Life and Death are Wearing Me Out (30 page)

In order to celebrate the new year, my brother and his friends decided to stage a performance of
The Red Lantern.
Huzhu, with her long braid, was a natural for Tiemei; my brother was all set to play the leading role of Li Yuhe, until he lost his voice, and Ma Liangcai was given the part. Speaking from the heart, I’d have chosen Ma over my brother anyway. Volunteers quickly claimed the remaining roles in the revolutionary model opera, and the entire village got caught up in the excitement that winter. Held in the Revolutionary Committee office in the light of the gas lamp, the rehearsals drew a crowd every night, filling the room, rafters included. Those who didn’t make it into the room crowded up against the windows and the door to watch, pushing and shoving to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside. Hezuo also landed a part, that of Tiemei’s neighbor, while Mo Yan pestered my brother for one of the other parts, until Jinlong told him to get lost. But Commander, Mo Yan said, blinking in disappointment, I’ve got unique talents. He turned and did a somersault. Honest, my brother said, there are no parts left. You can add one, Mo Yan insisted. So my brother thought for a moment. All right, he said, you can be an enemy agent. Granny Li was one of the major roles, with plenty of singing and talking, too much for the local uneducated girls to master, so in the end the role was offered to my sister, who coldly turned it down. As the year’s end approached, still no one had come forward to play Granny Li, and the performance was scheduled for New Year’s day. Then Vice Chairman Chang phoned to say he might come by to direct the performance and enhance our prospects of becoming a model village for popularizing model revolutionary operas. The news both excited and worried my brother, whose mouth was quickly covered with cold sores, and whose voice was hoarser than ever. When he told my sister that Vice Chairman Chang might come to take over the direction, she broke into tears and sobbed: I’ll take the role.

Soon after the Cultural Revolution was launched, I’d felt left out in the cold, thanks to my status of independent farmer. All the other villagers, including the crippled and the blind, had joined the Red Guards, but not me. Heat from their revolutionary fervor rose to the heavens, but I could only watch on with eyes hot with envy. I was sixteen that year, an age when I should have been flying high and burrowing low, roiling the waters with my youth. But no, I was forced into other frames of mind: self-loathing, shame, anxiety, jealousy, longing, fantasy, all coming together within me. I once screwed up the courage and the nerve to plead my case with Ximen Jinlong, who saw me as a mortal enemy. I bowed my head in a desire to participate in the torrent of revolutionary activities. He said no.

So I went to see my dad in the ox shed, which had become his refuge, his place of safety. Ever since the marketplace parade that occupied such a notorious page in the history of Northeast Gaomi Township, Dad had become a virtual mute. Still only in his forties, he was completely gray. Stiff to begin with, his hair, now that it was nearly white, stood up like porcupine quills. The ox stood behind the feeding trough, head bowed, its stature notably diminished by the loss of half a horn. Sunbeams framed its head and lit up its eyes like two pieces of sorrow-laden amethyst, deep purple and heartbreakingly moist. Our fierce bull ox was completely transformed. I knew such things happened when oxen were castrated, but I never imagined that the loss of a horn could have the same effect. Then it saw me enter the shed and, after a brief glance, lowered its eyes, as if that was all it needed to see what was on my mind. Dad was sitting on a pile of hay beside the feed trough, leaning up against straw-filled sacks, his hands hidden in the sleeves of his coat. He was resting with his eyes shut, sunbeams lighting up his head and face and turning his gray hair slightly red. Bits of straw in his hair made it appear that he had just crawled out of a haystack. Only a few traces of red paint remained here and there on his face. The birthmark had reappeared, now darker than ever, almost indigo blue. I reached up and touched my own birthmark; it felt like leather. My mark of ugliness. When I was young, people called me “Junior Blue Face,” which brought me pride, not shame. But as I grew older, anyone who called me “Blue Face” was in for a hard time. I’d heard people say that we were independent farmers because of our blue faces, and there were even comments that my dad and I kept ourselves hidden during daylight, and only came out to work the land at night. I don’t deny that there were nights we worked by moonlight, but not because of our blue birthmarks. Tying our independent streak to a biological defect was bullshit. We chose independence out of a conviction that we had the right to stand alone. I’d gone along with Dad because I’d thought it would be fun. But now I was drawn to something a lot more fun than that. Especially grating was the fact that I was an independent farmer
and
had a blue face. I’d begun to regret my decision to follow Dad, was beginning to hate him and his independent farming. I looked at his blue face with a measure of disgust; I hated him for passing that defect on to me. A man like you, Dad, should have stayed a bachelor, but if that was impossible, you should never have had a child!

“Dad!” I shouted. “Dad!”

He opened his eyes slowly and stared at me.

“Dad, I want to join the commune!”

Obviously, this came as no surprise. The look on his face didn’t change. He took out his pipe, filled it, stuck it in his mouth, struck his flint to send a spark onto some sorghum stalks, then blew on the tiny flame until he could use it to light his pipe. He sucked in deeply and exhaled two streams of smoke though his nose.

“I want to join the commune. Let’s take the ox and join up, all three of us. . . . Dad, I can’t take it anymore—”

His eyes snapped fully open. “You little traitor!” he said, drawing out each word. “You go ahead if you want to, but not me, and not the ox!”

“Why?” I was feeling both abused and angry. “Here’s where things stand. When the campaign was just getting under way, an independent farmer in Pingnan County was strung up from a tree and beaten to death by the revolutionary masses. My brother said that by parading you through the streets, he was covertly protecting you. He said that after they take care of the landlords, rich peasants, counterrevolutionaries, bad elements, and capitalist-roaders, they’ll come after the independent farmers. Dad, Jinlong said the two thick limbs on the apricot tree were just waiting for you and me. Dad, are you listening?”

He knocked the bowl of the pipe against the sole of his shoe, stood up, and started preparing food for the ox. The sight of his bent back and sunburned neck reminded me of my childhood, when he’d carry me on his shoulders to market to buy persimmons for me. The thought saddened me.

“Dad,” I said, starting to get worked up, “society is changing. County Chief Chen has been overthrown, and I’ll bet the bureau head who gave you safe passage has too by now. It doesn’t make sense for us to keep farming independently. If we join the commune while Jinlong is chairman, it’ll make him and us look good. . . .”

Dad stayed bent over low as he worked the sieve, completely ignoring me. I was starting to get steamed.

“Dad,” I said, “no wonder people say you’re like a rock in the crapper, hard and stinky! Sorry to say it, Dad, but I can’t follow you down this dead end into darkness. If you won’t look out for me, I’ll have to look out for myself. I’m not a child any longer. I want to join the commune, find a wife, and walk down a bright, shiny road. You can do what you want.”

Dad dumped the straw into the feed trough and stroked the ox’s deformed horn. Then he turned to face me, not a hint of anger on his face. “Jiefang,” he said gently, “you’re my son, and I want only the best for you. I know perfectly well how things stand these days. That Jinlong has a heart as hard as a rock, and the blood that flows through his veins is more lethal than a scorpion’s tail. He’ll do absolutely anything in the name of ‘revolution.’ “He looked up, squinting in the bright sunlight. “How,” he wondered, “could the landlord, a good and decent man, sire an evil son like that?” Tears glistened in his eyes. “We’ve got three-point-two acres of land. You can take half of that with you into the commune. The wooden plow was given to us as one of the ‘fruits of victory’ during land reform. You can take that too, and you can have the one-room house. Take what you can with you, and after you join, if you want to throw in your lot with your mother and them, go ahead. If not, then go it alone. I don’t want anything, nothing but this ox and this shed.”

“Why, Dad? Tell me why.” I was nearly crying. “What purpose is served by you hanging on to your independence?”

“None at all,” he said calmly. “I just want to live a quiet life and be my own master. I don’t want anyone to tell me what to do.”

I went looking for Jinlong.

“Brother,” I said, “I talked it over with Dad, and I want to join the commune.”

Excited by the news, he doubled up his fists and banged them together in front of his chest.

“Wonderful,” he said, “that’s just wonderful, one more great achievement of the Cultural Revolution! The last independent farmer in the county is finally taking the socialist road. This is wonderful news. Let’s go inform the County Revolutionary Committee!”

“But Dad isn’t joining,” I said. “Just me, with half our land, our wooden plow, and a seeder.”

“What do you mean?” His face darkened. “What the hell is he trying to do?”

“He says he isn’t trying to do anything. He’s just gotten used to a quiet life and doesn’t want to answer to anyone.”

“That old son of a bitch!” He banged his fist on the table beside him, so hard an ink bottle nearly bounced off onto the floor.

“Don’t get too excited, Jinlong,” Huang Huzhu said.

“And how do I do that?” he said in a low growl. “I’d planned to present two gifts to Vice Chairman Chang and the County Revolutionary Committee at New Year’s. One was the village production of the revolutionary opera
The Red Lantern;
the other was that we’d eliminated the last independent farmer, not only in the county or in the province, but in the whole country. I was going to do what Hong Taiyue failed to do. That would cement my authority up and down the line. Your joining without him means there’s still one independent farmer. I won’t have it. I’m going to talk to him. You come with me!”

Jinlong stormed angrily into the ox shed, the first time he’d stepped foot inside in years.

“Dad,” he said. “I shouldn’t be calling you Dad, but I will this time.”

Dad waved him off. “Don’t,” he said. “I’m not worthy.”

“Lan Lian,” Jinlong continued, “I have but one thing to say to you. For the sake of Jiefang, and for yourself, it’s time to join the commune. I’m in charge now, and you have my word you won’t have to perform heavy labor. And if you don’t even want light jobs, then you can just rest up. You’re getting on in years, and you deserve to take life easy.”

“That’s more than I deserve,” Dad said icily.

“Climb up onto the platform and look around,” Jinlong said. “Take a look at Gaomi County, or at Shandong Province, or at all of China’s nineteen provinces (not counting Taiwan), its metropolitan areas, and its autonomous regions. The whole country, awash in red, with only a single black dot, here in Ximen Village, and that black dot is you!”

“I’m fucking honored, the one black dot in all of China!”

“We are going to erase that black dot!” Jinlong said.

Dad stuck his hand under the feed trough and took out a rope covered in ox dung. He threw it at Jinlong’s feet.

“Do you plan to hang me from the apricot tree? Well, be my guest!”

Jinlong leaped backward, as if the rope were a snake. Baring his teeth and clenching and unclenching his fists, he jammed his hands into his pants pockets and then took them out again. He took a cigarette out of his tunic pocket — he’d taken up smoking after being appointed chairman — and lit it with a gold-colored lighter. His forehead creased, obviously in deep thought. But after a moment he flipped away his cigarette, stomped it out, and turned to me.

“Go outside, Jiefang,” he said.

I looked first at the rope on the ground, then at Jinlong and Dad, one scrawny, the other brawny, pondering who would win and who would lose if a fight broke out, as well as whether I’d stand by and watch or jump in and, if the latter, whose side I’d be on.

“Say what you want to say,” Dad said. “Let’s see what you’re made of. Stay where you are, Jiefang. Keep your eyes and ears open.”

“Fine with me,” Jinlong said. “Do you think I won’t hang you from the apricot tree?”

“Oh, you’ll do it, all right, you’ll do anything.”

“Don’t interrupt me. I’m only letting you off for the sake of Mother. I’m not going to beg you to join the commune, since the Communist Party has never begged anything from capitalist-roaders. Tomorrow we’ll hold a public meeting to welcome Jiefang into the commune, along with his land, his plow, and his seeder. The ox too. We’ll present him with a red flower, and do the same for the ox. At that moment, you’ll be all alone in this ox shed. It will be heartbreaking for you when the clash of cymbals, the pounding of drums, and the resounding cracks of firecrackers enter this empty shed. You’ll be cut off from the masses, living apart from your wife, and separated from your children, and even the ox that would not betray you will be forcibly taken from you. What will your life mean then? If I were you,” Jinlong said as he kicked the rope and looked up at the overhead beam, “if I were you, I’d loop that rope over the beam and hang myself!”

He turned and walked out.

“Evil bastard—” Dad jumped up and cursed Jinlong’s back before dejectedly hunkering down on the straw.

I was devastated, shocked by Jinlong’s behavior. I felt so sorry for Dad at that moment, and ashamed of wanting to abandon him. I’d been helping the enemy in his evil ways. I threw myself down at Dad’s feet, grabbed his hands, and said through my tears:

“I won’t join, Dad. I’m going to stay with you and be an independent farmer even if it means I have to live the rest of my life as a bachelor—”

He wrapped his arms around my head and sobbed for a moment. Then he pushed me away, dried his eyes, and straightened up. “You’re a man already, Jiefang, so you must stand by what you say. Go ahead, join the commune, take the plow and the seeder with you. As for the ox—” He looked over at the ox; the ox returned the look. “You can take it too!”