Wild Ginger - Anchee Min [22]
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.
10
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