Free Dreams of Joy by Lisa See Page B

scrape of his chair against the concrete floor as he stands feels ominous. “Stay here.” He leaves the room, once again locking the door.
    I’m confused and scared. The man at the family association said this would be easy, but that’s not what I’m feeling. Could Joy have gone through this? Did she declare herself stateless and give up her passport? I hope not.
    The door opens, and a woman enters. “Remove your clothes.”
    This really is too much like Angel Island. I didn’t like being examined then and I don’t want it to happen now. Ever since the rape, I’ve been afraid to be touched by anyone, not by those I love and who love me, not even by my own daughter.
    “I have other people to search. Hurry up!” she orders.
    I strip down to my underwear.
    “A brassiere is a sign of Western decadence,” she says derisively. “Give it here.”
    I do as I’m told and then cross my arms over my breasts.
    “You may dress.”
    The inspector returns, and I’m questioned for another hour. My bags are searched and some items, including my other bra, are confiscated. I reboard the train. And then, in moments, we cross the border into mainland China. I don’t have a chance to see it, however, because a guard enters the car and orders all shades closed.
    “Any time we pass a bridge, an industrial site, or a military installation, you will lower your shades,” he announces. “You will not get off the train until you reach the destination on your ticket.”

Pearl
FOREVER BEAUTIFUL

    I LEAVE THE Canton train station expecting to find the car to take me to Wah Hong Village, but it isn’t here. I find no private cars, let alone taxis, in the parking lot either. All I see are bicycles and pedestrians dressed in nearly identical clothes. Everyone looks poor. Canton used to be a thriving city, so the changes are a shock. When some of the other passengers—the returning Overseas Chinese students—are hustled past me on their way to their special reception center, I turn and walk quickly in the opposite direction. I’m not a student, but I don’t want to be caught up in anything official even by accident. I cross the parking lot to get to the sidewalk. The street is filled with bicycles, but again no taxis. I see very few cars or trucks. A couple of buses rumble past, but I don’t know where they go. I ask a passerby how to get to Wah Hong. He’s never heard of it. And neither have the next several people I ask. I stand there, gnawing on a cuticle, not knowing what to do. If the man at the family association messed this up, then how can I count on him to handle my mail?
    I’m not off to a good start.
    I go back to the train station’s entrance and sit on my suitcase. I try to remain calm, but I don’t feel that way at all. Panicked is more like it. I tell myself to wait a half hour, and if no one comes for me then I’ll try to find a hotel. Finally, a beat-up Ford—a remnant of better days—pulls to a stop in front of me. The driver—a kid, really—rolls down the window and asks, “Are you Pearl Louie?”
    Soon enough, we’ve left Canton behind and we’re on a raised dirtroad taking us through flooded rice fields for what I’m told will be about a forty-five-minute drive to Wah Hong. Canton seemed like it had stepped back in time under communism, but now I feel like I’m jumping back a century or more. We pass small villages made up of a few peasant shacks clustered together. I shiver. I was raped and my mother killed in a shack like these. All these years I’ve longed for the gay and colorful streets of Shanghai, but I never once missed the Chinese countryside, yet here I am. Bad memories make me put on mental blinders. I’m here, but I’ll do my best not to see it.
    When we get to Wah Hong, I ask the first person I come across if he knows Louie Yun. This is another of those tiny villages with at most three hundred inhabitants, all of them with the clan name Louie and all of them related to my