Dreams of Joy - Lisa See [155]
Z.G.’s friend hangs the first print on the line and then proceeds to develop a series of images showing the mural from each side of the leadership hall, with some details thrown in for good measure. Spaceships, giant corn, and even more chickens. How easy it is to spot my daughter’s work as opposed to what Tao or the other people who must have helped painted. Then come photographs with Joy standing in front of the mural, her face thin, dressed in layers of padded clothes, and holding Samantha, who is equally bundled.
“Why doesn’t she show the baby?” I ask. “I’m the grandmother. I want to see her.”
Despite my impatience, Z.G.’s friend hangs each of these prints on the line. The next photograph shows Joy standing before what looks to me like Jesus on the cross, but maybe I’m seeing things. Once again, the photographer shakes his head. Is he worried for my daughter’s safety or his own? Then he places the last photograph in its chemical bath. He swishes the paper with a pair of tongs. The image that comes into focus is one I won’t forget as long as I live. Joy has taken off her jacket and unwrapped the baby. The person taking the photograph has come close so I can see my daughter and granddaughter. If I didn’t know this was Joy, I wouldn’t recognize her. She looks more like a ghost than a human. We stand in silence for a long moment, each of us absorbing what this means. Dun is the first to speak.
“We have to get her. We have to get her now.”
“He’s right,” Z.G. says. “We have to go out there. We have to get her.”
“But how?” I ask.
“We could submit applications for travel permits, but …” Dun hesitates, not wanting to state the obvious. Even if we applied for travel permits, there’s no guarantee we’d get them. If we did get them, it would probably be too late.
“We could walk,” I suggest.
“It’s a long way,” Z.G. says. “About four hundred kilometers.”
I won’t let that stop me. “My mother, my sister, and I walked out of Shanghai.” I hear the desperation in my voice. But even if I could walk the 250 miles or so, we’d never get there in time. I stare at the photographs, despair creeping over me. Then it hits me. “She’s also sent a hint for how to get her in an official way.”
The others eye me questioningly.
I gesture to the photographs of the mural hanging around us. “Joy said it is a ‘model project made by a model commune.’ ”
Z.G. pinches his chin, slowly nodding, deep in thought. “We’ll get permission to see it,” he says at last. “We’ll go to the Artists’ Association as soon as it opens. We’ll make them send us.”
That seems unlikely, but I have to trust Z.G. or else I’ll go crazy. He pulls the photographs off the line and hands them to me.
“Go home,” he continues. “Get some clothes and—”
“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—”