Wild Ginger (17 page)

"Well, do I get any credit for turning myself in?"

"Who do you think you are? A heroine?" He turned around and slammed the door behind him.

I was put in a room without windows. I began to compose my confession. I didn't have much to say except that I had supplied Evergreen with the pliers and the bag. To weave a
lie was not as easy as I thought. If I didn't make myself compelling, my plan would fail. If I said too much, I would expose Wild Ginger. I decided to simply call myself an anti-Maoist and write abstract words around that label.

It sounded stupid. But what else could I possibly produce? The trick was to make up facts and stretch logic. For example, we all believed that we could endure atom bombs. The fact was that we had no idea what an atom bomb could do. Chairman Mao had said that we needn't be afraid. So there was no reason to be afraid. And we weren't. We were told that if we dug deep enough into the earth, we could generate an earthquake in America. We had no doubt about that. How could Chairman Mao be wrong?

It was the easiest thing to arrest an anti-Maoist and blame the country's misfortune on him. People relished making discoveries. And people enjoyed putting villains in prison. Without learning the bad luck of the others, how could one realize one's own good fortune? An elderly lady in our district was convicted because of her anti-Mao crime. Her cat ate up her lard and she chased the cat out of the kitchen and into the lane. She shouted, "Kill the cat! Kill the cat!" She forgot that the word for cat
(mao)
sounded the same as the Chairman's name. It was too late when she realized her mistake. She should have shouted, "Kill the one whom mice fear!" Another anti-Maoist was an old man. He had stomach problems and farted during a Mao reading. When he refused to publicly criticize himself, he was sent to a forced labor collective for the rest of his life. In contrast, there was a young boy who was considered
a hero because he cried "A long, long life to Chairman Mao!" when he drowned in a flood.

I could no longer make sense out of life.

There had been no sign that my case would be brought to light. I was given a bowl of water and two buns every day. I had turned in my papers and was told to wait for a response. I became frustrated as the days went by without any news. I began to realize that I had done the dumbest thing in my life. I was cold at night lying on the bare floor. A plastic container served as a chamber pot. It had no lid. I breathed my own waste. I banged on the door on the tenth day and asked to speak to the investigator. The guard came and said that my food of the day would be taken away as punishment.

After two months of isolation my wait ended. Mr. Wang came and read me the news from a yellow paper. He read in a slurred, impatient, and careless voice, as if he had been reading this all his life and was sick of going through it again.

I learned that my fake confession would have no effect on Evergreen's case. I was sentenced to life in prison as an anti-Maoist.

"The sentence will be effective immediately after a public rally." Mr. Wang threw me the paper and walked off with his hands locked behind him and a cigarette between his fingers.

***

I had killed a hen in trying to fetch an egg. I was foolish. But I did what I had to. The prosecutors didn't even bother to interrogate Evergreen to check whether I had told the truth. Maybe they did check and Evergreen had respected my wish. Maybe, who knows, Evergreen knew the truth. Otherwise why didn't he claim his innocence? Maybe he wanted to protect Wild Ginger. Maybe he understood her jealousy and felt guilty about his betrayal. By remaining silent he compensated for her loss.

Anyway I was the fruit of victory for the prosecutors. Now they could go to the general party secretary and be rewarded as heroes. There would be promotions and medal-giving ceremonies. The secretary could be confident that the party's face had been saved. The masses would be warned and the lessons learned. This had always been the purpose of public executions.

I wondered about Wild Ginger. I wanted to know her feelings before I was locked away from the sunshine for good, and before the prosecutor put a bullet in Evergreen's head. I needed to hear Wild Ginger's thoughts on the show she had originated.

I didn't hate her. I hated myself for pushing Evergreen to attend the singing rally.

I now realized that it was the old Wild Ginger I had been trying to reach. The irony was, at least it seemed, that when it came to my choice of whom to rescue, Wild Ginger was the only one on my list. I was still amazed at the fact that I
didn't turn in Wild Ginger in exchange for Evergreen's life. What drove me? With whom was I in love?

I couldn't hear my heart's answer. Yet I did what my heart bade me. What was the confusion? Was it because Evergreen was not mine to begin with? Was it always in the back of my head that he was her lover? Was it my fear? Was it the doubt that I could never make Evergreen mine which stopped me from loving him fully? Or was it something else? Something completely opposite. Something like, if I took Evergreen away from Wild Ginger then might she focus her attention on me? For the first time I began to wonder, Was I in love with Wild Ginger? How else could I explain my sacrificing Evergreen to her safety? Was it easier to convince myself that Evergreen had never been able to stop loving Wild Ginger? Was it the fact that Wild Ginger and Evergreen continued to love each other that hurt me, hurt me so deeply that I had to destroy Evergreen and myself?

I spent my eighteenth birthday in jail. I had no regrets. At eighteen I had long been trained to extinguish regret. To die for a cause was glorious. We were brought up on the farewell letters of the revolutionaries. Jiang Jie, Hui Dai-ying, and Sheng Bao-ying, to name a famous few. I began to prepare myself, to serve my sentence like a War captive. I began to accept the fact that Evergreen would be shot and I would spend the rest of my life mourning the loss. It could have been worse. It seemed better to remain in jail than to face Wild Ginger and the question of why I had concealed the murderer of my lover. Prison had become an escape. To avoid seeing Wild Ginger was to avoid the stain of my memory.

I was aware that my mind was going. The nut that wouldn't crack was "Life will mean nothing after I lose Evergreen." Still, I couldn't help picturing the two of us spending our lives together up in the mountains, in a poor village, struggling gladly to provide children a glimpse of
light. The thought never failed to bring tears to my eyes.

I remembered a story from One-Eye Grandpa. He said he'd once had a hard time explaining to a group of village children what a book was. They had never seen one. He was a veteran at that time and was passing through the town. I was sure Evergreen and I would have made a difference. What a pity.

Strangely, I missed Wild Ginger. I often mentally relived our childhood. I had plenty of time. I enacted on my mind's stage events at the school gate, the classroom, the seafood market, the "zoo" dances, and the closet. I forbade myself to think of Wild Ginger as a Maoist. The image of her speaking through an electric loudspeaker distressed me. I chose to fill my mind with her songs in French. I treated my memory with care. I was bidding goodbye to both of my lovers as they had lived and was saying hello to their spirits. In the process I felt a weight lift from me.

It was at that point, in the middle of my mind's flight, she appeared. "The investigator," a guard announced.

Wild Ginger emerged from the shadow and entered my cell. She stood by the door and didn't move for a long time. She was observing me. She was in her uniform and her hair was tucked neatly inside the cap. She had a new watch on her wrist. My heart sped up. Somehow I had been expecting her. I stood up, not to welcome her, but to acknowledge her presence.

"Leave us alone," she ordered the guards. They exited quietly and closed the door behind them. The echo of their
steps came, then faded. Deadly silence. We could hear the sound of our own breathing.

She had changed a great deal, I observed. She looked exhausted. The light in her eyes was gone. What was left was a drab day. I was used to her unruly style, so her silence made me feel odd. I began to think of something to say to break the silence. Our time together was gold. Maybe I should ask her about my family. Maybe I should ask her to protect them with her power. I wanted her to deliver a message to my mother, to say that I did this for love—I had promised to marry Evergreen and it was a wife's duty to go into exile to be with her husband. Yet I found it hard to speak these words.

She sat still on one side of the bench. The bare bulb shone between us, blanching our skin. She glanced at the door as if to make sure that the guards were not listening. Then she turned to look at me and waited for me to talk.

I still couldn't open my mouth. A moment ago my thoughts raced, but now I had none. I stared at her fists resting on the table. They were the same fists that had punched Hot Pepper to protect me—a fleeting thought that zipped through my mind's sky. I swallowed a mouthful of saliva.

As if in response to my staring she withdrew her hands. She took off her red-star cap and placed it on the table. Her lips moved but nothing was uttered. I couldn't help thinking that this was the last time I would see her. I tried to stop my sorrow from welling up. Little by little, my mind began
its final drawing. The features in front of me that I loved. The thin eyebrows, the almond eyes with yellow pupils, the long and delicate nose. The mouth, which could have such an unyielding expression. It felt unbearable to continue looking.

"Maple, you know it was me." Her lips finally cracked. "You know it was a setup." Her voice was low and husky. "Why didn't you tell?"

I tried to suck some air into my lungs and then shook my head.

She looked at her watch. "Speak." Her breath was heavy.

"The damage is already done. Someone has to pay the price," I said. "Someone has to be punished. If it is not Evergreen and me, it will be you."

Her eyes looked down and she bit her lower lip and held it.

"I made up my mind, that's all." I felt relieved to be able to say this to her.

Her lips trembled and her tears began to come. She tried hard to press back her emotion.

"I wish you well, Wild Ginger," I managed to say. "For what we had, for what you have done for me in the past, for what ... I have done that hurt you—although I am not apologizing."

Abruptly she got up. Without saying another word she pulled the door open and exited.

I sat with her cap in front of me. Suddenly I was hit by a dreadful pain. It ground my stomach. My hands reached out for the cap.

October 1, National Independence Day. My name was called. As I walked through the prison hallway I was silently stared at by prisoners behind bars. In their eyes I saw pity and fear. Returning their gaze, I could hear the screams inside their heads. Suddenly I thought I should sing like the heroines in Madame Mao's revolutionary operas, the women who face death with the kind of calm that suggests they're merely going home. But my teeth were chattering and my tongue stiff. I could hardly walk straight.

With my hands tightly bound I was pushed onto a truck packed with convicts. As the gate clashed closed the truck took off. I didn't know how long the journey would be. We passed open fields, mountain areas. I was in tears when I saw cows grazing on the hills and tall corn waiting to be harvested. None of my fellow passengers were looking at what I saw. Their faces were soil colored and their heads were slumped between their knees.

In the afternoon the road became smooth. There was more traffic and I recognized that we were in Shanghai. The sunlight streaked through trees onto the pavement. It was the annual celebration time, and this was the day to "kill the hen to scare the monkeys." I never thought that I would be the hen. The pedestrians showed no interest as our truck drove by. A few children followed the truck and shouted, "The villains! The villains!"

The men walked with expressionless faces, all in Mao jackets. The women carried their baskets and dragged their children. They walked fast. I longed to find my mother or father among them. I was sure that my mother had been looking for me. She probably had had numerous fights with the authorities already. My siblings had surely made the rounds of the correction houses. I knew the little ones would. They would walk miles to the Number One Shanghai Prison and sit on the edge of the pavement across from the house for hours on end. They would watch the guards changing shifts and inspect the trucks transporting convicts, hoping to get a glimpse of me. They would sit till dark, without food, without water, as I once did waiting for my father at the district's labor collective office. It was the place from which he had departed. I knew that he wouldn't be there. But I missed him so much that it made me feel better that I was waiting for him.

I knew what awaited me. Year after year, I had witnessed so many men and women escorted by soldiers to the rallies at the People's Square. Their heads were shaved.
When I was little I didn't doubt that they were villains. I was always happy to see them executed. I shouted slogans and threw rocks when their trucks passed through the streets. The city authorities loved to display the "revolutionary fruits." Twenty-three years ago when Chairman Mao's Liberation Army took over the cities they paraded through the same streets. Their "fruits" included U.S. tanks and other weapons. Today the convicts were roped like New Year's presents.

When the driver made a stop at a brick building without a sign and a number, more prisoners clambered on, including one I immediately recognized as Evergreen. It had been months since I had seen him. His head was shaved to the scalp. His features seemed hardened. He looked prepared. If I hadn't been roped, I would have thrown myself at him. He gave me a weak grin as our eyes met. There was no bitterness in his expression. I supposed that he too had chosen to sacrifice himself. I admired his determination but was jealous that he let himself be punished for Wild Ginger.

We arrived at the People's Square. As the truck cut through the oceanlike crowds, the young people were chanting Mao quotations. '"The reactionaries are hostile to our state. They don't like the dictatorship of the proletariat. Whenever there is an opportunity, they will stir up trouble and attempt to overthrow the Communist party and restore old China. As between the proletarian and the bourgeois roads, as between the socialist and the capitalist roads, these people stubbornly choose to follow the latter.
They are ready to capitulate to imperialism, feudalism, and bureaucratic capitalism. Such people are extremely reactionary..."'