The noise of cicadas pierced the noon heat. I sat in the classroom and worried about Wild Ginger. She was absent. I decided to pay her a visit after school. I thought she probably was caught up in the preparation for the Mao Quotation-Citing Contest.
I passed Chia Chia Lane and saw that Wild Ginger's door was wide open. To my surprise, I saw that Mrs. Pei's plants were crushed and lay scattered around the yard. Strangers were coming in and out of the house. A group of men carried things out-woks, pillows, kitchenware, and toilet paper. They loaded the goods in tricycles and then rode away. I drew near. I didn't recognize these people. They had Red Guard armbands and spoke Mandarin with a northern accent. "Get out of the way!" One of them yelled at me. I moved to the side and saw my neighbor One-Eye Grandpa, a retired veteran, standing by the corner watching. He was eighty-one years old. His left eye had been poked out by a Japanese bayonet during the war. He usually did nothing but walk around the neighborhood all day.
"What's going on, Grandpa?" I went up to him.
"Don't get involved, child."
"I'm Wild Ginger's friend."
"Oh, Wild Ginger. Poor girl. Zuonieya! Buddha above, may your eyes open."
"I need to know what's going on, Grandpa. I beg you to tell me. A long life to you. May Chairman Mao grant you good luck."
"Does it matter? I'm tired of living, tired of seeing anyway," he murmured. "There was a letter from France addressed to Mrs. Pei but it got caught by the post office. They turned it over to the authorities. Next thing Mrs. Pei got arrested. She was escorted to the detention house."
"What's the letter about?"
"Who knows! I'm sure Mrs. Pei didn't even get to read it. I would guess it's from the grandparents. It's only natural that they wonder about their granddaughter."
"Where is Wild Ginger?"
"I haven't seen her. She's probably hiding somewhere. She fought with these strangers until she was pushed out."
"Who are these people?"
"Hooligans in Mao jackets!"
"Where are they from?"
"I have no idea. What I can tell you is that it's the fourth bunch. The first bunch was sent by the local authority. They took the books, letters, and photo albums. The second bunch came from the opera house. They took clothes and furniture. The third bunch was from the outer province. They took food, coal, and blankets. Now it's everybody's land."
It wasn't until evening that I saw a big, snakelike creature sitting in the crook of the fig tree. It was my friend. "Wild Ginger!" I cried out.
She didn't answer me. Her head was hidden in leaves.
"Wild Ginger, what are you doing up there?"
"Waiting for my mother."
"Have you… have you eaten?"
"I am not hungry."
"Get down. Come with me to my house."
"Leave me alone."
"Come on. You don't want me to come up and get you, do you? You know I am a poor climber."
Finally she began to climb down but she had no strength.
"Wild Ginger!"
"I'll be fine, Maple," she uttered.
I stretched out my arms to help her.
"I am dizzy, Maple. My head… Damn." Before she finished her sentence her body slid down like a soft noodle. She passed out in my arms. I held her with all my might and pushed her up against the tree trunk. Turning around I squatted down. I let her fall on my back. Slowly, I stood up and started walking toward my house.
"Buddha above, may your eyes open!" One-Eye Grandpa sighed loudly behind me.
Wild Ginger woke. She was lying on the floor-our family bed. My mother offered her a cup of water while my sisters wiped her limbs with hot towels.
Wild Ginger tried to sit up, but Mother stopped her. "You're too weak. Go back to sleep if you can."
"I can't."
"Well, child, you have to. Your mother would demand it. I am treating you as I would Maple."
Wild Ginger lay back down.
"Maple"-Mother passed me a letter as she went to wipe the table-"your father's. Said he's not allowed to return until New Year's."
I was greatly disappointed. But it was not the first time I'd experienced such disappointment. I tried to remember what my father taught me, to think positively. "So Wild Ginger can stay here then. She can sleep in Father's spot."
Mother pulled me aside and whispered, "We've run out of food. I have sold everything. I was hoping your father…"
"Mama, we can just keep eating one meal a day and drinking water when we're hungry. I'll go to the market to search through the garbage bins. I always get lucky on Tuesdays. They have new workers then who prepare the vegetables carelessly. There are a lot of half-rotten leaves thrown away. They are perfectly edible!"
"I am not sure. Your little brother has a bladder infection. The hospital bill took all my salary this month and the money I had borrowed from your aunt. Your grandmother refuses to come to visit because she sees that we can't afford an extra mouth."
"How many yuan do we have left?"
"Six."
"We've got seven days left in the month. Six divided by… it's eighty-five cents per day. I will try to manage it. Twenty-four cents for the noodles, twenty cents for rice, fourteen cents for squashes, three cents for vegetables, three cents for beans…"
"Are you feeding ants?" Mother shook her head.
I kept going. "One cent for scallions. And Mama, we have about twenty cents left for meat!"
"Twenty cents for meat!" Mother laughed bitterly. "That will be paper thin."
The light outside the windows had disappeared. Mother hurried us to go to sleep. We all lay down next to one another. Wild Ginger was sandwiched between me and my younger sister.
It was close to midnight when Wild Ginger woke me up. "Are you citing the quotations again?" I asked. She didn't answer but continued, "'…To attack the reactionary we must be merciless, we must not think of them as humans but wolves, snakes, and locusts. It is either us or them…"' Her eyes were tightly closed.
I gently pinched her nose. She stopped reciting. I tried to go back to sleep. The moonlight bathed the room in blue. Everything was visible. My brother's Mao statue stood on top of the closet. The Mao portrait stared down from the wall. We had Mao stuff in every corner of the house. Portraits, nine of them. Mao's image was printed on book covers, closets, blankets, windows, towels, plates, cups, containers, and bowls. I was getting sick of staring and being stared at by Mao all the time. But I dared not complain. Mother had taught me the ancient wisdom-"Disaster comes with your tongue." It was especially true today. Any neighbor could be a watchdog for the government. If we had no Mao portraits on the wall we would have been considered anti-Maoists. I remembered Mother once hung a colorful picture of children playing in a lotus pond on the wall. It had green leaves and pink flowers. I asked her where the picture was and she wouldn't give me a straight answer.
My eyes landed on the floor where my father's letter lay. Mother had been reading the letter over and over. I began to imagine what my father was doing at this moment. He would be missing us. He was serving his punishment for being outspoken. He was a teacher in Chinese history. The party secretary in his work unit reported to his superiors that he had views which contradicted Mao's teaching. The next thing we knew he was named a "dangerous thinker." Since he'd been sent to the labor collective, his sixty-nine-yuan salary had been cut down to fifteen yuan. He sent thirteen yuan home every month.
What would he be eating? Yecai? I imagined my father thinner now. He was a good father and had a great sense of humor. In his letter he called himself "a phoenix who got his feathers pulled, thus uglier than a hen, but still a phoenix." My mother had the opposite character. She was a worrier. She called herself "a headless fly."
In her sleep Wild Ginger's hands clenched my arm. I tried to relax her fingers. But she pulled me more tightly. It was as if she were drowning. Her grip was desperate. What would she be dreaming? Champion of the Mao Quotation-Citing Contest?
Pushing herself to be a Maoist had become Wild Ginger's obsession. Was she as strong as she thought? I didn't believe that she really hated her father. If she did, his image wouldn't be kept so vividly in her mind. In her thoughts, not only did he breathe, he sang. She had to denounce him every day in order to push him away from her. If she hated him, she would have stopped talking about him. She wouldn't act so hurt when her mother mentioned his name; it was as if salt were being poured on a fresh wound. She wouldn't have memorized his songs, in French, in his native tongue. They came to her so naturally. Maybe the truth was quite different. Maybe the truth was that she loved her father, so much that she was punishing herself for loving him.
Would she be dreaming about him now? What would she see him doing? Bringing antiques home? She once told me that he was an antique collector. She remembered that he brought home a wooden ball with ninety-nine dragons carved on its surface, which she broke accidentally. He was about to spank her but dropped his hand when she threw herself at him and held his knee. She remembered parting from him in the hospital. No one informed her that he was dying. He was speaking French to her mother and she remembered that her mother kept nodding, unable to utter a sound. She tried to figure out what they were saying, but it was impossible. Finally her father turned to her. He was smiling, but she saw his tears glistening. He didn't say goodbye. He was unable to. Her mother didn't bring her to the funeral. Her father just disappeared. Suddenly and forever. She remembered that she joked when told that he was dead. "What about the antiques? Did he expect me to take care of those?" Later on when she was told that he was a spy she almost wanted to believe it, for she thought he had deserted her.
The air was cooling but it felt sticky. The blanket we all shared got pulled to one side. It looked like it was floating on top of a sea. The moon's reflection paved a flowing path across the waves. After midnight there was wind. Moonlight came through the window and spread itself on Wild Ginger's face like a veil.