“Stop right there, Lan Lian!”
With fire in its eyes, the ox kept coming, forcing Hong to jump out of the way in fright. He knew our animal’s temper as well as anybody. He had no choice but to fall in behind our plow and say to Dad:
“I’m warning you, Lan Lian, don’t you dare so much as touch land belonging to the collective with your plow.”
Dad replied, neither haughtily nor humbly:
“As long as your oxen don’t step on my land, mine won’t step on yours.”
I knew that Hong was trying to make things difficult, because our three-point-two acres were a wedge in the production brigade’s land. Since our plot was a hundred yards long and only twenty-one yards wide, it was hard not to touch theirs when the plow reached the end or went along the edges. But when they plowed the edges of their land, it was just as hard to avoid touching ours. Dad had nothing to fear.
“We’d rather sacrifice a few feet of plowed land than step foot on your three-point-two acres!” Hong said.
Hong could make that boastful statement since the production brigade had so much land. But what about us? With the few acres we worked, we couldn’t sacrifice any. But Dad had a plan. “I’m not going to sacrifice even an inch of my land,” he said. “And you still won’t find a single one of our hoofprints on collective soil!”
“Those are your words, remember them,” Hong said.
“That’s right, those are my words.”
“I want you to keep an eye on them, Jinlong,” Hong said. “If that ox of theirs so much as steps on our land—” He paused. “Lan Lian, if your ox steps on our land, what should your punishment be?”
“You can chop off my ox’s leg,” Dad said defiantly.
What a shock that gave me! There was no clear boundary between our land and that belonging to the collective, nothing but a rock in the ground every fifty yards, and keeping a straight line by walking was no sure thing, let alone an ox pulling a plow.
Since Dad was employing the cleft method of plowing — starting from the middle and working his way outward — the risk of stepping on their land was minimal for a while. So Hong Taiyue said to my brother:
“Jinlong, go back to the village and prepare the bulletin board. You can come back and keep watch on them this afternoon.”
When we went home for lunch, a crowd had gathered around the bulletin board on our wall. Two yards wide and three yards long, it served as the village’s center for public opinion. In the space of a few hours my talented brother had made it a feast for the eyes with red, yellow, and green chalk. On the edges he had drawn tractors, sunflowers and greenery, commune members behind steel plows, their faces beaming, and oxen pulling the plows, their faces beaming as well. Then in the lower right-hand corner, in blue and white he’d drawn a skinny ox and two skinny people, one adult and one child — obviously, me, my dad, and our ox. In the middle he’d written in ancient block letters: spring plowing: people are happy, oxen are lowing. Below that in regular script he’d added: “A clear-cut comparison between the bustling activity of the People’s Commune and State-Run Farm as, bursting with energy, they engage in spring plowing, and the village’s obstinate independent farmer Lan Lian and his family, who tills his land with a single ox and plow, the ox with its head lowered, the farmer looking crestfallen, a solitary figure looking like a plucked chicken, his ox like a stray dog, miserable and anxious, having come to a dead end.”
“Dad,” I said, “look at the way he’s made us look!”
With our plow over his shoulder and leading the ox behind him, he wore a smile as cold and brilliant as ice.
“He can write what he wants,” he said. “That boy has talent. Whatever he draws looks real.”
The onlookers’ gazes snapped around and fell on us, followed by knowing smiles. Facts spoke louder than words. We had a mighty ox and our blue faces glowed, for, thanks to a good morning’s work, we were in high spirits and very proud of ourselves.
Jinlong was standing off a ways observing his masterpiece and its spectators. Huang Huzhu was leaning against her door frame holding the tip of her braid in her mouth, her eyes fixed on Jinlong, the dazed look in her eyes proof that the stirrings of love had grown strong. My half sister, Baofeng, came up the street toward us from the west, a leather medical satchel with a red cross painted on it slung over her back. Now that she had learned midwife skills and how to give injections, she was the village health worker. Huang Hezuo rode up unsteadily from the east, apparently having just learned how to ride a bike, and finding it hard to steer. When she spotted Jinlong leaning against the wall, she shouted, Oh, no, watch out! as she careened toward Jinlong, who stepped out of the way and grabbed the wheel with one hand and the handlebars with the other; Huang Hezuo nearly landed in his lap.
I looked over at Huang Huzhu, who jerked her head around so hard her braid flew; red in the face, she spun on her heel and stormed into the house. I was sick at heart, feeling nothing but sympathy for Huzhu and loathing for Hezuo, who had cut her hair short and combed it with a boy’s part, a style that was a current fad among middle-school students in the commune. The barber Ma Liangcai, an expert Ping-Pong player who was also pretty good on the harmonica, was responsible for all those haircuts. He went around dressed in a blue uniform that had been laundered nearly white, had a thick head of hair, deep black eyes, and a case of acne, and always smelled like hand soap. He had a thing for my sister. He often brought his air gun into our village to shoot birds, and was always successful. At first sight of him and his air gun, the village sparrows flew to spots unknown. The village health clinic was located in a room just east of the Ximen estate main house. What that means is, any time that fellow showed up at the local clinic, reeking of hand soap, he was lucky if he could escape the gazes of members of our family, and if he somehow managed that, he’d fall under the scrutiny of members of the Huang family. The fellow never passed up a chance to get close to my sister, who would frown and try not to make her feelings of disgust obvious as she reluctantly chatted with him. I knew that my sister was in love with Braying Jackass, but he had left with the Four Clean-ups team and vanished like a weasel in the woods. Since my mother could see that this marriage was anything but assured, outside of sighing in frustration, all she could do was try to reason with my sister.
“Baofeng, I know what you’re feeling, but are you being realistic? He grew up in the provincial capital, where he went to college. He’s talented and good looking, and has a bright future. How could someone like that fall for you? Listen to your mother and give up such thoughts. Lower your sights a bit. Little Ma is a teacher on the public payroll. He’s not bad looking, he’s literate, he plays the harmonica, and he’s a crack shot. He’s one in a hundred, if you ask me, and since he has his eye on you, why the hesitation? Go on, say yes to him. Take a good look at the eyes of the Huang sisters. The meat is right in front of you, and if you don’t eat it, someone else will. . . .”
Everything Mother said made sense. To me, Ma Liangcai and my sister were well suited for one another. Sure, he couldn’t sing like Braying Jackass, but he could make his harmonica sound like birds singing and could rid the village of its sparrows with his air gun, both virtues Braying Jackass lacked. But my sister had a stubborn streak, just like her father; Mother could talk till her lips were cracked, and her reply was always:
“Mother, I’ll decide whom I marry!”
We returned to the field that afternoon. Jinlong, a metal hoe over his shoulder, followed us step for step. The glinting blade of his tool was so sharp he could sever an ox’s hoof with one swing if he felt like it. His attitude of forsaking friends and family disgusted me, and I took every opportunity to let him know how I felt. I called him Hong Taiyue’s running dog and an ungrateful swine. He ignored me, but each time I blocked his way, he threw dirt in my face. When I tried to retaliate, Dad stopped me with an angry curse. He seemed to have eyes in the back of his head and invariably knew what I was up to. I reached down and picked up a dirt cl
od.
“Jiefang, what do you think you’re doing?” he roared.
“I want to teach this swine a lesson!” I said angrily.
“Shut up!” he railed. “If you don’t, I’ll tan your hide. He’s your older brother and he’s acting in an official capacity, so don’t get in his way.”
After two rounds of tilling, the production brigade oxen were panting from exhaustion, especially the female Mongol. Even from far away, we could hear what sounded like a confused hen trying to imitate a crowing rooster emerge from deep down in her throat, and I recalled what the youngster had whispered to me back when we were buying the young ox. He had called its mother a “hot turtle” that was ill equipped for hard work and useless during the hot summer months. Now I knew he was telling the truth. Not only was she gasping for breath, she was foaming at the mouth; it was not a pretty sight. Eventually, she collapsed and lay on the ground, her eyes rolling back into her head, like a dead cow. All the other oxen stopped working, and the plowmen ran up to her. Opinions flew back and forth. The term “hot turtle” had been the brainchild of an old farmer. One of the men recommended going for the veterinarian, but that suggestion was met with cold disdain. The comment, She’s beyond help, was heard.
When Dad reached the end of our plot, he stopped and said to my brother:
“Jinlong, there’s no need for you to follow behind me. I said we won’t leave a single hoofprint on public land, so you’re just tiring yourself out for nothing.”
Jinlong responded with a snort, and that’s all.
“My ox will not step on public land,” he repeated. “But the agreement was that your oxen and people would not step on my land either. By following me, you’re walking on my land. You’re standing on it right now, as a matter of fact.”
That stopped Jinlong in his tracks. Like a frightened kangaroo, he jumped off our land all the way to the riverbank road.
“I ought to lop off those hooves of yours!” I shouted.
His face bright red, he was too embarrassed to say a word.
“Jinlong,” Dad said, “how about you and me, father and son, tolerating each other’s position? Your heart is set on being progressive, and I’m not going to stand in your way. In fact, you have my full support. Your biological father was a landlord, but he was also my benefactor. Criticizing and attacking him was what the situation demanded, something I did for the benefit of others. But I’ll always be grateful to him. As for you, well, I’ve always treated you like my own flesh and blood, and I won’t try to stop you from going your own way My only hope is that there’ll always be a spot of warmth in your heart and that you won’t let it become cold and hard like a chunk of iron.”
“I stepped on your land, that I can’t deny,” Jinlong said grimly, “and you have every right to chop off my leg!” He flung his hoe toward us; it stuck in the ground between Dad and me. “If you don’t want to do it, that’s your problem. But if your ox, or either one of you, so much as steps foot on commune land, whether you mean to or not, don’t expect any favors from me!”
The expression on his face and the green flames that seemed to be shooting from his eyes sent chills down my spine and raised goose-flesh on my arms. My half brother was no ordinary young man; if he said he’d do something, he’d do it. If one of our feet or our ox’s hooves crossed that line, he’d come at us with his hoe without blinking an eye. What a shame for a man like him to be born during peacetime. If he’d been born only a few decades earlier, he’d have worn the mantle of hero, no matter whom he fought for, and if banditry had been his calling, he’d have been a king of slaughter. But this was, after all, peacetime, and there was little call for such ruthlessness, such daring and tenacity, and such incorruptibility.
Dad, too, seemed shaken by what he heard. He quickly looked away and fixed his gaze on the hoe stuck in the ground at his feet.
“Jinlong,” he said, “forget what I said. I’ll ease your concerns and, at the same time, carry out my pledge by tilling my land right next to yours. You can watch, and if you think it’s necessary to put your hoe to use, then go ahead. That way I won’t waste any more of your time.”
He walked up to our ox, rubbed its ears, and patted it on the forehead.
“Ox,” he whispered in its ear, “ah, my ox! It’s all been said. Keep your eye on the boundary marker and walk straight ahead. Don’t veer an inch!”
After adjusting the plow and sizing up the boundary, he gave a low command, and the ox started walking. My brother picked up his hoe and stared with bulging eyes at the ox’s hooves. The animal appeared unconcerned about the danger lurking behind him; he walked at a normal pace, his body limber, his back so smooth and steady he could have carried a full bowl of water without spilling a drop. Dad walked behind, stepping squarely in the new furrow. The work was totally reliant on the ox; given that his eyes were on either side of his head, how he managed to move in a perfectly straight line was beyond me. I simply watched as the new furrow neatly separated our land from theirs, with the boundary markers standing between the two. The ox slowed down each time he neared one of the stone markers to let Dad lift the plow over it. Every one of his hoof prints remained on our side, all the way to the end; there was nothing Jinlong could do. Dad exhaled loudly and said to Jinlong:
“You can head back home now, worry free, can’t you?”
So Jinlong left us, but not before casting one last reluctant glance at the ox’s perfect, bright hooves, and I knew how disappointed he was at not being able to chop one off. The hoe, slung over his shoulder as he walked off, glinted silvery in the sunlight, and that sight was burned into my memory.
17
Wild Geese Fall, People Die, an Ox Goes Berserk
Ravings and Wild Talk Turn Into an Essay
As for what happened next, should I continuing telling or do you want to take over? I asked Big-head. He squinted, as if he were looking at me, But I knew that his thoughts were elsewhere. He took a cigarette out of my pack, held it up to his nose to smell it, and curled his lip without saying anything, as if contemplating something very important. That’s a bad habit somebody your age should avoid. If you started smoking at the age of five, you’d have to smoke gunpowder when you reach the age of fifty, right? He ignored me and cocked his head; his outer ear twitched, as if he were straining to listen to something. I won’t say any more, I said. There isn’t much to say, anyway, since it’s all things we experienced. No, he said, you started, so you ought to finish. I said I didn’t know where to begin. He rolled his eyes.
Begin with the marketplace, focus on the fun part.
I saw plenty of people paraded through the marketplace, something that never failed to excite me, excite and delight.
I saw County Chief Chen, the man who had been friendly to Dad, paraded publicly through the marketplace. His head was shaved, the skin showing black — afterward, in his memoirs, he said he’d shaved his head so the Red Guards couldn’t pull him by the hair — and a papier-mâché donkey had been tied around his waist. As the air filled with drumbeats and the clang of gongs, he ran around to the beat, dancing with a goofy smile on his face. He looked like one of the local entertainers at New Year’s. Because he’d ridden our family’s donkey on inspection trips during the iron and steel-smelting campaign, people had saddled him with the nickname Donkey Chief. Then when the Cultural Revolution broke out, the Red Guards wanted to enhance the pleasure, the visual appeal, and the ability to draw a crowd when they were parading capitalist-roaders, so they made him wear that papier-mâché donkey. Plenty of cadres later wrote their memoirs, and when they related what had occurred during the Cultural Revolution, it was a tale of blood and tears, describing the period as hell on earth, more terrifying than Hitler’s concentration camps. But this official wrote about his experiences in the early days of the Cultural Revolution in a lively, humorous style. He wrote that he rode his paper donkey through eighteen marketplace parades, and in the process grew strong and healthy. No more high blood pressure and no mo
re insomnia. He said the sound of drums and gongs energized him; his legs quaked, and, like a donkey spotting its mother, he stamped his feet and snorted through his nose. When I linked his memoirs and my recollection of him wearing the papier-mâché donkey, I understood why that goofy smile had adorned his face. He said that when he followed the beat of the drums and gongs and started dancing in his papier-mâché donkey, he felt himself slowly changing into a donkey, specifically the black donkey that belonged to the independent farmer Lan Lian, and his mind began to wander, free and relaxed, as if he were living somewhere between the real world and a wonderful illusion. To him it felt as if his legs had become a set of four hooves, that he had grown a tail, and that he and the papier-mâché donkey around his waist had fused into one body, much like the centaur of Greek mythology. As a result, he gained a firsthand perception of what it felt like to be a donkey, the joys and the suffering. Marketplaces offered few items for sale during the Cultural Revolution, and most of the hustle and bustle derived from people who had gathered to witness a variety of spectacles. Winter had recently arrived, so the people were bundled up, except for youngsters who preferred the look of thin clothing. Everyone wore red armbands, which were especially prominent on the arms of youngsters in thin khaki or blue military jackets. On the older residents’ black, tattered padded coats, shiny with grime, the armbands were incongruous adornments. An old chicken peddler stood in the entrance to the Supply and Marketing Cooperative holding a chicken in her hand; she too wore a red armband. Have you joined the Red Guards too, Aunty? someone asked her. She pursed her lips and said, Red is all the rage, so why wouldn’t I join? Which unit? Jinggang Mountain or Golden Monkey? Go to hell, she said, and don’t waste my time with that nonsense. If you’re here to buy a chicken, then buy one. If not, get the fuck off!