Dreams of Joy - Lisa See [28]
I, along with the other passengers, am herded into a processing shed. I hand my Certificate of Identity to an inspector, who looks it and then me over. I wear a cotton skirt and a pink blouse, because I can’t imagine entering Shanghai looking like a country bumpkin. Still, I definitely look different from everyone else. This seems to single me out for extra attention. One inspector searches my luggage, while another questions me about my reasons for returning to China, if I’m committed to giving up my capitalist ways, and if I’m here to serve the people. This is short compared with the border stop. Maybe they hear my Wu dialect and recognize me as the Shanghainese I am. Once their interrogation is finished—and I’ve lied repeatedly—one of the men pulls out a camera.
“We like to take photos of returning patriots,” he says, motioning to the framed pictures on the wall.
I hurry to the wall and search the photos, hoping to find my daughter. There she is! My daughter’s alive and she’s here! In the photograph, she stands in the middle of a group of men wearing green uniforms and green hats with red stars. A lovely smile lights her face. I ask the men about her. They remember her. How could they not? It’s not as though pretty young girls from America pass through their building every day.
“Where did she go?” I ask.
“Her father is a cultural worker,” an inspector offers helpfully. “We sent her to the Artists’ Association to find him.”
I smile for the camera. It isn’t hard. I’m happy. Joy found Z.G., which means I ought to be able to find the two of them very quickly. This is going to be much less complicated than I thought.
I pay a nominal fee to leave my bags in the shed and then hurry across the Bund and rush along the boulevards, paying no attention to the sights around me. In the Artists’ Association lobby, I approach a woman sitting behind a desk.
“Can you tell me how to find Li Zhi-ge?”
“He’s not here!” she snaps.
Bureaucrats are the same all over the world.
“Can you tell me where he lives?” I ask.
She eyes my suspiciously. “What do you want with him? You should not try to see Li Zhi-ge. This man has a black mark against him.”
That’s alarming. It seems like the inspector would have mentioned this.
“What did he do?”
“Who are you?” Her voice rises. “What do you want with him?”
“It’s personal business.”
“There’s nothing personal in China. Who are you?” she asks again. “Are you a troublemaker too?”
A troublemaker? What has Z.G. done? And please, God, tell me he hasn’t dragged my daughter into it.
“Have you seen a girl—”
“If you keep asking questions, I’m going to call the police,” she warns.
For a moment, I’d thought this was going to be easy, but nothing in life is easy, not one single thing. And I’m not myself. This is my hometown, but I feel clumsy and inadequate in the new Shanghai. Still, I have to try one more time.
“Have you seen a girl? She’s my daughter—”
The woman slaps her palm flat on her desk and glares at me. Then she picks up the phone and dials.
“Never mind,” I say, slowly backing away. “I’ll come back another time.”
I walk out the door, down the steps, and keep going for another two blocks before I stop. I sweat from the heat, humidity, and terror. I lean against a wall, fold my arms over my stomach, and take several deep breaths, trying to bring my fear under control. Despite the effortlessness of my disembarkation, I need to remember the problems I had at the border. I must be careful. I can’t end my search before it’s even begun.
I have another idea of where to go. I start to walk toward the French Concession. This used to be a lively area—with brothels, nightclubs, and Russian bakeries—but somehow it all looks grim and depressed. Many street names have changed too, but even after all these years I remember the way to Z.G.’s old apartment, where May and I used to model. His landlady is still there, and she’s as mean and cantankerous as she always was.
“You!” she exclaims when she sees me.