Dreams of Joy - Lisa See [68]
Z.G. clears his throat. “I admit that sometimes I’ve taken the wrong road, but I’m not a capitalist roader. I’ve tried to redeem myself by correcting my errors. I went to the countryside—”
“Yes, yes,” Mao says, waving his hand dismissively. He glances at me, his face filled with mirth. “Even in Yen’an, we had to deal with your father’s Rabbit ways. So cautious, so discreet, but he never fooled us. Under his soft blanket of Rabbit niceness is a strong will and almost individualistic self-assurance.” He turns back to Z.G. “Don’t worry about those other things any longer. As they say, the Rabbit always hops over obstacles and calamities to land on his feet. So … I like your portrait of me. It’s a good apology. I think we can do something with it and others like it. Next time, though, make me appear a man of the people—simple trousers, a simple shirt, straw hat, and—”
“A plain background,” Z.G. finishes for him. “So the people see only you.”
But Mao has lost interest in that conversation. Now he speaks to me directly. “You don’t say much.”
“I haven’t said a thing yet.”
The Chairman chuckles. Then his face turns mock serious. “I know the accents from every province, but I’m having trouble placing yours. Tell me where you’re from. I ask because in a few days I’m having the Central Committee issue a new and stricter law—Halting Outflow from the Villages—to keep all peasants from coming to the cities. We’ll be checking the railway lines, highways, river ports, and all points of communication between provinces. So tell me, little one, where did you grow up? Are we going to have to send you back there now?”
To my eyes, he’s an old man—certainly older than my mother and father—but is he trying to flirt with me or scare me out of my wits? How can I respond in a way that won’t get me sent not back to the countryside but to California?
“Her mother is from Shanghai,” Z.G. answers for me, “but my daughter was born in America. She recently came to China.”
“Have you brought remittances with you?” the Chairman asks. “Remittances are most welcome from Overseas Chinese. Foreign money helps build our socialist state.”
Again, Z.G. steps in for me, and for the first time I hear him brag. “She’s done something better. She’s returned in person to help the motherland.”
“Ah, but is she one of those who will seek an exit permit tomorrow?” Mao asks. “To strengthen our united front among Overseas Chinese, we’ve had to relax control over these permits. Too many act like caged birds, waiting for the chance to free themselves from captivity. They complain that their rice rations are mixed with coarse cereals. They say we give no consideration to the old, sick, pregnant women, or newborn babies. The West has corrupted them into valuing personal freedom above all else, but now they must obey the Party. Even I must obey the Party.” He affects the whining voice of an unhappy man who’s returned from overseas: “My stomach is accustomed to cow’s milk and white bread. It won’t accept dried fish and barley.” Mao grunts. “What kind of Chinese is this? A Chinese is his stomach. These Overseas Chinese can’t forget their capitalist roots, and they won’t adapt to the socialist way of living.”
Z.G. ignores all this. Instead, he says, “My daughter has been helping me in the countryside. We’ve been learning and observing from real life—”
“Volunteering to go to the countryside was a very clever hop out of trouble for you, Comrade Li.”
Z.G. cocks his head in question.
“You did well there,” Mao continues, “but then I needed you to go to Canton. You performed well again, so I brought you here. When you first arrived in