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“Food,” I finish for him.
“We have some rice,” Dun says.
“And I’ll get more,” I add. Dun frowns. He knows about the special coupons I get from the Overseas Chinese Affairs Commission, but I haven’t told him how much American money I have or that I use it to buy food on the black market. “May has also sent some food. I’ll bring that and what I’ve saved—brown sugar and—”
“You’re a mother,” Z.G. cuts me off. “You know what Joy and the baby will need.” He looks at his watch and frowns. “It’s one now.”
Which means no buses are running. We’ve already hit our first obstacle.
“We’ll go back to your house now,” I say. “We’ll leave at five, when the city buses start running, gather everything, and be back at your house by eight.”
We thank the photographer and retrace our steps to Z.G.’s house. We should sleep, but we can’t. When Dun and I go back to my neighborhood a few hours later, the early morning rhythms are in full swing. We purchase what foodstuffs we can find. We’ll buy ginger and soy milk when we get closer to Green Dragon.
The boarders are suspicious, as well they should be.
“Why are you taking rice from the bin?” the widow asks. “You aren’t allowed to do that.”
“Are you running away together?” Cook inquires. “That kind of thing will not be tolerated in the New China—”
“You’re going to get us all in trouble,” one of the dancing girls complains.
I can’t and won’t listen to them.
We’re back at Z.G.’s by eight. We leave our bundles in the entry and the three of us walk to the Artists’ Association. When the doors open, Z.G. asks to see the director and we’re shown into his office. This man was pudgy when I first came here looking for Joy and Z.G.; now he’s gaunt and gray. Z.G. lays photographs of the mural—minus the ones showing the owl, the Christ figure, and Joy and the baby—on the desk. I read Joy’s lett
er praising the commune and in particular her husband’s role in launching this particular Sputnik.
When I’m done, Z.G. says, “You should bring Feng Tao and his wife to Shanghai.”
“Why would I want to do that?” the director asks, skeptical.
“Because the boy is one of Chairman Mao’s favorites,” Z.G. answers. “His work was submitted to the New Year’s poster contest two years ago.”
“The contest you won,” the director notes.
“Yes, but Feng Tao was my student, and this is a model project from a model peasant,” Z.G. goes on. “If you bring him to Shanghai, then our branch of the Artists’ Association will get the credit, since what he’s accomplished is an outgrowth of your wisdom.”
“Your punishment, you mean,” the director observes wryly, not giving an inch.
“I’ll spend even more time in the countryside teaching the masses,” Z.G. offers, “if that’s what it takes.”
I have a different idea. I open my bag and hold out American dollars. The director takes them, just as he did when I came here the last time.
“You and the woman will go to the countryside to deliver the good news that the mural will be submitted to Peking under the Shanghai Artists’ Association’s auspices,” the director announces. “Bring the boy and his family here. I will send word ahead to the commune cadres, so they’ll know you’re coming. But only four travel permits. This one”—he points to Dun—“has no reason to go.”
I want Dun—I need him—to come with us, but the director won’t be persuaded otherwise.
IT’S NOT GOING to be easy to get to Green Dragon. All boat and train travel has been curtailed. Z.G. has a car but he doesn’t know how to drive, and we can’t ask the chauffeur to take us because he doesn’t have a travel permit. After some discussion, Z.G.’s servant girls dress me in one of their uniforms so I’ll look more like a chauffeur and our appearance won’t be questioned. By noon, Z.G.’s Red Flag limousine is packed and we’re ready to go.
“Be careful,” Dun says. “Come back to me.”
“I will,” I tell him. As we embrace, I whisper in his ear, “I love you.”
Then Z.G.’s chauffeur hands me the car keys. I open the backseat door for Z.G. Once he’s inside with the blue curtains drawn, I walk around to the driver’s side, get in, start the ignition, and put my foot on the gas pedal. At the corner, I look in the rearview mirror for one last glimpse of Dun.
On the outskirts of Shanghai, we pass a camp that’s been set up to hold peasants who’ve been captured trying to enter the city illegally. From here, the drive is extremely slow. The roads are terrible—at times almost impassable with mud and ruts—but roadblocks are our biggest problem. We’re stopped every few miles to have our papers checked. We’re going against the tide. The roadblocks are to prevent even more peasants from leaving their villages to come to cities—and how many people we see being turned away and sent home. Even though we’re going in the opposite direction, my hands sweat and my heart races at every checkpoint.
We reach Tun-hsi around midnight. We check into a guesthouse, but how can we sleep? The next morning, we go downstairs for a meal. It’s a crisp spring morning and we sit outside at a table under a tree. The innkeeper won’t accept our city rice coupons, so we can’t have porridge. Instead, we’re served a soup made with water greens and water. Then it’s like one of those scary movies Joy liked to watch on television. People—walking skeletons, zombies—begin to emerge from corners, alleys, and homes. They stare at us as we eat. The minute we stand, a couple of them bolt from the crowd, grab our bowls, and lick them clean.
