Life and Death are Wearing Me Out (12 page)

“Xu Bao, take heed,” Lan Lian said. “If anything happens to my donkey because of this, you’ll pay, and pay dearly.”

“The only way this donkey won’t live to be a hundred is if you mix arsenic into his feed. I advise you not to work him in the field today. Take him home, feed him nutritious food, and rub on some salt water. The wound will heal in a couple of days.”

Lan Lian took Xu Bao’s advice without any public acknowledgment. That eased my suffering a little, but it was still with me, and still strong. I glared at the bastard who would soon swallow my gonad, and was already planning my revenge. But the honest truth was, this unforeseen incident, sudden and effective, instilled in me a degree of grudging respect toward the unimpressive, bowlegged little man. That there were people like that in the world, someone who made a living castrating animals and was good at his job — relentless, accurate, fast — was something you’d have to see to believe.
Hee-haw, Hee-haw
— My gonad, tonight you’ll accompany a mouthful of strong liquor down into Xu Bao’s guts, only to wind up in the privy tomorrow, my gonad, gonad.

We’d only walked a short distance when we heard Xu Bao call out from behind:

“Lan Lian, know what I call that gambit I just employed?”

“Fuck you and your ancestors!” Lan Lian fired back.

This was greeted with raucous laughter from the gawkers.

“Listen carefully,” Xu Bao said smugly. “You and your donkey both. I call it ‘Stealing peaches under the leaves.’”

“Xu Bao Xu Bao, stealing peaches under the leaves! Lan Lian Lan Lian, embarrassment teaches . . .” The young geniuses made up new lines, which they sang as they walked behind us all the way to the Ximen estate compound.

Lots of people created a lively atmosphere in the compound. The five children from the east and west rooms, all dressed in New Year’s finery, were running and hopping all over the place. Lan Jinlong and Lan Baofeng had reached school age, but hadn’t yet started school. Jinlong was a melancholy boy, seemingly weighted down with concerns; Baofeng was an innocent little girl, and a real beauty. Though they were the offspring of Ximen Nao, there were no bonds between them and Ximen Donkey. The true bonds had been between Ximen Donkey and the two offspring delivered to the donkey belonging to Han Huahua, but tragically, they and their mother had all died when the youngsters were barely six months old. The death of Huahua was a terrible emotional blow to Ximen Donkey. She had been poisoned; the two babies, the fruits of my loins, died from drinking their mother’s milk. The birth of twin donkeys had been a joyous event in the village, and their deaths, along with their mother, had saddened the villagers. Stonemason Han had nearly cried himself sick, but someone unknown was very happy; that someone was the person who had mixed poison into Huahua’s feed. District headquarters, thrown into turmoil over the incident, sent a special investigator, Liu Changfa — Long-haired Liu — to solve the case. A crude and inept individual, Liu summoned the residents in groups to the village government offices and interrogated them by asking the sorts of questions you might hear on a phonograph record. The results? No results. After the incident, in his story “The Black Donkey,” Mo Yan fixed the blame for poisoning the Han family’s donkey on Huang Tong, and although he made what appeared to be an air-tight case, who believes anything a novelist says?

Now I want to tell you, Lan Jiefang, born on the same day of the same month in the same year as I, I mean you, you know who you are, but I’ll refer to you as He, well, He was five years old, plus a little, and as He grew older, the birthmark on his face got bluer and bluer. Granted, He was an ugly child, but a cheerful one, lively and so full of energy He couldn’t stand still. And talk? That mouth of his never stopped, not for a second. He dressed like his half brother Jinlong, but since He was shorter, the clothes always looked too big and baggy. With his cuffs and shirtsleeves rolled up, He looked like a miniature gangster. But I knew He was a good-hearted boy who found it hard to get people to like him, and my guess is He could thank his nonstop talking and his blue birthmark for that.

Now that we’ve gotten him out of the way, let’s talk about the two girls of the Huang family, Huang Huzhu and Huang Hezuo. They wore lined jackets with the same floral pattern, cinched at the waist by sashes with butterfly knots. Their skin was fair, their eyes narrow and lovely. The Lan and Huang families were neither especially close nor particularly distant, altogether a complicated relationship. For the adults, getting together was awkward and uncomfortable, since Yingchun and Qiuxiang had both shared a bed with Ximen Nao, making them simultaneously rivals and sisters; now they were both remarried, but they still shared the same compound, living with different men in different times. By comparison, the children got along fine, a perfectly innocent and simple relationship. Given his natural melancholy, Lan Jinlong remained more or less aloof. Lan Jiefang and the Huang twins were best friends, with the girls always calling the boy Elder Brother Jiefang; as for him, a boy who loved to eat, he was always willing to save some of his sweets for the girls.

“Mother, Jiefang gave his candy to Huzhu and Hezuo,” Baofeng told their mother on the sly.

“It’s his candy, he can give it to anyone he wants,” Yingchun said to her daughter with a pat on the head.

But the children’s stories haven’t really begun yet. Their dramas won’t take center stage for another ten years or more. So for the time being, they’ll have to stay with their minor roles.

Now is the time for a very important character to come on stage. His name is Pang Hu, which, interestingly, means Colossal Tiger. He has a face like a date and eyes like the brightest stars. He’s wearing a padded army cap and a crudely stitched jacket on which a pair of medals is pinned. He keeps a pen in his shirt pocket, a silvery watch on his wrist. He walks on crutches; his right leg is perfectly normal, but his left one ends at the knee, his khaki pant leg knotted just below the stump. He wears a new leather shoe, with the nap on the outside, on his good leg. The moment he came through the gate, everyone in the compound — adults, children, even me — was awestruck. During those days, men like that could only have been heroic members of China’s volunteer army who had returned from the fighting in Korea.

The battlefield hero walked up to Lan Lian, his crutches thudding against the brick path, his good leg landing heavily at each step, as if putting down root, the empty cuff on the other leg swaying back and forth.

“If I’m not mistaken,” he said, “you must be Lan Lian.”

Lan Lian’s face twitched in response.

“Hello, there, volunteer soldier,” Lan Jiefang, the chatterbox, ran up to greet the stranger, oozing reverence. “Long live the volunteer soldiers!” he said. “You’re a war hero, I just know it. What do you want with my father? He’s not much of a talker. I’m his spokesman.”

“Shut up, Jiefang!” Lan Lian barked. “This is adult business, stay out of it.”

“No harm done,” the war hero said with a kindly smile. “You’re Lan Lian’s son, Lan Jiefang, am I right?”

“Do you know how to tell fortunes?” Jiefang sputtered, unable to conceal his surprise.

“No,” the war hero said with a crafty smile, “but I know how to read faces.” That said, he turned serious once more, tucking one crutch under his arm and offering his hand to Lan Lian. “Glad to meet you, my friend. I’m Pang Hu, new director of the district Supply and Marketing Co-op. Wang Leyun, who sells farming implements in the sales department of the production unit, is my wife.”

Lan Lian, at a momentary loss, shook hands with the war hero, who saw in his perplexed look that he was in a bit of a fog. Turning around, the man shouted:

“Gather round, all of you!”

Just then a short, rotund woman in a blue uniform, a pretty little girl in her arms, strode in the gate. The white-framed eyeglasses she wore told everyone that she was not a farmer. Her baby had big round eyes and rosy cheeks like autumn apples. Beaming from ear to ear, she was the perfect example of a happy child.

“Ah,” Lan Lian exclaimed happily, “so this is the comrade you’re talking about.” He turned toward the western rooms and called to his wife. “Gome out here, we have honored guests.”

I recognized her too. The memory of something that had happened the previous winter was still clear. Lan Lian had taken me to the county town to get some salt, and on the way back we’d met up with this Wang Leyun. She was sitting by the side of the road, heavily pregnant and moaning. She was wearing a blue uniform then too, but the bottom three buttons were undone to accommodate her swollen belly. Her white-framed eyeglasses and fair skin marked her immediately as a government worker. Her savior had arrived, as she saw it. Please, brother, help me, she said with considerable difficulty. — Where are you from? What’s happened? — My name is Wang Leyun. I work at the district Supply and Marketing Co-op. I was on my way to a meeting, since I didn’t think it was time, but. . . but. . . Seeing a bicycle lying nearby in the bushes, we knew at once the predicament she was in. Lan Lian walked around in circles, rubbing his hands anxiously. What can I do? he asked. How can I help you? — Take me to the county hospital, hurry. My master unloaded the bags of salt I was carrying, took off his padded coat and tied it across my back, and helped the woman get on. Hold on, Comrade, he said. She grabbed my mane and moaned some more as my master took my reins in one hand and held on to the woman with the other. — Okay, Blackie, let’s go. I took off, for I was a very excited donkey. I’d carried plenty of things on my back — salt, cotton, crops, fabric — but never a woman, and I danced a little jig, toppling the woman onto my master’s shoulder. Steady, Blackie! my master ordered. I got the idea. Blackie got the idea. So I started trotting, taking care to keep my gait smooth and steady, like flowing water or drifting clouds, something a donkey does best. A horse can only be smooth and steady when it gallops, but if a donkey gallops instead of trots, it makes for a bumpy ride. I sensed that this was a solemn, even sacred, mission. It was also stimulating, and at that time I felt myself existing somewhere between the realms of man and beast. I felt a warm liquid soaking into the jacket under her and onto my back, also felt sweat from the woman’s hair dripping onto my neck. We were only a couple of miles from the county town, on the road leading straight to it. Weeds on both sides of us were knee-high; a panicky rabbit ran out of the weeds and right into my leg. Well, we made it into town and went straight to the People’s Hospital. Back in those days, hospital personnel were caring people. My master stood in the hospital entrance and shouted: Somebody, come help this woman! I brayed to help out. A bunch of men and women in white smocks came running out and carried the woman inside, but not before I heard
waa-waa
sounds emerge from between her legs as she was taken off my back. On our way back home, my master was in obvious low spirits, grumbling over the sight of his wet, dirty padded coat. I knew he was superstitious and believed that the excretions of a woman in labor were not only dirty, they were unlucky. So when we reached the spot where we’d encountered the woman, he frowned, his face darkened, and he said, What does all this mean, Blackie? This was a new coat. What am I going to tell my wife?

Hee-haw, hee-haw
— I gloated, happy to see him facing a dilemma. — Is that a smile, Blackie? He untied the rope and, with three fingers, lifted the coat off of my back. It was . . . well, you know. He cocked his head, held his breath, and flung the water-soaked and very heavy jacket as if it were made of dog skin, watching it sail into the weeds like a big, strange bird. The rope also had bloodstains, but since he needed it to tie down the sacks of salt, he couldn’t throw it away, so he dropped it on the ground and rolled it around in the dirt with his foot until it changed color. Now all he was wearing was a thin jacket with several missing buttons; his chest turned purple from the cold, and with his blue face, he looked like one of Lord Yama’s little attendants. He bent down, scooped up two handfuls of dirt, and rubbed it on my back, then brushed it off with some weeds he plucked from the side of the road. Blackie, he said, you and I performed an act of charity, didn’t we?
Hee-haw, hee-haw
— He stacked the sacks of salt on my back and tied them down. Then he looked over at the bicycle in the weeds. Blackie, he said, as I see it, this bicycle ought to belong to me now. It cost me a coat and a lot of time. But if I covet something like this, I’ll give up the credits I earned from that act of charity, won’t I?
Hee-haw, hee-haw
— All right, then, let’s take this good deed as far as it’ll go, like seeing a guest all the way home. So he pushed the bicycle and drove me — actually, there was no need to do that — all the way back to the country town and up to the hospital entrance, where he stopped and shouted, You in there, the woman in labor, I’m leaving your bicycle here at the entrance!
Hee-haw, hee-haw
— More people ran out. — Okay, Blackie, let’s get out of here. He smacked me on the rump with my reins. Let’s go, Blackie . . .

Yingchun’s hands were coated with flour when she came out. Her eyes lit up when she saw the beautiful little girl in the arms of Wang Leyun. She reached over.

“Pretty baby,” she mumbled. “Pretty baby, so cute, so pudgy . . .”

Wang Leyun handed the baby to Yingchun, who cradled it in her arms, lowered her head, and smelled and kissed her face.

“She smells wonderful,” she said, “just wonderful . . .”

Waa-waa.
The baby wasn’t used to all that fuss.

“Hand her back to the comrade,” Lan Lian demanded. “Just look at you, more wolf than human. What baby wouldn’t be scared to death?”

“That’s all right, no harm done,” Wang Leyun said as she took the baby back and got her to stop crying.

Yingchun tried to rub the flour off her hands.

“I’m terribly sorry,” she apologized. “Look how I dirtied her clothes.”

“We’re all farmers,” Pang Hu said. “No need to worry. We came, today especially to thank you. I hate to think what might have happened if not for you.”