The Garlic Ballads (30 page)

As before, Fourth Uncle led the way. Gao Yang watched steam rise from his body and noticed that his face was black as the business end of a skillet as he strained to lead his cow, the rope in his left hand and a willow switch in his right. “Hee-ya, giddap!” he hollered, waving his switch over the animal’s rump without actually touching it. Frothy bubbles formed at the corners of the cow’s raised mouth; her breathing was loud and raspy; her flanks twisted and wriggled, probably because of stones cutting into her hooves.

The red ball of a sun and a few ragged clouds were all the scenery the sky could offer; a chewed-up highway and lots of garlic-laden carts comprised the earthly sights. Gao Yang had never been part of such a vast undertaking before, and was so flustered he kept his eyes glued to the back of Fourth Uncle’s head, not letting his gaze wander an inch. His little donkey seemed to be doing a jig on hooves gouged mercilessly by sharp stones; its left hoof was already leaving a dark bloody trail on the white stones. The poor animal was pulled from side to side by the lurching motions of the axle, but Gao Yang was too intent on moving forward to feel much sympathy. No one dared to even slow down, fearing that the subhuman creature behind them might try to take advantage.

An explosion, as from a hand grenade, went off to his left, scaring the hell out of man and beast. He shuddered. Jerking his head toward the sound, he saw that a handcart had blown a tire, whose red inner tube was fanned out over the black rubber. Two young women, about the same age, had been pulling the cart. The slightly older one’s head was shaped like the bole of a tree and covered with the bark of acne scars. Her fair-skinned companion had an attractive oval face, with— lamentably—one blind eye. He sighed. Blind old Zhang Kou said it best: even a famous beauty like Diao Zhan had pockmarks, which proves that perfect beauty simply doesnt exist. The two women stared down at the flat tire and wrung their hands, as people behind them shouted and swore to get them moving again. So, stumbling and straining, they wrestled their cart over to the muddy roadside, as the others quickly closed up ranks.

That started an epidemic of blowouts; a fifty-horsepower tractor lost several in one deafening explosion that drove the metal wheels deep into the roadway and nearly tipped the tractor over. A cluster of officials stood helplessly alongside a mass of ruined rubber, while the driver—a young man whose sweaty face was black with mud—-stood by holding a large wrench and heaping insults on the mothers of everyone who worked for the transportation department.

Up a gradual incline they went, then down the other side. Both the climb and the descent were hindered by the same stony roadbed— jagged teeth and wolfish fangs nipping at their heels. More and more blowouts caused a succession of traffic jams, and Gao Yang prayed silently: Old man up there, please look after my tires and don’t let them pop.

At the bottom of the last hill they moved onto an east-west highway, where a gang of men in gray uniforms and broad-billed caps stood waiting at a traffic light. Garlic-laden carts filling the highway were joined by a stream of latecomers emerging from the south. Fourth Uncle informed him that they and everyone else were headed toward the county’s new cold-storage warehouses east of them.

After they had traveled several hundred yards on the highway, their way was blocked by the carts ahead of them. That was when the gray-uniformed men, little black plastic satchels in hand, moved into action. Their badges identified them as employees of the traffic control station.

From experience Gao Yang knew that traffic controllers dealt with motor vehicles; so when one of them, an imposing young fellow in gray, blocked his way, black satchel in hand, he was unconcerned, even flashing him a friendly, if foolish, grin.

The stony-faced young man wrote out a slip of paper, handed it to him, and said, “That’ll be one yuan.”

Taken by surprise, and not sure what was going on, Gao Yang could only stare. The man in gray waved the slip of paper in front of him. “Give me one yuan,” he said icily.

“What for?” Gao Yang asked anxiously.

“Highway toll.”

“For a donkey cart?”

“It wouldn’t matter if it was a handcart.”

“I don’t have any money, comrade. My wife just had a baby, and that cost me every penny I owned.”

“I’m telling you to hand it over. Without one of these,” he said, waving the slip of paper in the air, “without one of these, the marketing co-op wont buy your garlic.”

“Honest, I don’t have any money,” Gao Yang insisted as he turned his pockets inside-out. “See—nothing!”

“Then I’ll take some of your garlic. Three pounds.”

“Three pounds is worth three yuan, comrade.”

“If you don’t think that’s fair, then hand over the money.”

“That’s blackmail!”

“Are you calling me a blackmailer? You think I like doing this? It’s state-mandated.”

Oh, well … if it’s state-mandated, then go ahead.”

The man scooped up a bundle of garlic and tossed it into a basket behind him—attended by two boys—and stuffed the white slip of paper with the official red seal into Gao Yang’s hand.

The traffic controller then turned to Fourth Uncle, who handed over two fifty-fen notes. He was also given a white slip of paper with a red seal for his troubles.

The boys picked up the nearly full basket and staggered under its weight toward the traffic control station, where a truck was parked. Two men in white, who appeared to be loaders, leaned against the rear bumper with their arms crossed.

At least twenty gray-uniformed men were busy handing out slips of paper from their black satchels. An argument erupted between one of them and a young fellow in a red vest who spoke his mind: “You bunch of cunt babies are worse than any son of a bitch I can think of!” The traffic controller calmly slapped him across the face without batting an eye.

“Who do you think you are, hitting me like that?” the young man in the red vest shrieked.

“That was a love tap,” the traffic controller replied in a level voice. “Let’s hear what else you have to say.”

The young man rushed the controller but was held back by two middle-aged men. “Stop it—stop it this minute! Give him what he wants, and keep your mouth shut.” Two white-uniformed policemen taking a smoke break under a nearby poplar tree ignored this completely.

What was that all about? Gao Yang was thinking. Of course they’re cunt babies. What did he think they were, asshole babies? Facts may not sound elegant, but they’re still the facts. He congratulated himself for not pulling a stunt like that, but the thought of losing all that juicy garlic nearly broke his heart. He breathed a heavy sigh.

By this time it was late morning, and Gao Yang’s donkey cart had barely moved an inch. The road was black with vehicles in both directions. From Fourth Uncle he learned that the cold-storage warehouse-where the garlic was bought—was a mile or so east of them. He was itching to see for himself, drawn by the shouts, whinnies, and other signs of frantic activity, but didn’t dare budge from where he was standing.

Noticing the first pangs of hunger, Gao Yang took a cloth bundle down from his cart and opened it to remove a flatcake and half a chunk of pickled vegetable, first offering some to Fourth Uncle as a courtesy, then digging in when his offer was refused. When it was about half-gone, Gao Yang plucked five stalks of garlic from his load, thinking, I’ll count these as part of the highway toll. Crisp and sweet, they complemented his meal perfecdy.

He was still eating when another man in a uniform and broad-billed cap came up and blocked his way, scaring the wits out of him. Quickly taking out his slip of paper, he waved it in front of the man and said, “I already paid, comrade.”

“This is from the controller station,” the man said after giving the slip a cursory glance. “I need to collect a two-yuan commodity tax.”

Gao Yang’s first emotion this time was anger. “I haven’t sold a single stalk of garlic yet,” he said.

“You won’t stick around to pay once you have,” the commodity-exchange official said.

“I don’t have any money!” Gao Yang said testily.

“Now you listen to me,” the man said. “The co-op won’t buy your garlic without seeing a tax receipt.”

“Comrade,” Gao Yang said, softening his attitude, “I mean it, I don’t have any money.”

“Then give me five pounds of garlic.”

This dizzying turn of events had Gao Yang on the verge of tears. “Comrade, this little bit of garlic is all I’ve got. Three pounds here and five pounds there, and before long I won’t have anything left. I’ve got a wife and lads, and this is all the garlic I could harvest, working day and night. Please, comrade.”

“Government policy,” the man said sympathetically. “You have to pay a tax when you deal with the commodity exchange.”

“If it’s government policy, then go ahead and take what you want,” Gao Yang mumbled. “Imperial grain levies, national taxes … they’re killing me, and I can’t raise a hand in my own defense.

The commodity-exchange official picked up a bundle of garlic and flipped it into the basket behind him. Again, two young boys who looked like puppets on a string were in charge of the basket. As Gao Yang watched his garlic flip end-over-end into the basket, his nose began to ache, and two large teardrops slid out of the corners of his eyes.

At high noon the blazing sun drained the energy out of Gao Yang and his donkey; the latter listlessly raised its tail and released a dozen or so road apples. That brought over a gray-uniformed man in a broad-billed cap who wrote out a slip of paper and handed it to Gao Yang. “A two-yuan fine for littering,” he said. Another man, this one in a white uniform and broad-billed cap, strolled up, wrote out a slip, and handed it to Gao Yang. “As sanitation inspector I’m fining you two yuan.”

He just stared at the environment and sanitation inspectors. “I don’t have any money,” he said weakly. “Take some garlic.”

Night was falling when Gao Yang and Fourth Uncle finally reached the purchasing station in front of the cold-storage warehouse. The scales were manned by two operators whose faces had all the radiance of dead embers. After stiffly announcing the weights, the scale operators entered figures on their receipt pads with ballpoint pens. Gao Yang broke out in a cold sweat when he saw all the uniformed men patrolling the area.

“Well, we made it,” a relieved Fourth Uncle commented.

“Yeah, we made it,” he echoed.

Fourth Uncle was next in line, ahead of Gao Yang, and the look of anxious anticipation on his face made Gao Yang’s heart race, only to beat even faster and harder when he noticed the inspector standing next to the scale.

A uniformed man with a bullhorn climbed onto a red table. “Attention, farmers,” he announced. “The warehouse is temporarily suspending the purchase of garlic. We’ll notify local co-ops when we’re ready to open again, and they’ll get the word out to you.”

Gao Yang felt as if he had been clubbed. His head spun, and he had to clutch the donkey’s back to keep from falling.

“That’s it?” Fourth Uncle cried. “You stop buying just when I reach the scale? I’ve been on the road since midnight, almost twenty-four hours!”

“Go home, garlic farmers. Once we’ve cleared some space in the warehouse we’ll let you know.”

“I live fifteen miles away!” Fourth Uncle complained, his voice cracking.

The scale operator stood up, abacus in hand.

“Comrade, I paid a highway toll and a commodity tax …” said Fourth Uncle.

“Keep your receipts. They’ll still be valid the next time. Now go home, all of you. We’re working day and night. As soon as this load is safely stored, we’ll open for business again.”

People at the rear surged forward, screaming, shouting, bawling, swearing.

Still gripping his bullhorn, the man jumped down off the table and ran like mad, bent at the waist. The steel gate slammed shut just as a swarthy young man hopped onto the red table and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Shit! You have to go through back doors to get anything done—even at a crematorium! What chance does our garlic have?” He jumped down and disappeared amid the piles of garlic.

His place was taken by a pimply-faced youngster who shouted, “You inside the warehouse, I’ll impale your old lady on my dick!”

Roars of laughter.

Someone removed a scale hook and flung it at the galvanized-steel warehouse door.
Chng!
When the surging crowd knocked over the scales and smashed the table, an old man stormed out of the warehouse. “What is this, an uprising?”

“Grab the old bastard! Beat him! His son, Pocky Liu from the Commerce Department, gives the old bastard a hundred a month to be a gatekeeper!”

“Beat him—
beat him
—BEAT HIM!” Men rushed the gate and began pounding it with their fists.

“Let’s get out of here, Fourth Uncle,” Gao Yang urged. “Not selling our garlic is one thing. Getting into trouble is another.”

“I’d like to go up there and get my licks in!”

“Come on, Fourth Uncle, let’s get out of here. If we head due east, we’ll come out on the north side of the tracks.”

So Fourth Uncle turned his cart around and set out to the east, followed closely by Gao Yang, who was leading his donkey.

After a few hundred yards they looked back and saw that a fire had been set in front of the warehouse gate. A man whose skin showed up red ripped down the signboard and consigned it to the flames. “The cold-storage warehouse is actually called a ‘temperature-controlled warehouse/ “ Gao Yang informed Fourth Uncle. “That’s what the sign said.”

“Who gives a shit what it’s called?” Fourth Uncle replied. “I hope they burn the fucker down!”

They were still watching when the gate fell and the crowd swarmed into the compound. Flickering light from the flames danced on people’s faces, even from that distance. Thunderous shouts carried over to Gao Yang and Fourth Uncle, that and the sound of glass splintering.

A black sedan drove up from the east. “The authorities!” Gao Yang said with alarm as the car screeched to a halt near the fire and the occupants jumped out. They were immediately pushed into the gutter as the mob began pounding the roof of the car with clubs, filling the air with dull thuds. Then someone dragged a burning log from the fire and crammed it into the besieged sedan.