Dreams of Joy - Lisa See [41]
“You’re not responsible, Comrade Bing-dao,” someone says from the crowd. “These things happen.”
Murmurs of assent greet this assessment. But I’m thinking, These things happen? Who throws herself in front of a hay cutter? And then more practical thoughts: Where’s the ambulance? Where’s the hospital? But no ambulance or hospital exists within miles of here. And there isn’t a tractor, truck, or car to use for transportation even if there were a hospital. All that doesn’t matter anyway. The woman is dying. Her skin has gone waxy. The pool of blood has continued to grow, but the spurting has slowed. Her eyes are glassy and she seems unaware of her surroundings. The kneeling women comfort her as best they can.
“The collective will take care of your children,” one says. “There are no orphans in the New China.”
“We’ll make sure your children remember you,” promises another.
“Red blood is a sign of socialist purity,” the third adds. “And your blood is very red.”
Once again, murmurs of approval.
I glance away as the dead woman’s eyes are closed and see Z.G. The piece of charcoal in his hand moves quickly over a sheet of paper in his sketchbook.
LATER, I’M IN the villa’s front courtyard gathering art supplies for tonight’s lesson when Tao peeks around the front gate. He asks if I’m all right. I answer yes, but I’m still upset—by seeing that woman die. Tao nods sympathetically and then says, “I want to show you something. Will you come with me?”
“I need to get things ready for class.”
“For a few minutes only, please?”
I look to see if anyone is watching us. I don’t see anyone, but that doesn’t mean that someone can’t hear us the way sound travels in here.
“Comrade Tao,” I say formally, just in case, “I will come with you. I want to be useful to everyone in the village.”
He grins when I join him outside the front gate. He turns left, and I follow as he walks on the path that runs next to the villa’s high wall. He crosses over a small stone footbridge and turns left again onto a path that parallels Green Dragon’s stream. If he smells like gasoline, I don’t notice, because I now wear that scent myself. I wear it with pride, knowing that I’ve truly joined village life.
We don’t go far before Tao takes my hand and pulls me off the main path. Touching was taboo in Chinatown, but the rules are even more stringent here. I can’t believe that Tao’s touching me at all or that I’m following him up a very steep set of stone steps built into the hillside. He doesn’t let go of my hand. Farther up the hill, nearly hidden in a bamboo grove, is a pavilion about ten feet wide. I’m out of breath by the time we reach it. Round posts with peeling red paint rise up to rafters. Soft green bamboo surrounds three sides of the pavilion. A low stone railing on the fourth side protects us from a long fall into the valley below. Hills, villages, and fields stretch out before us.
“It’s lovely,” I say. I turn from the view to meet Tao’s dark eyes. The air suddenly hangs heavy. I sense what’s going to happen next. Maybe I will it to happen. When Tao pulls me into his arms, I go easily and submissively. His mouth tastes fresh—like white tea. I feel his heart beat against mine. He holds me and again stares into my eyes. I feel I’m looking into his soul. I see kindness, sympathy, and generosity. I see an artist.
Then he releases me and takes a step back. I don’t care what Kumei said. There is no “free” love in China. We don’t even have it in America. All love comes at a price, as my aunt May learned. Tao and I were only kissing, true, but what we’ve done is beyond forbidden in the New China. What am I saying? It was forbidden in the old China too! And let’s face it. I’m a good Chinese girl, who was raised in Chinatown. I don’t do things like this.
“What is this place?” I ask, desperate to create some distance between what I want to do and what we should do.
“It’s the Charity Pavilion,” Tao answers. His voice is strong. Not a single quaver. “It was built by the grandfather of the landowner who once possessed