The Garlic Ballads

1.

Gao Yang drove his donkey cart, loaded with garlic, down the county road under a starlit sky. The load was so heavy, the cart so rickety, that creaks accompanied him the whole trip, and each time the cart hit a pothole, he was fearful it might shake apart. As he crossed the little stone bridge over the Sandy River, he tightened the donkey’s bridle and used his body weight to steady the cart for the sake of the spindly animal, which looked more like an oversized billy goat than a donkey. Uneven stones made the wheels creak and groan. The trickle of water beneath them reflected cold stars. Negotiating the rise, he slipped a rope over his shoulder to help the donkey pull. The paved road leading to the county town began at the top of the rise; level and smooth, and unaffected by the elements, it had been built after the Third Plenum of the Central Committee. He thought back to his complaints at the time: “Why spend all that money? How many trips to town will any of us take in a lifetime?” But now he realized his error. Peasants always take the short view, never seeing beyond petty personal gains. The government is wise; you will never go wrong by heeding its advice, was what he told people these days.

As he set out on the new road, he heard the rumbling of another cart twenty or thirty yards ahead, and an old man’s coughs. It was very late and very quiet. The strains of a song reverberated above the surrounding fields, and Gao Yang could tell it was Fourth Uncle Fang. In his youth, Fourth Uncle had been a dashing young man who sang duets with a woman from the traveling opera troupe.

“Sister, Sister, such a fetching sight / Ushered into the bridal chamber late at night / A golden needle pierces the lotus blossom / Stains of precious juice greet the morning light.”

Dirty old man! Gao Yang swore under his breath as he urged his donkey on. But it would be a long night, and there was a great distance to travel, so the thought of having someone to talk to was appealing. When the silhouette of the cart came into view, he hailed, “Is that you, Fourth Uncle? It’s me, Gao Yang.” • Fourth Uncle kept his silence.

Katydids chirped in roadside foliage, “ Gao Yang’s donkey clip-clopped loudly on the paved road, and the air was heavy with the smell of garlic as the moon rose behind tall trees, its pale rays falling onto the road. Filled with hope, he caught up with the cart in front. “Is that you, Fourth Uncle?” he repeated.

Fourth Uncle grunted in reply.

“Keep singing, Fourth Uncle.”

Fourth Uncle sighed. “Sing? At this point I can’t even cry.”

“I started out so early this morning, I never figured to be behind you, Fourth Uncle.”

“There are others ahead of us. Haven’t you seen all the animal droppings?”

“Didn’t you sell your crop yesterday, Fourth Uncle?”

“Did you?”

“Didn’t go. My wife just had a baby, and it was such a difficult delivery I was too busy to leave the house.”

“What did she have?” Fourth Uncle asked.

“A boy.” Gao Yang could not conceal his excitement. His wife had given him a son, and there had been a bumper crop of garlic. Gao Yang, your fortunes have changed. He thought about his mother’s grave. It was an auspicious site. What he had suffered over not divulging the location to the authorities all those years before had been worth it.

Fourth Uncle, who was sitting on the cart railing, lit his pipe, the match flame briefly illuminating his face. The bowl glowed as the acrid smell of burning tobacco was carried off on the chilled night air.

Gao Yang guessed why Fourth Uncle was so melancholy. “People’s lives are controlled by fate, Fourth Uncle. Marriage and wealth are determined before we’re born, so it’s useless to worry about them.” Trying to comfort Fourth Uncle, he discovered, lifted his own spirits, and he took no pleasure in Fourth Uncle’s problems. There was enough joy in his heart for him to hope that Fourth Uncle’s sons would also find wives soon. “Peasants like us can’t hold a candle to the well-to-do. Some folks’ lives aren’t worth living, and some stuff isn’t worth having. It could be worse for us-we could all be out begging. We know where our next meal is coming from, and tattered clothes are better than walking around bare-assed naked. Sure, life’s tough, but we’ve got our health, and a game leg or withered arm is better than leprosy. Don’t you agree, Fourth Uncle?”

Another grunted response as Fourth Uncle sucked on his pipe. Silvery moonlight bathed the shafts of his cart, the horns of the cow pulling it, the ears of Gao Yang’s donkey, and the thin plastic tarpaulin covering the garlic.

“My mother’s death helped to convince me that we should be content with our lot and no harder on ourselves than we have to. If everyone was on top, who would hold them up at the bottom? If everybody went to town for a good time, who would stay home to plant the crops? When the old man up there made people, he used different raw materials. The good stuff went for officials, the so-so stuff for workers, and whatever was left for us peasants. You and me, we’re made of scraps, and we’re lucky just to be alive. Isn’t that right, Fourth Uncle? Like that cow of yours, for example. She pulls your garlic, and has to give you a ride in the bargain. If she slows down, she gets a taste of your whip. The same rules govern all living creatures. That’s why you have to endure, Fourth Uncle. If you make it, you’re a man, and if you don’t, you’re a ghost. Some years ago, Wang Tai and his bunch made me drink my own piss- that was before Wang Tai’s heyday-so I gritted my teeth and did it. It was just a little piss, that’s all. The things we worry about are all in our heads. We fool ourselves into believing we’re clean. Those doctors in their white smocks, are they clean? Then why do they eat afterbirth? Just think, it comes out of a woman’s you-know-what, all bloody and everything, and without even washing it, they cover it with chopped garlic, salt, soy sauce, and other stuff, then fry it medium rare and gobble it up. Dr. Wu took my wife’s afterbirth with him, and when I asked him how it tasted, he said it was just like jellyfish. Imagine that-jellyfish! Have you ever heard anything so disgusting? So when they told me to drink my own piss, I slurped it down, a big bottle of it. And what about afterwards? I was still the same old me, everything still in place. Secretary Huang didn’t drink his own piss back then, but when he got cancer later, he ate raw vipers, centipedes, toads, scorpions, and wasps-fighting fire with fire, they said-but he only managed to keep up the fight for six months before breathing his last!”

Their carts rounded a bend where the road crossed the wasteland behind Sand Roost Village. The area was dotted with sandy hillocks on which red willows, indigo bushes, wax reeds, and maples grew. Branches and leaves twinkled in the moonlight. A dung beetle flew through the air, buzzing loudly until it crash-landed on the road. Fourth Uncle smacked the cow’s rump with a willow switch and relit his pipe.

At an incline the donkey lowered its head and strained in silence as it pulled its load. A sympathetic Gao Yang slung the rope over his shoulder and helped pull. It was a long, gradual climb, and when they made the top, he looked back to see where they’d been; he was surprised to see flickering lanterns in what seemed to be a deep pit. On the way down he tried sitting, but when he saw how the donkey arched its back and how its hooves were bouncing all over the place, he jumped down and walked alongside the cart to forestall disaster.

“We’ll be halfway there at the bottom of this slope, won’t we?” Gao Yang asked.

“Just about,” Fourth Uncle replied dispiritedly.

Insects in the trees and bushes along the way heralded their passage with dull, dreary chirps. Fourth Uncle’s cow tripped and nearly lost its footing. A light mist rose from the road. Rumblings were audible in the distance, due south, and the ground shook slightly.

“There goes a train,” Fourth Uncle commented.

“Have you ever ridden one, Fourth Uncle?”

“Trains arent meant for people like us, to use your words,” Fourth Uncle said. “Maybe the next time around I’ll be born into an official’s family. Then I’ll ride one. Meanwhile I have to be content with watching them from a distance.”

“I’ve never been on one, either,” Gao Yang said. “If the old man up there smiles down on me with five good harvests, I’ll splurge a hundred or so to ride a train. Trying something new might make up for having to drag myself through life like a beast in human garb.”

“You re young yet,” Fourth Uncle said. “There’s still hope.”

“Hope for what? At thirty you’re middle-aged, at fifty they plant you in the ground. I’m forty-one, a year older than your first son. The dirt’s already up to my armpits.”

“People survive a generation; plants make it till autumn. Climbing trees to snare sparrows, and wading in water to catch fish, it seems like only yesterday. But before you know it, it’s time to die.”

“How old are you this year, Fourth Uncle?”

“Sixty-four,” he replied. “Seventy-three and sixtyrfour, the critical years. If the King of the Underworld doesn’t come get you, you go on your own. There’s little chance I’ll be around to eat any of this year’s millet crop.”

“Come, now, you’re strong and healthy enough to live another eight or ten years at least,” Gao Yang said to perk him up.

“You don’t need to try to raise my spirits. I’m not afraid of dying. It can’t be worse than living. And just think of the food I’ll save the nation,” Fourth Uncle added wryly.

“You wouldn’t save the nation any food by dying, since you only eat what you grow. You’re not one of those elite parasites.”

The moon burrowed into a gray cloud, blurring the outlines of roadside trees and increasing the resonance of the insects inhabiting them.

“Fourth Uncle, Gao Ma’s not bad. You were right to give him permission to marry Jinju.” It just slipped out, and he regretted it at once, especially when he heard Fourth Uncle suck in his breath. Moving quickly to change the subject, he said, “Did you hear what happened to the third son of the Xiong family in Sheep’s Pen Village, the one who went off to study in America? He wasn’t there a year before he went and married a blond, blue-eyed American girl. He sent a picture home, and now Old Man Xiong shows her off to everybody he sees.”

“His ancestral graves are located on auspicious land.”

That reminded Gao Yang of his mother’s grave: it was on high land, with a river to the north and a canal to the east; off to the south you could see Little Mount Zhou, and to the west a seemingly endless broad plain. Then he thought of his two-day-old son, his big-headed son. All my life I’ve been a brick right from the kiln, and I can’t change now. But Mother’s final resting place might work to the advantage of her grandson and give him a decent life when he grows up.

A tractor chugged past, headlight blazings, a mountain of garlic stacked on its bed. Realizing that their small-talk was slowing them down, they prodded the animals to pick up the pace.

2.

They approached the railroad tracks under a red morning sun. Even at that hour dozens of tractors were lined up ahead of them, all loaded down with garlic.

Their way was blocked by a zebra-striped guard rail on the north side of the tracks. A long line of carts pulled by oxen, donkeys, horses, and humans, plus the tractors and trucks, snaked behind them, as the entire garlic crop from four townships was drawn like a magnet to the county town. The sun showed half of its red face, oudined in black, as it climbed above the horizon and fell under the canopy of a white cloud whose lower half was dyed pale red. Four shiny east-west tracks lay before them. A green eastbound locomotive, belching white smoke and splitting the sky with whisde shrieks, shot past, followed by a procession of passenger cars and the bloated faces of the elite at the windows.

A middle-aged man holding a red-and-green warning flag stood by the lowered guard rail. His face was also round and heavy. Did all the elite people who worked for the railroad have bloated faces? The ground was still shaking after the train passed, and his donkey quaked from the terrifying shrieks of the train whistle. Gao Yang, who had been covering the animal’s eyes, let his hands drop and gazed at the flag-holding crossing guard as he raised the guard rail with his free hand. Vehicles poured across the tracks before the rail was all the way up. The narrow road could only accommodate double file, and Gao Yang stood wide-eyed as more maneuverable hand-pulled carts and bicycles squeezed past him and Fourth Uncle and shot ahead. The land rose quickly on the other side of the tracks, where their way was further hampered by the rocky surface of the road, which was undergoing repairs. Carts struggling to make the climb shook and rattled in agony, forcing drivers to jump down and carefully lead the animals along by their bridles to steady the carts amid the clay and yellow sand.

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.”

3.

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.

“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.

4.

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.