The Garlic Ballads

  The presiding judge glanced down at his wristwatch.

  “Not being able to sell their crops was the spark that ignited this explosive incident, but the root cause was the unenlightened policies of the Paradise County government!” the officer continued. “Before Liberation only about a dozen people were employed by the district government, and things worked fine. Now even a township government in charge of the affairs of a mere thirty thousand people employs more than sixty people! And when you add those in the communes it’s nearly a hundred, seventy percent of whose salaries are paid by peasants through township fees and taxes. Put in the bluntest possible terms, they are feudal parasites on the body of society! So in my view, the slogans ‘Down with corrupt officials!’ and ‘Down with bureaucrats!’ comprise a progressive call for the awakening of the peasants, and the defendant Gao Ma is innocent of counterrevolutionary behavior! But since I was not asked to speak on his behalf, my comments cannot be construed as arguments in his defense.”

  “If you continue this line of propaganda I will revoke your right to defend anyone in this court!” the presiding judge announced sternly.

  “Let him talk!” came a voice from the rear of the courtroom. Gao Yang turned to look. Even the corridor was packed with spectators.

  “Order in the court!” the presiding judge shouted.

  “My father smashed a TV set, set fire to official documents, and struck a civil servant. As his son, his criminal acts pain me, and it is not my intent to absolve him of his guilt. But what puzzles me is: how did someone like him, a decorated stretcher bearer during the War of Liberation who followed the Liberation Army all the way to Jiangxi, become a common criminal? His love for the Communist Party is deep, so why did he defy the government over a few bunches of garlic?”

  “The Communist Party has changed! It isn’t the Communist Party we once knew!” came a shout from the defendants’ dock.

  Pandemonium broke out. The presiding judge rose and pounded the table frantically. “Order! Order in the court!” he bellowed. When the uproar died down, he announced, “Defendant Zheng Changnian, you may not speak without the express permission of the court!”

  “I’d like to continue,” the young military officer said.

  “You have another five minutes.”

  “I’ll take as long as I need,” the young officer insisted. “The Criminal Code places no time limits on defense arguments. Nor does it give a panel of judges the authority to set them!”

  “In the opinion of this court, your comments have strayed beyond the scope of this case!” the presiding judge replied.

  “My comments are becoming increasingly relevant to the defense of my father.”

  “Let him speak!” a spectator shouted. “Let him speak!” Gao Yang saw the young officer wipe his eyes with a white handkerchief.

  “All right, go ahead and speak,” the judge relented. “But the clerk is recording everything you say, for which you are solely responsible.”

  “Of course I accept responsibility for anything I say,” he replied with a slight stammer. “In my view, the Paradise County garlic incident has sounded an alarm: any political party or government that disregards the well-being of its people is just asking to be overthrown by them!”

  A hush fell over the courtroom; the air seemed to vibrate with electricity. The pressure on Gao Yang’s eardrums was nearly unbearable. The presiding judge, face bathed in sweat, literally shook. In reaching for his tea, he knocked it over, soaking the white tablecloth with the rust-colored liquid, some of which dripped to the floor.

  “What … what do you think you’re doing?” the aghast judge shouted. “Clerk, make sure you take down every word!”

  Dont say any more, young fellow, Gao Yang prayed silently. A light flashed in his head. Now he remembered: this was the young officer who was helping his father irrigate his corn that night Fourth Uncle was killed.

  “What I want to say is this,” the young officer continued. “The people have the right to overthrow any party or government that disregards their well-being. If an official assumes the role of public master rather than public servant, the people have the right to throw him out! In my view this conforms in all respects to the Four Cardinal Principles of Socialism. Of course, I’m talking about possibilities—if that were the case. In point of fact, things have improved in the wake of the party rectification, and most of Paradise County’s responsible party members are doing a fine job. But one rat turd can spoil a whole pot of porridge, and the unprincipled behavior of a single party member adversely affects the party’s reputation and the government’s prestige. The people aren’t always fair and discerning, and can be forgiven if their dissatisfaction with a particular official carries over into their attitudes toward officials in general. But shouldn’t that be a reminder to officials to act in such a way as to best represent the party and the government?

  “I further believe that the actions of the Paradise County administrator, Zhong Weimin, can be seen as dereliction of duty. As events unfolded, he refused to show his face, choosing instead to make the compound walls higher and top them with broken glass to ensure his own personal safety. When trouble came, he refused to meet with the masses, despite the entreaties of his own civil servants. That made the ensuing chaos inevitable. If we endorse the proposition that all people are equal under the law, then we must demand that the Paradise County People’s Procuratorate indict Paradise County administrator Zhong Weimin on charges of official misconduct! I have nothing more to say.”

  The young officer remained standing for a moment before wearily taking a seat behind the defense table. Thunderous applause erupted from the spectator section behind him.

  The presiding judge rose to his feet and patiently waited for the applause to die down. “Do the other defendants have anything to say in their defense? No? Then this court stands in recess while the panel of judges deliberates the case, based upon the evidence, arguments, and provisions of the law. We will return in thirty minutes to announce our verdict.”

  CHAPTER 20

  I sing of May in the year 1987,

  Of a criminal case in Paradise:

  Police converged from all directions,

  Arresting ninety-three of their fellow citizens.

  Some died, others went to jail—

  When will the common folk see the blue sky of justice?

  —from a ballad sung by Zhang Kou on a side street

  west of the government office building

  1.

  After finishing the verse he felt the ground beside him for his canteen. A gulp of cool water moistened his parched, raspy throat. All around him he heard applause and an occasional roar from one of the young voices: “Bravo, Zhang Kou! More, more, more!” Hearing their voices, he could nearly see their dusty bodies and blazing eyes. By then it was late autumn, and the tumult surrounding the Paradise garlic incident had subsided. A couple of dozen peasants, including Gao Ma, who was seen as the ringleader, had been sentenced to labor-reform camps; County Head Zhong “Serve the People” Weimin, and the county party secretary, Ji Nancheng, had been reassigned elsewhere. Their replacements, after delivering a series of reports to local dignitaries, organized a compulsory program for county workers to rake up the garlic rotting on city streets and haul it over to White Water Stream, which flowed through town. Baked by the midsummer sun, the garlic emitted a stench that lay like a pall over town until a couple of summery rainstorms eased the torment. At first the incident was all the people talked about; but farm duties and a creeping awareness that the topic was growing stale had the same effect on their conversations that the rain had on the smell of garlic. Zhang Kou, whose blindness had gained him leniency at court, proved to be the exception. Ensconced on a side street alongside the government office building, he tirelessly strummed his erhu and sang a ballad of garlic in Paradise, each version building upon the one that went before.

  … They say officials live to serve the people,

  so why do they tre
at the common folk as enemies?

  Heavy taxes and under-the-table levies, like ravenous beasts,

  force the farmers to head for the huls.

  The common folk have a bellyful of grievances,

  but they dare not let them out.

  For the moment they open their mouths, electric prods close them fast…

  At this point in his song something hot stung his blind eyes, as if tears had materialized from somewhere, and he remembered all he had suffered in the county lockup.

  The policeman held the hot electric prod up to his mouth until he could hear it crackle. “Shut your trap, you blind fuck!” the policeman spat out venomously. Then the sparking prod touched his lips, and lightning hit him like a thousand needles. His teeth, his gums, his tongue, and his throat—-bursts of pain shot to the top of his head and down to the rest of his body. A scream tore from his throat, sending chills up his spine. Blood gushed from his withered eye sockets. “You can make me eat shit,” he said, “but I couldn’t keep my mouth shut if I wanted to. There are things inside me that must be said. I, Zhang Kou, am linked forever to the townspeople….”

  “Good for you, Great-Uncle Zhang Kou!” a couple of young fellows shouted. ‘There are half a million people in Paradise County, and yours is the only mouth that dares to speak out!”

  “Zhang Kou, you might be elected county head!” someone jeered.

  Everyone says our real leaders are chosen by the masses.

  But why do the servants keep spending all their masters’ money?

  We common folk sweat blood like beasts of burden,

  Just so corrupt, greedy officials can grow fat and lazy!

  At this point in his song, Zhang Kou bit off each word, loud and crisp, whipping his audience into a frenzy of wild talk.

  “Shit! They call themselves public servants, do they? Bloodsucking demons is what they are!”

  “They say you can become a county leader for fifty thousand yuan a year!”

  “The guest house lays out a fancy spread every day, with enough food to last us a year.”

  “Rotten to the core!”

  An old man’s voice joined the discussion: “You young people better watch what you re saying. You, too, Brother Zhang Kou. Remember what happened to the people who trashed the government offices!”

  Zhang Kou sang his response: “Good brother, stand there quietly and listen to my story…,”

  The words were barely out of his mouth when several raucous men elbowed their way into the crowd. “What are you people doing here? You’re blocking traffic and disrupting order. Break it up, move on!”

  Realizing at once that the voices belonged to the policemen who had dealt with him in the lockup, Zhang Kou recommenced plucking his erhu:

  I sing of a sexy young girl with nice big tits and a willowy waist Sashaying down the street, turning the heads of single young men….

  “Zhang Kou, are you still singing those dirty rhymes?” one of the policemen asked.

  “Officer, don’t be too quick to judge me,” Zhang Kou replied. “As a blind man, I have to rely on this mouth of mine for a living. I’m no criminal.”

  A young fellow in the crowd spoke up: “Uncle Zhang Kou must be tired after singing all afternoon. He deserves a rest. Come on, folks, dig into your pockets. If you can’t spare ten yuan, a single copper is better than nothing. If everybody pitches in, he can treat himself to some good meaty buns.”

  Coins clanked and paper notes rustled on the ground in front of him. “Thank you,” he said repeatedly, “thank you, one and all, young and old.”

  “Officers, good Uncles, your rations come from the national treasury, and you make a good enough wage that you’ll never miss the few coins that drop between your fingers. Show some pity for a blind old man.”

  “Shit! What makes you think we’ve got any money?” one of the policemen retorted angrily. “You earn more from one acre of garlic than we do from working our asses off all year long!”

  “More talk about garlic? Maybe your grandsons will be stupid enough to plant garlic next year!” a young man jeered.

  “You there,” the policeman demanded, “what did you mean by that?”

  “What did I mean? Nothing. All I’m saying is no more garlic for me. From now on I’m going to plant beans and maybe a little opium,” the young man grumbled.

  “Opium? How many heads do you have on your shoulders, you little punk?” the policeman demanded.

  “Just one. But you’ll see me begging on the street before I’ll plant another stalk of garlic!” The young man walked off.

  “Stop right there! What’s your name? What village?” The policeman ran after him.

  “Everybody, run! The police are at it again!” someone shouted. With yells and shrieks, the crowd dispersed in all directions, leaving Zhang Kou in a blanket of silence. He cocked his ear to determine what was going on, but his rapt audience had slipped away like fish in the depths of the ocean, leaving behind a pall of silence and the stink of their sweat. From somewhere off in the distance came the sound of a bugle, followed by the noise of children on their way into a schoolhouse. He felt the warmth of the late-autumn afternoon sun on his back. After picking up his erhu, he groped around on the ground for the coins and paper money the people had thrown at his feet. Gratitude flooded his heart when he picked up an oversized ten-yuan bill; his hand began to quake. The depth of feeling toward his anonymous benefactor was unfathomable.

  Back on his feet again, he negotiated the bumpy road, staff in hand, ‘ heading toward the train station and abandoned warehouse he and several other old vagrants called home. Ever since his release from the lockup, where he had been subjected to a barrage of physical abuse, he had earned the veneration of local thieves, beggars, and fortunetellers—the so-called dregs of society. The thieves stole a rush sleeping mat and enough cotting wadding to make him a nice soft bed, and the beggars shared their meager bounty with him. Over the long days and weeks he was on the mend, these were the people who cared for him, restoring in his mind a long-dormant faith in human nature. So, subordinating his own safety to a love for his outcast companions, he sang a ballad of garlic loud and long to protest the mistreatment of the common people.

  About midway home, along with the smell of withered leaves on a familiar old tree, he also picked up the biting, metallic scent of rust-resistant oil. He barely had time to react before a hand clamped down on his shoulder. Instinctively, he drew his head down between his shoulders and squeezed his lips shut, fully expecting to be roundly cuffed. But whoever it was merely laughed amiably and said in a soft voice, “What are you flinching for? I wont hurt you.”

  “What do you want?” he asked in a quaking voice.

  “Zhang Kou,” the man said softly, “you havent forgotten what an electric prod does to the mouth, have you?”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m just a blind old man who sings tales to get by. That’s how I keep from starving.”

  “I’m only thinking about your well-being,” the man said. “No more songs about garlic, do you hear me? Which do you think will give out first, your mouth or the electric prod?”

  “Thanks for the warning. I understand.”

  “That’s good. Now don’t do anything foolish. A big mouth is the cause of most problems.”

  The man turned and walked off, and a moment later Zhang Kou heard a motorbike start up and go putt-putting down the road. He stood beneath the old tree without moving for a long, long time. The woman who ran a snack shop near the big old tree saw him. “Is that you, Great-Uncle Zhang?” she called out warmly. “What are you standing there for? Come on over for some nice meaty buns, fresh from the oven. My treat.”

  A wry laugh escaped from him as he banged the tree trunk with his staff; then he exploded in furious shrieks: “You black-hearted hyenas, do you really think you can shut me up so easily? Sixty-six years is long enough for any man to live!”

  The poor
woman gasped in alarm. “Great-Uncle, who got you so angry? Is anything worth getting hysterical over?”

  “Blind and poor, my life’s never been worth more than a few coppers. Anyone who thinks he can shut Zhang Kou’s mouth better be prepared to overturn the verdicts in the garlic case!” Back on the street again, he began singing at the top of his lungs.

  The proprietress heaved a long sigh as she watched the blind old man’s gaunt silhouette lurch down the street.

  Three days later the autumn rains turned the side street into a sea of mud. As the snack-shop proprietress stood in her doorway gazing at the street lamp at the far end of the street, with raindrops dancing in its pale yellow light, she experienced a sense of desperate loneliness and paralyzing boredom. Before shutting the door and going to bed, she thought she heard the strains of Zhang Kou’s dreary song hover around her. She jerked the door open and looked up and down the street, but the music died out. It returned when she shut the door again, more intimate and moving than ever.

  The next morning they found Zhang Kou’s body sprawled in the side street, his mouth crammed full of sticky mud. Lying beside him was the headless corpse of a cat.

  Rain clouds brought with them the nauseating stench of rotting garlic, pressing it down over the town. Thieves, beggars, and other undesirables carried Zhang Kou’s body up and down the side street, wailing and lamenting from dawn to dusk, when they dug a hole next to the big old tree and buried Zhang Kou in it.

  From that day onward the proprietress of the snack shop heard Zhang Kou sing every night. Soon the little side street turned into a street of ghosts. One by one the local residents moved away, except for the proprietress, who one day hanged herself on the big tree, joining the area’s spectral population.