Red Sorghum

  Father ran up breathlessly, Browning in hand, his head covered with white sorghum powder and red dust. The ragged Sun Five, his belly a mass of wrinkles, stumbled into the square, his left leg rigid, his right leg rubbery. Everyone ignored him, for they were all too busy watching the impressive figure of my father.

  Grandma walked up to him. Although still in her early thirties at the time, she wore her hair in a bun, neat bangs covering her shiny forehead like a beaded curtain. Her eyes were as moist as autumn rains; people blamed that on the wine fumes. More than fifteen years of romantic, soul-stirring adventures had turned her from a virginal teenager into a bold young woman.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

  Still trying to catch his breath, Father stuck his Browning into his waistband.

  ‘Didn’t the Japs come?’

  ‘We won’t show that son of a bitch Detachment Leader Leng any mercy!’ Father exclaimed.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Make some fistcakes.’

  ‘We didn’t hear any fighting.’

  ‘Make some fistcakes,’ Father repeated. ‘And put in plenty of eggs and onions.’

  ‘Didn’t the Japs come?’ Grandma persisted.

  ‘Commander Yu said to make some fistcakes, and he wants you to deliver them!’

  ‘Fellow villagers,’ she said, ‘go home and make fistcakes.’

  Father turned to go, but Grandma stopped him. ‘Tell me what happened with the Leng detachment, Douguan.’

  He wrenched free of her grip and snarled, ‘They never showed up. Commander Yu isn’t going to let them get away with it!’ He ran off, leaving Grandma sighing as she watched the slight silhouette of his back. Sun Five was standing at a tilt in the spacious compound, staring stiffly at Grandma and gesticulating wildly, a stream of slobber running down his chin.

  Ignoring Sun Five, Grandma walked up to a long-faced girl leaning against the wall, who smiled weakly, then fell to her knees, wrapped her arms tightly around Grandma’s waist, and began to cry hysterically. ‘Lingzi,’ Grandma consoled her, touching her face, ‘be a good girl. Don’t be afraid.’

  The prettiest girl in the village, Lingzi was seventeen at the time. When Commander Yu was recruiting troops, he assembled fifty or so men, one of whom was a gaunt young man with a pale face and long black hair, dressed in black except for a pair of white shoes. Lingzi was rumoured to be in love with him. He spoke with a beautiful Beijing dialect, and never smiled; his brow was forever creased in a frown, with three vertical furrows above his nose. Everyone called him Adjutant Ren. Lingzi felt that beneath Adjutant Ren’s cold, hard exterior raged a fire, and it put her on edge.

  Yu Zhan’ao’s troops drilled each morning on the square where we bought our sorghum. As soon as Liu Sishan, Commander Yu’s bugler, sounded reveille, Lingzi dashed out of the house and ran to the parade ground to lie on the wall and await the arrival of Adjutant Ren, his wide leather belt and Browning pistol.

  Adjutant Ren strode up to the troops, his chest thrown out proudly, and called them to attention. Two columns of soldiers clicked their heels snappily.

  Adjutant Ren commanded, ‘Atten-hut! Legs straight, stomachs in, chests out, eyes forward, like panthers about to pounce.

  ‘What the hell kind of way is that to stand?’ He kicked Wang Wenyi. ‘Your legs are spread like a mule taking a piss. I’d beat some discipline into you if I could.’

  Lingzi liked seeing Adjutant Ren beat up on people and liked the way he chewed them out. His autocratic demeanour thoroughly intoxicated her. His favourite leisure activity was strolling around the parade ground with his hands clasped behind his back. Lingzi would hide behind the wall and drink in the sight.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Adjutant Ren asked.

  ‘Lingzi.’

  ‘Who were you watching from back there?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Do you know how to read?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Want to join the army?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I see.’

  Regretting her response, Lingzi told my father that the next time Adjutant Ren asked her if she wanted to join the army she’d say yes. But he never asked her again.

  Lingzi and my father were sprawled atop the wall watching Adjutant Ren teach the men revolutionary songs. Father was so short at the time that he had to stand on a pile of rocks to see what was happening on the other side of the wall, while Lingzi rested her pretty chin on the wall and stared at Adjutant Ren, drenched in morning sunlight, as he taught them a song: ‘The sorghum is red, the sorghum is red, the Japs are coming, the Japs are coming. The nation is lost, our families scattered. Rise up, countrymen, take up arms to drive out the Japs and protect your homes. . . .’

  The men, with tin ears and stiff tongues, never did learn how to sing it right, but the kids on the other side of the wall soon had it down pat. My father never forgot this song as long as he lived.

  Lingzi screwed up her courage one day and went to find Adjutant Ren, but accidentally stumbled into the room of the quartermaster, Big Tooth Yu, a hard-drinking, insatiably lecherous forty-year-old uncle of Commander Yu. He was pretty drunk that day, and when Lingzi burst into his room, it was like a moth drawn to a fire, or a lamb entering a tiger’s den.

  Adjutant Ren ordered two soldiers to tie up the man who had deflowered the girl Lingzi. At the time, Commander Yu was staying at our house, and when Adjutant Ren came to make his report, he was asleep on Grandma’s kang. She had already washed up and brushed her hair, and was about to fry some willowfish to go with the wine when the fuming Adjutant Ren burst into the room, frightening the wits out of her.

  ‘Where’s the commander?’ Adjutant Ren asked her.

  ‘He’s on the kang, asleep.’

  ‘Wake him up.’

  Grandma woke Commander Yu, who walked out of the bedroom, stretched, yawned, and asked. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Commander, if a Japanese raped my sister, should he be shot?’

  ‘Of course!’ Commander Yu replied.

  ‘If a Chinese raped my sister, should he be shot?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘That’s just what I wanted to hear,’ Adjutant Ren said. ‘Big Tooth Yu deflowered the local girl Cao Lingzi, and I’ve ordered the men to tie him up.’

  ‘Are you sure he did it?’

  ‘When will he be shot, Commander?’

  Commander Yu sucked in his breath. ‘Since when is sleeping with a woman a serious offence?’

  ‘Commander, no one’s above the law, not even a prince.’

  ‘And what do you think the punishment should be?’ Commander Yu asked sombrely.

  ‘A firing squad!’ Adjutant Ren replied without hesitation.

  Commander Yu sucked in his breath again and began to pace impatiently, anger building up inside him. Finally, he smiled and said, ‘Adjutant Ren, what do you say we give him fifty lashes in front of the men and compensate Lingzi’s family with twenty silver dollars?’

  ‘Because he’s your uncle?’ Adjutant Ren asked caustically.

  ‘Eighty lashes, then, and force him to marry Lingzi. I’ll even call her Auntie!’

  Adjutant Ren undid his belt and tossed it, along with the Browning pistol, to Commander Yu. Holding his hands in a salute in front of him, he said, ‘This will make it easier for both of us.’ He turned and walked out into the yard.

  Commander Yu, pistol in hand, stared at Adjutant Ren’s retreating back and growled through clenched teeth, ‘Go on, get the fuck out of here! No damned schoolboy is going to tell me what to do! In the ten years I ate fistcakes, nobody was that insolent to me.’

  ‘Zhan’ao,’ Grandma said, ‘you can’t let Adjutant Ren go. Soldiers are easy to recruit, but generals are worth their weight in gold.’

  ‘Women don’t understand these things!’ Commander Yu said in frustration.

  ‘I always thought you were tough, not spineless!’

  Commander Yu aimed the pistol at her. ‘Have you lived long
enough?’ he snarled.

  She tore open her shirt, exposing two tender mounds of flesh, and challenged him. ‘Go ahead, shoot!’

  With a shout of ‘Mom!’ Father rushed in and buried his head between her breasts.

  As he looked at Father’s neat, round head and Grandma’s beautiful face, a torrent of memories flooded Granddad’s mind. With a sigh, he lowered the pistol. ‘Button up,’ he said as he walked outside. Riding crop in hand, he untied his sleek brown colt and rode bareback to the parade ground.

  When the troops relaxing on the wall saw Commander Yu ride up, they jumped to attention and held their breath.

  Big Tooth Yu, his arms bound behind him, was tied to a tree.

  Commander Yu dismounted and walked up to him. ‘Did you really do it?’

  ‘Zhan’ao,’ he said, ‘untie me. I’ll leave.’

  The soldiers stared wide-eyed at Commander Yu.

  ‘Uncle,’ he said, ‘I’m going to have you shot.’

  ‘You bastard!’ Big Tooth Yu bellowed. ‘You’d shoot your own uncle? Have you forgotten what I did for you? After your father died, I took care of you and your mother. If not for me, you’d have been dogfood long ago!’

  Commander Yu smacked him across the face with his riding crop. ‘You no-good bastard!’ he railed before falling to his knees and saying, ‘Uncle, I, Yu Zhan’ao, will never forget your kindness in bringing me up. I will wear mourning clothes after your death and will memorialise you and tend your grave on all the holidays.’

  With that he jumped to his feet, mounted his horse, whipped it on the flank, and galloped off in the direction Adjutant Ren had taken. The horses’s hooves shook the earth.

  Father was there when they shot Big Tooth Yu. Mute and two other soldiers dragged him to the western edge of the village, choosing as the execution ground a spot beside a crescent-shaped inlet in a stream of black, stagnant, insect-laden water. A solitary willow tree, its leaves yellowed and dying, stood on the bank. The stillness of the bend was broken only by hopping toads; alongside a pile of damp hair clippings lay a single tattered woman’s slipper.

  They dragged Big Tooth Yu up to the edge of the inlet and stood him there, then looked at Mute, who unslung his rifle and cocked it; a bullet snapped into the chamber.

  Big Tooth Yu turned to face Mute and smiled. To Father’s eyes, it was a kindly, heartfelt smile, like the miserable dying rays of a setting sun.

  ‘Untie me, Mute. I shouldn’t die all trussed up!’

  Mute thought for a moment before walking up, rifle in hand, taking his knife from his waistband, and deftly cutting the ropes. Big Tooth Yu massaged his arms, then made a quarter-turn and shouted, ‘Shoot, Mute. Aim for my temple. Don’t make me suffer!’

  To Father’s mind, a man at the point of death suddenly commands the respect of all other men. Big Tooth Yu was, after all, the seed of Northeast Gaomi Township. He had committed a grave offence that even death would not expiate, yet, as he prepared to die, he displayed the airs of a true hero; Father was so moved at that moment that he felt like leaping in the air.

  Big Tooth Yu gazed down at the stagnant water, where green lotus leaves and a sole white blossom floated; his gaze then took in the shimmering stalks of sorghum on the opposite bank. In a loud voice he broke into song: ‘The sorghum is red, the sorghum is red, the Japs are coming, the Japs are coming. The nation is lost, our families scattered. . . .’

  Mute raised his rifle, then lowered it, raised it and lowered it.

  ‘Mute,’ the soldiers pleaded, ‘talk to Commander Yu. Let him go!’

  Gripping his rifle tightly, Mute listened to Big Tooth Yu butcher the song.

  Big Tooth Yu turned back, his eyes wide with anger, and screamed, ‘Go ahead and shoot! You’re not going to make me do it myself, are you?’

  Raising his rifle one last time, Mute took aim at Big Tooth Yu’s tilelike forehead and pulled the trigger.

  Father saw Big Tooth Yu’s forehead explode into fragments even before the dull crack of rifle fire reached his ears. Mute stood with bowed head, the echo of the shot still hanging in the air, wisps of white smoke rising from the muzzle of his rifle. Big Tooth Yu’s body froze for a second before plummeting into the water below like a felled tree.

  Mute walked off, dragging his rifle behind him, followed by the two soldiers.

  Father and a bunch of other kids crept timidly over to the inlet, where they could look down at Big Tooth Yu, whose body lay face up in the mud. All that was left of his face was the perfectly formed mouth. The fluids of his brain had oozed into his ears from the shattered scalp, and one of his eyeballs hung from the socket like a huge grape on his cheek. The white lotus blossom, its stem broken and trailing several white threads, lay next to his hand. Father could smell its perfume.

  Now that it was over, Adjutant Ren brought up a cypress coffin with a thick layer of varnish and a yellow satin lining, into which he placed the neatly dressed body; following a proper funeral ceremony, Big Tooth Yu was buried beneath the little willow tree. Adjutant Ren wore his dapper black uniform to the funeral and had his hair slicked down neatly. A strip of red silk was wrapped around his left arm. Commander Yu, in hempen mourning clothes, wailed loudly, and as the procession left the village, he smashed a brand-new ceramic bowl against a brick.

  Grandma made a set of white mourning clothes for Father – she wore sackcloth. Father, fresh willow switch in hand as he walked behind Commander Yu and Grandma, witnessed the smashing of the ceramic bowl against the brick, and was reminded of Big Tooth Yu’s splintered forehead. He had a vague inkling that the two events were somehow linked. The collision of one event with another always produces a third inevitability.

  Father looked on dispassionately, without shedding a tear, as the procession formed a ring around the willow tree, and sixteen robust young men slowly lowered the coffin into the yawning grave with eight thick ropes. Commander Yu scooped up a handful of dirt and flung it down on the glossy coffin lid. The thud resounded in everyone’s heart. The men began shovelling dirt into the grave, drawing angry rumbles from the coffin as it slowly disappeared into the black soil, which rose higher and higher, until it filled the grave, then formed a mound like a steamed bun. Commander Yu fired three shots into the air above the willow tree, the bullets tearing through the crown of the tree, one after another, to shear off yellow leaves like fine eyebrows, which fluttered in the air. Three shiny casings leaped into the putrid water of the inlet, and were immediately retrieved by a boy who jumped down, his feet squishing in the soft green mud. Adjutant Ren took out his Browning and pulled off three shots, which shrieked like roosters as they sped above the sorghum. Commander Yu and Adjutant Ren faced each other, smoking guns in their hands. Adjutant Ren nodded. ‘He did himself proud!’ He stuck his pistol into his belt and strode into the village.

  Father watched Commander Yu slowly raise his weapon and aim it at Adjutant Ren’s retreating back. The funeral party was stunned, but no one made a sound. Adjutant Ren, unaware of what was happening, strode confidently into the village, the bright yellow gear-wheel in the sky shining in his face. Father saw the pistol jerk once, but the explosion was so weak and so distant he wasn’t sure he heard it. He watched the bullet’s low trajectory as it parted Adjutant Ren’s shiny black hair before moving on. Without so much as turning his head or breaking stride, Adjutant Ren continued on into the village.

  The sound of whistling drifted towards Father’s ears. It was the familiar sound of ‘The sorghum is red, the sorghum is red!’ Hot tears filled his eyes. The receding figure of Adjutant Ren grew larger and larger. Commander Yu fired another shot; this time it was so loud it rocked the earth and startled the heavens. Father saw the bullet’s flight and heard the explosion at the same time. The bullet struck a sorghum plant, severing its head, which was shattered by a second bullet as it settled slowly to the ground. Father was vaguely aware that Adjutant Ren bent over and plucked the yellow blossom from a bitter-weed at the roadside, then held it up to his nose an
d savoured its fragrance for a long time.

  Father told me that Adjutant Ren was a rarity, a true hero; unfortunately, heroes are fated to die young. Three months after he had walked so proudly away from the heroic gathering, his Browning pistol went off while he was cleaning it and killed him. The bullet entered his right eye and exited through his right ear, leaving half of his face covered with a metallic blue powder. A mere three or four drops of blood seeped out of his right ear, and by the time the people who heard the shot had rushed over, he was lying dead on the ground.

  Wordlessly, Commander Yu picked up Adjutant Ren’s Browning pistol.

  7

  GRANDMA, CARRYING BASKETS of fistcakes on the pole over her shoulder, and Wang Wenyi’s wife, carrying two pails of mungbean soup, rushed towards the bridge across the Black Water River. Though they had planned at first to head southeast through the sorghum field, they found the going too hard. ‘Let’s take the road, Sister-in-Law,’ Grandma suggested. ‘The long way round is fastest.’

  They were like high-flying birds making good headway through the open sky. Grandma had put on a scarlet jacket and oiled her hair until it glistened like ebony. Wang’s wife, a vigorous but diminutive woman, was nimble on her feet. Back when Commander Yu was recruiting troops, she had brought Wenyi over to the house and asked Grandma to speak to Commander Yu to sign him up as a guerrilla. Grandma had promised she would, and Commander Yu had taken him on for her sake.