IN THE MAGAZINE

Illustration by Tara sinn

GROWING CHINESE GREENS - PART 3

By Yoko Ogawa

“Goodbye,” she said. She bowed and turned to get on the bike, a feat made difficult by her stooped back. When she finally managed to get up on the seat, the bike tottered unsteadily. Her legs were stretched as far as they could reach and her pink-nailed fingers gripped the handlebars. Even through her pants, it was clear that the muscles in her calves were tensed. She stared straight ahead, apparently steeling herself for the attempt. A leek protruding from the bundle began to quiver. Then, just as I was about to ask if she needed help, the pedals began to turn and the old woman vanished, as if sucked up by the wind.

I went back inside and found an old fish tank in the closet. After transferring the dirt to the tank, I put the cover over it to keep out the light and set it on the table next to the bed—directly under the calendar.

“What’s that?” my husband asked as soon as he came in the bedroom.

“I’m growing Chinese greens.”

“Where’d you get them?”

“From an old woman who came around selling vegetables.”

“Is that so?” he said, sounding only mildly interested.

“I haven’t grown anything since summer vacation when I was ten. We had to grow morning glories for a school project.”

“Is that right?” he said, beginning to yawn.

“Good night.”

“Night.”

With that, we turned out the light and the twelfth was over.


One morning, a week later, there were five sprouts in the tank. They had come up evenly spaced in a straight line, as if someone had measured with a ruler. By the following morning, there were tiny heart-shaped leaves on the sprouts. They were a pale yellow-green and so delicate it seemed they would tear at the slightest touch.

I watered them every day with the spray bottle I used for ironing. Or, I would have used it for ironing except that I hadn’t ironed more than a few times since we got married. The tube that brought the water up into the pump seemed to be clogged, but I cleaned it out with a piece of wire and it worked fine after that.

In the days that followed, the plants grew quickly. When we woke up each morning, the stems were visibly longer and the leaves had multiplied. But they were still extremely fragile. I had always thought of Chinese greens as lush and hardy, but the plants in the fish tank were pale and sickly-looking and as thin as somen noodles. Even the spray from the mister made them tremble precariously.

“When do you think we can start eating it?” I asked my husband when were lying in bed one evening.

“It doesn’t look very appetizing,” he said. He was stretched out on his stomach staring at the plants.

“I can’t believe it’s twenty times more nutritious than carrots, as thin and flimsy as it is.”

“I bet it just needs some sunlight,” he said.

“But the old lady said it likes the dark.”

“She was probably senile.”

“I suppose so.” Before turning out the light, I took the cover off the tank to water the plants one more time.

Later that night, I woke up with the feeling that the room was somehow different. The direction of the draft, the depth of the silence, the density of the darkness—something was just slightly wrong. I held the edge of the blanket and blinked, listening to my husband’s steady breathing. Then I looked slowly around the room. It didn’t take long to find the source of the problem: the Chinese greens in the tank.

“Wake up,” I whispered, shaking my husband. “Please!”

It took him a moment to realize what was happening, but he finally seemed to understand why I was pointing at the nightstand. He let out a long, low whistle. We slipped out of bed and crouched next to the tank, staring in at the plants. The Chinese greens were bathed in a soft, cream-colored light. At first we thought the light was coming from somewhere else in the room, but the longer we looked the clearer it became that it was coming from the plants themselves. We peered into the tank until it was fogged with our breath, trying to discover the source of the light. The stems, which were now almost six inches long, were covered with fine hairs, and the leaves were decorated with an elaborate pattern of veins—details we could see thanks to the light. But we still couldn’t tell where it was coming from. In the darkness of the tank, the plants themselves seemed to be infused with a soft radiance.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” I said.

“Maybe it’s the same stuff that makes a firefly glow,” he said. He moved around the tank, studying the plants from various angles.

“It’s a little creepy.”

“That’s for sure,” he said, nodding. There in the dark, the plants seemed to be going quietly about their business. The light continued to shine, never any brighter or any dimmer, maintaining what seemed to be the perfect strength for the delicate plants. He pulled the tank toward him and took off the cover. “Let’s have a closer look,” he said, starting to reach in.

“Don’t,” I said, grabbing his arm. The plants drooped under his hand, as if they were bowing, and the light seemed to flicker for a moment. “You shouldn’t touch it. It might be poisonous.”

“I suppose so,” he said, pulling his hand out of the tank.

“The poison might be in the light somehow and it could get in through your skin if you touch it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“But you wouldn’t want to eat it, would you?”

“No,” he agreed, pushing the tank back on the table.

“I wonder what would happen if you did eat it.”

“It might attack your nervous system,” he laughed “And you’d end up cackling like a maniac for the rest of your life, or fall down foaming at the mouth.”

“Or your tongue might start glowing. When you opened your mouth, it would light up your throat. You could see all the way down to the stomach.” We sat looking at the glowing tank for some time. When we woke up the next morning, the light was gone but the stalks had grown still taller.


TO BE CONTINUED
GROWING CHINESE GREENS | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |

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