Father said, “That's Ma Kuisan's wife.”
Finally, I heard a woman bellow “Wu — la — ah — ya —”
Father whispered, “That's Luan Fengshan's wife, the mute.”
In a calm, casual tone, Chief Zhang said, “We're going to shoot you whether you make a fuss or not, so you might as well stop all that shouting. Everybody has to die sometime. You might as well get it over with early so you can come back as somebody else.”
That's when Ma Kuisan announced loudly to the crowd, “All you folks, young and old, I, Ma Kuisan, have never done you any harm. Now I'm asking you to speak up for me. .. .”
Several people fell noisily to their knees and began to plead in desperation, “Be merciful, Chief Zhang. Let them live. They're honest folk, all of them. .. .”
A youthful male voice shouted above the noise, “Chief Zhang, I say we make these four dog bastards get down on their hands right here on the bridge and kowtow to us a hundred times. Then we give them back their dog lives. What do you say?”
“That's some idea you've got there, Gao Renshan!” Chief Zhang replied menacingly. “Are you suggesting that I, Zhang Qude, am some sort of avenging monster? It sounds to me like you've been head of the militia long enough! Now get up, fellow villagers. It's too cold to be kneeling like that. The policy is clear. Nobody can save them now, so everybody get up.”
“Fellow villagers, speak up for me —” Ma Kuisan pleaded.
“No more dawdling,” Chief Zhang cut him short. “It's time.”
“Clear out, make some room!” Several young men at the bridgehead, almost certainly members of the armed work detachment, were clearing the bridge of the kneeling citizens.
Then Ma Kuisan sent his pleas heavenward: “Old man in the sky, are you blind? Am I, Ma Kuisan, being repaid for a lifetime of good with a bullet in the head? Zhang Qude, you son of a bitch, you will not die in bed, count on it. You son of a bitch —”
“Get on with it!” Chief Zhang bellowed. “Or do you like to hear him spout his poison?”
Running footsteps crossed the bridge above us. Through cracks between the stones, I caught glimpses of the people.
“Kneel!” someone on the southern edge of the bridge demanded. “Clear the way, everybody,” came a shout from the northern edge.
Pow — pow — pow — three shots rang out.
The explosions bored into my eardrums and made them throb until I thought I'd gone deaf. By then, the sun had climbed above the eastern horizon, rimmed by a blood-red halo that spread to clouds looking like canopies of gigantic fir trees. A large, bulky human form came tumbling slowly down from the bridge above, cloudlike in its shifting movements; when it hit the icy ground below, it regained its natural heft and thudded to a stop. Crystalline threads of blood oozed from the head.
Panic and confusion at the northern bridgehead — it sounded to me like the frantic dispersal of villagers who had been forcibly mobilized as witnesses to the executions. It didn't sound as if the armed work detachment took out after the deserters?
Once again, footsteps rushed across the bridge from north to south, followed by the shout of “Kneel!” at the southern bridgehead and “Clear the way!” at the northern. Then three more shots — the body of Luan Fengshan, hatless and wearing a ragged padded coat, tumbled head over heels down the riverbank, first bumping into Ma Kuisan, then rolling off to the side.
After that, things were simplified considerably. A volley of shots preceded the sound and sight of two disheveled female corpses tumbling down, arms and legs flying, and crashing into the bodies of their menfolk.
I held tightly to Father's arm, feeling something warm and wet against my padded trousers.
At least a half-dozen people were standing on the bridge directly overhead, and it seemed to me that their weight was pushing the rock flooring down on top of us. Their thunderous shouts were nearly deafening: “Shall we check out the bodies, Chief?”
“What the hell for? Their brains are splattered all over the place. If the Jade Emperor himself came down now, he couldn't save them.”
“Let's go! Old Guo's wife has fermented bean curd and oil fritters waiting for us.”
They crossed the bridge, heading north, their footsteps sounding like an avalanche. The rock flooring, creaking and shifting, could have come crashing down at any moment. Or so it seemed to me.
The quiet returned.
Father nudged me. “Don't stand there like an idiot. Let's do it.”
I looked around me, but nothing made sense. Even my own father seemed familiar, but I couldn't place him.
“Huh?” I'm sure that's all I managed to say: “Huh?”
“Have you forgotten?” Father said. “We're here to get a cure for your grandmother. We have to move fast, before the body snatchers show up.”
The words were still echoing in my ears when I spotted seven or eight wild dogs, in a variety of colors, dragging their long shadows up off the riverbed in our direction; they were baying at us. All I could think of was how they had turned and fled at the first gunshot, accompanied by their own terrified barks.
I watched Father kick loose several bricks and fling them at the approaching dogs. They scurried out of the way. Then he took out a carving knife from under his coat and waved it in the air to threaten the dogs. Beautiful silvery arcs of light flashed around Father's dark silhouette. The dogs kept their distance for the time being. Father tightened the cord around his waist and rolled up his sleeves. “Keep an eye out for me,” he said.
Like an eagle pouncing on its prey, Father dragged the women's bodies away, then rolled Ma Kuisan over so he was facing up. Then he fell to his knees and kowtowed to the body. “Second Master Ma,” he intoned softly, “loyalty and filiality have their limits. I hate to do this to you.”
I watched Ma Kuisan reach up and wipe his bloody face. “Zhang Qude,” he said with a trace of a smile, “you will not die in bed.”
Father tried to unbutton Ma Kuisan's leather coat with one hand but was shaking too much to manage. “Hey, Second Son,” I heard him say, “hold the knife for me.”
I recall reaching out to take the knife from him, but he was already holding it in his mouth as he struggled with the yellow buttons down Ma Kuisan's chest. Round, golden yellow, and as big as mung beans, they were nearly impossible to separate from the cloth loops encircling them. Growing increasingly impatient, Father ripped them loose and jerked the coat open, revealing a white kidskin lining. A satin vestlike garment had the same kind of buttons, so Father ripped them loose, too. After the vest came a red silk stomacher. I heard Father snort angrily. I have to admit that I was surprised when I saw the strangely alluring clothing the fat old man — he was over fifty — wore under his regular clothes. But Father seemed absolutely irate; he ripped the thing off the body and flung it to one side. Now at last, Ma Kuisan's rounded belly and flat chest were out in the open. Father reached out his hand but then jumped to his feet, his face the color of gold. “Second Son,” he said, “tell me if he's got a heartbeat.”
I recall bending over and laying my hand on his chest. It was no stronger than a rabbit's, but that heart was still beating.
“Second Master Ma,” my father said, “your brains have spilled out on the ground, and even the Jade Emperor couldn't save you now, so help me be a filial son, won't you?”
Father took the knife from between his teeth and moved it up and down the chest area, trying to find the right place to cut. I saw him press down, but the skin sprang back undamaged, like a rubber tire. He pressed down again with the same result. Father fell to his knees. “Second Master Ma, I know you didn't deserve to die, but if you've got a bone to pick, it's with Chief Zhang, not me. I'm just trying to be a filial son.”
Father had pressed down with the knife only twice, but already his forehead was all sweaty, the stubble on his chin white with icy moisture. The damned wild dogs were inching closer and closer to us — their eyes were red as hot coals, the fur on their necks was standing str
aight up, like porcupine quills, and their razor-sharp fangs were bared. I turned to Father. “Hurry, the dogs are coming.”
He stood up, waved the knife above his head, and charged the wild dogs like a madman, driving them back about half the distance an arrow flies. Then he ran back, breathless, and said loudly, “Second Master, if I don't cut you open, the dogs will do it with their teeth. I think you'd rather it be me than them.”
Father's jaw set, his eyes bulged. With a sense of determination, he brought his hand down; the knife cut into Ma Kuisan's chest with a slurping sound, all the way to the hilt. He jerked the knife to the side, releasing a stream of blackish blood, but the rib cage stopped his motion. “I lost my head,” he said as he pulled the knife out, wiped the blade on Ma Kuisan's leather coat, gripped the handle tightly, and opened Ma Kuisan's chest.
I heard a gurgling noise and watched the knife slice through the fatty tissue beneath the skin and release the squirming, yellowish intestines into the opening, like a snake, like a mass of eels; there was a hot, fetid smell.
Fishing out the intestines by the handful, Father looked like a very agitated man: he pulled and he tugged; he cursed and he swore; and finally, he ran out of intestines, leaving Ma Kuisan with a hollow abdomen.
“What are you looking for, Father?” I recall asking him anxiously.
“The gall bladder. Where the hell is his gall bladder?”
Father cut through the diaphragm and fished around until he had his hand around the heart — still nice and red. Then he dug out the lungs. Finally, alongside the liver, he discovered the egg-sized gall bladder. Very carefully, he separated it from the liver with the tip of his knife, then held it in the palm of his hand to examine it. The thing was moist and slippery and, in the sunlight, had a sheen. Sort of like a piece of fine purple jade.
Father handed me the gall bladder. “Hold this carefully while I take out Luan Fengshan's gall bladder.”
This time, Father performed like an experienced surgeon: deft, quick, exact. First he cut away the hemp cord that was all Luan Fengshan could afford for a belt. Then he opened the front of his ragged coat and held the scrawny, bony chest still with his foot as he made four or five swift cuts. After that, he cleared away all the obstructions, stuck in his hand, and, as if it were the pit of an apricot, removed Luan's gall bladder.
“Let's get out of here,” Father said.
We ran up the riverbank, where the dogs were fighting over the coils of intestines. Only a trace of red remained on the edges of the sun; its blinding rays fell on all exposed objects, large and small.
Grandma had advanced cataracts, according to Luo Dashan, the miracle worker. The source of her illness was heat rising from her three visceral cavities. The cure would have to be something very cold and very bitter. The physician lifted up the hem of his floor-length coat and was heading out the door when Father begged him to prescribe something.
“Hmm, prescribe something. .. .” Miracle worker Luo told Father to get a pig's gall bladder and have his mother take the squeezings, which should clear her eyes a little.
“How about a goat's gall bladder?” Father asked.
“Goats are fine,” the physician said, “so are bears. Now if you could get your hands on a human gall bladder… ha, ha… . Well, I wouldn't be surprised if your mother's eyesight returned to normal.”
Father squeezed the liquid from Ma Kuisan's and Luan Fengshan's gall bladders into a green tea bowl, which he offered up to Grandma in both hands. She raised it to her lips and touched the liquid with the tip of her tongue. “Gouzi's daddy,” she said, “this gall is awfully bitter. Where'd it come from?”
Father replied, “It's gall from a ma [horse] and a luan”
“A ma and a luan, you say? I know what a ma is, but what's a luan?”
Unable to stop myself, I blurted out, “Grandma, it's human gall, it's from Ma Kuisan and Luan Fengshan. Daddy scooped out their bladders!”
With a shriek, Grandma fell backward onto the brick bed, dead as a stone.
Love Story
THAT AUTUMN THE TEAM LEADER SENT FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD JUNIOR and sixty-five-year-old Guo Three out into the fields to man the waterwheel. Why? To wheel water. For what? To irrigate the cabbage crop. A “sent-down” city girl named He Li-ping, in her mid-twenties, was in charge of the irrigation ditches.
Once the thirteenth solar period — Autumn Beginning — arrives, the cabbage must be watered daily, or the roots will rot. In his orders, the team leader spared the three workers from mustering for duty each morning, since they had to go into the fields to water the cabbage right after breakfast. Which they did, from Autumn Beginning to Frost's Descent, the eighteenth solar period. Naturally, irrigation wasn't all they did; other tasks included spreading fertilizer, controlling pests, binding up drooping cabbage leaves with sweet potato sprouts, and so on. They took four breaks a day, each lasting half an hour or so. The city girl, He Liping, owned a watch. Frost's Descent arrived, and the temperature plunged; the cabbage curled up into balls, bringing an end to the team's irrigation duties.
They dismantled the waterwheel and transported it back to the production team compound on a handcart, where they turned it over to the storekeeper. After a cursory inspection, he sent them on their way.
The next morning, right after breakfast, they stood beneath the iron bell to wait for new orders from the team leader. He had the old-timer, Guo Three, hitch up the ox to till the bean field and sent Junior out to re-sow millet at the farthest edge of the production team land. “What about me, Team Leader?” He Liping asked. “Go with Junior. You can prepare the furrows while he spreads the seeds.”
One of the commune wags extended the team leader's orders: “Junior,” he teased, “take good aim on He Liping's furrow. Make sure you spread your seed where it belongs.”
While the crowd laughed raucously, Junior felt his heart pound against his chest wall. He sneaked a look at He Liping, who stood stony-faced, obviously unhappy. That really upset him. “Fuck your old lady, Old Qi!” he cursed his playful tormentor.
The cabbage patch was located on the east side of the village, next to the pond. Swollen with rainwater, the pond was a breeding ground for algae and moss, making it greener than green and deeper than anyone could imagine. The main reason the production team had chosen that site to plant cabbage was the proximity of all that water. There was nothing wrong with well water, of course, but it wasn't nearly as good as the water in the pond. Mounted high on the pond's edge, the wa-terwheel looked like a poolside arbor. Junior and the oldster Guo Three stood on a shaky wooden footrest and turned the iron winch handles, one up and one down, squeaking and twisting as water flowed steadily. It didn't rain from Autumn's Beginning to Frost's Descent, not once. The skies were washed clean by the glare of the sun, day in and day out, and the surface of the pond stayed placid, wind or no wind. Clouds in the sky were matched by clouds in the pond that were, if anything, clearer than those above. Sometimes Junior stared at the clouds until he was in a world of his own, and forgot to turn the winch, to Guo Three's vocal displeasure: “Wake up, Junior!” At the northern tip of the pond stood a solitary patch of marshy reeds no larger than a sleeping mat, looking like a mirage. The reeds grew yellower each day, until in the bright rays of the morning sun and slanting rays of the setting sun, they seemed brushed by gold.
Let's say a really large, bright red dragonfly lands on one of the golden leaves, forming a dreamy plateau with the pond and the reeds. Then a dozen or so ducks and seven or eight geese, all pure white, glide across the surface. From time to time the long-necked ganders mount female geese, at other times they grant similar favors to female ducks. Junior stands transfixed when the ganders do that, and of course he forgets to turn the winch, which invariably earns abuse from Guo Three: “Just what are you thinking about?” Quickly averting his eyes from the naughty ganders and ducks, he starts turning the winch extra hard. Out the water gushes, as the rickety waterwheel creaks and groans. Amid the clanks of the chai
n, Junior hears Guo Three gripe, “Little peach-fuzz doesn't have a man's pecker yet, but his head hasn't gotten the message!” Junior is deeply shamed. The lovely bright red dragonfly soaring above the pond has got a new name, thanks to old-timer Guo Three: Little Bride.
He Liping was a tall girl, taller than Guo Three, and she knew martial arts. In fact, they learned, she had performed in Europe with a team of martial arts experts. Most people agreed that she could have made quite a name for herself if not for the Cultural Revolution. Too bad. Ruined by her family background. Proof of the two most frequently heard versions — that her father was a capitalist and that he was a capitalist-roader — was not actively sought, since the difference between the two is negligible. It was enough to know that her background was bad.
He Liping was a taciturn girl who, in the eyes of the villagers, knew her place. She had been sent to the countryside with lots of other educated city kids: some ended up by going on to school, others took jobs, the rest returned to their hometowns. Only she was left behind, and everyone knew it was because of her background.
Only once did He Liping demonstrate her martial arts skills, and that was soon after showing up in the village. Junior was no more than eight or nine at the time. Back then, “Mao Zedong Thought” propaganda meetings were common occurrences. The city kids were terrific talkers and singers, and some played the harmonica or flute or two-string huqin. There was a lot going on in the village back then: during the day the commune members worked in the fields, and at night they made revolution. With all the excitement, every day seemed like New Year's Eve to Junior. One night, very much like all the other nights, everyone poured out of the dining hall after dinner to make revolution. On the dirt platform, which had a post stuck in both ends to support gas lamps, the city kids filled the platform with their songs and instruments. Junior recalled that suddenly the young emcee shouted above the din: “Poor and lower-middle peasant comrades, our great leader Chairman Mao instructs us: Power comes out of the barrel of a gun! Now please turn your attention to He Liping, who will demonstrate her ‘nine-stage plum-blossom’ spear routine.”