Read Dreams of Joy: A Novel for Free Online

an ink stick, and a brush. He calls for one of his servants to bring water. Then he watches me grind the ink on the stone and mix in water until I have the desired opaqueness, and then the way I hold the brush and sweep it across the paper as I write a couplet. I don’t want to write a common saying, such as “May you be blessed with peace and safety in the coming year.” A good couplet requires symmetry—sentence for sentence, noun for noun, and verb for verb. I remember one I did for our neighbors a couple years ago. For the first part of the couplet, I write the characters winter gone, mountains clear, water sparkles . As soon as I’m done, I begin the second part, which would hang on the other side of the door: spring comes, flowers fragrant, bird sings .
    “Your ch’i yun —breath resonance—is good,” Z.G. says, “but as the great leader himself has observed, this kind of art can no longer be pursued as an ideal in and of itself. So, are you using tradition to serve the present? No question. Your need is great in this moment and I can see that. I look at your work and I’m not sure if I see feudal dregs or fragrant flowers, but you could learn from me.”
    I don’t understand half of what he’s said. How does he see feudal dregs or fragrant flowers in my couplet? But it doesn’t really matter for now, because I’ve passed his test.
    “It’s a good thing you came today, because I’m going to the countryside to teach peasants art,” he announces. “You’re coming with me as my helper. I was given enough rice coupons for my … trip that I can share them with you. People in the countryside won’t know how ignorant you are.”
    The countryside? Every decision I take sends me farther from everything and everyone I know. I’m fearful but also excited … and honored.
    AN HOUR LATER , Z.G. hands his two pieces of Long March luggage to his chauffeur, who packs these bags along with my suitcase and several other boxes and satchels filled with art supplies into the trunk of a Red Flag limousine. Then the chauffeur drives us to the dock, where we board a ferry bound for Hangchow. Once we’ve dropped our bags in our cabins, we go to the restaurant. Z.G. orders for us, and the food is pretty good. While we eat, he tries to explain a bit of what we’ll be doing and I try to prove myself to him.
    “We’re at the end of a campaign called Let a Hundred Flowers Bloom—”
    “And Let a Hundred Schools of Thought Contend,” I finish for him. “I know all about it. Mao encouraged artists, writers, and, well, everyone to make criticisms against the government in an effort to keep the revolution fresh and growing.”
    He gives me another one of those looks I can’t interpret.
    “As part of the campaign, artists like me have been asked to leave our studios, meet the masses, and experience real life,” he continues. “We’re going to Green Dragon Village in Anhwei province. It’s one of the new collectives. They are—”
    “I know about those too!” I exclaim. “I read about them in China Reconstructs . First there was land reform, when landowners gave their land to the people—”
    “Confiscated and reallocated is more like it.”
    “That’s not what I read,” I counter. “You should be proud of this accomplishment. After more than two thousand years, the feudal system of ownership was destroyed—”
    “And the landlord class eliminated—”
    I speak over his sour comment. “Then the masses were asked to form mutual aid teams of five to fifteen households to share their work. Two years ago, the collectives started. Now one to three hundred households have been brought together to share the labor and the profits.”
    “That’s a pretty simplistic way of looking at it.” Again, I can’t help noticing his dry tone. “But you’re more or less correct. Anyway, I’m going to Green Dragon Village. After that, we’ll just have to test the climate when the time comes.”
    He turns and