At the end of the essay, Mo Yan wrote:
I never imagined this incident would cause Lan Jiefang such anguish. People came out to pick him up and carry him back to his kang. They pried open his teeth with a chopstick and poured some ginger water into his mouth to revive him. What in the world did he see up there in the tree, they asked me, that could put a spell on him like this? I said that the boar had taken the little sow called Butterfly Lover up the tree with romance on his mind. . . . That can’t be, they said doubtfully. When Lan Jiefang came to, he rolled around on the kang like a young donkey. His wails sounded like the boar imitating an air-raid alarm. He pounded his chest, pulled his hair, clawed at his eyes, and scratched his cheeks.... Some kind-hearted people had no choice but to tie his arms to keep him from doing serious injury to himself.
I couldn’t wait to tell people all about the celestial beauty of the sun and the moon, as they vied to outshine each other, but was stopped from doing so by Lan Jiefang, who, having lost his mind, threw the pig farm into sheer chaos. Party Secretary Hong, who had just gotten out of a sickbed, came as soon as he heard. He walked with a cane, his pallor, sunken eyes, and chin stubble showing the effects of an illness serious enough to turn a hard-as-nails member of the Communist Party into an old man. He stood at the head of the kang and banged on the floor with his cane, as if hoping to strike water. The harsh light made him look even more sickly and turned the face of Lan Jiefang, who was lying on the kang wailing, piteously hideous.
“Where’s Jinlong?” Hong asked, the tone showing his frustration.
The people in the room exchanged glances, apparently unaware of what had happened to him. Finally it was left to Mo Yan to answer timorously:
“Probably in the generator room.”
The comment reminded everyone that this was the first time they’d had electricity since the generator had been shut down the previous winter, and they were puzzled over what Jinlong was up to.
“Go get him.”
Mo Yan slipped out of the room like a slippery mouse.
At about that time I heard the sad sounds of a woman crying out on the street. My heart nearly stopped, and my brain froze. What happened next came like a raging torrent. I squatted down in front of a tall pile of apricot leaves, roots, and branches in the feed preparation room to think about the past, veiled in mist, and examine the present. Bones of the Mount Yimeng pigs that had died the year before had been placed in large baskets outside the room, where they showed up white in the moonlight, with specks of green glittering here and there. They gave off an unpleasant odor. I gazed out to see what appeared to be a dancing figure walking toward the moon, which by now looked like a ball of quicksilver, and turn on to the path to the Apricot Garden Pig Farm. She looked up, and I saw her face, which looked like a used water ladle, a sort of burnished yellow; owing to the fact that she was wailing, her open mouth was like a black mouse hole. She held her arms close to her chest, her legs were so bowed a dog could have run between them, and her feet pointed outward as she walked. The range of her rocking from side to side appeared almost greater than her movement forward. That’s how bad she looked as she “ran” along. She had changed drastically since my days as an ox, but I knew who she was as soon as I laid eyes on her. I tried to recall how old Yingchun would be, but my pig consciousness overwhelmed my human consciousness, and as they merged they created mixed feelings: excitement and sorrow.
“Oh, my son, what’s happened?” By looking through the gaps in the window, I saw her throw herself on the kang, weeping as she nudged Lan Jiefang.
The way his upper body was trussed up, he could hardly move, so he kept kicking the wall, which, not all that sturdy to begin with, seemed in danger of coming down; gray peelings like noodle dough floated to the ground. Chaos reigned in the room, until Hong Taiyue commanded:
“Get a rope and tie his legs!”
An old man named Lü Biantou, who also worked on the pig farm, dragged a length of rope up and climbed clumsily onto the kang. Lan Jiefang’s legs were kicking out like the hooves of a wild horse, making it impossible for Lü to get the job done.
“I said tie them!” Hong bellowed.
So Lü pressed Jiefang’s legs down with his body, but Yingchun immediately began tearing at his clothes and wailing, Let go of my son— Get up there, somebody, and help him! Hong shouted. You sons of bitches! Jiefang cried out. You’re a bunch of pig sons of bitches— Pass the rope underneath! The third son of the Sun family burst into the room. Get up on that kang and give him a hand! The rope was wrapped around Jiefang’s legs, but also around Lü Biantou’s arms, and then tightened. Loosen the rope, and let me get my arms back! Jiefang kicked the rope loose; it twisted like a crazed snake. Ow, Mother. . . Lü Biantou reeled backward and banged into Hong on his way to the floor. The Sun boy, with the strength of youth, sat down on Jiefang’s belly and, ignoring Yingchun’s clawing and cursing, quickly tightened the rope and eliminated the possibility of Jiefang mounting any resistance. On the floor, Lü Biantou was holding his nose, dark blood oozing out between his fingers.
Son, I know you don’t want to acknowledge any of this, but every word of what I’ve said is the unvarnished truth. When people are driven nearly mad, they are imbued with superhuman strength and are capable of almost supernatural deeds. That old apricot tree still has several egg-sized scars from injuries it sustained when you banged your head against it in a fit of rage. Under normal conditions, in any battle between a tree and a human head, the tree will win. But when they go a bit crazy, people’s heads get harder. So when your head and the tree met, it wobbled and sent snowflakes fluttering to the ground. You, meanwhile, recoiled backward and landed on your backside. A knot swelled up on your forehead, but the poor tree lost a chunk of bark, exposing the whiteness underneath.
Bound hand and foot, you writhed and twisted in a mighty attempt to get free. So Baofeng gave you a sedative and you slowly relaxed, your eyes open but unfocused, sounds of sleep leaving your mouth and nose. The tension in the room dissolved. I breathed a sigh of relief. Now, Lan Jiefang, you’re not my son, so whether you lived or died, whether you were crazy or just stupid, should have meant nothing to me. But I really did, I breathed a sigh of relief. After all, I concluded, you’d emerged from Yingchun’s womb, and in a previous life, that womb had been my — that is, Ximen Nao’s — property. The one I should have been concerned about was Ximen Jinlong, who was my son. With this thought in my head, I rushed over to the generator room, light blue moonlight on my shoulders. Apricot petals drifted to the ground like moonbeams. The whole grove of apricot trees trembled from the frenzied roar of the diesel motor. I heard the revitalized Yimeng pigs: some were talking in their sleep, others were whispering back and forth.
In the blindingly bright light of the naked two-hundred-watt bulb that lit up the generator I saw Ximen Jinlong on the brick floor, leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out in front of him, his feet pointing upward, drops of oil from the generator spraying onto his toenails and the backs of his feet, looking like sticky dog’s blood. His shirt was open to expose a purple vest. His hair was uncombed, his eyes bloodshot, like a madman, yet sort of cool. He probably wanted to drink himself to death, because I saw an empty liquor bottle lying next to his leg and a half-empty bottle in his hand . . . and if the youngster didn’t drink himself to death he’d surely drink himself stupid.
Mo Yan was standing beside him, squinting. “You’ve had enough, brother Jinlong,” he said. “Secretary Hong is waiting to give you hell.”
“Secretary Hong?” Jinlong looked up out of the corner of his eye. “Secretary Hong’s a prick! I’ll give him hell!”
“Brother,” Mo Yan said wickedly, “Jiefang saw what you and Huzhu were doing up in the apricot tree and went nuts. A dozen strong young men tried but failed to restrain him. He actually bit through a thick steel rod. You should go see him. After all, he’s your blood brother.”
“My blood brother? Who are you talking about? You’re t
he one who’s his blood brother!”
“Whether you go see him or not is your business, Jinlong,” Mo Yan said. “I’ve done my job by telling you.”
But Mo Yan seemed in no hurry to leave. He kicked the bottle on the ground, then bent down and picked it up. He squinted and looked inside; seeing some green contents, he tipped his head back and drained it, then licked his lips noisily. “Good stuff,” he said, “worthy of its name.”
Jinlong raised the bottle in his hand and drank deeply. The room filled with the aroma of strong liquor as he flung the bottle at Mo Yan, who raised his bottle. When bottle met bottle, shards of exploding glass rained down to the ground. Now the aroma was stronger than ever. “Get lost!” Jinlong bellowed. “Get the hell out of here!” As Mo Yan backed up, Jinlong picked up a shoe, a screwdriver, and some other stuff, and threw them at him, one after the other. “You goddamn spy, you little prick, get out of my sight!” “You’re crazy!” Mo Yan muttered as he dodged the missiles. “You’ve gone nuts before he even comes out of it!”
Jinlong stood up shakily and wobbled back and forth, like one of those tip-over dolls. The moment Mo Yan stepped out the door, the moonlight lit up his shaved head and turned it into a honeydew melon. I was watching the two weirdoes from my hiding place behind the tree, worried sick that Jinlong might fall onto the generator belt and be crushed. Fortunately, that didn’t happen. Instead, he stepped over it, then stepped back. “Crazy!” he screamed. “Crazy! Everybody’s gone goddamned crazy—” He picked up a broom from the corner and threw it out, then followed that with a tin bucket used for diesel oil, the smell of which spread beneath the moonlight and merged with the aroma of apricot blossoms. Jinlong stumbled over to the generator and bent down as if to engage the turbine in a conversation. Be careful, son! I shouted inwardly as my muscles tightened and I prepared to run over and rescue him if necessary. He was bent so low his nose was nearly touching the belt. Be careful, son! Another inch and you’ll have no nose. But that tragedy didn’t happen either. He put his hand on the throttle and pressed it all the way down. The generator screeched like a man when you squeeze his balls. The machine shuddered and sent oil flying in all directions. Black smoke poured out of the exhaust, while the bolts securing the generator to its wooden base began to shudder and seemed in danger of pulling loose altogether. At the same time, the needle on the power gauge shot past the danger mark and the high-wattage bulb above them lit up before it popped and sent slivers of glass flying into the wall and up to the rafters. I didn’t know till later that when the bulb in the generator room blew, so did all the lights in the pig farm. The next thing I heard was the loud slap the belt made when it hit the wall, followed by Jinlong’s terrified screams. My heart sank. That’s it, I figured; my son, Ximen Jinlong was probably a goner.
Slowly the darkness gave way to the light of the moon and I saw Mo Yan, down on his hands and knees, rear end sticking up in the air, just like an ostrich; scared stiff, he slowly got to his feet. Curious but cowardly, virtually useless yet pigheaded, stupid and cunning at the same time, he was incapable of doing anything worthwhile and unwilling to do anything spectacularly bad; in other words, someone who was always causing trouble and forever complaining about his lot. I knew about all the scandals he’d been involved in and could pretty much read his mind. He slipped cautiously back into the moonlit generator room, where Ximen Jinlong was sprawled on the floor, striped by moonlight filtering in through the slats in the window. One of the moonbeams fell on his head, including his hair, of course, from which threads of blue-tinted blood seeped down across his face, like a millipede. Mo Yan bent down, mouth agape, and touched the wet, sticky blood with two fingers that were black as a pig’s tail. First he examined it with his eyes, then with his nose, and finally with his mouth. What the hell was he doing? Whatever it was, it was strange, to say the least, so bizarre that even an intelligent pig like me couldn’t figure it out. He couldn’t tell if Ximen Jinlong was dead or alive just by looking at, smelling, or tasting his blood, could he? Or maybe this was his involved way of determining whether the blood on his fingers was real or fake. So there I was, trying to decipher his strange behavior, when, like someone who’s just emerged from a nightmare, he screeched, then jumped high in the air and ran out of the generator room.
“Come over here, everybody! Ximen Jinlong’s dead!” he shouted in a voice that sounded joyful.
Maybe he saw me hiding behind an apricot tree, maybe not. The moonlit trees and mottled leaves had a dizzying effect on people’s eyes. The sudden death of Jinlong was probably the first and most noteworthy news he’d ever had the opportunity to spread. He had no interest in talking to the apricot trees as he ran, shouting at the top of his lungs. I started following him after he’d tripped on a pile of pig shit and fallen headfirst to the ground.
People emerged from the buildings, their faces taking on a pale hue in the moonlight. The absence of screams inside the room proved that the sedatives had taken effect on Jiefang. Baofeng was holding an alcohol-soaked pad of cotton to her cheek, which had been cut by flying glass when the lightbulb exploded. A faint scar would be left after the wound healed, living testimony to the unbelievable chaos of that night.
People came running, some stumbling along, some nearly falling, and all of them horribly flustered. In a word, a disorderly crowd ran toward the generator room, following Mo Yan, who kept turning sideways to describe with showy exaggeration what he’d seen. I had the feeling that whoever it was, whether Ximen Jinlong’s kin or those with no familial ties to him, felt disgust toward the gabby youngster. Shut your filthy mouth! I took several quick steps and hid behind a tree, where I picked a piece of tile up out of the mud with my mouth — it was bigger than I wanted, so I bit it in two — grasped it in the cleft of my right front hoof, stood up humanlike on my hind legs, took aim at Mo Yan’s shiny scalp, and flung the tile as I landed on my front legs. I miscalculated the distance, and instead of hitting Mo Yan, the missile struck Yingchun in the forehead. The loud crack froze my heart and awoke slumbering memories. Oh, Yingchun, my virtuous wife, tonight you are the unluckiest person on earth! Two sons, one of them mad, the other dead, a daughter with an injured face, and now I’ve nearly killed you!
Heartbroken, I let out a long oink and buried my snout in the ground, remorse driving me to chew the remaining half of the tile into powder. Like a scene from one of those high-speed movie cameras, I saw Yingchun’s mouth open to release a scream like a silver snake dancing in the moonlight as she fell backward like a figurine. Don’t think for a minute that just because I’m a pig I don’t know what a high-speed camera is. Hell, these days anyone can be a film director! All you need is a light-filtering lens and a high-speed camera that you use to get a full shot or a closeup. The tile broke into pieces when it hit Yingchun’s forehead and flew in all directions, followed immediately by drops of blood. Onlookers looked on in jaw-dropping astonishment. . . . Yingchun lay on the ground. Mom! Ximen Baofeng was shouting. She kneeled by her mother and laid her medical kit on the ground. With her right arm around Yingchun’s neck, she studied the wound on her forehead. What happened, Mom? . . . Who did this? Hong Taiyue bellowed as he ran over to the spot where the tile had been launched. I didn’t even try to hide, knowing I could disappear any time I wanted to. I had really messed up this time, no matter how good my intentions were, and I deserved to be punished. Hong Taiyue was the first to go looking for the rotten individual who had injured one of the villagers with a piece of tile, but he wasn’t the one who discovered me standing behind the apricot tree. Getting on in years, he wasn’t as sprightly as he’d once been. No, the first to come around the tree and find me was Mo Yan, whose stealthy movements perfectly matched his almost pathological curiosity. Here’s who did it! he gleefully announced to the swarm of people behind him. I sat there stiffly, a low guttural sound in my throat declaring my remorse and my readiness to receive the punishment I deserved. The puzzled looks on the people’s faces showed up clear in the moonlight. He??
?s the one, I guarantee it! Mo Yan said to the crowd. With my own eyes I once saw him write on the ground with a twig. Hong Taiyue thumped him on the shoulder.
“Old man,” he mocked Mo Yan, “have you also seen him take a knife in his hoof and carve a seal for your dad, using the plum-blossom style of calligraphy?”
As someone who didn’t know what was good for him, Mo Yan continued shooting off his mouth, so the third brother of the Sun family ran up and, like the bully he was, grabbed Mo Yan by the ear and kneed him in the rear end.
“Buddy,” he said as he dragged him away from the scene, “keep that beak of yours shut!”
“Who let this boar out of its pen?” Hong Taiyue asked angrily. “Who’s responsible for taking care of the pigs? Somebody has a terrible work ethic and ought to be docked some work points!”
Moving as fast as possible on her tiny, bound feet, Ximen Bai tottered up from the roadway, which was paved in moonlight, scattering apricot blossoms that looked like snowflakes as she came. Memories that had lain deep in the sediment of my mind were once again stirred up, like mud on a riverbed, and began squeezing my heart.
“Get that pig back in his pen!” Hong Taiyue growled. “This is ridiculous! Totally ridiculous!” With a phlegmatic cough he walked over to the generator room.
I think it must have been concern for her son that made it possible for Yingchun to come around so quickly; she struggled to stand. “Mom . . . ,” Baofeng cried out as she put her arm under Yingchun’s neck and opened her medical kit. Huang Huzhu, a look of detachment on her face, knew what to do: she picked up an alcohol-soaked cotton ball with a pair of tweezers and handed it to Baofeng. “My Jinlong . . .” Yingchun pushed Baofeng’s arm away and propped herself up. Her movements were jerky, her balance precarious; clearly she was still lightheaded. But she stood and, with an agonizing cry on her lips, staggered off toward the generator room.