Jintong was given the job of walking the oxen at night to keep them from lying down and reopening the wounds. It was murky at dusk, and at the farm’s eastern irrigation ditch, he led the animals into a stand of willows, where he tied them to trees. Five nights in a row he had walked them, until his legs felt weighted down with lead. As he sat leaning against one of the trees, his eyelids grew heavy, and he was about to fall asleep when the soul-stirring, sweet and fresh aroma of freshly baked and still warm buns assailed his nose. His eyes snapped open. What he saw was the cook, Pockface Zhang, walking backward with a steamed bun on a skewer, waving it in the air like bait. And that’s exactly what it was. Some three or four feet away, Qiao Qisha, the flowrer of the medical school, was following him, her eyes fixed greedily on the bun. Weak light from the setting sun haloed her puffy face, as if coating it with the blood of a dog. She walked with difficulty, gasping for breath and reaching out with her hand. More than once she nearly touched it, but Pockface Zhang pulled it back each time, grinning maliciously. She whimpered like an abused puppy. But whenever her frustration nearly forced her away, the fragrance of the bun brought her back, as if in a trance. Qiao Qisha, who, at a time when everyone was given six ounces of grain a day, could still refuse to inseminate a rabbit with sheep’s sperm, had lost her faith in politics and science, now that the ration had dwindled to one ounce a day; animal instinct drove her toward the steamed bun, and it didn’t matter who was holding it. She followed it deep into the stand of willows. That morning, Jintong had spent his rest period helping Chen San cut hay, for which he’d received three ounces of dry bean cakes. That had given him enough self-control to resist the temptation to join the bun parade. Evidence would later show that during the famine of 1960, Zhang traded food for sex with nearly every female rightist at the farm. Qiao Qisha was the last stronghold he breached. The youngest, most beautiful, and most obstinate woman among the rightists turned out to be no harder to conquer than any of the others. In the blood-red rays of the dying sun, Jintong watched the rape of his seventh sister.
What was a waterlogged catastrophe for the farm was a wonderful time for the willows. Red aerial roots sprouted on their black trunks, like the antennae of an ocean creature, which bled when they were broken off. The great canopies were like enraged madwomen, their hair flying. Tender, supple, watery leaves, normally a soft yellow, now pink in color, sprouted on all the limbs. Jintong had the feeling that both the branches and the leaves must be truly delectable, and while the episode ran its course in front of him, his mouth was stuffed with willow twigs and leaves.
Finally, Pockface Zhang tossed the bun to the ground. Qiao Qisha rushed up and grabbed it, stuffing it into her mouth before she even straightened up. Pockface Zhang moved behind her, lifted her skirt, pulled her filthy red panties down to her ankles, and skillfully lifted out one leg. After parting her legs, he took out his organ, unaffected by the famine of 1960, and stuck it in. Like a dog stealing food, she forced herself to tolerate the painful posterior attack as she gobbled down the food, continuing to swallow even when it was gone. The pain in her crotch was nothing compared to the pleasure the food brought. And so, while Pockface Zhang was madly pumping from behind, making her body rock, she never stopped attacking her food. Tears wet her eyes, a biological reaction from choking on the bun, totally devoid of emotion. Maybe, once she’d finished swallowing the food, she became aware of the pain in her backside, because when she straightened up, she turned to look behind her. The dry bun had gone down hard, stretching her throat, so she thrust out her neck like a duck. Pockface Zhang was still inside her, so he wrapped his arm around her waist and, with the other hand, took a flattened bun out of his pocket and tossed it on the ground in front of her. She stepped forward and bent down again, with him still attached, one hand on her hip, the other pushing down on her shoulder. This time, as she ate the bun, she allowed him unconditional freedom to proceed as he wished, with no interference.
Jintong chewed ferociously on the willow twigs and leaves, a delicacy that somehow had gone unnoticed. At first they were sweet, but when he ate them later, that sweetness was soon replaced by a puckery bitterness that made it impossible to swallow. There was a reason people didn’t eat them. He kept chewing as his eyes filled with tears. Through the haze of his tears he saw that the drama in front of him had played itself out and that Pockface Zhang had left the scene, leaving Qiao Qisha standing there looking around as if she didn’t know where she was. Then she too walked off, her head banging against low-hanging willow branches.
With his arms around one of the trees, Jintong rested his weary head against the bark.
The long spring season was nearly over; the millet was ripe, a sign that the days of hunger were coming to an end. In order to make sure the workers had the strength to bring in the millet harvest, the authorities sent a load of bean cakes to the farm, enough for everyone to get four ounces. But just as Huo Lina had died from eating mushrooms, Qiao Qisha’s system would not be able to handle all the extra food, and she too would die.
She stood in the line of people waiting for their ration, which was distributed by Pockface Zhang and one of the cooks. Holding a rice container, she was in line directly ahead of Jintong. He saw Pockface Zhang wink at her when he handed over her ration, but she was too captivated by the fragrance of the food to make much of it. Fights broke out over minor disparities in the distribution, and Jintong had the vague and painful feeling that Qisha would get more than she was entitled to. Orders had come down that four ounces were to last two days, but everyone took their ration home and consumed every last crumb immediately. That night there was a constant stream of people running over to the well for water. The food in their stomachs swelled, and Jintong enjoyed the all-but-forgotten pleasure of feeling full. He belched and farted constantly, the smell of bean cakes emerging from both ends. There was a line at the toilet the next morning; the bean cakes had wrought havoc on the systems of people who had gone hungry for too long.
No one knew just how much Qiao Qisha had eaten, no one but Pockface Zhang, who wasn’t talking. And Jintong had no desire to soil the reputation of his seventh sister. He’d noticed that her belly poked out like a water vat. Sooner or later, he was thinking, every one of them would die from starvation or overeating anyway, so why worry about it?
The cause of her death was clear, so no investigation was called for. And since the body would not keep long in the late-summer heat, the order came down to bury her at once. There was no coffin and, of course, no ceremony. A few of the female rightists planned to dress her in the nicest clothes she owned, but the sight of her grotesquely distended belly and the foul bubbly foam on her lips drove them back in disgust. So some of the male rightists scrounged up a tattered piece of canvas once used by the tractor unit, wrapped her up in it and fastened the ends with wire, then loaded her onto the back of a cart and carried her over to a grassy spot near the war relic scrapyard, where they dug a hole and buried her next to Huo Lina and in front of the skeleton of Long Qingping, all but the skull, which had been taken away by the medical examiner.
7
Night fell as Jintong walked into the house he hadn’t seen for a year. The son left behind by Laidi and Birdman Han was standing in a canopied cradle that hung from the parasol tree, holding on to the sides. Although he was dark and very thin, he was healthier than most children of the time. “Who are you?” Jintong asked as he put down his bedroll. The dark-eyed youngster blinked and gazed at Jintong curiously. “Don’t you recognize me? I’m your uncle.” “Gramma … yao yao …” The boy’s speech was muddled; slobber ran down his chin.
Jintong sat down in the doorway to wait for Mother to come out. This was his first trip home since being sent to the farm, and he was told he didn’t have to return there if he didn’t want to. The thought of all those thousands of acres of millet enraged him, because once the harvest was in, the farm workers were scheduled for a real meal. And that is when Jintong and several other young men had been cu
t from the workforce. A few days later, his rage lost its meaning, because just as the rightists were driving their red Russian combines out to the fields to begin the harvest, a hailstorm mercilessly pounded the ripe millet into the mud.
The little boy ignored him as he sat in the doorway. Parrots with emerald green feathers flew down from the parasol tree and circled the cradle. The bright-eyed little boy followed them as they flitted around totally unafraid. Some landed on the edge of the cradle, others perched on his shoulders and pecked him on the ears, while he mimicked their hoarse cries.
Jintong sat dully in the doorway, his eyelids drooping. He was thinking about the boat ride over, and the surprised look in the eyes of the ferryman, Huang Laowan. The Flood Dragon River Bridge had been washed away by the flood the year before, so the People’s Commune had begun operating a ferry. A talkative young soldier from somewhere down south had accompanied him on the ride across the river. The man waved a telegram under the nose of Huang Laowan and pressed him to get underway. “Let’s shove off, uncle. See here, I’m supposed to be back in my unit by noon today. At times like this, a military order can topple a mountain!” Huang Laowan’s reaction to the hurried soldier was stone-cold silence. With a shrug of the shoulders, he perched on the bow of the ferryboat like a cormorant, gazing out at the rushing river water. A while later, a pair of officials who were returning to the commune from town came aboard and sat on opposite sides of the ferry. “Say, old Huang, let’s get underway!” one of them urged. “We have to be back to pass on the essence of our meeting.” “In a minute,” Huang said in a muffled voice. “I’m waiting for her.”
She jumped aboard carrying a balloon lute and sat down across from Jintong. She was powdered and rouged, but not enough to conceal her sallow complexion. The officials eyed her wantonly. “What village are you from?” one of them asked in a superior tone.
Raising her head, she stared at the man. Her gloomy eyes, which had been downcast from the moment she boarded the ferry, suddenly emitted a wild glare of hostility, causing Jintong’s heart to shudder; the look in the eyes of this sallow-faced woman left him with the feeling that she could conquer any man she chose, and could never be conquered by any man. The skin on her face sagged and her neck was deeply wrinkled, but Jintong noticed her slender fingers and polished nails, a good indication that she wasn’t nearly as old as her face and neck made her appear. As she glared at the official, she hugged the lute to her chest, as if it were an infant.
Huang Laowan got up and walked to the stern, where he picked up a bamboo pole and pushed the ferry out of the shallows, then turned it around and headed out into the river, leaving whitecaps in its wake as it slid forward like a big fish. Swallows skimmed the surface; the chilled stench of water weeds rose all around them. The passengers sat there morosely. But the official who’d spoken to the woman could not abide the silence. “Aren’t you that Shangguan who …” Jintong responded with a look of indifference; he knew what the man had left unsaid, so he replied in the manner he’d gotten used to, “That’s right, I’m Shangguan Jintong, the bastard.” The straightforward response and self-belittling attitude created an awkward moment, as the arrogance so common to people on the public payroll came under attack. That put him off stride, and class struggle, with clear insinuations, was his way back. The official studiously avoided looking at Jintong, keeping his eyes instead on Huang Laowan’s bamboo pole. “They say those secret U.S./Chiang Kai-shek agents are all from Northeast Gaomi Township, men who once served Sima Ku. I tell you, those with the blood of the people on them were all trained by an American adviser. Huang Laowan, can you guess who that adviser was? No? Fm told you’ve seen him before. He’s none other than the tyrant who threw in his lot with Sima Ku in Northeast Gaomi County, the man who showed all the movies, Babbitt! And they say that his stinking old lady, Shangguan Niandi, even threw a banquet for secret agents and gave each of them a fancy embroidered slipper sole!”
The woman with the lute stole a glance at Jintong; he could feel her eyes on him and saw her fingers quivering on the instrument’s sound box.
The commune official was just getting started. “Young man,” he said, “now’s the chance for you soldiers to do something for your country. The day you catch one of those secret agents is the day you stand tall among your countrymen!”
The young soldier whipped out his telegram. “I knew something big was up,” he said, “which is why I put off my wedding and am rushing back to my unit.”
When the ferry drew up to the opposite bank, the young soldier was the first to jump off. The woman with the lute held back, as if she wanted to speak to Jintong. “Come with us to the commune,” the official said sternly.
“Why?” she said nervously. “Why should I?”
He ripped the lute out of her hands and shook it. Something rattled around inside. He turned red with excitement, his wormlike nose began to twitch. “A transmitter!” he bleated. “Either that or a gun!” The woman rushed up to grab it away from him, but he stepped to the side, and she grabbed only air. “Give it to me!” she demanded. “Give it to you?” He sneered. “What’s hidden inside?” “A woman’s personal item.” “A woman’s personal item? Why hide something like that in there? Come with me to the commune, madam citizen.” A fierce look appeared on the woman’s gaunt face. “I asked you nicely to give it to me, son. You can beat the mountain to frighten tigers all you want. I’ve seen this sort of daylight robbery plenty of times. People who live off of others are nothing new to me.” “What do you do?” the official asked, his confidence beginning to fade. “That’s none of your business. Now give me back my lute!” “I’m not authorized to do that,” he said. “I’d like you to come with me to the commune.” “You steal from people in broad daylight! You’re worse than the Japs!” The official turned and ran in the direction of the commune headquarters — the onetime compound belonging to the Sima family. “Thief!” the woman shouted as she ran after him. “You thug, you lousy bedbug!”
Feeling that this woman was somehow tied to the Shangguan family, Jintong ran down the fate of his sisters in his mind. Laidi was dead, and so were Zhaodi, Lingdi, and Qiudi. Though he hadn’t seen Niandi’s body, he knew she was dead too. Pandi had changed her name to Ma Ruilian, and even though she was still alive, she might as well be dead. That left only Xiangdi and Yunü. The woman’s teeth were yellow and her head looked bulky. The corners of her mouth sagged when she yelled at the official, and a green light emerged from her eyes, like a cat defending her young. It had to be Xiangdi, the one who had sold herself — Fourth Sister, who had sacrificed so much for the family. What then had she hidden inside her lute?
Jintong was pondering the mystery of the lute when Mother, by then little more than skin and bones, rushed into the house. When he heard the door being bolted, he looked up in time to see her rush in from the side room. He called out to her and burst into tears at the same moment, like an abused little boy. Seemingly surprised to see him, she managed to not say a word. Instead, with her hands over her mouth, she turned and ran outside, straight to the water-filled wooden basin beneath the apricot tree, where she fell to her knees, grabbed the rim with both hands, stretched out her neck, opened her mouth, and threw up. A bowlful of still dry beans gushed out, sending water splashing out of the basin. When she caught her breath, she raised her head to look at her son, her eyes filling with tears. She tried to say something before she bent over and threw up again. Jintong looked at the frightening sight of his mother with her neck thrust out and her shoulders hunched down, as her body reacted to the spasms deep down inside. Once the retching had stopped, she reached into the water and scooped up the dried beans, a satisfied look spreading across her face. Finally, she stood up, walked over to her tall yet weak son, and wrapped her arms around him. “Why didn’t you come home before this?” she asked in a slightly reproachful tone. “It’s only a couple of miles.” Before he could reply, she continued, “Shortly after you left, I found work operating the commune mill, t
he one at the Sima compound. They tore down the windmill, so now it’s turned by hand. Du Wendou got me the job. The pay is half a catty of dried yams a day. If not for this job, I wouldn’t be here to greet you this time. Nor would Parrot.”
That is when Jintong found out that Birdman Han’s son was called Parrot. He was still in his cradle, bawling loudly. “Go pick him up, and I’ll make lunch for the two of you.”
Mother rinsed off the dried beans she’d scooped out of the basin and put them into a large bowl, nearly filling it. Noting the look of surprise on his face, she said, “I do what has to be done, son. Don’t laugh at me. I’ve done many bad things in my life, but this is the first time I’ve ever stolen anything.”
He rested his head on his mother’s shoulder and said sadly, “Don’t say that, Mother. That’s not stealing. Even if it were, there are far worse things than stealing.”
Mother took a garlic mortar out from under the stove and crushed the beans in it, then added cold water to make it pasty. “Go ahead, son, eat it,” she said as she handed him the bowl. “I don’t dare light a fire, or they’ll come to see what I’m cooking, and I can’t let that happen.”
“What made you think of doing this?” Jintong asked sadly as he gazed at her gray, slightly tremulous head.
“At first I hid them in my socks, but they caught me and made me feel lower than a dog. Then everyone began eating beans. Once, I was milling beans and tossed some into my mouth; my stomach felt heavy on the road home and I could hardly walk. I knew they could kill me, and that frightened me. I stuck a chopstick down my throat and brought them back up in the yard when it was raining, and so I just let them be. In the morning, I saw they’d all turned white in the rain, and Parrot was on his hands and knees eating them, remarking how sweet they tasted and asking what they were. Big as he was, he’d never even seen beans. He stuffed some into my mouth, and they were sweet and sticky, delicious. When they were all gone, Parrot clamored for more, and that’s when I got the idea. At first I had to use a chopstick to make myself throw up … oh, the feeling … but now I’m used to it, and all I have to do is lower my head … your mother’s stomach has turned into a grain sack… but I’m afraid today was the last time. All the women I work with at the mill have been doing the same thing, and the man in charge has noticed how much food turns up missing each day. He’s threatened to muzzle us …”