a household where touching was rare, so Z.G.’s gesture is startling. In reaction to this surprising praise, Tao’s mouth spreads into the same wide and gleaming smile he gave us on our arrival.

I collect everyone’s paintings. They’re terrible, with big splotches of ink and no delicacy. This makes me feel a lot better about my painting, until I remember Z.G.’s harsh evaluation. Why did he have to be so mean, and in front of everyone too?

The sun drops behind the hills, turning everything golden as we walk back to the villa with Tao and Kumei. At the main gate, Tao says good night. Though everyone in this village has the same clan name, I thought Kumei and Tao might be married, and I feel a tingle of relief to learn they aren’t. As Z.G. follows Kumei through the gate, I linger for a moment to watch Tao stride along the path, cross a stone bridge, and head up the hillside. Then I turn and enter the villa. My suitcase is still in the front courtyard. I pick it up and follow the others deeper into the compound. For the first time, the word
villa
sinks in. I’ve never been in a place like this. It must have been beautiful and modern a few hundred years ago, but it seems quite primitive to me—a girl from Los Angeles. Narrow stone pathways and corridors link a series of courtyards lined by two-story wooden buildings. It’s all very confusing, and I immediately lose my bearings.

We follow Kumei into the kitchen, but it isn’t like any kitchen I’ve ever seen. It’s open air with no roof, which is nice on this sticky night. A large brick stove stands against one wall. Another wall rises to waist height. I peek over it and see an empty trough, some dirty hay, and dried mud.

“We had to give our pigs to the collective,” Kumei explains, when she notices my interest.

Pigs in the kitchen? In a villa? My mind scrambles to make sense of what I’m seeing. This isn’t at all like China City. Are we going to eat in
here? It looks pretty dirty—as in
outdoors
dirty. We’re practically outside, and I’ve never even been camping.

Z.G. and I sit on benches that look like sawhorses lined up against a rough-hewn wooden table. Kumei ladles leftover pork and vegetable soup flavored with chilies into our bowls. It tastes delicious. Then we eat some room-temperature rice scooped from a tin container.

All the while, Kumei chatters. The little boy we saw with her earlier is her son. His name is Ta-ming. An old woman named Yong also lives here. She didn’t come to the art lesson, because her feet were bound in feudal times, and she can’t walk very far.

After dinner, Kumei guides us back through the maze of outdoor pathways and courtyards. She tells us that the villa has twenty-nine bedrooms.

“Why don’t more people live here?” I ask, thinking that, if Green Dragon Village is a collective, shouldn’t more people be sharing this big house?

“No matter. No matter,” Kumei says, waving her hand dismissively. “I take care of it for the people.”

Which doesn’t answer my question.

In the third courtyard, Kumei takes us into a building. We enter a kind of sitting room with wood walls the color of maple syrup. At the far end, carved wooden screens cover a pair of window openings. Above these hangs an elaborate wood and gilt carving of squirrels playing in an arbor heavy with clusters of grapes. A table sits in the center of the room. A few chairs rest with their backs against the walls. There are two doors on the right wall and two doors on the left wall.

“This is where you will sleep,” Kumei says. “You may choose your room.”

Z.G. hurriedly checks each room before opting for the second one on the left. I select the room next to his. It’s small, but it feels even smaller because most of the space is taken up by an antique marriage bed with a full frame and a carved canopy. I can’t believe I’m going to sleep in something so luxurious. On the other hand, I haven’t seen a bathroom or any electric lights, and the kitchen was certainly backward. Is this a villa or the home of a peasant?

I set down my suitcase and turn to Kumei. “Where is the bathroom?”

“Bathroom?”

Kumei looks confused. I say the word for toilet, but even that seems to baffle her.

“She wants to know where to wash her face and do her private business,” Z.G. calls from his room. Kumei giggles. “I’ll show you.”

“When you’re done,” Z.G. adds, “could you bring a thermos of boiled water and a bowl to my room?”

I want to remind him that this is the New Society and that Kumei is not his servant, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

I grab my toiletry bag and follow Kumei back through the compound, out the front gate, and down a path to a water trough. I look at the trough, then at Kumei. She makes the motions for washing her face. Well, okay, she must know what she’s doing, so I dip my toothbrush in the trough and brush my teeth. She joins me when I splash some of the water on my face. I didn’t pack a towel when I left Los Angeles, so I follow Kumei’s example by wiping off the excess water with my forearms and letting the heat of the night dry the rest.

When we return to the compound, I grab Kumei’s elbow. “You were also going to show me the place to do my private business?”

She escorts me back to my room and points to something that looks like the butter churn one of my elementary school teachers once brought to class to teach us about pioneer days. It’s wooden, about eighteen inches high, wider at the bottom than at the top, and closed by a lid.
I’m going to have to use that thing? Are you kidding me?

Seeing the look on my face, Kumei asks, “Don’t you have these in Shanghai?” I don’t know if they have them in Shanghai or not, but I shake my head. Kumei giggles again. “This is your nightstool. You open the top, sit down, and do your business.” She pauses, then adds, “Don’t forget to close the top when you’re done or you’ll have a bad smell and lots of flies!”

This information doesn’t exactly thrill me, and it causes me to realize that when I left home I didn’t bring toilet paper, let alone supplies for what my mother and aunt have always called the visit from the little red sister. Now what am I going to do?

Kumei says good night, and I close the door to my room. I sit on the edge of the bed—hard wood covered with feather padding and a quilt—still trying to absorb everything. I want China to be perfect and my time
here to be rewarding, but a lot of what I’ve seen today is either very primitive or kind of scary. I take a breath to steady myself and then look around. The single window is just an opening covered by another carved screen. Darkness is falling fast now, and the cicadas are making a real racket. A small oil lamp sits on the table, but I don’t have matches to light it. Even if I did, I didn’t bring anything to read. The walls feel close. The heat is unbelievable. I stare at the nightstool. In my mind I thought I was ready to rough it, but I’m just not ready to use that contraption. I hear Z.G. moving in the central room and go out to join him.

“So how was your day?” Z.G. asks.

His question puts me on the spot. I want to fit in, but I don’t look like I belong and I’m pretty sure I don’t act like I do either. I want Z.G to like me, but I realize I’m a surprise and an unexpected burden to him. More than anything, I want to love China, but everything is just so strange.