Beautiful Country by J.R. Thornton Page B

Stories that were begging to be told, but would always remain suppressed. Many of the paintings were of incomplete families. A mother and a daughter, a solitary man, a father and a baby. I felt as if their sad, haunted gazes followed us around the darkened studio.
    Z suggested that we all have lunch at the restaurant he had just opened. Victoria explained that Z and two other artists from his home province, Guizhou, had started it together. She explained that opening restaurants had become a popular thing for artists to do in China. The restaurant provided them with food to eat, money to pay some bills, and a gallery space to exhibit their work.
    The restaurant , which had the less-than-creative name The Three Guizhou Men, was about a two-minute walk from Z’s studio. The entrance was marked by a bright red sculpture that Z had made especially for the opening. It resembled a sort of totem pole composed of three comically squat men stacked vertically, their arms raised overhead, supporting the figure of a man above. A hostess wearing an elaborate headdress and costume that I suspected was traditional Guizhou formal dress greeted us outside and brought us to a table in the back. Almost immediately after we had been seated, dishes of steaming vegetables, rice, and meats started appearing. Z did what I had noticed a number of Chinese do: he took his napkin and tucked a corner of it under his plate and then used the end of it to wipe his mouth or his hands.
    Z explained with great care that these dishes were the dishes his mother used to make. When our waitress brought us a plate of sliced peppers and beef, Z got very excited. He stabbed his chopsticks at the bowl. “This is my favorite. Try, try.”
    Victoria laughed. “It’s not easy to find authentic Guizhou food here in Beijing.”
    Z pointed to the ceiling where there were sets of characters painted in red on the arches. Victoria explained that the writings were old Maoist slogans and asked me if I could read them. Of the three, I could only translate one, 女人擎半天, as “Women hold up half the sky.” The other two Victoria translated as “We shall heal our wounds and we shall continue fighting until the end,” and “Once all struggle is grasped, miracles are possible.”
    â€œI like those,” I said. “They’re nice. What are they from?”
    â€œMao Zedong,” Victoria said.
    â€œChairman Mao?”
    â€œFrom his Red Book,” Victoria said.
    â€œOh,” I said, somewhat surprised. “Isn’t that weird to have his quotes on the wall? I would think that they’re not really that relevant anymore.”
    â€œThey’re Mao’s statements.”
    â€œI know, but does everyone believe in them still?” I asked.
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œEven now?”
    â€œYes,” Z cut in. “He make mistakes, but he is great man. Before him China had many problems. The Nationalist government was very corrupt. Many people were poor. Mao changed that and he rescued China from the Japanese dogs.”
    He swore in Chinese and spat on the ground after he said “Japanese dogs.” It confused me to see such vehemence towardthe Japanese paired with such positive feelings toward a man that had always been put in the same category as Hitler and Stalin in my history books. “But what about the Cultural Revolution?” I asked. “The Great Leap Forward? Didn’t a lot of people die?”
    â€œIt’s complicated.” Victoria nodded at her husband. “He was there, you know? For the Cultural Revolution. I am too young, but he is older. He was sent to the work camps.”
    I wouldn’t have brought it up if I had known. Perhaps sensing my awkwardness, Victoria added, “It’s okay. You can ask him about it, he doesn’t mind.” I hesitated, but Victoria said, “If you want to know, you should ask him. He doesn’t mind