Life and Death are Wearing Me Out

  The propaganda team drove up in a Soviet truck left over from the Korean War. Its original green paint had faded after years of being buffeted by the elements, and a frame with four high-powered loudspeakers had been welded to the top of the cab. A gas-driven generator was mounted in the truck bed, the two sides of which were lined with Red Guards in imitation army uniforms, each gripping the side with one hand and holding up a Little Red Book in the other. Their faces were crimson, either from the cold or from revolutionary passion. One of them, a slightly cross-eyed girl, was grinning from ear to ear. The loudspeakers blared so loud a farmer’s wife had a miscarriage, a pig ran headlong into a wall and knocked itself out, a whole roost of laying hens took to the air, and local dogs barked themselves hoarse. The first sounds after the playing of “The East Is Red” were the roar of the generator and static from the loudspeaker. They were followed by a melodious woman’s voice. I climbed a tree so I could see inside the bed of the truck, where there were two chairs and a table on which rested some sort of machine and a microphone wrapped in red cloth. One of the chairs was occupied by a girl with little braids, the other by a boy who wore a part in his hair. I’d never seen her before, but he was Little Chang, who’d come to our village during the Four Clean-ups campaign, the one they called Braying Jackass. I later learned that he had been assigned to the county opera troupe and, as a rebel, the commander of the Golden Monkey Red Guard faction. I shouted down to him from my perch up in the tree: Little Chang! Little Chang! Jackass! But my shouts were swallowed up by the loudspeaker.

  The girl shouted into the microphone, and the loudspeaker carried her voice like thunderclaps. Here is what everyone in Northeast Gaomi Township heard: Capitalist-roader Chen Guangdi, a donkey trader who wormed his way into the Party, opposed the Great Leap Forward, opposed the Three Red Banners, is a sworn brother to Lan Lian, Northeast Gaomi Township’s independent farmer who stubbornly hews to the Capitalist Road, and acts as the independent farmer’s protective umbrella. Chen Guangdi is not only an ideological reactionary, he is also immoral. He had sexual relations with a donkey and made her pregnant. She gave birth to a monster: a donkey with a human head!

  Yes! The crowd roared its approval. The Red Guards on the truck followed Jackass’s lead in shouting slogans: Down with County Chief Donkey-head Chen Guangdi! Down with County Chief Donkey-head Chen Guangdi! Down with the donkey rapist Chen Guangdi! Down with the donkey molester Chen Guangdi! Jackass’s voice, magnified by the loudspeaker, became a vocal calamity, as a flock of wild geese flying overhead dropped out of the sky like stones. Now, the meat of these birds is a delicacy, and nutritious to boot, a rarity for the people below. For them to fall out of the sky at a time when the people’s nutritional lives were so impoverished seemed to be a blessing from heaven, when in fact it was anything but. The people went crazy, pushing and shoving and shouting and screeching, worse than a pack of starving dogs. The first person to get his hands on a fallen bird must have been wild with joy, until, that is, everyone around him tried to snatch it away. Feathers fluttered to the ground, fine down floated in the air; it was like tearing apart a down pillow. The bird’s wings were torn off, its legs wound up in someone else’s hands, its head and neck were torn from its body and held high in the air, dripping blood. People in the rear pushed down on the heads and shoulders of those in front to leap like hunting dogs. People were knocked to the ground, squashed where they stood, trampled where they lay. Shrill cries of Mother! . . . Mother! . . . Help, save me . . . emerged from dozens of black knots of humanity that seethed and churned. Screams and shouts — Ow, my poor head!—merged with the howl of the loudspeaker. Chaos turned to tangled fighting and from there to violent battles. The final tally: seventeen people were trampled to death, an unknown number suffered injury.

  Some of the dead were taken away by kin, others were dragged to the doorway of the Butcher Section to await identification and removal. Some of the injured were taken to the clinic or taken home by relatives, some walked or crawled away on their own; some limped away to wherever they wanted to go, some just lay on the ground and wept or wailed. These were Northeast Gaomi Township’s first reported deaths in the Cultural Revolution. In the months to follow, while there were pitched battles, with bricks and tiles flying in the air and an assortment of weapons, from knives to guns to clubs, the number of casualties paled in comparison with this incident.

  I was perfectly safe up in the tree, where I saw the whole incident unfold in all its detail. I saw the birds fall from the sky and watched as they were torn apart by people. I saw the whole range of expressions — greed, madness, astonishment, suffering, ferocity — during the incident; I heard everything from cries of torment to those of wild joy; I smelled blood and other noxious odors; and I felt both chilled currents and overheated waves in the air. All this reminded me of tales of wartime, and even though the county annals of the Cultural Revolution recorded the wild geese incident as a case of bird flu, I believed then, and I believe now, that they were knocked out of the sky by the high-volume shrillness of the loudspeaker.

  After things quieted down, the parades started up again, although the incident had a cautionary effect on the observing crowds. A gray path opened up in the market where heads once bobbed; it was now dotted with bloodstains and squashed bird carcasses. Breezes carrying a heavy stink blew feathers here and there. The woman who had been selling chickens was hobbling up and down the street, wiping her nose and drying her eyes with her red armband and moaning: My chickens, oh, my chickens . . . give me back my chickens you bastards, you ought to be shot. . . .

  The truck was parked between the livestock and lumber markets. By now most of the Red Guards had climbed off the truck and were sitting lethargically on a log that smelled of pine tar. Chef Song, the pockmarked cook from the commune kitchen, came out with two buckets of mung-bean soup to welcome the Red Guard little generals from the county seat; fragrant steam wafted from the full buckets.

  Pockmarked Song carried a bowl of the soup over to the truck, where he offered it up with both hands to Braying Jackass and the female Red Guard who was in charge of broadcasting. Ignoring the offering, the commander shouted into the microphone: Drag out the ox-demons and snake-spirits!

  At that signal, the ox-demons and snake-spirits, led by County Chief Donkey Chen Guangdi, charged out of the compound with boundless joy. As we have already seen, Donkey Chief Chen’s body had fused with the papier-mâché donkey, and as he came on the scene now, he had a human head. But that changed with a scant few motions. In one of those scenes you see in the movies or on TV, his ears got longer and stood straight up, like fat leaves growing out of a tropical stem or large gray butterflies emerging from cocoons, looking like satin glistening with an elegant gray luster, covered by a layer of long downy hairs, without doubt soft to the touch. Then his face elongated; his eyes grew bigger and moved to the sides of his widening nose, white in color and covered with short, downy hairs, without doubt soft to the touch. His mouth sagged and split into a pair of thick fleshy lips, also without doubt soft to the touch. Two rows of big white teeth were covered at first by donkey lips, but the moment he laid eyes on the female Red Guard, with her red armband, his lips flared back and the big teeth made an appearance. We’d owned a donkey before, so I was well acquainted with donkey ways, and I knew that when one of them flares back his lips, sexual excitement is on its way, and he will display his enormous organ, up till then safely sheathed. Happily, County Chief Chen retained enough of his human instincts that the donkey transformation remained incomplete, and though he flared his lips, he kept his organ hidden from view. Fan Tong, former commune Party secretary, was next to appear — that’s right, County Chief Chen’s onetime secretary, the one who absolutely loved donkey meat, especially the male organ — so the Red Guards fashioned one for him out of a big white turnip, Northeast Gaomi Township’s most abundant crop. Actually, there wasn’t much fashioning involved: a few swipes with a knife on the head and some black ink was all it took
. There are few things richer than the people’s imagination. No one needed to be told what the black-dyed turnip represented. This Fan fellow, his face twisted in a frown, moved slowly owing to the fat he carried on his body; he could not keep up with the rhythm of the drums and gongs, and that threw the entire column of ox-demons and snake-spirits into mass confusion. A Red Guard tried to remedy the situation by smacking him on the rump, which only succeeded in making him jump and cry out in pain. The smacks then moved to his head, which he tried to ward off with the fake donkey dick in his hand. But it snapped in two, exposing its true nature as a turnip: white, crunchy, high water content. The crowd laughed uproariously, including even the Red Guards. Fan Tong was handed over to two female Red Guards, who forced him to eat the two halves of the fake donkey dick in front of everyone. The black dye, he said, was toxic, and he refused to eat. The female Red Guards’ faces reddened, as if they’d been humiliated. You hoodlum, you stinking hoodlum! A beating is too good for you, what you need is to be kicked! They stepped back and began kicking Fan Tong, who rolled around on the ground, crying piteously, Little generals, little generals, don’t kick me, I’ll eat it, I’ll eat. . . He scooped up the turnip and bit off a chunk. Faster, eat faster! He bit off another chunk. His cheeks bulged so much he couldn’t even chew, so he tried to force it down his throat and ended up choking himself until his eyes rolled back in his head. A dozen or more ox-demons and snake-spirits followed County Chief Donkey out, each with a unique trick and display, an entertainment extravaganza for the lookers-on. The drums, gongs, and cymbals were handled with high professional standards, since the musicians were members of the county opera percussion division. Their repertoire consisted of dozens of cadences, and the local musicians were not in their league. In comparison with them, our Ximen Village percussion team was like a bunch of kids banging on pieces of scrap metal trying to scare off sparrows.

  The Ximen Village parade made its way up from east of the marketplace. Sun Long — Dragon Sun — carried a drum on his back; Sun Hu — Tiger Sun — beat it from behind. The gong was struck by Sun Bao, Panther Sun; the cymbals clanged by Sun Biao, Tiger Cub Sun. The four Sun brothers were from a poor peasant family, and it made sense for the loud percussion instruments to be in their hands. They were preceded by the village ox-demons and snake-spirits, and the capitalist-roaders. Hong Taiyue had managed to slip by during the Four Clean-ups, but not the Cultural Revolution. A paper dunce cap rested on his head; a big-character poster in forceful ancient script was pasted on his back. One look told me it was more of Ximen Jinlong’s handiwork. Hong was carrying the hip bone of an ox with brass rings on the edges, a reminder of his glorious history. The ill-fitting dunce cap kept tipping to the side, forcing him to reach up and hold it steady with his hand. If he was slow in doing so, a bushy-browed young man behind him kicked him in the rear. Who was he? None other than my half brother, Ximen Jinlong. Publicly he was known as Lan Jinlong. He was smart enough to know not to change his surname, because that would make him the offspring of a tyrannical landlord, a subhuman. My dad was an independent farmer, but his status as a farmhand did not change. The farmhand designation was like gold that glittered brightly during those times. It was priceless.

  My brother was wearing a real army tunic, which he’d gotten from his friend Little Chang. Beneath the tunic, he was wearing blue flannel trousers and plastic white-soled khaki shoes. A wide leather belt with a brass buckle circled his waist; it was the type worn by Eighth Route or New Fourth Army soldiers. Now he was wearing one. He had rolled up his sleeves; the Red Guard armband hung loosely from his upper arm. All the villagers’ red armbands had been stitched together with red fabric, the words added in yellow with a stencil. My brother’s was made of silk, the words embroidered in gold-colored thread. Throughout the county there were only ten of those, all embroidered overnight by the finest seamstress in the county handicraft factory; she spit up blood and died when she was halfway through the tenth one, which, owing to the bloodstains, spoke of the tragedy. That was the one my brother wore; embroidered only with the word Red, and stained with the maker’s blood. My sister, Ximen Baofeng, had embroidered the word Guard fot him. He came into possession of this treasured item when he went to the headquarters of the Golden Monkey Red Guard faction to call on his friend Braying Jackass. The two “jackasses,” excited to see one another again after so long, shook hands, embraced, and shared a revolutionary salute, after which they exchanged news of what had happened since they were last together and talked about the revolutionary situation in the village. Now I wasn’t there at the time, but I’m positive that Braying Jackass asked after my sister, since she was surely on his mind.

  My brother had gone to the county seat to “fetch scriptures.” Trouble was brewing in the village when the Cultural Revolution broke out, but no one knew just how to nip it in the bud. He had a knack for getting to the root of a problem, so all Braying Jackass had to say was: Struggle against the Party cadres the same way we did against the tyrannical landlord! Obviously, no quarter was to be given to the landlords, rich peasants, and counterrevolutionaries already beaten down by the Communist Party either.

  My brother understood exactly what to do as hot blood raced through his veins. As he was leaving, Braying Jackass handed him the unfinished red armband and a spool of gold-colored silk thread. Your sister is a clever girl, he said, she can finish it for you. My brother reached into his knapsack and took out a gift for him from my sister: a pair of insoles embroidered in multicolored threads. For girls from our area to give anyone insoles was a virtual pledge to marry. The pattern was of a pair of mandarin ducks frolicking in the water. The reds and greens, the exquisitely fine stitches, and the poignant pattern all bespoke deep affection. The two “jackasses” blushed. As he accepted the gift, Braying Jackass said: Please tell Comrade Lan Baofeng that mandarin ducks and butterflies all represent sentiments belonging to the landlords and capitalist-roaders. Proletarian aesthetics are found in green pine trees, the red sun, the vast oceans, high mountains, torches, scythes, and axes. If she wants to do embroidery, she should concentrate on those. My brother nodded solemnly, promising to pass on the comment. The commander then took off his army tunic and said in a somber tone: An instructor friend of mine in the army gave this to me. See, four pockets, an authentic officer’s tunic. The guy who runs the county hardware company brought in a brand-new Golden Stag bicycle, and I wouldn’t swap this with him!

  As soon as he returned to the village, my brother organized a Ximen Village branch of the Golden Monkey Red Guard faction. When the flag was raised, the village rose up in response. Most of the young villagers held my brother in awe, and now they had their opportunity to get behind him. They occupied the brigade headquarters, sold off a donkey and two oxen for 1,500 yuan, and bought red material, with which they made armbands, red flags, and red tassels for spears, plus a loudspeaker and ten buckets of red paint, which they used to paint the headquarters doors, windows, and walls. They even painted the apricot tree in the yard bright red. When my dad showed his disapproval, Tiger Sun slapped red paint on Dad’s face, making it half red and half blue. Jinlong stood off to the side watching with cold detachment when my dad cursed the youngsters. Throwing caution to the wind, he confronted Jinlong. Has there been another dynastic change, young master? he asked. Jinlong just stood there with his hands on his hips, chest out, and said curtly: That’s right, there has been. Does that mean that Mao Zedong is no longer chairman? Dad asked politely. Caught unprepared, Jinlong paused before responding angrily: Paint the blue half of his face red! The Sun brothers — Dragon, Tiger, Panther, and Tiger Cub — rushed up; two held Dad’s arms, one grabbed him by the hair, and the last one picked up the brush and covered his face with a thick coat of red paint. When Dad reacted by cursing angrily, the paint ran into his mouth and coated his teeth red. He was a fright, with two black eye holes into which paint from his eyebrows could drip at any moment. Mother ran out of the house, crying and screaming: Jinlong, he’s your
dad. How can you treat him like that? Jinlong replied icily: The whole nation is red, leaving no spot untouched. The Cultural Revolution is going to seal the doom of the capitalist-roaders, landlords, rich peasants, and counterrevolutionaries. No independent farmer is going to slip through the cracks. If he refuses to abandon his independent activities and continues down the path of capitalism, we’ll drown him in a bucket of red paint! Dad wiped the red paint from his face to keep it from running into his eyes, that was his greatest fear, but all he managed to do, the poor man, was to rub it into his eyes. Blinded by the sting of the paint, he jumped around in agony and screamed pitifully. Soon exhausted by all that jumping, he rolled around on the ground, where he was soiled from head to toe with chicken droppings. Mom’s and Wu Qiuxiang’s chickens, thrown into a panic by all the red paint and the red-faced man, were afraid to stay in their roosts; they flew up onto the wall, onto branches of the apricot tree, even up onto the eaves of the house, and everywhere they landed they left red imprints of their claws. Jiefang, my son, Mother cried out in great sorrow, go get your sister, bring her back to save your dad from going blind! Armed with a red-tasseled spear I ripped out of a Red Guard’s hand, and boiling with anger, I was determined to poke holes in Jinlong and see what flowed out of the body of this brother who had turned his back on his own family. My feelings were, his blood must be black. Mother’s anguished cries and Dad’s agonizing wails made it necessary for me to hold off on my desire to poke holes in Jinlong, at least for the moment. Saving my dad’s eyesight took priority over everything. I ran out onto the street, dragging my spear behind me. Have you seen my sister? I asked a white-haired old woman. She shook her head as she dried her tears; I’m not sure she even understood me. Have you seen my sister? I asked a bald, stoop-shouldered old man. He smiled foolishly and pointed to his ear. Ah, he’s deaf, he can’t hear me. Have you seen my sister? I asked a fellow pushing a cart, grabbing him by the shoulder. His cart tipped over, spilling a load of shiny stones, which clicked against one another as they rolled along the street. He shook his head, a sad smile on his face. He had every right to be angry, but he wasn’t. He was Wu Yuan, one of our rich peasants, a man who could tease the saddest notes out of a flute, which he played with refined elegance. He belonged to the ancients, a man who, as you say, had befriended the tyrannical landlord Ximen Nao. I ran off, leaving Wu Yuan to load the stones back onto his cart. They were to be delivered to the Ximen compound on orders from the Ximen Village branch of the Golden Monkey Red Guard faction commander, Ximen Jinlong. I ran smack into Huang Huzhu. Most of the village girls had cut their hair short, with a part, like the boys, exposing the skin on their scalp and neck. She alone stubbornly clung to her braid, which she tied off at the end with a red ribbon: feudal, conservative, diehard, an attitude that easily rivaled that of my dad, who stubbornly refused to abandon independent farming. Before long, however, that braid served her well, for when the revolutionary model opera Red Lantern was staged, she was a natural for the role of Li Tiemei, who wore a braid just like that. Even actresses in the county opera troupe who were assigned the role of Li Tiemei had to wear fake braids. Our Li Tiemei had the real thing, every strand of hair firmly attached to her scalp. I later learned why Huang Huzhu was so dead set on keeping her braid. That was because of all the fine capillaries in her hair; if she’d cut her hair they’d have oozed blood. Her hair was thick and lush, a quality rarely seen. Hu Zhu, I said when I bumped into her, have you seen my sister? She opened her mouth, as if she wanted to say something, but immediately shut it again. She was cold, scornful, absolutely off-putting. I couldn’t let her expression bother me. I asked you, I said in a very loud voice, have you seen my sister? Pretending she didn’t know, she asked me: And just who is your sister? You fucking Huang Huzhu, are you telling me you don’t know who my sister is? If you don’t know that, then you must not even know who your own mother is. My sister, Lan Baofeng, health worker, a barefoot doctor. Oh, her, she said with a slight and very contemptuous twist of her mouth. Outwardly proper, but dripping with jealousy, she said. She’s at school, entangled with Ma Liangcai. Go now, or you’ll miss it, two dogs, a mutt and a bitch, one more aroused than the other, they’ll be coupled any minute! That threw me. I never expected coarse language like that from someone as old-fashioned as Huzhu —