The Mandarin

A Story by Fabiola Mahout

An everyday appreciation of the simple things turns into a juxtaposition of human kindness vs rationale.

When they called me from the office with the results of the examination, I felt like jumping and dancing with joy (I did). I was on my way to there to ask for a book I hadn’t received yet (halfway through the semester). Now, on top of the book situation, I also wanted to hear more about the results. I realized a celebration was in order, so as I walked down the road with the big plane trees, I thought of what I could buy to share with the girls at the office. Chocolates or cookies sounded apt, and I could stop by the 7-Eleven on the way there to get them.

I was gazing absentmindedly at the small shops along the street as I walked by: Halal food, massage parlors, noodle shops, and suddenly, something that caught my eye. A fruit shop was displaying its fruits on the sidewalk. There were baskets big and small, each with pyramids of all Far Eastern fruits imaginable with their splendid colors. There was pink dragon fruit and pale brown Asian pear; dark purple mangosteen- almost black, with its little green leaves on top. There were also little red cherry tomatoes and light green jujube from Taiwan. But the basket with fruits that made me stop and walk toward it, was the one with the mandarin oranges.

Let’s start by recalling that mandarins in China are a symbol of abundance and good fortune. They are given as gifts during the most important time of the year: Chinese New Year, when families get together to celebrate, forgetting, for a few days at least, the responsibilities that usually keep them apart.

Watching these mandarins in their basket, it was clear to me why they represent such positive sentiments. They were big and fat, with plenty of heavy segments, full of sweet and tangy juice. I bent down to feel them and my fingers sunk slightly into the fruit, meaning that the inside was soft, ripe, and the sweetest they’d ever be.

It amazed me that this fruit could be so attractive for all the senses: the intense orange color was striking to the eyes, their citric smell pleased and refreshed the nose; for touch, the rubbery bas-relief of the peel against the softness of the segments; to the mouth, that explosion of flavor- perfect balance of taste and texture.

At that moment, I didn’t think there could be in the entire world a more appropriate gift to express celebration and gratitude than mandarins. I took a small plastic bag and picked the 4 best ones. After paying, I resumed my way to the office, thinking to give one to each of the girls there, and save one for myself.

As I was walking on the sidewalk, I noticed in front of me a beggar kneeling on the cold floor, her arms spread out in front of her, around the cup into which she hoped coins would be dropped. The only thing that moved was her head every now and then when she raised it to check how many coins were in the cup, or maybe just to remind the passerby that she was alive and waiting. A student who was walking in front of me stopped to drop in a few cents, and that got me thinking if it’s wiser to give or not to give. Give money and they’re made dependent, they’ll never even try to find a job if they’re supported like this. So, don’t give them anything and snub a human being in need? What kind of a monster are you? Because of that indecision, I kept walking, trying to ignore that uncomfortable feeling when one tries to justify a cold heart with logical explanations, but knowing inside that nothing justifies indifference.

I soon arrived to the office and greeted the girls. There was a lot of smiling and congratulating. I took the fruits out of the bag and gave one to each of them. Turns out one of the girls was in Taiwan promoting our school. Oh well, I’d take her mandarin back home with me.

I left the office with the remaining fruits in their little plastic bag and made my way to the subway. I immediately started peeling one because I’d been savoring it since I first saw them. It tasted even better than I imagined.

Halfway to the station, there was that same beggar again, and the same doubts and mixed feelings returned. I had already walked past her again when I looked down at the bag I was holding. There was one huge mandarin left. Cold logic disappeared and common sense guided. I reached for the fruit, retraced my steps, bent down, and gingerly stretched my hand with the mandarin in front of her so she could see it. I’ve heard of beggars who just care for money and not for food, and that was a heck of a fruit, so I’d have it if she didn’t want it.

As soon as she saw the mandarin, the atmosphere changed. I heard her voice. She started saying xiexie* after xiexie after xiexie, while her hands slowly stretched out to take the fruit. She never turned to look at me, just at the mandarin as if it were a treasure. I never got to see her eyes. With an impatience that she could barely control and with fingers rigid from the cold, she started peeling it carefully so as to not spoil it. I straightened myself and kept walking towards the station, but I couldn’t help looking back every few steps just to take it all in.

Ever since her first xiexie, my eyes had filled with tears. Never had I heard such a heartfelt thank you. It came from deep in her heart and entered deep into mine. Every time I looked back, the scene impressed me profoundly. We were both on a grey concrete bridge, over a dirty green river, next to the black asphalt road and cement sidewalk. The sky was cloudy and the air was cold. The beggar bending over the street was wearing worn and ragged clothes, trying to protect herself from the icy wind. People walked by without even turning to look at her. And in the middle of all that, at the perfect angle, a glowing, orange jewel.

Among all the grey, dirty, mechanical, inhuman, painful, unjust, cold- a mandarin in the hands of a beggar.

*xiexie means thank you in Mandarin.