Red Sorghum

  ‘Good boy!’ Granddad said. ‘Come help Dad kill every last one of those sons of bitches!’ He reached into his belt, removed the abandoned Browning pistol, and handed it to Father, just as Bugler Liu came crawling up the dike dragging a wounded leg. ‘Shall I blow the bugle, Commander?’

  ‘Blow it!’ Granddad said.

  Kneeling on his good leg, Bugler Liu raised the horn to his lips and sounded it to the heavens; scarlet notes emerged.

  ‘Charge!’

  Granddad’s command was met by shouts from the west side of the road. Holding his pistol in his left hand, he jumped to his feet; bullets whizzed past his cheeks. He hit the ground and rolled back into the sorghum field. A scream of agony rose from the west side of the road, and Father knew that another comrade had been hit.

  Bugler Liu sounded his horn once more; the scarlet blast struck the sorghum tips and set them shaking.

  Granddad grabbed Father’s hand. ‘Follow me, son.’

  Smoke billowed from the trucks on the bridge. Gripping Father’s hand tightly, Granddad darted across the road to the west side; their progress was followed by a hail of bullets. Two soldiers with soot-streaked faces witnessed their approach. ‘Commander,’ they cried through cracked lips, ‘we’re done for!’

  Granddad sat down dejectedly in the sorghum field, and a long time passed before he raised his head again. The Japs held their fire. The crackling of burning trucks was answered by periodic blasts from Bugler Liu’s horn.

  His fear now gone, Father slipped off and moved west, carefully raising his head to peep through some dead weeds. He watched a Japanese soldier emerge from under the still-unburned canopy of the second truck, open the door, and drag out a skinny old Jap in white gloves and black leather riding boots, a sword on his hip. Hugging the side of the truck, they slipped off the bridge by shinnying down a stanchion. Father raised his Browning, but his hand shook like a leaf, and the old Jap’s ass kept hopping up and down in his sights. He clenched his teeth, closed his eyes, and fired. The Browning roared: the bullet went straight into the water, turning a white eel belly up. The Jap officer dived into the water. ‘Dad,’ Father yelled, ‘an officer!’

  Another explosion went off behind his head, and the old Jap’s skull splintered, releasing a pool of blood on the surface of the water. The second soldier scrambled frantically to the far side of the stanchion.

  Granddad pushed Father to the ground as another hail of Jap bullets swept over them and thudded crazily into the field. ‘Good boy,’ Granddad said. ‘You’re my son, all right!’

  What Father and Granddad didn’t know was that the old Jap they’d just killed was none other than the famous general Nakaoka Jiko.

  Bugler Liu’s horn didn’t let up. The sun, baked red and green by the flames from the trucks, seemed to shrivel.

  ‘Dad,’ Father said, ‘Mom’s asking for you. She wants to see you.’

  ‘Is she still alive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Father took Granddad by the hand and led him deep into the sorghum field, where Grandma lay, her face stamped with shadows of sorghum stalks and the noble smile she had prepared for Granddad; her face was fairer than ever. Her eyes were open.

  For the first time in his life, Father noticed two trickles of tears slipping down Granddad’s hardened face. Granddad fell to his knees beside Grandma’s body and closed her eyes with his good hand.

  In 1976, when my granddad died, Father closed his unseeing eyes with his left hand, from which two fingers were missing. Granddad had returned from the desolate Japanese mountains of Hokkaido scarcely able to speak, spitting out each word as though it were a heavy stone. The village held a grand welcoming ceremony in honour of his return, attended by the county head. I was barely two at the time, but I recall seeing eight tables beneath the gingko tree at the head of the village set with jugs of wine and dozens of white ceramic bowls. The county head picked up a jug and filled one of the bowls, which he handed to Granddad with both hands. ‘Here’s to you, our ageing hero,’ he said. ‘You’ve brought glory to our country!’ Granddad clumsily stood up, and his ashen eyeballs fluttered as he said, ‘Woo – woo – gun – gun.’ I watched him raise the bowl to his lips. His wrinkled neck twitched, and his Adam’s apple slid up and down as he drank. Most of the wine ran down his chin and onto his chest instead of sliding down his throat.

  I recall our walks in the field; he held my hand and I led a little black dog with my other hand. His favourite spot was the bridgehead over the Black Water River, where he would stand supporting himself on one of the stone pillars for most of the morning or most of the afternoon, staring at the bullet holes on the bridge stones. When the sorghum was tall, he would take me into the field to a spot not far from the bridge. I suspected that was where Grandma had risen to heaven – an ordinary piece of black earth stained by her blood. That was before they tore down our old home.

  One day Granddad picked up a hoe and began digging beneath a catalpa tree. He picked up some cicada larvae and handed them to me. I tossed them to the dog, who chewed them up without swallowing them. ‘What are you digging for, Dad?’ asked my mother, who was anxious to go to the dining hall. He looked up at her with a gaze that seemed to belong to another world. She walked off, and he returned to his digging. When he’d dug a pretty deep hole, he cut through a dozen or so roots of varying thicknesses and removed a flagstone, then took a misshapen tin box out of an old, dark brick kiln. It crumbled when it fell to the ground, revealing a long, rusty metal object taller than me, which was showing through the rotting cloth wrapping. I asked what it was. ‘Woo – woo – gun – gun,’ he said.

  Granddad laid the rifle on the ground to soak up the sun, then sat down in front of it, his eyes open one minute and closed the next, over and over and over. Finally, he got to his feet, picked up an axe, and began chopping up the rifle. When it was no more than a pile of twisted metal, he took the pieces and scattered them wildly around the yard.

  ‘Dad, is Mom dead?’ Father asked.

  Granddad nodded.

  ‘Dad!’ Father shrieked.

  Granddad stroked Father’s head, then drew a small sword from his hip and chopped down enough sorghum to cover Grandma’s body.

  A blast of gunfire erupted on the southern dike, followed by sanguinary shouts and the sound of exploding grenades. Granddad dragged Father over to the bridgehead.

  At least a hundred soldiers in grey uniforms burst from the field south of the bridge, driving a dozen or so Jap soldiers onto the dike, where they were cut down by bullets or run through with bayonets. Father saw Detachment Leader Leng, a holstered revolver hanging from his wide leather belt, surrounded by several burly bodyguards. His troops were flanking the burning trucks and heading west. The sight drew a strange laugh from Granddad, who planted his feet at the bridgehead, pistol in hand, and just stood there.

  Detachment Leader Leng swaggered up. ‘You fought a good fight, Commander Yu!’

  ‘You son of a bitch!’ Granddad spat out.

  ‘We almost made it in time, good brother!’

  ‘You son of a bitch!’

  ‘You’d be done for it if we hadn’t arrived!’

  ‘You son of a bitch!’

  Granddad aimed his pistol at Detachment Leader Leng, who flashed a signal with his eyes. Two ferocious bodyguards quickly forced Granddad’s arm down. Father raised his Browning and fired into the ass of the man holding Granddad’s arm.

  The other guard sent Father reeling with a kick, then stepped on his wrist, bent down, and picked up the Browning.

  The bodyguards tied up Granddad and Father.

  ‘Pocky Leng, open your dog eyes and take a look at my men!’

  The dikes on both sides of the road were strewn with the bodies of dead and wounded soldiers. Bugler Liu was still sounding his horn intermittently, but blood now flowed from the corners of his mouth and from his nose.

  Detachment Leader Leng removed his cap and bowed towards the sorghum field east of the road. Then he b
owed to the west.

  ‘Release Commander Yu and his son!’ he ordered.

  The bodyguards let them go. Blood was seeping through the fingers of the man who was holding his hand over his wounded ass.

  Detachment Leader Leng took the pistols from the bodyguards and returned them to Granddad and Father. His troops were rushing across the bridge, past the trucks and the Jap bodies, gathering up machine guns, carbines, bullets, cartridge clips, bayonets, scabbards, leather belts and boots, wallets, and razors. Some jumped into the river, where they captured the Jap hiding behind the stanchion and raised up the old Jap’s body.

  ‘This one’s a general, Detachment Leader!’ one of Leng’s officers shouted.

  Detachment Leader Leng excitedly looked over the railing. ‘Strip off his uniform and pick up everything that was on him.’ He turned back and said, ‘We’ll meet again, Commander Yu!’

  The bodyguards fell in around him as he headed to the southern edge of the bridge.

  ‘Stop right there, Leng!’ Granddad bellowed.

  Detachment Leader Leng turned and said, ‘Commander Yu, you’re not planning on doing anything foolish, are you?’

  ‘You won’t get away with this!’ Granddad snarled.

  ‘Tiger Wang, leave Commander Yu a machine gun.’

  A soldier walked up and laid a machine gun at Granddad’s feet.

  ‘You can have the trucks and the rice they’re carrying.’

  Detachment Leader Leng’s troops crossed the bridge, formed up ranks on the dike, and marched east.

  The trucks were nothing but charred frames by the time the sun was setting; the stench from the melted tyres was nearly suffocating. The bridge was blocked by the two undamaged trucks at either end. The river was filled with water as black as blood; the fields were covered with sorghum as red as blood.

  Father picked up a nearly whole fistcake from the dike and handed it to Granddad. ‘Here, Dad, eat this. Mom made it.’

  ‘You eat it!’ Granddad said.

  Father stuffed it into Granddad’s hand. ‘I’ll get another one,’ he said.

  Father picked up another fistcake and savagely bit off a chunk.

  TWO

  Sorghum Wine

  1

  WHAT TURNS THE sorghum of Northeast Gaomi Township into a sweet, aromatic wine that leaves the taste of honey in your mouth and produces no hangover? Mother told me once, making sure I understood that I was not to give away this family secret, for, if I did, not only would our family’s reputation suffer, but if our descendants ever decided to set up another distillery they’d have lost their unique advantage. Without exception, the craftsmen from our neck of the woods live by a simple rule: they would rather pass on their skills to their sons’ wives than to their daughters. This established practice carries the same weight as the law in certain countries.

  Mother said that the distillery was already a going concern under the operation of the Shan family. The wine they made wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t nearly as aromatic and rich as the wine that would come later, and it lacked the honeyed after-taste. The incident that resulted in the unique flavour of our wine occurred after Granddad murdered the Shans, and Grandma, following a brief period of discomposure, pulled herself together to display her natural entrepreneurial skills.

  Like so many important discoveries that spring from chance origins or a prankster’s whim, the unique qualities of our wine were created when Granddad pissed in one of the wine casks. How could a man’s piss turn a common cask of wine into a wine of unique distinction? you ask. Well, this takes us into the realm of science, and you won’t hear any nonsense on the subject from me. Let those interested in the chemistry of brewing toss the matter around.

  Later on, in order to improve upon the process, Grandma and Uncle Arhat hit upon the idea of substituting the alkali from old chamber pots for fresh piss – it was simpler, more efficient, and more controlled. This secret was shared only by Grandma, Granddad, and Uncle Arhat. I understand that the blending was done late at night, when everyone else was asleep. Grandma would light a candle in the yard, burn a wad of three hundred bank notes, then pour the liquid into the wine casks from a thin-necked gourd. She did it grandly, with an air of sublime mystery, in case there were prying eyes, for the astonished peeping Toms would assume that she was communing with spirits to seek divine assistance for the business. From then on, our wine prevailed over all our competitors’, nearly cornering the market.

  2

  AFTER THE WEDDING, Grandma returned to her parents’ home to spend three days before heading back to her in-laws’. She had no appetite during those three days, her mind distracted. Great-Grandma cooked all her favourite foods and tried to coax her into eating, but she refused everything and moped around the house like the walking dead. Even then her appearance didn’t suffer: her skin remained milky, her cheeks rosy; her bright eyes, set in dark sockets, looked like small moons glowing through the mist. ‘You little urchin,’ Great-Grandma grumbled, ‘do you think you’re an immortal or a Buddha who doesn’t need to eat or drink? You’ll be the death of your own mother!’ She looked at Grandma, who sat as composed as the Guanyin bodhisattva, two tiny white tears slipping out of the corners of her eyes.

  Great-Granddad awoke from his drunken stupor on the second day of Grandma’s return, and immediately recalled Shan Tingxiu’s promise to give him a big black mule. His ears rang with the rhythmic clippety-clop of the mule’s hooves as it flew down the road. Such a mule: fetching black eyes like tiny lanterns, hooves like little goblets. ‘You old ass,’ Great-Grandma said anxiously, ‘your daughter won’t eat. What are we going to do?’

  Great-Granddad glanced out of the corner of his drunken eyes and said. ‘She’s spoiled, spoiled rotten! Who does she think she is?’

  He walked up to Grandma and said angrily, ‘What are you up to, you little tramp? People destined to marry are connected by a thread, no matter how far apart. Man and wife, for better or for worse. Marry a chicken and share the coop, marry a dog and share the kennel. Your dad’s no high-ranking noble, and you’re no gold branch or jade leaf. It was your good fortune to find a rich man like this, and your dad’s good fortune, too. The first thing your father-in-law did was promise me a nice black mule. That’s breeding. . . .’

  Grandma sat motionless, her eyes closed. Her damp eyelashes might have been covered with a layer of honey, each thick, full lash sticking to the others and curling like a swallowtail. Great-Granddad glared at her, his anger rising. ‘Don’t you act deaf and dumb with me. You can waste away if you want to, but you’ll be the Shan family’s ghost, because there’s no place in the Dai family graveyard for you!’

  Grandma just laughed.

  Great-Granddad slapped her.

  With a pop, the rosiness in Grandma’s cheeks vanished, leaving a pallor behind. But the colour gradually returned, and her face became the red morning sun. Her eyes shining, she clenched her teeth and sneered. Glaring hatefully at her dad, she said: ‘I’m just afraid . . . if you . . . then you can forget about seeing a single hair of that mule!’

  Lowering her head, she picked up her chopsticks and gobbled down the still-steaming food in front of her, like a whirlwind scooping up snow. When she was finished, she threw the bowl high into the air, where it tumbled and spun, sailed over the beam, and picked up two cobwebs before falling to the floor; it bounced around in a half-circle before settling upside down. She picked up another bowl and heaved it; this one hit the wall and fell to the floor in two pieces. Great-Granddad was so shocked his mouth fell open, his sideburns quivered, and he was speechless. ‘Daughter,’ Great-Grandma exclaimed, ‘you finally ate something!’

  After throwing the bowls, Grandma broke down and cried. It was an agreeable, emotional, moist sound, which the room couldn’t hold, so it spilled outside and spread to the fields, to merge with the rustling of the pollinated late-summer sorghum. A million thoughts ran through her mind; over and over she relived what had happened from the time she had been place
d in the bridal sedan chair until she had returned on the donkey’s back to her parents’ home. Every scene from those three days, every sound, every smell entered her mind . . . the horns and woodwinds . . . little tunes, big sounds . . . all that music turned the green sorghum red. It pounded a curtain of rain out of the clear sky: two cracks of thunder, a flash of lightning, rain falling like dense flax . . . turning her confused heart to flax, dense rain pouring in at an angle, then straight up, then straight down. . . .

  Grandma thought back to the highwayman at Toad Hollow, and to the valiant actions of the young sedan bearer. He was their leader, the main dog of the pack. He couldn’t be more than twenty-four – not a wrinkle on his rugged face. She recalled how close his face had been for a while, and how his lips, hard as mussel shells, had covered hers. Her blood had frozen for an instant, before gushing forth to dilate every blood vessel in her body. Her feet had cramped, her abdominal muscles had jerked madly. Their call to revolt had been aided by the vibrant sorghum – the powder on the stalks, so fine it was barely visible, spreading in the air above her and the sedan bearer. . . .

  Grandma hoped that by concentrating on the youthful passion of that moment she could hold on to it, but it kept slipping away, here one moment, then gone. And yet the leper’s face, like a long-buried rotten grape, kept reappearing, along with the ten hooked claws that were his fingers. Then there was the old man, with his tiny queue and the ring of brass keys at his belt. Grandma sat quietly, but even though she was dozens of li away from the spot, the rich taste of sorghum wine and the sour taste of sorghum mash seemed to roll around on her tongue. She recalled how the two male ‘serving girls’ reeked like drunken geese fished out of a wine vat, the smell of alcohol seeping from every pore in their bodies. . . . He had cut a swath through the sorghum, leaving the blade of his razor-sharp sword wet with little horseshoes of inky green, sticky residue from the decapitated plants, their lifeblood. She remembered what he had said: ‘Come back in three days, no matter what!’ Daggers of light had shot from his long, slitted eyes.