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“Would you care for a glass of wine?”
He opens the window and brings in a bottle of Lotus wine, which has been chilling on the sill. The flavor is light on my tongue, but it instantly spreads warmth through my chest. We eat in companionable silence for a while. Dun is a kind man—dignified and gentle. He has an elegance about him that surprises me when so much of the city has turned uniformed and dreary. In another lifetime—if things had been different—I might have married someone like him.
When the other residents turn on the radio in the salon for the nightly Russian-language lesson, I push back my chair to leave. I don’t have an interest in learning Russian, just as I have no interest in going to see a Russian f
ilm in one of the movie palaces where May and I fell in love with Haolaiwu. But we’re all supposed to want to learn from Old Big Brother—art, science, everything—so in the evenings we learn Russian from the radio. If we have any time left after that, then we can engage in political study, write letters, or mend clothes.
“Before you go,” Dun says, “I was wondering if you would consider giving me English lessons.”
“English lessons? Wouldn’t that be worse than having a woman in your room?”
He ignores my question. “Your mother told me you used to give English lessons. When I was a student, English literature was my subject. Now I teach the literature of socialism and communism—The Grapes of Wrath and books like that. Sadly, my English is not as good as it once was.”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because it will help me teach, and I like to think I’m a good teacher.” He allows himself a small smile. “And one day I hope to go to America.”
I give him a skeptical look. How will he ever be able to leave?
“I can dream, can’t I?” he says.
“Let’s say Tuesday and Thursday evenings,” I tell him. “But no wine.”
Joy
LOYALTY OF REDNESS; EXPERTISE OF BRUSH
“I KEEP TELLING you, Deping, to hold your brush this way,” Z.G. instructs. “Concentrate! Your turnip doesn’t look at all like the one on the table. Look at it! Really look at it! What do you see?”
It’s been hard for us not to notice Z.G.’s impatience, but even I feel exasperated and disappointed. A few days ago, Party Secretary Feng Jin informed us that he’d received word from the capital that our time in Green Dragon is done. Z.G. and I are to leave in the morning and make our way south to Canton for a fair of some sort. He’s happy to leave. We’ve been here for two months and the villagers still refuse to hold their brushes the correct way. They ignore what Z.G. says about the amount of ink to soak into their brushes, and the paintings themselves have a crude quality.
“Everyone examine what Tao has painted,” Z.G. says. “He uses his brush to put down what he sees. You can see clouds moving across the sky. You can see cornstalks bending in the breeze. You can see a turnip!”
We all know that Tao is in a different category from the rest of us. He isn’t confined to black ink. Instead, Z.G. has given Tao (and recently me) a box of watercolors. The result is lusciously vivid images in which the greens, blues, yellows, and reds have great depth and luminosity.
“When you look at his painting,” Z.G. goes on, “you feel inspired but also tranquil. Tao believes in what he paints, and he makes us believe in it too.”
Tao sits back on his haunches and beams with pleasure. His clothes have been washed so many times they’ve been bleached nearly white by the sun and many scrubbings. I’d love to be able to create that color—the hidden blues and grays that still linger in the fabrics—in a painting.
“Now let’s consider my daughter’s work,” Z.G. continues, as he makes his way over to me. Here it comes … again … the usual unfavorable critique. “As you know, she’s been working on a portrait of our great Chairman. She’s never met him, but she believes in him.”
“As we all do,” one of the students calls out.
“When we first came to your village,” Z.G. says, “my daughter was weak in her technique and she was afraid of color. But what she lacked in skill, she made up for in enthusiasm for the New China. Who can tell me what is best about her portrait?”
“She made his mole not too big and not too small.” This comes from Deping, who was so soundly criticized for his turnip.
“I like his blue suit. It fits him perfectly,” adds Kumei.
“Yes, and she’s made him a little thinner than he is in real life,” Z.G. adds with a chuckle, and the others laugh along with him.
“Didn’t you tell us that the best art glorifies Party leaders, Party history, and Party policies?” Tao asks.
“Absolutely,” Z.G. agrees amiably. “These things are the backbone of the New China.”
“The next best art recognizes workers, peasants, and soldiers,” Tao adds.
“They are the flesh of our country,” Z.G. agrees, but he’s not done with me. “My daughter has done a good job. I think”—he takes his eyes away from the others to look right at me—“that my daughter is not bad. She’s not bad at all.”
