Dreams of Joy - Lisa See [67]
Z.G. has several entries. My favorite shows a young Mao, wearing a long scholar’s gown, striding across a field with peasants and soldiers behind him, almost like a god leading his followers. The hills around the Green Dragon Village Collective form the background. I’m sure the Chairman will like it, and I wonder if the judges will too.
I catch up to Z.G., who stands before a painting titled An Abundant Harvest of Food Crops. “You’ve seen most of the entries,” he says. “Which one will Chairman Mao want to see win?”
Before I have a chance to answer, a commotion erupts across the gallery, where the judges have clustered around one picture. We hurry over, joining others who want to see what’s so disturbing.
“This could have been painted twenty years ago,” one of the judges complains. “The pose … The colors … This is not Socialist Realism.”
“The artist has been tainted by foreign elements,” another adds roughly. “Our great Chairman has told us that art must be analyzed and divided into fragrant flowers and feudal dregs. This is the dregs.”
“The roses are redolent of capitalist ideology,” a third judge criticizes. “Do you see the way she has one hand behind her head? We all know what that means. She’s selling herself, beckoning us with her bad ways, just like a prostitute.”
With disgusted grunts, the judges move on. As the crowd disperses, I edge forward. The painting is of a young peasant woman standing in a field of roses, holding a basket filled with her pickings, and tucking one of the blooms behind her right ear. Who is the central figure? Me! Z.G. has painted me! All those times I saw him with his sketchbook on the edge of the fields at the Green Dragon Village Collective, he was drawing me. Just as with Z.G.’s Mao portrait, this one is a mixture of fact and fantasy. I’m wearing Kumei’s clothes—a yellow blouse and light blue trousers—as I often did in Green Dragon, but my hair is longer and braided in the style of so many country girls. I stand in a field of pink roses. I never saw a single rose in Green Dragon.
“You look like your mother,” Z.G. says in a soft voice.
I blush. Auntie May has always been considered beautiful. I’ve never thought of myself that way, but looking at the painting, I can’t help wondering.
“I’ve missed her,” Z.G. adds. His eyes meet mine, and for a moment I glimpse the love he still has for her.
And then Chairman Mao is at my side. He’s a bit paunchy. His hair recedes from his temples. His face is shiny and full. His smile is warm and embracing. Standing next to him is like standing next to history, and I’m dumb with wonder and astonishment.
“I like this painting very much,” he says. “The girl in it is lovely but healthy too. That girl is you, I believe.”
“She is my daughter,” Z.G. says, with a slight bow.
“Ah, Li Zhi-ge, it’s been a long time,” Mao says slowly. “Many of us had women in the countryside all those years ago. I didn’t know you did as well.” His smile widens. “How many more pretty daughters have you left across China?”
I’m not a product of one of those liaisons, but that doesn’t seem to matter to Mao, who turns his attention back to me. “Has your father told you much about me? We were in the caves together in Yen’an. Remember the old days, Comrade Li?” Z.G. nods, and the Chairman continues. “Your father was a good fighter—for a Rabbit—but I felt he could do more good and conquer more hearts with his brush than with his bayonet.”
Some people say that, once Chairman Mao starts talking, he can’t stop. He doesn’t want to hear other opinions. He doesn’t even want to make conversation the way most people do. You just have to listen and try to understand his meaning.
“As a hero of Liberation, your father has a special place in our society,” Mao goes on. “After Liberation, I wanted him to come to Peking.