The surviving parakeets, enraged by what he had done, raised a terrifying screech of protest. Assuming a fighting stance, he accepted the challenge: “Come on, you bastards, here I am!” He then rushed headlong into the thick flock of birds, swinging the saber over his head. A shower of parakeets thudded earthward, some dead when they hit the ground, others mortally wounded, hopping in the dirt like frogs. But the birds, having a numerical advantage, launched a counterattack. Now he was fighting for his own survival.
Finally he collapsed wearily onto a heap of small, bloody corpses, as the surviving parakeets circled above, screeching piteously, the fight taken out of them.
Hoofbeats sounded in the lane. Summoning up what little energy he had left, Gao Ma gripped his saber tighdy and stood up, just in time to see his beloved chestnut colt poke its head over the broken wall. It seemed thinner; its eyes, larger now, and filled with compassion, were fixed on him. Tears gushed from his eyes: “Dearest … don’t leave me, please don’t leave me … I miss you … I need you….”
The horse slowly drew its head back into the surrounding darkness. He heard hoofbeats, heading south, away from him: loud and crisp at first, then softer and dull-edged, and finally, nothing.
2.
He handed a wad of bank notes to his neighbors Mr. and Mrs. Yu. “Elder Brother, Sister-in-Law, this is all I have. See what you can do. If it’s not enough, consider it a down payment. I’ll pay you back someday, I promise.”
He sat leaning against the wall beneath the window, saber in hand.
The Yus exchanged glances. “Should we inform her brothers?” she asked. “Your mother-in-law was arrested yesterday, along with Gao Yang.”
“Do what you can, folks, that’s all I ask.”
“Cremation or burial?” the man asked.
The idea of flames lapping the skin of Jinju and the infant in her belly nearly broke his heart. “Burial,” he said firmly.
The Yus hurried off, just as curious neighbors swooped down on the place. Some wept, others looked on dry-eyed and expressionless. The village boss, Gao Jinjiao, prowled the area, nosing around and sighing conspicuously. “Worthy Nephew,” he said as he approached Gao Ma, “You … urn …”
Gao Ma flashed his saber. “Village Boss, don’t push me!”
Gao Jinjiao scooted out of the way without even bothering to stand up straight.
Mrs. Yu returned with two yards of red satin, which she laid out in the yard after calling some women over. One of them, a seamstress, went inside to take Jinju’s measurements. Then she went to work with her scissors.
More curious villagers streamed into the yard, trampling the mangled parakeets, whose colorful feathers, swept up by breezes, stuck to their legs, clothing, and faces—but no one noticed.
Jinju’s body was laid out on the kang, in plain view of Gao Ma. The sun, direcdy overhead now, shone down through the red and yellow jute branches and talon-shaped leaves to light up her face and turn it into a golden chrysanthemum—a jinju—whose petals were coaxed open by autumn sunlight. He touched her face. It had the sleek resilience of costly velvet.
Then the Fang brothers showed up. First came Number Two, who marched sullenly across the yard, kicking parakeet feathers into the air; they floated down onto the red satin. As he strode through the door, a parakeet flew straight at him, as if wanting to peck out his eye. A swipe of his hand sent the bird crashing into the wall. He walked up to the kang and lifted a corner of the blanket, exposing Jinju’s face. She smiled up at him.
Disgusted, he let the blanket fall and walked into the yard. “Gao Ma,” he snarled, “you’ve ruined our family, you fucking bastard!” Rolling up his sleeves as he went, he headed straight for the wall, where Gao Ma was banging the dull side of the saber with the dangling manacle chain—clang chng chng. He glared at Fang Two through bloodshot eyes, stopping him in his tracks. Fang Two paused only to growl, “I’m charging you with the death of my sister!”
He had barely stormed off when Fang One came into the crowded yard, limping more noticeably than ever. His hair was streaked with gray, his eyes were clouded; he had become an old man almost overnight. He announced his arrival with loud wails that swirled through the yard—just like an old woman. Inside the house he pounded the kang and wept. “Sister—my poor baby sister—you shouldn’t have died like this!”
Fang One’s persistent wailing infected a gaggle of old women, who dabbed their teary eyes as they led the men into the room to carry him outside. “Elder Brother Fang,” they tried to console him, “there’s nothing you can do for her now except arrange for the funeral. That’s a brother’s responsibihty.”
It worked; he stopped wailing, wiped his runny nose, and said, “Marrying off a daughter is the same as dumping water on the ground. She stopped being a member of the Fang family long ago. Whether she’s buried in a crypt or tossed into a ditch is no concern of ours.”
He began to limp off, crying as he went.
Gao Ma stood up and halted him with a shout. “See if there’s anything left inside that you want to take with you.”
Fang One paused, but said nothing, then continued on out of the yard.
The women carried Jinju’s red satin funeral clothes inside, where they stripped her naked, washed her, and dressed her for her final trip. When they were finished, she wore bright red from head to toe, just like a new bride.
Gao Zhileng’s feet nearly flew as he charged into Gao Ma’s yard, where the corpses of his parakeets were strewn. He cursed and wept as he picked up the mangled bodies and laid them in a basket he’d brought along. “Gao Ma, Gao Ma, what did these birds ever do to you? Do what you want with people, but why kill my birds? They were my wealth. Now I’ve got nothing….”
Seven or eight surviving parakeets perched precariously on the tips of jute plants, rumpled feathers covered with blood. Their squawks were cries of desolation. Even Gao Ma felt sorry for them. Gao Zhileng puckered up and summoned them with a strange whistle.
“I’m from the provincial TV station. We heard about the tragic love affair between you and the giri Jinju. Would you mind telling our viewers exactly what happened?” The reporter, a man in his thirties who wore owl-shaped glasses, had a large mouth and terrible breath.
“I’m with the county league of women, in charge of investigating the three-family marriage contract, and would like your views on the subject.” She was young and heavily powdered. Her mouth had the smell of urine, and it was all Gao Ma could do to keep from lopping off her head with his saber.
“Get out of here, all of you!” he snarled as he got to his feet, saber in hand. “I have nothing to say to any of you!”
“Elder Brother Gao Ma, it’s too hot to worry about a coffin. Besides, the price of wood has soared since the Manchurian forest fire,” Yu Qiushui said as he took another look at Jinju’s swollen belly. “I bought a couple of rush mats and two yards of plastic. Wrapping her in plastic, then covering her with rush mats is as good as a coffin. That way we can get her peacefully into the ground without delay. What do you think?”
“Whatever you say, Elder Brother,” Gao Ma replied.
Meanwhile the TV reporter was all over the place, squatting and kneeling to get the best shots, including one of the parakeets perched on jute plants. It was a genre painting: yellow jute stalks, red jute stalks, green jute stalks … golden sunbeams on jute leaves … brighdy colored parakeets … a distraught Gao Zhileng, lips puckered in a whisde. The birds’ necks were drawn in as they made mournful cries that brought tears to their owner’s eyes.
“I sent six men to the graveyard east of the village to dig a hole. It’s time to start out,” Mr. Yu announced.
So the two new rush mats were laid out in the yard and covered with the sheet of pale blue plastic. Then four women carried out Jinju, in her new red satin clothes, and laid her on the plastic. Click! Pop! The reporter’s camera kept snapping pictures, while the powdered young woman ostentatiously filled a notebook with whatever she was writing. The yel
low skin of her neck clashed with her white face powder, and again Gao Ma had to force back the urge to lop her head off where the two colors met.
“Elder Brother, come see if there’s anything else we need to do,” Mrs. Yu said to Gao Ma.
He took a last, close look at Jinju. Jute stalks and leaves rusded in the wind, and the eerie fragrance of indigo saturated his heart; the sunlight was bright and beautiful, the outline of the pale daytime moon sharp and clean. He was breathing hard and sweating profusely as he gazed down into Jinju’s smiling face. Jinju, Jinju, your scent fills my nostrils.
Dimly he watched them roll her body up in the pale blue plastic and wrap it with the golden rush mats, which a couple of men then se cured with new cords made of jute, using their feet on the mats as leverage to lash them as tightly as possible. He heard bits of rush fiber snap as the cords tightened and watched the men’s feet step on Jinju’s bulging belly.
Flinging his saber to the ground, he fell to his knees and coughed up a mouthful of blood, some of it dribbling down his chest. The parakeets rose from the jute plants and flew as fast as their wings would take them, then swooped earthward like swallows skimming the surface of water, their bellies nearly scraping the tips of the jute plants. The reporter couldn’t take pictures fast enough. The birds flew like shuttles on a loom, weaving a kaleiodoscopic design over Gao Ma’s and Jinju’s faces.
He raised his arms high in front of him. The stammering policeman removed the broken handcuffs and replaced them with a new pair that gleamed bright yellow—both wrists this time.
“Y-you think you can r-run away again? You might make it past the f-first of the month, but n-never past the fifteenth!”
CHAPTER 14
Anyone not afraid of being hacked to pieces
Can unseat a party secretary or county administrator.
Inciting a mob may be against the law,
But what about hiding behind closed doors, shunning duties, and letting subordinates exploit peasants?
—from a ballad sung by Zhang Kou following mass interrogations at the police station
1.
Gao Yang drove his donkey cart, loaded with garlic, down the county road under a starlit sky. The load was so heavy, the cart so rickety, that creaks accompanied him the whole trip, and each time the cart hit a pothole, he was fearful it might shake apart. As he crossed the little stone bridge over the Sandy River, he tightened the donkey’s bridle and used his body weight to steady the cart for the sake of the spindly animal, which looked more like an oversized billy goat than a donkey. Uneven stones made the wheels creak and groan. The trickle of water beneath them reflected cold stars. Negotiating the rise, he slipped a rope over his shoulder to help the donkey pull. The paved road leading to the county town began at the top of the rise; level and smooth, and unaffected by the elements, it had been built after the Third Plenum of the Central Committee. He thought back to his complaints at the time: “Why spend all that money? How many trips to town will any of us take in a lifetime?” But now he realized his error. Peasants always take the short view, never seeing beyond petty personal gains. The government is wise; you will never go wrong by heeding its advice, was what he told people these days.
As he set out on the new road, he heard the rumbling of another cart twenty or thirty yards ahead, and an old man’s coughs. It was very late and very quiet. The strains of a song reverberated above the surrounding fields, and Gao Yang could tell it was Fourth Uncle Fang. In his youth, Fourth Uncle had been a dashing young man who sang duets with a woman from the traveling opera troupe.
“Sister, Sister, such a fetching sight / Ushered into the bridal chamber late at night / A golden needle pierces the lotus blossom / Stains of precious juice greet the morning light.”
Dirty old man! Gao Yang swore under his breath as he urged his donkey on. But it would be a long night, and there was a great distance to travel, so the thought of having someone to talk to was appealing. When the silhouette of the cart came into view, he hailed, “Is that you, Fourth Uncle? It’s me, Gao Yang.” • Fourth Uncle kept his silence.
Katydids chirped in roadside foliage, “ Gao Yang’s donkey clip-clopped loudly on the paved road, and the air was heavy with the smell of garlic as the moon rose behind tall trees, its pale rays falling onto the road. Filled with hope, he caught up with the cart in front. “Is that you, Fourth Uncle?” he repeated.
Fourth Uncle grunted in reply.
“Keep singing, Fourth Uncle.”
Fourth Uncle sighed. “Sing? At this point I can’t even cry.”
“I started out so early this morning, I never figured to be behind you, Fourth Uncle.”
“There are others ahead of us. Haven’t you seen all the animal droppings?”
“Didn’t you sell your crop yesterday, Fourth Uncle?”
“Did you?”
“Didn’t go. My wife just had a baby, and it was such a difficult delivery I was too busy to leave the house.”
“What did she have?” Fourth Uncle asked.
“A boy.” Gao Yang could not conceal his excitement. His wife had given him a son, and there had been a bumper crop of garlic. Gao Yang, your fortunes have changed. He thought about his mother’s grave. It was an auspicious site. What he had suffered over not divulging the location to the authorities all those years before had been worth it.
Fourth Uncle, who was sitting on the cart railing, lit his pipe, the match flame briefly illuminating his face. The bowl glowed as the acrid smell of burning tobacco was carried off on the chilled night air.
Gao Yang guessed why Fourth Uncle was so melancholy. “People’s lives are controlled by fate, Fourth Uncle. Marriage and wealth are determined before we’re born, so it’s useless to worry about them.” Trying to comfort Fourth Uncle, he discovered, lifted his own spirits, and he took no pleasure in Fourth Uncle’s problems. There was enough joy in his heart for him to hope that Fourth Uncle’s sons would also find wives soon. “Peasants like us can’t hold a candle to the well-to-do. Some folks’ lives aren’t worth living, and some stuff isn’t worth having. It could be worse for us—we could all be out begging. We know where our next meal is coming from, and tattered clothes are better than walking around bare-assed naked. Sure, life’s tough, but we’ve got our health, and a game leg or withered arm is better than leprosy. Don’t you agree, Fourth Uncle?”
Another grunted response as Fourth Uncle sucked on his pipe. Silvery moonlight bathed the shafts of his cart, the horns of the cow pulling it, the ears of Gao Yang’s donkey, and the thin plastic tarpaulin covering the garlic.
“My mother’s death helped to convince me that we should be content with our lot and no harder on ourselves than we have to. If everyone was on top, who would hold them up at the bottom? If everybody went to town for a good time, who would stay home to plant the crops? When the old man up there made people, he used different raw materials. The good stuff went for officials, the so-so stuff for workers, and whatever was left for us peasants. You and me, we’re made of scraps, and we’re lucky just to be alive. Isn’t that right, Fourth Uncle? Like that cow of yours, for example. She pulls your garlic, and has to give you a ride in the bargain. If she slows down, she gets a taste of your whip. The same rules govern all living creatures. That’s why you have to endure, Fourth Uncle. If you make it, you’re a man, and if you don’t, you’re a ghost. Some years ago, Wang Tai and his bunch made me drink my own piss— that was before Wang Tai’s heyday—so I gritted my teeth and did it. It was just a little piss, that’s all. The things we worry about are all in our heads. We fool ourselves into believing we’re clean. Those doctors in their white smocks, are they clean? Then why do they eat afterbirth? Just think, it comes out of a woman’s you-know-what, all bloody and everything, and without even washing it, they cover it with chopped garlic, salt, soy sauce, and other stuff, then fry it medium rare and gobble it up. Dr. Wu took my wife’s afterbirth with him, and when I asked him how it tasted, he said it was just like jellyfish. Imagine th
at—jellyfish! Have you ever heard anything so disgusting? So when they told me to drink my own piss, I slurped it down, a big bottle of it. And what about afterwards? I was still the same old me, everything still in place. Secretary Huang didn’t drink his own piss back then, but when he got cancer later, he ate raw vipers, centipedes, toads, scorpions, and wasps—fighting fire with fire, they said—but he only managed to keep up the fight for six months before breathing his last!”
Their carts rounded a bend where the road crossed the wasteland behind Sand Roost Village. The area was dotted with sandy hillocks on which red willows, indigo bushes, wax reeds, and maples grew. Branches and leaves twinkled in the moonlight. A dung beetle flew through the air, buzzing loudly until it crash-landed on the road. Fourth Uncle smacked the cow’s rump with a willow switch and relit his pipe.
At an incline the donkey lowered its head and strained in silence as it pulled its load. A sympathetic Gao Yang slung the rope over his shoulder and helped pull. It was a long, gradual climb, and when they made the top, he looked back to see where they’d been; he was surprised to see flickering lanterns in what seemed to be a deep pit. On the way down he tried sitting, but when he saw how the donkey arched its back and how its hooves were bouncing all over the place, he jumped down and walked alongside the cart to forestall disaster.
“We’ll be halfway there at the bottom of this slope, won’t we?” Gao Yang asked.