The Garlic Ballads (28 page)

“Jinju, going away with me brought you nothing but misery.” He stroked her head.

“You shared my misery.” She rubbed his bony chest. “My parents shouldn’t have demanded so much money from you,” she said sadly.

“That’s okay, I’ll scrape it together,” he said confidently. “I’ll get at least five thousand for the garlic. And since all the villagers will have plenty of money, I can borrow the rest—I’m sure they’ll help—so we can get married before the baby arrives.”

“Marry me now,” she said. “I can’t live in that house any longer.”

Little green dots played on her face, and he wondered if they were parakeet feathers that had stuck to it.

That was when he remembered the saber, a family relic. He’d been caught handling it when he was a child. “Put it down!” Grandpa had said. Grandpa was still alive then. “It’s rusty. I’m going to sharpen it,” Gao Ma had retorted. “This is no toy!” Grandpa had said, and snatched it out of his hand. “This saber has killed a man,” Mother had said. She was still alive then, too. “Don’t you dare play with it.” And so they had hidden it on a roof beam to keep it away from him.

He moved the stool over, reached up to the beam, and felt around until his hand bumped into something long and hard. He brought it into the light. As he slipped the saber out of its wooden scabbard, the faces of Grandpa and Mother appeared before him.

The blade was dotted with red rust but still plenty sharp. And even though the tip had snapped off, it was made of good steel. Gao Ma’s hand moved through the air until saber met rope. But the saber inexplicably bounced back, sending him crashing to the floor. He scrambled to his feet just as the rope parted and Jinju fell to the floor—toes first, then heels, then the rest of her body, face up: a crumbling mountain of silver, a collapsed jade pillar, raising a pitiful ill wind that made the kerosene lamp flicker. He knelt down and loosened the noose around her neck. A breathy sigh escaping from her mouth drew a shriek of joy from his. But she didn’t make another sound. Her body was cold and stiff, as a touch of his hand proved. He tried to stuff her tongue back into her mouth, but it had puffed up to such an extraordinary thickness that it no longer fit. Yet even then a bewitching smile was visible on her face.

“Have you already scraped the money together, Elder Brother Gao Ma? When can we get married?”

He covered her face and upper body with a blanket.

After wailing piteously for some minutes, he realized how weary he was. Picking up the pitted, rusty saber, he staggered into the yard, the wind in his face and the taste of blood in his mouth. As he gazed up at the moon and the stars in the cloudless sky, the gaily colored parakeets emerged from the house en masse through the open window and front door, slipping through the air with such ease you’d have thought their wings were greased.

He swung at one with his saber. The bird veered, shot past him, and reentered the house. I’ll slaughter you all! Wait till I hone my saber, and I’ll slaughter you all!

He knelt beside a huge whetstone brought down from Little Mount Zhou and began working on his saber. First he scraped it dry to remove the rust; then he fetched a chipped ceramic bowl, filled it half-full with water, and began honing it wet. Through the rest of the night he kept at it. At cockcrow he wiped the blade clean with a handful of weeds, then held it up to the light. The icy glint of steel sent shivers up his spine. When he moved the blade lightly against his face, he heard a crackle and felt even the softest whiskers, which always bow beneath a dull knife, fall away.

The heft of the saber made him feel like a night-stalking swordsman; his palm itched around the handle. First he bounded into the township compound, quickly decapitating several tall sunflowers around him and leveling others nearer the ground. The razor-sharp saber seemed to cut and slash of its own volition, guiding his hand through the beds of sunflowers. Nothing could stop it. The stems remained suspended in place long after his saber had passed through them; then he watched them shudder once before falling noiselessly to the ground of their own weight, dim starlight falling lightly on the large fanlike leaves. Consumed by murderous intent, he turned his attention to the nearby pine trees. White chips of virgin wood flew, while in the branches above him swarms of frantic parakeets scattered in the sky, then formed a cloud of living color that whirled above the township compound, depositing pale droppings onto the blue roof tiles below until, wing-weary, they fell like stones, thudding like heavy raindrops. After felling three pine trees, Gao Ma watched four scarlet moons climb into the uncommonly expansive sky, one at each point of the compass, lighting up the land as if it were daytime. Parakeet feathers shimmered in many colors; birds’ eyes sparkled gemlike in the blinding light.

He raised the saber in his right hand, then his left. He was a giant. He slashed at the contemptible parakeets who’d risen up to circle him; cold blood from their dismembered bodies splashed onto his face, and as he reached up to wipe it away with his free hand, the stench of parakeet blood filled his nostrils.

Undaunted, the birds entered the house through the windows and door, then flew back out. The moons had long since fallen out of the sky above the gray courtyard, which was dotted by blurred woodpiles. He stood in the doorway, saber in hand, waiting. A parakeet flew up near him, mischievously, rolling its colorful wing feathers. His saber described an arc as it sliced through the bird; half fell at his feet, the other half landed a yard or so away. With a single lack he sent the half-bird at his feet sailing over the wall; then he skewered the other half with the tip of his saber and brought it up close to get a better look. The muscles were still twitching, the exposed innards quivering; a breath of hot air hit him full in the face. Cold, sticky blood slid down the blade and onto the brass guard over the hilt. A flick of the wrist, and the second half of the parakeet sailed over the wall.

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.

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 yellow 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.