Dreams of Joy - Lisa See [154]
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?”
“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.
“Pearl, maybe it’s nothing and I don’t want you to get upset, but where my family was from a chicken feather was an urgent distress signal.”
I know nothing of country ways, but Joy must have learned them. My mood instantly turns to anxiety and fear.
I hold up the film. “She may have sent a message here as well. If there’s a message, a camera shop might not give me the prints.” My voice trembles. I cannot be afraid. I hear a Dragon’s strength when I next speak. “Let’s go to Z.G. He’s an artist. He’ll know a photographer who can develop the film.”
It’s seven o’clock by the time we reach Z.G.’s house. The servant girls let us in. Of course, Z.G. isn’t here.
“The master is at a banquet,” the girl with the bob volunteers.
The older servant sighs. She’s never going to be able to train her subordinates, but soon enough we’ve been served tea and the girls have backed out of the room. Dun sits in an overstuffed chair, and I pace impatiently. It’s after eleven before Z.G. arrives. He’s suave—like a movie star—showing no surprise that Dun and I are here so late at night.
“Have my girls been treating you well?” he asks. “Have you eaten yet? Can they pour you more tea?”
Here I am, in a desperate moment, and he’s thinking about manners.
“We think Joy’s in trouble. She sent a roll of film. Do you know anyone who can develop it?”
Dun explains about the chicken feathers, and Z.G. instantly recognizes their significance from a tale his grandmother used to tell. The concern on the two men’s faces terrifies me, but I try to stay calm. Z.G. motions to us, and we follow him back outside. We walk quickly through the deserted streets. It’s nearly midnight. In the New China, there are no late night strollers, people on their way to nightclubs or teahouses for final drinks, no prostitutes waiting to amuse. It’s just the three of us, skirting down one alley after another. We dip into a courtyard and climb four flights of stairs. Z.G. bangs on a door. A man in a gray undershirt and baggy drawers answers.
“Hey, Z.G., it’s been a long time. But it’s late. What are you doing here?” He rubs his eyes to get the sleep out of them.
“Old friend, you need to do me a favor,” Z.G. says, pushing the man back into his apartment.
Within minutes, the four of us are packed into a tiny darkroom illuminated by the glow of a bare red lightbulb that dangles from a cord. The photographer mixes chemicals and develops the film. He hangs the negatives on a line, and we wait impatiently for them to dry. Then he makes contact prints, which are put in a tray with a solution. The first image that comes into focus in its chemical bath shows an owl painted on the side of the leadership hall. The photographer sucks air through his teeth. “Bad,” he mumbles. The other two men nod their heads somberly.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Owls are always taken as criticism,” Dun explains. “Add that to