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“Like prayers that were written and then burned,” I say. “My mother believed that was the most effective way to communicate with her gods. Of course, at the mission we were taught that this kind of thinking was just another form of idolatry.”
“You made your mother very sad by visiting those people,” Cook reminds me.
It’s true. My going to the Methodist mission upset my mother and father, but I did it anyway. I learned English and manners, but what I learned most of all was faith. I don’t regret that for a minute.
Dun bunches a hand into a loose fist and taps it lightly on his lips, thinking. Then, “But don’t you think that we still believe in the efficacy of written characters? We still write peace, wealth, and happiness on red paper to hang on doors at the New Year. Pearl, you said you hoped Joy would feel your love, but what if you wrote that to her and then glued it in her shoes?”
“For what purpose? She’ll never know it’s there.”
“But you will.” Dun gets up, opens a drawer, and pulls out paper and ballpoint pens so the words won’t smear when they get wet. “Let’s send messages to everyone for whom we’re making shoes. You said the shoes I’m making are for Joy’s oldest sister-in-law, a girl of about fourteen or fifteen.” He starts to write, reading aloud his message. “You are very pretty. I hope you get married and have a happy life.”
Since Cook is illiterate, I help him with his note. Then I write a secret message to Joy and paste it into the middle of the sole. I feel the warmth from Dun’s gaze as I quickly paper over my words with a pair of my eyes.
Joy
LAUNCHING A SPUTNIK
I’VE PREPARED EVERYTHING as best as I can: I’ve rehearsed my request. I’ve made drawings and mixed pigment samples. I’ve washed my hair and put on clean clothes. I wish I could go to the leadership hall to speak to the village cadres about my idea now, while it’s still cool and I’m still clean, but that’s not possible. I pack my satchel and then join my husband and his family as they leave the house and walk down the hill. It’s summer again. It’s already porridge hot and with about as much visibility. I swat at the mosquitoes that buzz around my head and land on my arms, but what’s the use? There are more of them than I could ever kill.
As the others continue along the path toward our new work site, I stop at the villa to pick up Kumei. Yong, thankfully, won’t be coming with us. After Brigade Leader Lai made a fuss in front of the whole commune, he confiscated Yong’s bindings and hung them outside the villa, where they flutter like streamers in the breeze. He also took her bound-foot shoes—all tiny, all in brilliant colors, all with fine embroidery—and nailed them to the main gate, where they’re fading from the sun and rain. Now Yong is reduced to crawling on her hands and knees to get from room to room. The good life in the commune is not good for everyone, which has helped me focus more strongly on my plan.
Kumei doesn’t have much to say this morning as we walk together, and I’m too nervous about my plan to make small talk. We reach the work site and go our separate ways. A few weeks ago, when Brigade Leader Lai announced we would be building something together—as a commune—I hoped it would be a proper canteen. Instead, he ordered us to construct a road from the place where the bus lets people off several miles from here to the center of the commune. Weeding, aerating furrows, and picking away the pests that attack the crops have been abandoned so we can dig out boulders, shovel dirt, and compact earth. All this work is done by hand, and we’re still getting by on reduced rations, so the sun makes me woozy, and my shoulders, back, and legs quickly tire from the labor. I’m luckier than most. As a pregnant woman, I’m given extra food. Fortunately, I’m over the worst of my morning sickness and have been able to keep my meals in my stomach. My belly is slowly swelling, but it’s not terribly noticeable under my loose cotton blouse. Everyone knows everything in the commune, though, so I get plenty of advice.
“Don’t attend magic shows,” a woman struggling to lift a basket of dirt next to me recommends, “because if you see through any of the magician’s tricks he’ll cast a spell on you out of embarrassment.”
“Don’t climb any fruit trees,” another counsels, “because if you do, they won’t bear fruit in the coming year.”
And on it goes. I shouldn’t quarrel with anyone (but I should accept criticism), go on any journeys (which I can’t do anyway since I don’t have an internal passport), or step on any goose droppings (I tried not to do that even before I got pregnant).
A whistle announces the lunch break. While the others line up for rice and vegetables served by the side of the new road, I hurriedly grab my satchel and set out for the leadership hall. How different everything looks from when I first came here two summers ago. This year’s corn crop should be shoulder high, with the kernels filling the air with a warm and fragrant scent, but what I see is short, stubby, and patchy, as though the fields have severe cases of mange. The reasons are simple and all tied together.
First, although scientists have announced that sparrows eat more insects than seeds, Chairman Mao has insisted we continue to kill the birds. Now the only things getting fat around here are the swarms of locusts and other insects that eat contentedly at the free canteen that our fields have become. Second, close planting. When any of the farmers who grew up in this area ask Brigade Leader Lai about the wisdom of this practice, he says, “Trust in the people’s commune.” Third, when we inquire what he’s promised the government this year, he answers, “We’ll deliver ten times the normal grain yield!” That’s where our fear comes in. How can we possibly give that much grain when our yield has gone down not up? If we turn over our harvest to meet the brigade leader’s “exaggeration wind,” then this winter will be far worse than last. To protect ourselves, we deliberately left as much in and on the ground as we could when we brought in the early crops, in case we need to rely on gleaning the fields for food next winter.
I reach the center of the commune. I take a breath to calm my nerves and give me courage. Then I stride purposefully to the leadership hall in the cinder-block building. A guard stands before the door.
“May I see Brigade Leader Lai?” I ask.
“Why?” the guard, a young peasant from Moon Pond Village, asks in response.
“I’d like to present something to the brigade leader as well as to Party Secretary Feng Jin and his honorable wife.”
I haven’t answered the guard’s question, only expanded my request. His jaw muscles tighten. Give a low man one ounce of power and he’ll throw ten thousand pounds of bricks on your head. He yells at me. When he loses steam, I state my request again. He gets angrier. Brigade Leader Lai comes to the door. He wears a cloth napkin tucked into his shirt.
“What’s this noise? Don’t you know I’m eating?”
“Brigade Leader, I want to launch a Sputnik,” I announce.
“You?”
I give a sharp nod, exuding confidence.
“No,” he says.
“Please hear me,” I persist. “My idea will bring important cadres to the Dandelion Number Eight People’s Commune.”
This is a bold claim, but one I hope will elicit a good response from the brigade leader. In the New China, no one is supposed to seek personal glory, but individual recognition is something all cadres desire. He looks me up and down, calculating: she’s a backsliding imperialist, but she’s also the daughter of a famous artist, she looks professional, she has a satchel slung over her shoulder that contains … what?
“Let me finish my lunch,” he says, having made h
