Evergreen, the Communist party secretary in Madame Mao's famous opera."
"Are you an opera fan?"
Wild Ginger didn't seem to want to answer the question.
"Her mother is," I answered for her. "Her mother is an opera singer."
"My mother is an enemy," Wild Ginger said bluntly.
I turned to her. "What are you doing?"
"Telling facts. So Evergreen doesn't confuse me with who I really am."
"But isn't this a terrible way to introduce oneself?"
"I thought we came to ask for help. Should we tell the truth?" Wild Ginger shot back.
"No, we don't need help." For a strange reason I suddenly changed my mind. I wasn't sure what it was. Something stirred me and my pride rose. It forbade me to be pitied.
"What kind of help, Maple?" Evergreen asked.
"Nothing. Actually, I'm just showing Wild Ginger around. What's new with you, Evergreen?"
Wild Ginger was puzzled. But she followed me.
Pulling the poster to the side Evergreen answered, "I have been preparing for the coming Mao Quotation-Citing Contest. I am trying to recite three hundred pages. I want to upset my own record."
"Ambitious!"
"I suppose that's what devotion and loyalty are all about."
"Can anyone participate?" Wild Ginger asked.
"It's an open contest."
5
"Wild Ginger has been calling you outside the window," Mother said. It was Sunday morning. I was chopping wood and my mother was cooking. "She sounds troubled. Where are you going? Maple, take the garbage with you."
I shot downstairs. Wild Ginger came to me with a tear-stained face. "My mother..." she choked.
It was an ongoing rally. Mrs. Pei was the subject of the denunciation. A board hung on her chest reading FRENCH SPY . A middle-aged man wearing dark-framed glasses was reading a criticism aloud. He was clotheshanger thin. His features were donkeylike. His mouth was a child's drawing of a boat sailing above his chin. He shouted, "Down with the French spy and long live Chairman Mao!"
"It'll be over soon." Standing behind the crowd I comforted Wild Ginger.
"Friendly is being cooked in a wok," she said to me without turning her head.
"Now?" I was shocked.
"They took him this morning..."
I held out my arms to embrace her.
"Don't touch me!" She pushed me away. "People will see.
"It looks like your mother is fainting," I observed.
"That's what that man wanted. He wants to see her suffer."
"Who is he?"
"Mr. Choo. My mother's ex-admirer. He is an accountant at the fish market. He lost her to my father sixteen years ago."
"How do you know?"
"I read his love letters to Mother. I read all my mother's letters, including my father's. Of course I couldn't understand them. They were in French."
"Where are the letters?"
"Gone."
"You've burned them?"
"They were disgusting."
"Does your mother know?"
Shaking her head, Wild Ginger sat down on the ground. On the makeshift stage Mrs. Pei looked as if she had passed out. She leaned over a chair. Her body was motionless. The organizer pronounced that she was "faking death," and ordered the rally to continue.
Mr. Choo picked up his speech.
The crowd watched.
Wild Ginger closed her eyes and buried her face in her palms.
The sun was getting hotter. My head was steaming.
"Let's go," I said to Wild Ginger.
"I wish she were dead. I wish I were dead," Wild Ginger murmured.
As a form of punishment, Mrs. Pei was ordered to sweep the lanes in the neighborhood. For the first few weeks Mrs. Pei dragged her sick body about and did the work. She got up at four o'clock in the morning and swept until the sun rose. When she was too sick to get out of bed, Wild Ginger took over.
I didn't know that until early one morning when a cat's wail woke me and I opened the window and heard a
sha-sha-sha-sha
sweeping sound. It was still dark. The streetlights colored the tree trunks orange. The whistle of a steam engine came from a distance. The wind tore the old posters off the wall. Papers scratched the cement ground. The sound carried for a great distance, like nobody's shoes walking
"Are you an opera fan?"
Wild Ginger didn't seem to want to answer the question.
"Her mother is," I answered for her. "Her mother is an opera singer."
"My mother is an enemy," Wild Ginger said bluntly.
I turned to her. "What are you doing?"
"Telling facts. So Evergreen doesn't confuse me with who I really am."
"But isn't this a terrible way to introduce oneself?"
"I thought we came to ask for help. Should we tell the truth?" Wild Ginger shot back.
"No, we don't need help." For a strange reason I suddenly changed my mind. I wasn't sure what it was. Something stirred me and my pride rose. It forbade me to be pitied.
"What kind of help, Maple?" Evergreen asked.
"Nothing. Actually, I'm just showing Wild Ginger around. What's new with you, Evergreen?"
Wild Ginger was puzzled. But she followed me.
Pulling the poster to the side Evergreen answered, "I have been preparing for the coming Mao Quotation-Citing Contest. I am trying to recite three hundred pages. I want to upset my own record."
"Ambitious!"
"I suppose that's what devotion and loyalty are all about."
"Can anyone participate?" Wild Ginger asked.
"It's an open contest."
5
"Wild Ginger has been calling you outside the window," Mother said. It was Sunday morning. I was chopping wood and my mother was cooking. "She sounds troubled. Where are you going? Maple, take the garbage with you."
I shot downstairs. Wild Ginger came to me with a tear-stained face. "My mother..." she choked.
It was an ongoing rally. Mrs. Pei was the subject of the denunciation. A board hung on her chest reading FRENCH SPY . A middle-aged man wearing dark-framed glasses was reading a criticism aloud. He was clotheshanger thin. His features were donkeylike. His mouth was a child's drawing of a boat sailing above his chin. He shouted, "Down with the French spy and long live Chairman Mao!"
"It'll be over soon." Standing behind the crowd I comforted Wild Ginger.
"Friendly is being cooked in a wok," she said to me without turning her head.
"Now?" I was shocked.
"They took him this morning..."
I held out my arms to embrace her.
"Don't touch me!" She pushed me away. "People will see.
"It looks like your mother is fainting," I observed.
"That's what that man wanted. He wants to see her suffer."
"Who is he?"
"Mr. Choo. My mother's ex-admirer. He is an accountant at the fish market. He lost her to my father sixteen years ago."
"How do you know?"
"I read his love letters to Mother. I read all my mother's letters, including my father's. Of course I couldn't understand them. They were in French."
"Where are the letters?"
"Gone."
"You've burned them?"
"They were disgusting."
"Does your mother know?"
Shaking her head, Wild Ginger sat down on the ground. On the makeshift stage Mrs. Pei looked as if she had passed out. She leaned over a chair. Her body was motionless. The organizer pronounced that she was "faking death," and ordered the rally to continue.
Mr. Choo picked up his speech.
The crowd watched.
Wild Ginger closed her eyes and buried her face in her palms.
The sun was getting hotter. My head was steaming.
"Let's go," I said to Wild Ginger.
"I wish she were dead. I wish I were dead," Wild Ginger murmured.
As a form of punishment, Mrs. Pei was ordered to sweep the lanes in the neighborhood. For the first few weeks Mrs. Pei dragged her sick body about and did the work. She got up at four o'clock in the morning and swept until the sun rose. When she was too sick to get out of bed, Wild Ginger took over.
I didn't know that until early one morning when a cat's wail woke me and I opened the window and heard a
sha-sha-sha-sha
sweeping sound. It was still dark. The streetlights colored the tree trunks orange. The whistle of a steam engine came from a distance. The wind tore the old posters off the wall. Papers scratched the cement ground. The sound carried for a great distance, like nobody's shoes walking
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