The Garlic Ballads (31 page)

“Let’s get out of here, Fourth Uncle!” Gao Yang insisted.

Fourth Uncle, beginning to share Gao Yang’s fear, smacked his cow on the rump with his switch.

As they headed down the road they heard a massive explosion behind them, and when they turned to look, they saw a fiery column rise into the air, higher than the building, lighting up the area for miles around. Not sure what he was feeling, ecstasy or terror, Gao Yang heard his own heartbeat and felt a clammy sweat on his palms.

The two men skirted the county town and crossed the railroad tracks before Gao Yang breathed a sigh of relief, feeling like a man who has escaped from a wolves’ den. He couldn’t tell if Fourth Uncle shared his relief. If he listened carefully, he could still hear the din back at the warehouse.

After heading north for a mile or so, they heard the putt-putt of a diesel engine and the splashing of water a little east of the road, where a ring of pale lamplight was visible. The sound of water reminded Gao Yang how thirsty he was; Fourth Uncle must be just as thirsty, he figured, since he hadn’t eaten or drunk anything all day. “Watch my cart, Fourth Uncle, while I get us some water. The animals need to be fed and watered, since we still have a long ways to go.”

Reining in his cow in silent assent, Fourth Uncle edged his cart over to the side of the road, as Gao Yang took down a metal pail and headed toward the light, soon locating a narrow footpath amid some knee-high cornstalks whose leaves brushed his legs and pail. The lamplight was dim, yet he could tell that its source was probably no more than a couple of arrow shots from the road, although getting to it would not be easy. The sound of the diesel engine and splashing water remained constant, as if forever beyond his reach. At one point the path simply vanished, forcing him to thread his way through the field, careful not to trample any stalks. He couldn’t help noticing the difference between the rich soil beneath his feet and the mineral-poor dirt back home, far from town. Then the footpath reappeared, and a few steps later widened enough to accommodate a small cart. Shallow ditches separated it from rolling farmland that gave off an aromatic mixture of cotton, peanuts, corn, and sorghum, each odor quite distinct.

Suddenly the lamplight brightened considerably, and the sounds of the diesel motor and gurgling water grew louder and clearer. Seeing his own shadow made Gao Yang bashfully aware of his own timidity, even as he walked up to the lamp. It hung from a wooden pole beside a red, twelve-horsepower diesel motor mounted on four wooden posts above the path. The fan belt didn’t appear to be turning, but he knew that was an illusion, since the shiny metal clip kept flashing past and making a clicking noise. Clear water gurgled up through a thick plastic hose inserted deep into a well and gushed out of the pump. A pair of sneakers on a sheet of plastic was the only sign of life, even when he squinted to get a better look. The air was heavy with the smell of young corn.

“Who’s there?” came a voice out of the darkness.

“Just a passerby in need of a little water,” he replied.

Rustling cornstalks preceded the appearance of a tall, husky man with a hoe over his shoulder. He walked up to the pump and washed his muddy feet in the gushing water, then rinsed off the hoe. Lamplight shimmered in the water dripping from the blade.

After jumping across the irrigation ditch, the man leaned against his hoe and said, “Go ahead, drink as much as you want.”

Gao Yang ran over, knelt down, and thrust his mouth into the powerful stream of water, which numbed his lips and nearly choked him. When he couldn’t drink another drop, he washed his face, filled his pail, and carried it over to the lantern.

The man was observing him closely, so he returned the favor.

He was a poised young man in a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of uniform trousers. He reached down to unfasten a shiny watch that hung from his belt, and slipped it over his wrist. He checked the time. “What are you doing out so late?”

“Selling my garlic. I haven’t had a drop to drink all day long. The sound of your water was music to my ears.”

“What township are you from?”

“Gaotong.”

“That’s a long ways from here. Didn’t your local co-op set up a purchasing station?”

“They’re too busy selling fertilizer to worry about things like that.”

The young man laughed. “That’s normal. Everybody wants to get rich these days. How did the sale go?”

“Not good. When our turn came, we were told that the warehouse was full and no more garlic would be bought for the time being. If they were going to reopen tomorrow, I’d hang around all night instead of going home. But who the devil knows if the scales will be back in business this month or even this year!”

Out came the rest—he couldn’t help himself. “It was a near riot,” he said. “The scales were smashed, the table set on fire, windows broke—they even torched an official sedan.”

“Do you mean to say the masses rose up in revolt?” the young man asked excitedly.

“I don’t know about a revolt,” Gao Yang replied with a sigh, “but it was a riot for sure. Some didn’t seem to care what happened to them.”

“My father and one of my brothers went to town to sell our garlic. I wonder if they’re okay.”

Gao Yang’s gaze fell on the young mans white, even teeth, and he could tell he was trying to disguise his northern accent. “There’s something special about you, Elder Brother,” he commented. “I can tell.”

“I’m in the army, nothing special,” the young man said.

“I can see you’re a decent man. No matter how well life is treating you, you still come home to help your father. That tells me you’re bound to have a bright future.”

The young man took out a pack of cigarettes, which looked like a fresh flower in the lamplight. He offered one to Gao Yang. “I don’t smoke,” Gao Yang said, “but a friend of mine is waiting for me back on the road. I’m sure he’s never smoked a cigarette this good before.” He tucked it behind his ear, picked up his pail, and retraced his steps back to the road.

“Where’d you go for that water, the East Ocean?”. Fourth Uncle grumbled. The donkey stood there stupidly. Fourth Uncle’s cow was lying on the road beside the cart.

“Here, have some water,” Gao Yang said. “I’ll take care of the animals.”

Burying his face in the pail, Fourth Uncle drank his fill, then stood up and belched several times. Gao Yang removed the cigarette from behind his ear and handed it to him. “I met someone special,” he said. “He said he was just a soldier, but I could see right off he was an officer. When he offered me a cigarette, I said I don’t smoke, but I brought it back for you.”

Fourth Uncle accepted it and held it up under his nose. “It smells pretty ordinary.”

“He came home to help his father in the field, even though he’s an officer. Not bad, hm? Most people nowadays can’t wait to throw away their beggar’s staff and beat up on the next person with one. Look at our own Wang Tai. He pretends he doesnt even know us.

“Had enough?” Gao Yang asked. “I’ll water the cow.”

“Start with the donkey. This cow of mine wont chew her cud. I’m afraid she might be sick. She’s pregnant, and if I lose her on top of not selling my garlic, I’m in bad shape.”

The donkey, having gotten wind of the water, began to snort, but Gao Yang walked up to the cow. She tried to get to her feet, but couldn’t manage without Fourth Uncle’s help. A bluish light emerged from her large, sad eyes. Gao Yang held the pail under her nose, but she only lapped up a swallow or two before raising her head and licking her lips and nose with her long tongue.

“Is that all she’s going to drink?” Gao Yang asked.

“She’s picky. The only way Fourth Aunt can get her to drink is by spreading bran on top of the water.”

“A life of ease, even the cow you please,” Gao Yang quipped. “Not many years ago
people
went without bran, let alone cows.”

“Quit dawdling and water your donkey.”

The donkey strained at the bit as it lapped up every last drop in the pail, then shook its head to show it wanted more.

“Let’s get moving,” Fourth Uncle said. “The animals will get sick if they don’t work up a sweat after that cold water.”

“How much did she cost you, Fourth Uncle?”

“Nine hundred thirty, not counting the tax.”

“That much?” Gao Yang clicked his tongue. “You could cover her from head to hoof with that many bills.”

“Money’s worthless these days,” Fourth Uncle said. “Pork has gone up ninety fen in six months—ninety fen a pound! We can’t afford more than a few pounds a year.”

“But you make out okay, Fourth Uncle, since you can count on a calf every year. If the first one’s a female, you break even right there. Raising cows is a lot better than planting garlic.”

“You only see one side of things,” Fourth Uncle protested. “Do you suppose all a cow needs is the northwest wind? Where do you think the hay and mash come from?”

Their conversation waned as the night deepened. Both carts rocked lightly from side to side. A weary Gao Yang jumped onto his cart—donkey be damned—and sat down, leaning against the rail. His eyelids felt weighted down, but he forced himself to stay awake. By then they were on sandy soil; the roadside foliage was unchanged from the night before, except that the absence of moonlight kept the leaves from shining. Also unchanged, and interminable, were the chirps of katydids and crickets.

Another incline placed an even greater strain on the donkey, which began to sound like an asthmatic old man. Gao Yang got off the cart and walked on the road, lessening the animal’s wheezing a bit. Fourth Uncle stayed on his cart and let his pregnant cow pull him up the incline, whatever the strain; that did not go unnoticed by Gao Yang. I thought he had a kinder heart than that, he mused, reminding himself to have as little as possible to do with people like him from now on.

About halfway up the slope, the moon made an appearance in the eastern sky, barely clearing the lowland way off in the distance. Gao Yang was familiar enough with the laws of nature to know that tonight’s moonrise was a tad later than last night’s, and that tonight’s moon was a tad smaller. It was sallow, with a hint of pink: there it was, a chewed-up, sallow, slightly pink, flimsy, turbid, feeble, sleepy half-moon, a tad smaller than the night before, and a tad larger than it would be tomorrow. Its beams were so frail they seemed to fall short of the sandy hill, the foliage, and the highway. He slapped the donkey on the sweaty ridge of its back; the wheels turned slowly on axles that squealed and protested from a lack of grease. Every once in a while Fourth Uncle sang a snatch of some bawdy popular tune, then just as abruptly stopped, with no discernible pattern. In reality, the moonbeams did reach them—what was dancing on the leaves around them if not moonlight? If that wasn’t moonlight shimmering on the crickets’ wings like slivers of glass, what was it? Who would deny that the warm scent of moonlight was mixed with the cold odor of garlic? A heavy mist hung over the lowland; light breezes swept over the outcroppings.

Fourth Uncle began swearing—hard to say if he was swearing at something or someone: “You child of a whore—dog spawn—as soon as you pull up your pants, you think you’re so respectable!” Gao Yang didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

Just then two blinding rays of light came at them from the top of the hill—high one moment, low the next; now left, now right, like a pair of pinking shears moving across fabric—followed by the urgent roar of an engine. Gao Yang wrapped his arms around his donkey’s cold, sweaty head and nudged it and the cart over to the side of the road. Framed in the light beams, Fourth Uncle’s cow looked like a scrawny rabbit. He jumped off his cart, grabbed the harness, and guided her to the side of the road. They both seemed to disintegrate in the light beams.

What happened next was a joke, a dream, a common shit, a leisurely piss.

Gao Yang would later recall that the car barreled down on them like an avalanche, making violent, crunching noises, as the darkness swallowed up Fourth Uncle’s cow, his cart, his garlic, and him. Standing there wide-eyed, Gao Yang saw two middle-aged faces frozen behind a windshield: one fat, puffy, and smiling; the other skinny and twisted in a grimace. Gao Yang and his donkey were nearly smothered by the car’s heat.

He would recall watching the car surge toward them, hearing Fourth Uncle’s cow bellow, and seeing Fourth Uncle wrap his arms around the animal’s neck. Fourth Uncle’s head shrank in size until it looked like a tiny metallic bead reflecting yellow and blue light. Fourth Uncle, his eyes mere slits, his mouth a gaping hole, looked terrified and pathetic. The white light shone right through his protruding ears. With unhurried inevitability the car’s bumper smashed into the legs of Fourth Uncle and his cow, driving his torso forward for an instant before he was airborne, his arms outstretched like wings, his shirt flapping behind him like tailfeathers. He landed in a clump of wax reeds. As her neck twisted, his cow fell to the ground on her belly The car kept coming. After pushing the cow and the cart ahead of it a short distance, it ran up over them.

And then? Then the fat man shouted, “Let’s get out of here!” The skinny man tried to back the car up but couldn’t. Jamming the pedal to the floor, he lurched backwards. Then he spun the car around, skirted the spot where Gao Yang was standing with his donkey, and sped down the hill, leaving puddles of water from a punctured radiator—a wet, leaky, short trip.

With his arms still wrapped around his donkey’s head, Gao Yang tried to figure out what had happened. He reached up and felt his own head. It was still whole. Nose, eyes, ears, mouth: all right where they should be. Then he examined the donkey’s head; it was also in fine shape, except for its ears, which were icy cold. He broke down and cried like a baby.