Wild Ginger (7 page)

"It takes too long to have the snails' butts removed. One pound takes about one hour. Unless you don't mind waiting," Mother said.

"I sure don't," I said happily and went to sleep early that night.

It was three o'clock in the morning when I woke. The night was icy. The wind that came through the windowsills sounded like an old woman sobbing. I took my clothes and
got off the bed. My legs were trembling in the cold. I picked up my socks from the floor. They were like two frozen fish. I stood on them and crunched the ice before I put them on. My toes ached with the numbing cold. I pushed my feet into my shoes. Taking a basket I stepped out of the door. The streets were wrapped in darkness. I walked fast toward the market. The wind on my skin felt like tiny cutting knives. Soon I saw the light from the market's bare bulbs. I went to check the fish booth first. There were already lines of people encircling the booth. A man with a stub of chalk wrote numbers on people's sleeves to make sure no latecomers would cut in. I got my number and put down my basket. My fingers were beginning to freeze. Like everyone else I stamped my feet and wiggled my toes to keep warm.

The clerk at the fish booth took out a big wooden hammer. He chopped an ice pack of fish and eels. The stinking smell indicated that the seafood was not fresh. Most of the fish were already rotten. The squid had big bones and paper-thin flesh. The beltfish, too, were stick thin. Only the snails looked all right.

The wind rose. It almost blew my basket away. I picked up a couple of rocks from the side street and placed them inside the basket to hold it. I asked the woman behind me to watch my spot. I said that I needed to pee and would be right back.

I found Wild Ginger's stall in the middle of a group of seafood preparers. They were on the side of the market where the wind blew like slashing whips. Wild Ginger was
bundled in scarves and rags. Sitting on a small stool, she held a Mao Quotation Book in her hands. She was wearing a pair of fingerless gloves. Two pieces of plastic, tied at her knees, shielded her lower legs. In front of her a washboard lay flat side up. On top of it rested a pair of rusty scissors and a crook-toothed knife. Three metal buckets stood in front of her. I assumed that one would be for fish scales, another for squid bones, and the third for heads, tails, and intestines. Next to the buckets was a jar covered with a piece of towel. I assumed that it was warm water.

The bell rang. I rushed back to my spot and picked up my basket. The crowd began to push forward. The fish booth was sealed by the human wall. The line moved slowly. Everyone watched the pile of fish getting smaller and smaller. We all prayed that there would be some left for us. "It looks like you will be the last," the woman behind me said. "Would you let me have a little for watching your spot for you? My daughter-in-law just had a baby."

I nodded. My turn came. The squid were gone. The eels were gone too. There was only one beltfish left. I passed the fish to the woman and ordered the rest of the snails. It was about a pound and a half. The human wall around me collapsed in disappointed sighs. The clerk began to scrub and wash the booth.

My feet landed in front of Wild Ginger. She was busy preparing a beltfish. Using the knife she skillfully scrubbed off the silver-colored scales and deposited them in the bucket. Then she picked up the scissors and started to take
out the intestines. Once in a while she dipped her fingers in the warm water. I was sure the water was icy cold by now. There were a few cuts on her fingers. They were bleeding.

"Are my snails ready yet?" a customer asked Wild Ginger.

"Coming up," Wild Ginger answered apologetically without raising her head. "I've already cut half and I'll finish the rest in a minute after this one."

"My snails were here before someone else's fish," the customer complained. "I thought you said first come first served. You are a liar and I won't come to you again."

"I'm terribly sorry, madam," Wild Ginger said as she put the fish in one basket and picked up the snails. She talked with her hands moving fast. The snails dropped into the basket as if from a machine.

I moved up. My basket was right by her head. "Service, madam?" She pulled over my basket. "I am good and quick. I charge a cent cheaper." She was talking to me.

"I'll never come to you again," the snail lady complained. "You haven't finished with one customer and you have started to grab another. How greedy!"

Wild Ginger tried to move her fingers faster. The blisters on her palm and around her fingers looked swollen. The blood from her cuts mixed with the eels'. Wild Ginger's scarf got blown off by the wind. She reached out her right leg to hold the scarf down while her fingers continued to work with the snails. "Madam, I'll give you one cent back for the delay."

"You ought to," the woman said.

"Wild Ginger," I called.

She raised her head. "Maple!" She turned to the lady. "She is no customer. She's my friend."

"Hurry up!" The woman was irritated.

"Thanks for the business. Thanks for waiting." Wild Ginger was talking to me.

"May I help?" I offered.

"I'm almost done. Don't dirty your hands. The stink will stick to you all day. Here you are, madam, done." She shoveled the finished snails into the customer's basket.

The woman gave Wild Ginger a dirty look. She threw three cents to her and walked away.

Wild Ginger began to work on my snails as I went to fetch vegetables. By now the day was bright. The market was much less crowded. Most of the booths were empty. The late customers looked miserable—there was nothing except frozen radishes to buy. People had been eating radishes for months.

By the time I came back, Wild Ginger was selling her cat food. She piled the fish heads, tails, and intestines neatly on the washed-clean board and waited for the customers. She sat on a piece of brick and saved her stool for me. A couple of old ladies came and bargained.

I sat down next to Wild Ginger. I was hungry and frozen. I'd love to have a bowl of hot tofu soup, I thought. But I dared not spend the money. I was sure Wild Ginger was hungrier. The smell of baked yams wafted over. Wild
Ginger got up and yelled, "Cat food!" Her eyes sought eagerly. "Fresh intestines!" She rubbed her hands to warm them. Her nose was red. Her cheeks were splotched with black squid ink. Fish scales glinted in her hair. She yawned and stretched her arms and legs.

"The other day, Evergreen came to visit," Wild Ginger told me. "He helped me with the Mao reciting and dropped a lot of tips, even knowing that I was a rival."

"I told you he was a nice fellow."

"He said the purpose of the contest was not to win but to promote Mao study. He was impressed by my work. He thought that I had a good chance to win."

"I agree, Wild Ginger. You work so hard."

"There was something else Evergreen said that disturbed me."

"What is it?"

"It's Hot Pepper. Do you know Hot Pepper has registered for the contest too? She said that she was determined to beat me. But she's no match. So she uses political excuses to make sure I won't enter."

"The spy stuff again?"

"What else can she say?"

"This is going to be tricky."

"I know. Evergreen is fighting for me. He believes that the Communist party promotes justice and fairness. And I believe him."

The tinkling of bells reached our ears. Two bicycles with large containers hung on each side arrived. They were the
refinery and herb shop workers. Wild Ginger went up to greet them.

"It's not fresh. I don't want it," the refinery man bargained.

"I haven't gone home yet, big uncle," Wild Ginger negotiated. "You won't get fresher stuff this morning."

"One cent a pound."

"Two cents, uncle. I have to eat too."

"One cent or I am leaving." The man rang his bell.

"Fine, one cent." Wild Ginger gave the man her buckets.

"The squid bone is too small, I don't want it," the herb man said, ringing his bell too, as if hurrying to move on.

"Half price. One cent a pound," Wild Ginger yielded.

The man took out his scale, weighed the bucket, then paid Wild Ginger. "You smart kid. You know I'm your last stop."

Wild Ginger counted the money and placed the pennies carefully inside her pocket. She looked satisfied and went to close her stall.

I said goodbye and walked toward home. I tried to fight against a welling sorrow. My mornings were never the same after that day. I thought of Wild Ginger while I indulged in warm blankets. I thought of her while drinking my mother's hot tofu soup. In learning to appreciate my family's luck I experienced a sense of guilt. I was in tears while my mother put a piece of beltfish in my bowl, and while my father awarded me with a story read from the book I got him from the recycling station. Bathing in my parents'
attention, I understood the word "deprivation." I wished Wild Ginger well, I wished that she could continue to rise as the star of the Mao study, and I wished that her fish-smell hands would eventually bring her a good future. I felt that I owed her, that society owed her. She had to win. And I would do anything to help her win.

The Mao Quotation-Citing Contest was broadcast live throughout the district, with every classroom tuned in. It was a clear spring day. I sat at my desk and concentrated on listening to the loudspeaker. The scores of the final contestants were close. By the afternoon there were only three left—Hot Pepper, Evergreen, and Wild Ginger. The result wasn't hard to guess since Wild Ginger's lead was great. Suddenly the judge, the district party secretary, ordered a recess and said that the winner would be announced the next morning.

I was very excited for Wild Ginger. The winner of the contest was to go on to a national-level competition. If she won, she could be honored as a Maoist. She might even be brought to meet Chairman Mao himself.

I went to Wild Ginger's house and waited for her return from the People's Square, where the contest took place. It was dark already. I sat by her door. One hour passed. I saw no shadow of her. I paced back and forth along Chia Chia
Lane and hoped to run into her. Finally it was not Wild Ginger but my oldest brother who came.

"Quick, sis, there has been a fight." My brother tried to catch his breath. "Hot Pepper and her brothers have gotten Wild Ginger. Fortunately she was with Evergreen."

My brother led me to the spot. I saw Wild Ginger chasing away Yaya to the end of the lane. Two of Hot Pepper's brothers were lying on the ground. Evergreen had Hot Pepper's oldest brother, Big Dragon, underneath him. Under the streetlight Evergreen's face was distorted. He had a swollen jaw. I assumed that the fighting had been fierce. Big Dragon begged for mercy. Hot Pepper was crying and throwing herself at Evergreen. Evergreen twisted Big Dragon's arms backward.

"You are breaking his arms," Hot Pepper screamed.

Evergreen clenched his teeth. "You've started the biting and now you'd better swallow the whole cake!"

"Wild Ginger had no right to compete in the first place," Hot Pepper yelled. "She is politically disqualified."

"The party gives equal rights to every comrade who devotes himself to Chairman Mao," Evergreen shot back.

"A spy is not a comrade—"

Unexpectedly Hot Pepper's mouth was slapped by her youngest brother, Little Dragon. "Go home, sis."

Evergreen let go of Big Dragon.

Middle Dragon and Little Dragon came to help their brother up, then took off.

"We'll be back!" Hot Pepper shouted.

"If your brothers dare to touch Wild Ginger again I'll pull off their squid heads!"

Wild Ginger looked like a blooming lotus. Evergreen took us to a tofu soup stand for a snack. We wolfed down steamed buns. I couldn't help staring at Wild Ginger. It was the first time I'd seen her happy. We finished the soup quickly and started walking. She took my hand and walked quietly on my right side while Evergreen was on my left. Wild Ginger didn't thank Evergreen. Didn't even look at him. We were silent.

"Who do you think will be the winner?" I broke the silence.

"It ought to be Wild Ginger," said Evergreen. "But I have a feeling the district party secretary is having his doubts."

"It was my fear," Wild Ginger sighed. "How naive I was to believe—"

"You must trust the Communist party," Evergreen interrupted. "You must trust Chairman Mao. Very few people are crooks."

We were at the crossing next to a bicycle parking lot. Evergreen went to pick up his bicycle.

"How do you solve the problem, Evergreen?" I grew impatient.

Without taking his eyes off Wild Ginger, Evergreen said, "You have to learn to endure the test of time. You have to be the winner of hearts and not just the contest. The truth
is"—he hesitated for a second and then pressed on—"you've already taken the championship in my heart."

Wild Ginger's cheeks flushed.

As if embarrassed by his own frankness, Evergreen backed off and got on the bicycle. He nodded a goodbye and disappeared into the traffic.

It surprised everyone when the winner was announced the next day. Evergreen won first place, with Hot Pepper second. Wild Ginger got an honorable mention. Mrs. Cheng received an explanation from the authorities, which she read to the class. Wild Ginger lost her place because of her poor background. She was given the school's and the district authorities' regrets. It seemed that everyone understood and accepted the treatment given to Wild Ginger. Since she was a second-class citizen, Wild Ginger's suffering became insignificant. If she were recognized as a dog, it was only natural for her to drink water from a puddle instead of a cup.

Before I had a chance, Evergreen went to comfort Wild Ginger. He went to visit her every couple of days and later on went to help her in the fish market in the mornings. When I asked him about his feelings toward the outcome he spoke almost angrily. Besides his complaint on the unfairness of the contest, he felt betrayed by the district party secretary. As he tried to comfort Wild Ginger, convincing her to rely on the party's judgment, he himself was not convinced. He became disillusioned, even disgusted.