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“In feudal days, women had to follow their husbands no matter what their lot,” a woman states loud enough for the sound to carry to the men. “Husbands said, ‘A wife is like a pony bought. I’ll ride her and whip her as I like.’ Comrade Ping-li’s husband forgot that we’re now living in the New Society.”
“Ping-li was a woman, but she was a person first.”
“We’re told we’re masters of our own fates, but Ping-li was a slave to that husband of hers.”
I’m baffled by the anger and the accusations. “Wasn’t today an accident?” I ask Z.G., as we sort the brushes and paper that Kumei and I will hand out after the political meeting.
When he gives me an exasperated look, Kumei whispers in a low voice, “Everyone says it was suicide. Comrade Ping-li’s husband beat her. He made her work very hard. She asked for a divorce many times, but that only made him beat her more. What other choice did she have?”
Without thinking, I put a hand to my throat as images of my father Sam flood my mind. No one in Green Dragon knows what I left to come here. I make my hand drop as casually as possible and try to wash all feelings from my face. I catch Z.G. staring at me—weighing me, as he always seems to do—and realizing I don’t measure up in some way.
“Maybe your New China isn’t so perfect after all,” he says to me in English, causing Kumei’s eyes to widen in surprise.
“You speak Russian!” Kumei beams. Everyone—from Chairman Mao down to this illiterate village girl—wants to emulate the Soviet Union, which they call Lao Da Ge—Old Big Brother. “Today’s Soviet Union is like our tomorrow!” She recites the popular saying. Neither of us corrects her. It’s better that she thinks I understand Russian than that she suspect I’m from America. Even here, in the middle of nowhere, people hate what they call the American imperialists.
I glance across the hall to Tao. Almost the entire village is present, yet the way he stares at me makes me feel like we’re in a room by ourselves. Just the idea of being alone together feels forbidden, and it takes my mind away from the dead woman and the memory of my father hanging in the closet. Tao gives me an encouraging smile. It’s as if he wants me to know everything will be fine.
“We came out of our homes during collectivization,” one of the women grumbles loudly. “We were told we’d receive equal pay for equal work. We were told we’d have the new Marriage Law to guide us. But where is help when we need it?”
Sung-ling, the portly wife of the Party secretary, marches up to an old altar table and leans her two closed fists on it. “Feudal ways are hard to change,” she says in a shrill voice. “When the Eighth Route Army came through our county during the War of Liberation, they taught us to Speak Bitterness. We women were encouraged to complain about the humiliations we endured—rapes, beatings, loveless marriages, and living under the thumbs of heartless mothers-in-law. We directed our sad stories of anguish and suffering into collective anger about the feudal system. If a husband teased us or belittled us, together we beat him in the square until he was motionless like a dead dog, with his mouth, eyes, and nose full of mud, and his clothes reduced to rags.”
This speech has the effect of inflaming instead of calming the women, but Sung-ling isn’t done.
“But gossiping and complaining like weak women is not the way to make men hear us. Beating a man in the public square won’t make him be a better husband, father, or comrade either. Times are different now. You make me look bad with your backward ways. We have to address these matters properly. I will ask the county to send a propaganda team to our village. They will help us put on a play to remind everyone of the rules. I’ll need some volunteers.”
I have acting experience, so I raise my hand. When they see my hand go up, Tao and Kumei raise theirs as well.
“Good,” Sung-ling says. “Now, for the rest of tonight, I don’t want to hear another word about Comrade Ping-li. She is dead. That is all we can say.” She peers around the hall, practically begging someone to contradict her. She purses her lips and gives a little nod before continuing. “Now, let us begin our political discussion. Please move to your usual spots.”
The divided hall grudgingly comes together, and Tao ends up sitting next to me. Despite Sung-ling’s pep talk—if that’s what it was—the people remain restive. Party Secretary Feng Jin follows his wife’s instructions, refusing to mention the dead woman. Instead, he doles out praise to select model workers. Then he recounts some of the Red Army’s greatest exploits, which he does every night. I’m getting to like them better than the episodes of Gunsmoke, Sky King, and Highway Patrol my family used to watch.
The first of tonight’s stories involves the brave female communication operators during the War of Liberation. “They had to run under constant fire,” Party Secretary Feng Jin emphasizes, “from one shell hole to another. They sent urgent messages, life-and-death messages. If they lost their connection, they turned their own bodies into electric conductors by gritting wires between their teeth. Those women were sisters in the war of resistance!”
It’s not the most subtle morality story, and in many ways it’s a strange choice, since I bet few people here have ever seen a telephone, but everyone seems calmer. But I’m not. Tao’s leg has fallen against mine. The he
at of his flesh burns through two layers of clothing right into my skin. I keep my eyes forward, staring at the backs of the heads in front of me, but my heart thumps in my chest.
“What has Liberation brought us?” Party Secretary Feng Jin asks, and then he goes on to quote Chairman Mao. “ ‘Everybody works so everybody eats.’ What does this mean? Today those same brave women work in power stations. They climb pylons to change porcelain insulators to maintain ultrahigh-tension transmission lines. One day, they will bring telephones and electricity here. Other women work in cotton and flour mills or serve as machine-tool operators, geological prospectors, welders, forgers, pilots, and navigators. Women are educated—whether in a literacy class like the one we have here in our collective or at a university.”
A discussion follows, with several men raising their hands to speak. Again we’re reminded of the things Chairman Mao has promised in the New Society: Women hold up half the sky. Everyone—men, women, and children—must plunge into political struggle to brave storms and face the world. We all must adhere to the Marriage Law. Party Secretary Feng Jin ends the session with a song. The whole room reverberates with good feeling as the voices of Green Dragon Village Collective join him.
Later, during the art lesson, I’m still aware of Tao—how could I not be with his taste still in my mouth and his touch on my lips, neck, and breast?—sitting next to me. I refuse to look at him outright, but I peer at his hand and try to draw it.
“Something has opened in you, Joy.” I look up to see Z.G. Blood rushes up my neck to my face. “Your technique still needs polishing, but I believe your calligraphy lessons have given you a delicate touch.” He stands back, with his arms folded, staring at my work with true appreciation. “The hand is the hardest to draw,” he adds. “I think you could be good, if you actually wanted to learn.”
I smile. What a strange and wonderful day this has turned out to be.
When the lesson ends, Tao leaves with the other villagers. Z.G., Kumei, and I collect the art supplies and return to the villa. Kumei says good night, and Z.G. and I walk through the courtyards to our adjoining rooms. Z.G. disappears into his room, while I put the supplies away. He returns a few minutes later with a sketchbook.
“This is for you,” he says. “You’ll need a lot of practice if you ever want to draw a hand properly. Always try to depict the inner world of the heart and mind. That is the essence of Chinese artistic striving. You could get there, I think.”
He says nothing more and returns to his room. I’m left with my first two gifts from my father—his words and the sketchbook.
AFTER THAT NIGHT, I still wake up early and work in the fields as I did before. In the afternoons, Z.G. still works by himself by the side of the fields with his charcoal, pencil, and sketchbook or with brushes, paints, and paper. People still stop to look at his drawings, but he increasingly keeps a lot of his work private, often flipping down another sheet of paper, especially when I approach, so I can’t see what he’s working on. This hurts my feelings, but what can I do?
At the end of the day, Tao and I lag behind, gathering everyone’s tools and securing them for the night. Then Tao and I head back toward Green Dragon Village. We’re careful not to hold hands or touch, because we don’t want anyone to look out a window or door and see us. We walk to the villa’s front gate, pass it, cross the little bridge, and then hurry along the path paralleling the stream until we reach the turnoff to the Charity Pavilion. I’ve grown stronger. Now I can get to the top of the hill and still have enough breath to kiss Tao right away. Later, we go separately to the political meeting and art lesson in the ancestral hall. We don’t sit together any longer, but I sense him nearby, knowing that tomorrow we’ll have our secret time in the Charity Pavilion.
I’ve gone from losing the one man in my life who mattered to me to gaining two new and unique men. They distract me. They thrill me, but in different ways, of course. And for some minutes, and even hours, during the day I’m able to drive my father Sam from my mind. But it’s not easy. When I think of my dad, I know he’d be unhappy to see me here. He wouldn’t want me working in the fields, washing out my nightstool, letting my skin burn under the hot sun, or—and this he would have objected to most of all—spending time with Tao, alone and for hours on end. My dad never would have said it—he would have left it to my mother—but he would have been very disappointed in me. He would have worried that I had ruined my chances for what he called a real American life.
