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The brigade leader nods again and holds up the camera.
“Oh, please, Brigade Leader, step a little closer. Yes, a little closer still.”
I’m exhausted from fear and concentration, but I smile for the camera. I know exactly the message this photograph will send. Samantha and I are starving. We may be days from death. If you get this, please help us. If you come too late, at least you’ve seen your granddaughter. If Brigade Leader Lai doesn’t send the film, then there’s nothing to be done.
The brigade leader hands me the camera. I follow him back inside the leadership hall. He sits behind his desk. I keep standing as I take the film out of the camera. I start to put the roll in the envelope with my letter and the chicken feathers.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“The film has to go in an envelope, doesn’t it?”
The brigade leader’s eyes narrow. “What else is in there? Are you trying to communicate with the outside? This is against the rules.”
“I can’t send the film without a letter,” I say.
“You may not send a letter.”
“All right.” I remove the film and put it in my pocket. I turn to leave.
“Wait! What does your letter say?”
I remove the piece of paper, careful not to disturb the feathers, and hand it to him. He quickly scans the lines with their abundant praise of Brigade Leader Lai for his foresight and guidance, and an explanation of what’s on the film, noting that the mural is certainly the best in the county, that it was painted by Tao and other comrades, and that it sends a Great Leap Forward message to the masses. At the end, I added that, although we eat chicken every night, I hope my mother will send more of her special treats. (I asked for food knowing that the brigade leader has confiscated it before.) But all these are just words. The real message is in the film and with the chicken feathers. When the brigade leader finishes reading, he looks up. I’m pretty confident he’ll send the letter, but to make sure I hold out the camera.
“You can keep this,” I say.
He puts the letter in my hand as I put the camera in his. I tuck the letter and the film inside the cloth envelope. The brigade leader watches as I stitch it closed, making sure I don’t add or subtract anything. When I’m done, I give it to him.
“The sooner they receive this, the sooner you’ll have your acclaim,” I say. I bow and then back out of his office, like I’m a lowly servant from feudal times.
I go home, rummage through my belongings again, and pull out the pouch my aunt gave me. I lay Sam on one of the sleeping mats, put the pouch over her head, and then push it down around her distended belly like a belt so there’ll be no chance of strangulation. Then I lie down next to her. I don’t know how quickly my package will leave here or what will happen to it when it passes through the censors’ hands in Shanghai. Will my mom receive what I’ve sent in a few days, a week, never? I’ve done what I can, but the end is coming. I have only a little baby formula left. If I take the bits and pieces of my mother and aunt that I pasted over the window and boil them, I might be able to extract enough rice paste to make a weak milk to keep Sam alive for a while. For now, she sucks at my empty breast, too weak to complain. The Boar always suffers in silence.
I close my eyes. I hear the voices of the past in the wind and in the beating of my heart. My two mothers, my two fathers, and my dear uncle all tried to tell me I was wrong about the People’s Republic of China. In the beginning, going all the way back to the University of Chicago, I thought socialism and communism were good, that people should share equally, that it wasn’t fair that my family had suffered in America when others drove fancy cars, lived in big houses, and shopped in Beverly Hills. I ran away and came here in hopes of finding an ideal world, to find my birth father, to avoid my mother and aunt, and to crush my guilt. None of that worked the way I expected. The ideal world was filled with hypocrisy and with people like Z.G., who went to parties while the masses suffered. In finding my birth father, I only remembered how wonderful my father Sam was. He loved me unconditionally, while Z.G. wanted me as a muse, as a pretty daughter to show off, as a physical manifestation of his love for Auntie May, as an artist who would reflect how great an artist he is. I thought I could use idealism to solve my inner conflicts, but in healing my inner conflicts I destroyed my idealism.
As I gaze into my daughter’s face, everything becomes very clear. My mother and aunt loved me, stood by me, and supported me, no matter what. They were both good mothers. My greatest misery and grief is that I have not been a good mother and I can’t save my daughter. I pray that in our finals days and hours Samantha will know how much I love her.
Pearl
SEPARATED BY A THREAD
AT THE BEGINNING of April, I come home from a day of paper collecting to find a package from Joy. Finally! I hurry upstairs to my room and close the door. The package is in pristine condition, which means that no one has opened it or read the contents. I’m so excited that my hands are clumsy as I snip open the hand-sewn seams with scissors. A roll of film and a few feathers fall on the bed. I pick up one of the feathers and examine it closely. Why would Joy send these? Then I push the lot of them aside. But how happy I am for the film. At last I’ll get to see my granddaughter. The letter dated from two weeks ago is filled with information that raises my spirits: “See the kind of plenty we have here? We eat chicken every night.” (Which may explain the chicken feathers.) She writes about the baby. She describes the mural Sputnik the commune created and goes overboard in her gratitude to Brigade Leader Lai for his role in seeing the project completed. She ends with a request for me to send special treats. It’s just as I’ve dared to hope. Things are better in the countryside. I’m relieved and delighted she’s doing so well.
I go to the pavilion and knock on Dun’s door. I read him the letter and show him the film.
“Anything else?” he asks.
“That’s it. Why do you ask?”
“She seems so positive. Do you think these are positive times?”
&
nbsp; “She has a baby and a husband. She’s where she wants to be.” He nods slowly, thinking about that.
“There were some chicken feathers in the package,” I add. “I didn’t think—”
“Let me see them.”
We go back to my room and I show him the feathers. Dun stares at them gravely.
