Dreams of Joy - Lisa See [106]
Afterward, as we lie naked, Z.G. touches the pouch I wear around my neck.
“Joy wears something just like this,” he says. “What is it?”
“My mother gave one to May and one to me.” As I say the words, I feel my connection to Z.G. slipping away. “May gave hers to Joy when she was born.”
I sit up and pull the sheet over my breasts, abruptly shy and embarrassed. I love my sister and what I’ve just done may not be the worst thing in the world, but it wasn’t very good either.
“We have to think about May,” I say.
“I agree,” he says, sounding much more sober.
“You’ve lived a long time without May, but I’m certainly not the only other woman you’ve had in your life.” Why am I saying that? To make myself less culpable?
“I’m a man, and it’s been more than twenty years,” he says.
I silently take that in.
Then he asks, “Have you heard of Ku Hung-ming? He lived at the end of the Ch’ing dynasty. He said, ‘One man is best suited to four women, as a teapot is best suited to four cups.’ ” He laughs sheepishly. “I always thought that if that philosophy was good enough for Chairman Mao, it was good enough for me.”
“But it wasn’t. You love May.” Finally, after all these years, I seem to have made peace with that.
“Pearl—”
“You don’t have to apologize for anything.” I put a hand on his arm. “You’ll never know how much this”—I motion to our rumpled bed-clothes—“meant to me, but it can never happen again.”
I pull the sheet with me as I get out of bed. Z.G. tugs the quilt over himself, but I’m careful not to glance his way. I pick up my clothes off the floor, go in the bathroom, and get dressed. I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My cheeks are still flushed from the mao tai and the husband-wife thing, but to my eyes I look different. I’m finally over Z.G. and my fear of sex. Those two circles have closed. It’s unclear what this will mean for me—a widow—but I feel possibilities are now open to me that I haven’t had since I was a young woman.
I give Z.G. a rueful wave, check to see if the hall is deserted, and then sneak out of his room and make my way to my own. In the morning, we meet for breakfast, as though we’re good comrades, and then go to the fair. We will never speak of what happened again, but before we leave Canton I write a letter to May. I can’t erase what I did with Z.G., but I can soothe her mind. I’m so close to Hong Kong, I wish I could go there, fly home, and tell her myself. Instead, my letter will go to nearby Wah Hong, be put in a new envelope, and make the usual journey across the border and on to Los Angeles Chinatown.
There is something you should know. Z.G. is a Rabbit and you are a Sheep. Z.G. loves you and only you.
Joy
BETWEEN THE YELLOW AND THE GREEN
“HOW MANY FLIES did you kill today?” Brigade Leader Lai inquires as he walks between our two rooms as part of his newly instituted cleanliness inspection. Tao’s little brothers and sisters show him a cup where they’ve saved their dead flies. “That’s good,” he praises them, “but did you kill any rats or mice?” We haven’t, which is not good. “How about sparrows?” he asks.
“There aren’t many left,” Tao’s father answers.
“I hear this from others in the commune,” Brigade Leader Lai acknowledges. “But why do I still see them flying in the sky? You must try harder! Now, what has your family done to eradicate other insects?”
“It’s winter,” Tao’s father says. “Look.” He points to the paper we’ve pasted over the window openings with rice paste to keep out the cold. “We don’t get many insects now.”
“Take down the paper,” the brigade leader recommends. “Keep a lantern going on the table in the main room. In the morning, you’ll have many dead insects.”
I’d be more upset about this, except that rice paper isn’t exactly the same as a windproof glass windowpane.
“Shall we keep what we kill to show you?” Tao’s father asks.
“Absolutely.