Dreams of Joy - Lisa See [59]
Today’s visit to Auntie Hu and the blast of hope I’ve received from my daughter have revitalized me. I peel off my work clothes, leave them in a rumpled pile on the floor, and take a bath. Feeling inspired, I go through my closet and drawers again. I put on a custom-made bra and panties in soft pink silk edged with handmade French lace. Over these, I slip a dress of crimson wool that was made for me by Madame Garnett, who once was one of the finest seamstresses in the city. The dress fits perfectly, but what was elegant and beautifully made twenty years ago is now long out of fashion. I put on a pair of alligator pumps that have turned a warm amber hue from age. The silk and wool are soft on my skin after the coarseness of my work clothes. My jade bracelet feels cool and heavy on my wrist.
When I go back downstairs, I try to look at everything from Joy’s perspective. Although I still don’t know where she is, I have renewed faith that she’s coming back here, and soon. When she does, I want the house to look good. Auntie Hu was right; I just hadn’t analyzed it properly before. The boarders have lived here twenty years, but they haven’t sold or thrown away any of my family’s belongings as far as I can tell. That doesn’t mean they’ve taken good care of things either. The wallpaper is stained, dirty, and torn in places. The rugs, draperies, and upholstery are all in terrible shape. But I’m back now, and I’m going to follow Auntie Hu’s advice. On my next free day, I’ll visit a pawnshop and a flea market. I’m going to buy some things for the house and get myself a camera. I remember how strict the guards were on the train, closing the shades so people couldn’t see bridges or military installations. I don’t know what would happen if, for example, I tried to take a photo of the navy ships moored at the Bund, but I don’t plan on doing that. If I can, I’ll find a place to develop my photographs so I can send them to May. In the meantime, looking through a lens again will give me pleasure. I’m also going to complete what I started by accident this morning: clean the house. I’ll do it carefully, when the public rooms are empty. Maybe the boarders will notice. Maybe they won’t.
The squabbling in the kitchen that started this morning continues for the evening meal. The professor stands at the stove making a pot of noodles.
“You’re taking too long,” one of the former dancing girls complains.
“And you’ve made too much food for just one person,” her roommate observes. “You shouldn’t be so wasteful.”
“I’m not being wasteful,” he responds, as he ladles the soup into two bowls and puts them on one of my mother’s trays along with two pairs of chopsticks and two porcelain soupspoons. He looks at me and asks, “Would you care to join me for noodles in the second-floor pavilion?”
The silence this morning when they saw me cleaning the spot on the floor is nothing like the silence that freezes everyone now. Then they’re all squawking at once.
“The second-floor pavilion is your bedroom!”
“You never share your noodles with us!”
“You have no socialist spirit!”
Cook stops their twittering with a stern rebuke directed at me. “Little Miss, bad ways will not be tolerated in this house.”
I don’t say a word as I follow Dun out the door and upstairs to the pavilion. I haven’t been in this room since my parents carved up the house to rent to boarders, but here is another oasis in the sea of communist gray that Shanghai has become. My mother must have felt sorry for her poor student renter, because he has some pieces of furniture that I thought had long ago been sold. The bed is neatly made, and the shelves are filled with books. He also has an old typewriter with English letters and a phonograph, which I remember from when May and I were kids.
Dun sets the tray on the table, which also functions as