Dreams of Joy - Lisa See [173]
“That’s mine!” Joy says loud enough for a few people to turn her way and stare. Z.G. puts a restraining hand on her arm. She looks up at him, her face flushed in anger. “He stole my painting. He’s going to take credit for this too.”
Those around us from other countries don’t seem all that impressed by anything that’s happened so far, and they carry resignation in their bodies—this is China and we have to tolerate the greetings, proclamations, and demonstration before we can enter the exhibition hall—but the Chinese listen to this exchange with great interest, edging closer, drawing attention our way.
“He must have crated it with the other paintings when I wasn’t looking,” Z.G. says quietly. “But you can’t worry about that now.”
That’s right, because there’s something much worse to worry about. Onstage the members of the Artists’ Association speak animatedly among themselves and gesture furiously at the organizer and Tao. I understand why—Joy’s painting recalls the beauty of the past and the deep emotions of mother love in a style that’s been deemed bourgeois and ultrarightist—but I’m very proud of her. I’m happy and honored too. She might never be able to express her feelings in words, but through her brushstrokes she’s given me indisputable proof that she has forgiven my sister and me.
The organizer moves again to the microphone. He’s flustered and clearly trying to make the best of a disastrous situation. “We’re sorry that this piece of black art has been put before your eyes. Fortunately, in the New Society, even the worst criminals are given an opportunity to confess.” He motions to Tao with a flick of his hand. “Please step forward and explain yourself to our guests. Let them see our great country at work building socialism and communism.”
As Tao saunters to the podium, I sense what he’s going to do. This won’t be like the mural, where he took credit for Joy’s work. Instead, he’s going to name the artist and accuse Joy—and maybe Z.G. too—for trying to lead him down a black path. By targeting them, he’ll raise his status in the government as a model artist, who is red, expert, pure, and a brave defender against and accuser of hooligans, who should and will be punished.
“We’ve got to go,” I say. “We’ve got to go now!”
As I start pushing the others toward the door, I hear Tao’s voice. “I did not paint this evil atrocity, but I saw it being birthed. My wife was criticized in our commune for being a right opportunist. My father-in-law has a decadent past. They are the ones to blame—”
“Hurry!” I exclaim.
“Where is the real artist?” Tao calls out. “Step forward! Accept criticism!”
I disliked Tao from the first moment I saw him. I’ve despised him since Joy told me about Swap Child, Make Food. He’s a country bumpkin, and I wish with all my heart, Christian though I am, that he would just die.
“Where is the artist?” Tao demands again.
“I am the artist,” Z.G. suddenly shouts. We’re so close to the door, but we stop, horrified at what he’s done. “You can recognize my technique from years ago.”
“Dad!” This surprising word comes out of my daughter’s mouth.
“You can’t—”
But onstage, Tao doesn’t make the correction.
“My father-in-law taught me that art should serve workers, peasants, and soldiers, but you can see he is only concerned with beautiful women,” Tao prattles, relishing his role as accuser.
I see it now: Tao would much rather target Z.G. than Joy. If Tao can push Z.G. aside, then he’ll become more than just a model peasant artist. He’ll take Z.G.’s place.
“It’s not too late for you to confess your many crimes,” Tao proclaims. “You are a poisonous weed. Step forward! Show your face!”
Someone up front shouts, “Where is this rightist?”
“There he is,” Tao says, pointing to our group.
Dun turns to me. “You have to save the children.