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A restaurant owner is fishing in one of the ponds, and as we watch him, he catches fish after fish and puts them into buckets of water. These fish will soon find their way to aquariums in his restaurant.

Most of the ponds have different kinds of fish in various stages of growth. One of the ponds is for hairy crabs, and a high fence surrounds their pond to keep them from wandering off. A few crabs scuttle along the edge of the fence desperately looking for a way out.

The farthest and largest pond to our left is the oyster pond, which is spread out over an acre of land. Bamboo poles in neat rows mark the spot where a net of oysters can be found. Oysters live their whole lives in these nets, which only a strong man can lift. Nets must be frequently lifted to check for dead or diseased oysters.

To the right of the oyster pond is a one-room hut where a woman sits by the front door and shucks oysters. She throws oyster meat in one bucket and pearls in another. When the oyster meat bucket is full, she pours the contents into the oyster pond, and a troupe of minuscule shrimps engulfs the oyster meat.

About twenty feet from the hut is a small, sturdy brick house. I peek through the open window of this house and meet eye-to- eye with the biggest pig I have ever seen. Her snout is the size of a dinner plate. She is curious about me and sniffs the air. Jin yells, “Taitai, get away from there. She will have you for lunch.”

The manager of the pearl farm takes me out onto the pond in a flat-bottom boat. He rows up to a bamboo pole, pulls up a net of oysters, and takes out two. When we are back on dry land, the manager opens one oyster with a shucking knife and says, “This oyster is five years old. See the rings on his shell?” He hands me the five pearls from the oyster and gives me the other oyster and says, “Here, take this one home.”

The oyster’s shell is covered with a moss-like scum. I have never had a pet oyster before, and I say, “Thank you for the oyster. Will he die if he is not in water?”

“No, no. Put him in water when you get home.”

“OK. Thank you,” I say. “I am going to name him George.” His shell needs a good cleaning with a toothbrush.

The manager wants to show us the pearl factory, and Jin drives the three of us to a large two-story building. We go up to the second floor where there are ten long tables in arow. Pearl stringers sit at these tables where they sort, size, and slip the appropriate size pearls onto a temporary string. The largest pearls must be in the middle, and each completed strand of pearls is sixteen inches long. I look toward the stringers as I say, “Dajia hao.” “Hello everyone.”

The manager takes us to the drilling room where I try my hand at operating a pearl drilling machine. This requires the simultaneous operation of a foot pedal and a hand lever. The driller must know how to place a pearl between clamps so that the hole is drilled in the best spot. If a hole is drilled through a flaw, the value of the pearl goes up because the flaw is removed. The most demanding pearls to drill are tiny pearls. A sixteen-inch strand of four-millimeter pearls requires over one hundred pearls. Odd-shaped pearls, such as rice-shaped pearls and baroque pearls, are also difficult to drill because angles must be balanced between two concave-shaped clamps.

A pearl drilling machine has two drill bits that must be coordinated in order to keep the bits from meeting in the middle of a pearl at the same time. This is a mechanical dance that also requires the drill bits to be a certain length. If the bits are too long, metal will grind on metal, and if the drill bits are too short, the hole won’t go all the way through the pearl. Additionally, the metal drill bits are soft and must be frequently sharpened on a stone wheel that throws sparks as it whirls.

Behind me is a broom made of sticks for sweeping. A fine mix of metal and pearl dust powders the table after I have done my best to drill a few pearls. This experience has given me an appreciation for the labor-intensive process of producing pearls. The manager tells me that there are over sixty steps to produce one pearl necklace.

We walk to another section of the factory where the manager uses a seven-inch key to unlock an eight-inch- thick metal door that screeches as it opens. We step into a room that looks like it belongs on a science fiction movie set. Three-gallon glass jars are filled with large white pearls. These jars are set on metal shelves that go around the perimeter of this small room. Fluorescent lights hang overhead as motors buzz and bubbles fizzle up from surgical tubing that goes to the bottom of these jars.

This is a room where bleaching agents are used to create uniformly white pearls. The liquid in these jars is a top-secret bleaching agent discovered by a Japanese pearl producer and subsequently stolen by a Chinese man who is now in hiding. Unlike the harsh chemicals used in the past, this is a gentle bleaching agent.

Jin and I thank the manager for taking time from his busy day to show us around the pearl farm and factory and especially for giving George to me.

We arrive back in Shanghai late at night. Jin carries my paintings up to the apartment, and I carry five-year- old George upstairs and into the kitchen. I take out a shallow ceramic bowl and place it on the counter. Jin comes into the kitchen to help me with George and pours fresh drinking water into the bowl.

I hear Martin’s footsteps coming down the stairs. When he comes into the kitchen, he says, “What’s that?”

I carefully hold out my pet oyster and say, “Marty… this is George. He’s an oyster.” I look at George as I cradle him in both of my hands and say to him, “George . . . this is Marty. Don’t be afraid.”

Jin looks sad as he turns to Martin and says, “I am sorry.” I am elated with my new pet and say, “Marty, I need to borrow your toothbrush. George’s shell needs a good brushing to make him pretty.”