by Anchee Min
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.
25
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..."'
I felt spit on my face, then rocks. Someone got hold of my hair and wouldn't let go. The truck kept going. With a terrible tearing pain a patch of my hair was yanked off along with a part of my scalp. The crowd cheered. They shouted, "Down with the anti-Maoist!" I was enraged, but I couldn't move, couldn't wipe off the blood dripping down my face. I spat back at a youthful face. She ran over, clinging to the slow-moving truck. I felt her fingernails plowing through the skin on my face.
The crowd began to sing. It was one of my favorite songs—the Mao poem "Capture Nanking." "'Rain and a windstorm rage blue and yellow over the Bell Mountain, as a million peerless troops cross the Great River. The peak is a coiled dragon, the city a crouching tiger more dazzling than before. The sky is spinning and the earth upside down. We are elated yet we must use our courage to chase the hopeless enemy..."'
Suddenly I doubted my motivation. M
aybe it wasn't as sacred as I thought. Maybe all I was doing was trying to beg for Evergreen's love. Look at me, I am willing to sacrifice my life for you. I am better than Wild Ginger. See for your own eyes. Look, Evergreen, here is the one who is willing to go all the way, to die for you, and there is the other who has ordered a bullet in your head.
The truck moved through the sea of red flags and banners. At every jerky stop I moved myself toward Evergreen. Finally, our shoulders touched. We looked at each other and I saw sorrow in his eyes.
The rally had begun. The People's Square was a small-scale Tiananmen Square. Since there was no Gate of Heavenly Peace, the bleak, flat-roofed, Russian-style city hall was the tallest structure in view. It was heavily decorated for the celebration with red flags and banners draped from every wall. A crowd of hundreds of thousands gathered around a makeshift stage and shouted, "We owe our life to the Communist party! We owe our happiness to Chairman Mao!"
I was pushed off the truck with the rest of the convicts. We were escorted to a dark room inside the city hall. I smelled shit. Several convicts had already lost control of their bowels. Others started screaming and making incomprehensible sounds.
Trying to shut them up the guards struck them with the butts of their guns. It didn't stop them. The guards pushed the convicts toward the stage when their names were called. Every time when the door toward the stage opened, the wavelike sound of slogan shouting hit our faces.
I began to look for Wild Ginger. My mind spun. Suddenly I couldn't accept this, couldn't allow Wild Ginger to murder Evergreen and imprison me. I needed to break my silence. I could taste the regret in my mouth. For the first time, I thought, Wild Ginger is not worth it.
"Wild Ginger! Wild Ginger!" I screamed. The guards came and kicked me. I rolled on the ground but kept screaming.
Wild Ginger wasn't hosting the rally. I assumed that she would appear later as an important speaker. She once told me that Chairman Mao always spoke last at meetings.
Evergreen's name was called. As the guards pushed him toward the stage he turned to look at me. I sensed that he was bidding me a final goodbye. "Maple, I'll come back a tree." He was in tears but he was smiling. "I'll keep your life green. If you ever get out, please visit my grandmother on Bei Mountain. She is ninety-three years old and lives in a temple on top of the mountain. It's called the Cliff Temple. Tell her to watch out for a cricket singing under her bed at every full moon. Give all my Mao buttons and books to Wild Ginger. Tell her that I was a proud anti-Maoist."
He was in a bloodstained white shirt and blue pants. In a few minutes he would be a martyr. I broke down.
"Down with the anti-Maoists!" The shouting came from the loudspeaker. "Down! Down! Down!"
I was already in hell. I saw a reason to destroy the world, the world in which Wild Ginger would go on living as a celebrated Maoist, and would feel no repentance. My conscience rebelled against my heart. My mind gathered its courage. My eyes sought the microphone and my voice prepared itself. The speech was already composed in my head. I knew exactly what I was going to say. I was going to say that I was sick of pretending. Then I would spit out the truth. The whole truth, starting with the closet and ending with the backstage conversation.
I gave myself permission to break the promise, to declare that my love for Wild Ginger was over.
"Convict Maple" was called through the microphone. The guards' clawlike hands came and grabbed my shoulders. They locked me in their grip and pushed me toward the stage. They lined me up with Evergreen.
I pivoted my head toward Evergreen. His eyes were closed and his chin protruded toward the sky. His face was a mask of sadness.
I stared at the microphone. I felt my legs shaking. My chest quaked.
A man with tiny eyes and fat cheeks appeared before me. He had a pair of scissors and an electric shaver. The guard pulled my arms behind my back and tied them there. I was pushed to my knees. Suddenly the sky was draped with the folds of skin under the fat man's chin. He started to shave my head.
The crowd boiled. It looked like a million termites.
My hair dropped in bunches. I thought of a hen being plucked in the market.
I told myself to wait for my moment to address the crowd.
Suddenly someone else's name was called. I was lifted from my knees and shoved down the stage.
I was exiting. No! I realized that I would not be given a chance to expose the truth. How foolish I was! The reason some convicts were given a moment to speak was because they couldn't talk—their vocal cords had been removed!
Despair overwhelmed me. I kicked and struggled with all my might. The guard hit my newly shorn head with the back of his gun.
The trucks were parked on the side of the square. It was loading time again. The guards pushed Evergreen toward the first truck while I was led to the second. I broke the guards' hold and threw myself at Evergreen. I yelled his name hysterically. I fell on the ground. Four other guards came trying to quiet me. But I was wild and desperate. I held Evergreen's leg. My tears wet the bottom of his trousers. It was too late. Nothing was going to save him. I had come to my senses too late. I had helped Wild Ginger murder him.
Where was Wild Ginger? The heart remains pure if the eyes don't see, my dead grandmother's voice said to me. How smart of her to hide now. But I was certain that she was somewhere watching us. Her mind's eye saw every second of this. She counted the minutes left for Evergreen to breathe and the time left for me to be warmed by the sun. Had I been wrong all the way back to the day we met? Was there ever a Wild Ginger who deserved a place in my final thoughts?
The guards stepped on my wrists. A sharp pain shot through my hand. I let go of Evergreen's trousers. I let go of my love and my life.
It was then that I heard a voice. Her voice. Far away but recognizable. I was sure it was she. She was talking through a loudspeaker. From high above. From the flat roof of the city hall.
My head turned, and with it a million other heads. The focus sharpened, toward a tiny figure standing on top of the roof waving madly, holding a microphone. Behind her, the setting sun looked like a giant red lantern.
The voice sounded distorted. The syllables came broken, as if cut by a gust of wind. "Long live Chairman Mao! I am the Maoist Wild Ginger. Stop the execution! Chairman Mao teaches us, 'A true Communist is a person who is noble, selfless, and lives for the cause of building Communism and to sacrifice herself for the people!' Well, I contradicted Mao's teaching! I am here because I can't explain what's happened to me. I deeply apologize to Chairman Mao. I am ashamed that I had to choose a coward's way ... If I can't be noble, can't be selfless, can't live for the cause of building Communism, I can climb on the altar..." The figure moved along the edge of the roof as if looking for a spot to jump. In one moment I envisioned her fall. My breath skipped.
"But I am too low for Chairman Mao. My sacrifice would not be acceptable for him. My blood has bourgeois ink in it. I am not fit for the revolutionary altar ... I am a waste, what can I tell you? I'll die and the significance of my death will weigh less than a feather. But I am not going to cry. At least I will act like a Maoist, so you will know I am not a fake. At the core I am who I've always claimed to be ... My friend Maple was stupid. She was not a Maoist. She needs to be reformed. She's a thief who stole hearts. But the singing rally incident had nothing to do with her, neither with Comrade Evergreen ... I am here to tell you the truth. I am a Maoist. I do what I have to do because I practice our great leader's teaching!"
She moved to the corner of the building and shouted, "Chairman Mao teaches us, 'Many things may become baggage, may become encumbrances, if we cling to them blindly and uncritically. Let us take some illustrations. Having made mistakes, you may feel that, come what may, you are saddled with them and so become dispirited; if you have not made mistakes, you may feel that you are free from error and so become conceited. Lack of achievement in work may breed pessimism and depression, while achievement may breed pride and arrogance. A comrade with a sh
ort record of struggle may shirk responsibility on this account, while a veteran may become opinionated because of his long record of struggle..."'
"What is she talking about?" voices yelled from the crowd.
"She is going mad!" the guard escorting Evergreen uttered in amazement.
"She is mad!" the crowd cried.
"Wild Ginger has gone mad!" The crowd stirred.
"Somebody do something!"
"She's going to jump off the building!"
"No! Wild Ginger, don't do it!"
The crowd surged toward her like an ocean tide.
"Be still!" Wild Ginger called from above. "I want you all to listen carefully! I am a Maoist alive or dead. But I had impure thoughts. I tried to resolve my personal grudge but it backfired. I dishonored Chairman Mao, and I must punish myself for it. But please"—she bent her knee slightly—"remember me as a Maoist! A Maoist! A Maoist!"
She leapt.
26
I saw Evergreen free himself from the guards and lunge toward where Wild Ginger lay. The guards swarmed over him as if he were attempting an escape. "Get an ambulance!" Evergreen yelled. "An ambulance! Somebody!"
"For heaven's sake, her skull is crushed," an old voice came. "She'll be lucky if death finds her; otherwise she'll live only as a vegetable."
The crowd resumed its beelike sound.
The microphone buzzed.
I felt stifled and gasped desperately for air. I wanted to move but my limbs wouldn't cooperate. Tripping over my own steps, I fell again and again. My forehead knocked on the concrete.
I crawled my way through until I was beside Wild Ginger. She lay motionless. Her face was pale purple. Her eyes were shut and her lips clamped tightly. No more Mao reciting. The blood was spreading from the back of her skull. Her hair covered half her face. She was in her uniform, washed and buttoned.