Wild Ginger by Anchee Min Read Free Book Online Page B

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.

8
    From One-Eye Grandpa, Wild Ginger learned that the looters were gone. She went back to her house to check on her mother. We promised to meet at the school, but after the bells rang she still hadn't shown up. I kept my eyes on the door. Finally she appeared. She looked ill. Her hair was messy. Dragging her bag and abacus, she walked toward her seat. Sitting down she took out her books and pencil box absent-mindedly. The class had been following Mrs. Cheng's calculations on a giant abacus hung from the board. I was eager to make eye contact with Wild Ginger, but she avoided me. She focused her attention on Mrs. Cheng's abacus and practiced the numbers on her own. The sound of fingers tabbing abacuses was loud in the room. Mrs. Cheng stopped before the conclusion of the day. She asked if anyone would like to give the answer. Wild Ginger raised her hand. She was called. She gave a correct answer but her voice was a little odd, choked.
    "Are you all right, Wild Ginger?" Mrs. Cheng asked.
    Wild Ginger nodded. She quickly sat back down and buried her head in her notebook. It didn't escape me that she was trying to hold back tears.
    When the class was dismissed, Wild Ginger threw her school bag over her shoulder and ran toward the gate. "Wild Ginger!" I chased her. She shot out like an arrow. To get away from me she slashed through the bushes. I sensed that something terrible had happened.
    I followed her. Finally she tripped over a cracked curb and fell. I caught up with her and motioned her toward me. She turned away and yelled angrily, "Go away, Maple!"
    "Don't make me an enemy." I pulled her to