Ginger."
"How?"
"Let's go to the Red Flag Middle School."
"Do you know anyone there?"
"I wonder if he remembers me."
"Who?"
"A Mao activist. Last year's champion of the Mao Quotation-Citing Contest. He is a head of the Red Guards at the school. He is my neighbor."
"How did you meet him?"
"It was in the soy milk shop last Sunday. He was in a hurry to visit his father in the hospital, but the line was three blocks long. He came to me although we had never spoken before. He asked if I would let him cut in. I let him in but the people behind me protested. To shut them up I said that he was my brother. And he got his milk ... I wonder if he would offer us some protection."
"What's his name?"
"Evergreen."
"Evergreen? How dare he! That's the name of the protagonist in Madame Mao's opera!"
"It's true and I had asked him about it. I asked how dare he copy Madame Mao."
"And what was the reaction?"
"He said she copied
him.
He was. given the name at his birth in 1954 and Madame Mao's opera was not conceived until 1960."
"Sounds like he's got character."
"Isn't that interesting!"
We found him. He was writing a big-character poster entitled "What We Talk About When We Talk About Loyalty." He was sixteen years old. Tall with a thin face and a pair of staring single-lid eyes. I didn't know how to describe him when Wild Ginger asked me except that he was handsome. I fell short of words as I considered him. I could say that he gave the impression of possessing an honest character. He was frank—knew exactly what he wanted and asked for it. The neighbors said that he was "square," which meant that he'd been brought up by strict parents. But there was something else about him that struck me. Something mysterious and unusual. He was warm and aloof at the same time. His ability to focus and shift focus without warning intrigued me. He projected a sense that he was eager to engage, yet the boundary he set was Great Wall thick. Physically, he had an athlete's frame. He was lean and his muscles were very pure in outline. He wore a blue Mao jacket and was
working, bending over a Ping-Pong table. His calligraphy was masterly and in the Song dynasty style. We watched him and waited until he finished the last stroke. He noticed Wild Ginger, put down his brush pen, and smiled at her. To me thè smile was strange and almost affectionate.
Wild Ginger scratched her arm.
Evergreen picked up his brush pen and turned back to his poster. He dipped the pen into a water jar, then looked at Wild Ginger again.
"Am I bothering you?" Wild Ginger scratched her arm again.
"In a way," he smiled.
"What's wrong with me watching you writing a poster? Isn't this supposed to be a public event?"
"Why are you nervous?"
"Why do you keep looking at me?"
"Do I?"
"Do I look like a reactionary?"
"A straight tree fears no crooked shadows.'" He threw away his pen and straightened up his back. "Forgive me. I'm Evergreen."
"Hello."
"So, are you here to view the big-character posters?"
"Well, not exactly. I'm here with Maple"—Wild Ginger pushed me toward him—"who thought you knew each other."
"Maple! Hello! Sorry I didn't recognize you. You look different."
"It's my Mao jacket. The dye is bad. Every time I wash it the color changes."
"It was blue last time."
"And now it's purple."
"Next time it'll turn brown."
"You can count on that ... How is your father?"
"He is out of the hospital."
"What did he have?"
"Tuberculosis. He worked as a miner for twenty-eight years."
"Is he getting well?"
"The doctor told him to eat whatever he likes."
"What does that mean?"
"He is not expected to live long."
"I'm sorry to hear that. If there is anything I can do to help, please ... I can always fetch you the bean milk, for example." Wild Ginger and Evergreen were staring at each other. "Oh, let me introduce you two. This is Wild Ginger, my classmate, my best friend. Evergreen, my neighbor."
"Wild Ginger? That's an unusual name."
"Not as unusual as
"How?"
"Let's go to the Red Flag Middle School."
"Do you know anyone there?"
"I wonder if he remembers me."
"Who?"
"A Mao activist. Last year's champion of the Mao Quotation-Citing Contest. He is a head of the Red Guards at the school. He is my neighbor."
"How did you meet him?"
"It was in the soy milk shop last Sunday. He was in a hurry to visit his father in the hospital, but the line was three blocks long. He came to me although we had never spoken before. He asked if I would let him cut in. I let him in but the people behind me protested. To shut them up I said that he was my brother. And he got his milk ... I wonder if he would offer us some protection."
"What's his name?"
"Evergreen."
"Evergreen? How dare he! That's the name of the protagonist in Madame Mao's opera!"
"It's true and I had asked him about it. I asked how dare he copy Madame Mao."
"And what was the reaction?"
"He said she copied
him.
He was. given the name at his birth in 1954 and Madame Mao's opera was not conceived until 1960."
"Sounds like he's got character."
"Isn't that interesting!"
We found him. He was writing a big-character poster entitled "What We Talk About When We Talk About Loyalty." He was sixteen years old. Tall with a thin face and a pair of staring single-lid eyes. I didn't know how to describe him when Wild Ginger asked me except that he was handsome. I fell short of words as I considered him. I could say that he gave the impression of possessing an honest character. He was frank—knew exactly what he wanted and asked for it. The neighbors said that he was "square," which meant that he'd been brought up by strict parents. But there was something else about him that struck me. Something mysterious and unusual. He was warm and aloof at the same time. His ability to focus and shift focus without warning intrigued me. He projected a sense that he was eager to engage, yet the boundary he set was Great Wall thick. Physically, he had an athlete's frame. He was lean and his muscles were very pure in outline. He wore a blue Mao jacket and was
working, bending over a Ping-Pong table. His calligraphy was masterly and in the Song dynasty style. We watched him and waited until he finished the last stroke. He noticed Wild Ginger, put down his brush pen, and smiled at her. To me thè smile was strange and almost affectionate.
Wild Ginger scratched her arm.
Evergreen picked up his brush pen and turned back to his poster. He dipped the pen into a water jar, then looked at Wild Ginger again.
"Am I bothering you?" Wild Ginger scratched her arm again.
"In a way," he smiled.
"What's wrong with me watching you writing a poster? Isn't this supposed to be a public event?"
"Why are you nervous?"
"Why do you keep looking at me?"
"Do I?"
"Do I look like a reactionary?"
"A straight tree fears no crooked shadows.'" He threw away his pen and straightened up his back. "Forgive me. I'm Evergreen."
"Hello."
"So, are you here to view the big-character posters?"
"Well, not exactly. I'm here with Maple"—Wild Ginger pushed me toward him—"who thought you knew each other."
"Maple! Hello! Sorry I didn't recognize you. You look different."
"It's my Mao jacket. The dye is bad. Every time I wash it the color changes."
"It was blue last time."
"And now it's purple."
"Next time it'll turn brown."
"You can count on that ... How is your father?"
"He is out of the hospital."
"What did he have?"
"Tuberculosis. He worked as a miner for twenty-eight years."
"Is he getting well?"
"The doctor told him to eat whatever he likes."
"What does that mean?"
"He is not expected to live long."
"I'm sorry to hear that. If there is anything I can do to help, please ... I can always fetch you the bean milk, for example." Wild Ginger and Evergreen were staring at each other. "Oh, let me introduce you two. This is Wild Ginger, my classmate, my best friend. Evergreen, my neighbor."
"Wild Ginger? That's an unusual name."
"Not as unusual as
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