by Mo Yan
Soldiers rushed up and tied Five Monkeys Shan’s hands behind his back. ‘I’m not guilty, I’m innocent. Your honour, Magistrate . . .’ he shrieked.
‘Seal his mouth with the sole of your shoe!’
Little Yan drew out of his waistband a large shoe made just for this purpose and smacked Five Monkeys Shan across the mouth three times.
‘It was you who murdered them, wasn’t it?’
‘I’m innocent I’m innocent I’m innocent . . .’
‘If you didn’t do it, who did?’
‘It was . . . oh my, I don’t know, I don’t know. . . .’
‘A few minutes ago you had it all figured out, and now you say you don’t know. Use the shoe sole again!’
Little Yan smacked Five Monkeys Shan across the mouth a dozen times, splitting his lips, from which frothy blood began to ooze. ‘I’ll tell,’ he muttered tearfully, ‘I’ll tell. . . .’
‘Who’s the murderer?’
‘It . . . it . . . was a bandit, it was Spotted Neck!’
‘He did it on your orders, didn’t he?’
‘No! It was it was it was . . . Oh, Master, please don’t hit me . . .’
‘Listen to me, everybody,’ Nine Dreams Cao said. ‘Since assuming office as head of the county, I have worked hard to stamp out opium, outlaw gambling, and annihilate bandits, and I have had notable success with the first two. Only bandits remain a serious problem, running rampant in Northeast Gaomi Township. The county government has called upon all law-abiding citizens to report incidents and expose offenders in order to bring peace to the land.
‘Since the woman Dai was legally wed into the Shan family, she may assume its possessions and wealth. Anyone attempting to take advantage of this poor widow, or scheming to deprive her of what is legally hers, will be charged with banditry and disposed of accordingly!’
Grandma took three paces forward and knelt before Magistrate Cao, raising her lovely face and calling out:
‘Father! My true father!’
‘I am not your father,’ Magistrate Cao corrected her. ‘Your father is there, holding the donkey.’
She crawled forward and wrapped her arms around Magistrate Cao’s legs. ‘Father, my true father, now that you’re the county magistrate, don’t you know your own daughter? Ten years ago you fled the famine with your little girl and sold her. You may not know me, but I know you. . . .’
‘My goodness! What kind of talk is that? It’s a bunch of nonsense!’
‘Father, how’s my mother? Little Brother must be about thirteen now. Is he in school? Father, you sold me for two pecks of red sorghum, but I held your hand and wouldn’t let go. You said, ‘Little Nine, when Father has turned things around he’ll come back for you.’ But now that you’re the county magistrate you say you don’t know me. . . .’
‘The woman is mad, she has mistaken me for someone else!’
‘I’m not mistaken! I’m not! Father! My true father!’ She held tightly to Magistrate Cao’s legs and rocked back and forth, glistening tears streaming down her face, the sun glinting off her jadelike teeth.
Magistrate Cao lifted Grandma up and said, ‘I can be your foster-father!’
She tried to fall to her knees again, but was supported under the arms by Magistrate Cao. She squeezed his hand and said with childish innocence, ‘Father, when will you take me to see Mother?’
‘Soon, very soon! Now, let go, let go of me. . . .’
Grandma let go of his hand.
Magistrate Cao took out a handkerchief to wipe his sweaty brow.
Everyone stared at the two of them.
Nine Dreams Cao removed his hat and twirled it on his finger as he stammered to the onlookers, ‘Fellow villagers – I have always advocated – stamp out opium – outlaw gambling – annihilate bandits –’
He had barely finished when – pow! pow! pow! – three shots rang out, and three bullets flew over from the sorghum field by the inlet, releasing three puffs of smoke when they hit the brown hat perched atop his middle finger. It sailed into the air, as though in the grip of a demon, and landed in the dirt, still twirling.
The gunshots were met by gasps and whistles from the crowd. ‘It’s Spotted Neck!’ someone shouted.
‘Three-Nod Phoenix!’
‘Quiet down! Quiet down!’ Magistrate Cao shouted from his refuge under the table.
The people, crying for their parents, scattered like wild animals.
Little Yan quickly untied the black colt from the willow tree, dragged Magistrate Cao out from under the table, helped him onto the horse, and swatted it on the rump. The colt, its mane standing straight up, its tail bristling, ran like the wind with the county magistrate in the saddle, while the soldiers fired a few random shots towards the sorghum field before making themselves scarce.
The banks of the inlet grew strangely quiet.
Grandma rested her hand sombrely on the donkey’s head and stared towards the sorghum field. Great-Granddad had thrown himself under the donkey and covered his ears with his hands. Steam rose from the clothes of Uncle Arhat, who hadn’t moved.
The water in the inlet was smooth as ever; the floating white lilies had spread open, their petals like ivory. The village chief, Five Monkeys Shan, whose face was bruised and swollen by the shoe sole, shrieked ‘Spare me, Spotted Neck! Spare me!’
His shrieks were answered by three more rapid gunshots, and Grandma saw the bullets strike his head. Three tufts of hair stood straight up as he fell over, kissing the ground with his open mouth, a mottled liquid oozing from the upturned back of his head.
Grandma’s expression didn’t change; she gazed at the sorghum field as though awaiting something. A breeze swept across the inlet, raising ripples on the surface, setting the lilies in motion, and bending the rays of light on the water. Half of the gathered crows had flown down to the bodies of Shan Tingxiu and his son; the other half remained perched on the willow branches, raising a clamour. Their tail feathers fanned out in the breeze, revealing glimpses of the dark-green skin around their rectums.
A tall, husky man emerged from the sorghum field and walked along the bank of the inlet. He wore a rain cape that came down to his knees and a conical hat woven out of sorghum stalks. The strap was made of emerald glass beads. A black silk bandana was tied around his neck. He walked to the body of Five Monkeys Shan and looked down at it. Then he walked over to Magistrate Cao’s hat, picked it up, and twirled it on the barrel of his pistol before heaving it in the air. It sailed into the inlet.
The man looked straight at my grandma, who returned his gaze.
‘Were you bedded by Shan Bianlang?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Grandma said.
‘Shit!’ He turned and walked back into the sorghum field.
Uncle Arhat was utterly confused by what he’d seen, and couldn’t have told you which way was up.
The bodies of the old master and his son were now completely covered by crows, some of which were pecking at the eyes with their hard black beaks.
Uncle Arhat was trying to make sense of everything that had happened since he’d lodged his complaint at the Gaomi market the day before.
Magistrate Cao had led him into the county-government building, where he lit candles and listened to his account as they gnawed on green radishes. Early the next morning, Uncle Arhat guided the magistrate to Northeast Gaomi Township, followed by Little Yan and a couple of dozen soldiers. They reached the village at about ten o’clock. After a quick surveillance, the county magistrate summoned Village Chief Five Monkeys Shan, and ordered him to round up the villagers and drag the corpses from the water.
The surface of the inlet shone like chrome, and the depth of the water seemed unfathomable. The county magistrate ordered Five Monkeys Shan to dive for the bodies, but he shrank back, complaining that he didn’t know how to swim. Uncle Arhat summoned up his courage. ‘County Magistrate, they were my masters, so bringing them out should be my job.’ He told one of the other hands to fetch a bottle of wine, w
hich he rubbed over his body before diving in. The water was as deep as a staff, so he took a long breath and sank to the bottom, his feet touching the spongy warm mud. He searched around blindly with his hands, but found nothing. So he rose to the surface, took another deep breath, and dived again. It was cooler down there. When he opened his eyes, all he could see was a layer of yellow. His ears were buzzing. A large blurry object swam up to him, and when he reached out to it a sharp pain shot through his finger, like a wasp sting. He screamed, and swallowed a mouthful of brackish water. Flailing his arms and legs for all they were worth, he swam to the surface; on the bank, he gasped for breath.
‘Find something?’ the magistrate asked.
‘Nnn-no . . .’ His face was ashen. ‘In the river . . . something strange . . .’
As he gazed down into the inlet, Magistrate Cao took off his hat, twirled it on his finger, then turned and ordered two soldiers, ‘Hand grenades!’
Little Yan herded the villagers a good twenty paces away.
Magistrate Cao walked over to the table and sat down.
The soldiers flattened out on the riverbank, and each took a muskmelon hand grenade out of his belt. They pulled the pins, banged the grenades against their rifles, and flung them into the inlet, where they hit the water with a splash, raising concentric circles on the surface. The soldiers pressed their faces against the ground. Silence – not even a bird chirped. A long time passed, but nothing happened in the river. By then the concentric circles had reached the shore; the water was as smooth as a bronze mirror, and just as mysterious.
Magistrate Cao gnashed his teeth and ordered, ‘One more time!’
The soldiers heaved two more grenades, which sputtered as they sailed through the air, leaving a trail of white smoke; when they hit the water, two muffled explosions rose from the bottom, sending plumes of water a dozen feet into the air.
Magistrate Cao rushed up to the bank, followed by the villagers. The water continued roiling for a long time. Then a trail of bubbles rose to the surface and popped, revealing at least a dozen big-mouthed, green-backed carp that bellied-up to the surface. As the ripples smoothed out, a foul stench settled over the water, which was bathed in sunlight. The light illuminated the villagers, and Magistrate Cao’s face began to glow.
Suddenly two trails of pink bubbles gurgled up in the middle of the inlet and burst, as the people on the bank held their breath. A layer of golden husks covered the surface of the river under the blazing sun, nearly blinding the onlookers. Two black objects rose slowly beneath the trail of bubbles, and then the surface was broken by two pairs of buttocks; the bodies rolled over, exposing the distended bellies of Shan Tingxiu and his son. Their faces remained just below the surface, as though held back by shyness.
The magistrate ordered a distillery worker to run back and fetch a long hooked pole, with which Uncle Arhat snagged the legs of Shan Tingxiu and his son – producing a sickening sound that made everyone’s gums crawl, as though they had all bitten into sour apricots – then slowly dragged the bodies towards the bank.
The little donkey raised its head towards the heavens and brayed.
‘Now what, young mistress?’ Uncle Arhat asked.
Grandma thought for a moment. ‘Have someone buy a couple of cheap coffins in town so we can bury them as soon as possible. And pick out a gravesite. When you’re finished, come to the western compound. I want to talk to you.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he replied respectfully.
Uncle Arhat, together with the dozen or so hired hands, laid the elder and younger masters in their coffins and buried them in the sorghum field. They worked feverishly, in silence. By the time they’d buried the dead, the sun was in the western sky, and crows were circling above the gravesite, their wings painted purple by rays of sunlight. Uncle Arhat said to the men, ‘Go back and wait for me. Don’t say anything. Watch my eyes for a signal.’
He went to the western compound to receive instructions from Grandma, who was sitting cross-legged on the blanket she’d taken from the donkey’s back. Great-Granddad was feeding straw to the animal.
‘Everything has been taken care of, young mistress,’ Uncle Arhat said. ‘These are Elder Master’s keys.’
‘Keep them for now,’ she said. ‘Tell me, is there someplace in the village where you can buy stuffed buns?’
‘Yes.’
‘Buy two basketfuls, and give them to the men. Tell them to come here when they’re done. And bring me twenty buns.’
Uncle Arhat brought the twenty buns wrapped in fresh lotus leaves. Grandma took them and said, ‘Now go back to the eastern compound and have the men eat as quickly as possible.’
Uncle Arhat murmured his acknowledgement as he backed away.
Grandma then placed the twenty buns in front of Great-Granddad and said, ‘You can eat these on the road.’
‘Little Nine,’ he protested, ‘you’re my very own daughter!’
‘Go on,’ she demanded, ‘I’ve heard enough!’
‘But I’m your dad!’ he rebuked her angrily.
‘You’re no father of mine, and I forbid you ever to enter my door again!’
‘I am your father!’
‘Magistrate Cao is my father. Weren’t you listening?’
‘Not so fast. You can’t just throw one father away because you found yourself a new one. Don’t think having you was easy on your mother and me!’
Grandma flung the buns in his face. They hit like exploding grenades.
Great-Granddad cursed and ranted as he led the donkey out the gate: ‘You misbegotten ingrate! What makes you think you can turn your back on your own family? I’m going to report you to the county authorities for being disloyal and unfilial! I’ll tell them you’re in league with bandits. I’ll tell them you schemed to have your husband killed. . . .’
As Great-Granddad’s shouts and curses grew more distant and fainter, Uncle Arhat led the hired hands into the compound.
Grandma touched up her hair and smoothed out her clothes, then announced in a stately manner: ‘Men, you have worked hard! I’m young, and have no experience in managing affairs, so I’ll need to rely on everyone’s help to get by. Uncle Arhat, you have served the family loyally for over a decade, and from now on you’ll be in charge of all distillery affairs. Now that the elder and younger master have left us, we need to clean the table and start a new banquet. We will have the backing of my foster-dad at the county level, and will do nothing to offend our greenwood friends. If we treat the villagers and our customers fairly and courteously, there’s no reason why we can’t stay in business. I want you to burn everything the elder and younger masters used. Anything that can’t be burned will be buried. Tonight you’ll need to get plenty of rest. Well, what do you think, Uncle Arhat?’
‘We will carry out the young mistress’s orders,’ he responded.
‘If any of you wants to leave, I won’t stand in your way. Anyone who finds it difficult to work for a woman should look for employment elsewhere.’
The men exchanged glances. ‘We’ll do our best for the young mistress,’ they said.
‘Then that’s all for now.’
The men retired to the bunkhouse in the eastern compound, buzzing about all that had happened. ‘Turn in,’ Uncle Arhat said to them. ‘Get some sleep. We have to be up early tomorrow.’
In the middle of the night, when Uncle Arhat got up to feed the mules, he heard Grandma sobbing in the western compound.
Bright and early the next morning, he went out to look around. The gate to the western compound was closed, and there was no sound from inside. He stood on a stool and looked over the gate. Grandma was seated on the ground next to the wall, with only the comforter beneath her; she was fast asleep.
Over the next three days, the Shan family compound was turned upside down. Uncle Arhat and the hired hands, their bodies sprayed with wine, removed the elder and younger masters’ possessions – bedding, clothing, straw mats, eating utensils, sewing items, anything and everyth
ing – piled it in the middle of the yard, doused it with wine, and set it on fire. Then they dug a deep hole, into which they threw anything that didn’t burn.
When the house had been cleared out, Uncle Arhat carried a bowl of wine to Grandma. A string of bronze keys lay at the bottom. ‘Young mistress,’ he said, ‘the keys have been disinfected in wine three times.’
‘Uncle,’ Grandma replied, ‘you should be in charge of the keys. My possessions are your possessions.’
Her comment so terrified him he couldn’t speak.
‘This is no time to decline my offer. Go buy some fabric and whatever else I’ll need to furnish the house. Have someone make bedding and mosquito nets. Don’t worry about the cost. And have the men disinfect the house, including the walls, with wine.
‘How much wine should they use?’
‘As much as they need.’
So the men sprayed wine until heaven and earth were soaked. Grandma stood in the intoxicating air with a smile on her lips.
The disinfecting process used up nine whole vats of wine. Once the spraying was completed, Grandma told the men to soak new cloth in the wine and scrub everything three or four times. That done, they whitewashed the walls, painted the doors and windows, and spread fresh straw and new mats over the kangs, until they had created a new world, top to bottom.
When their work was finished, she gave them each three silver dollars.
Ten days later, the odour of wine had faded and the whitewash made the place smell fresh. Feeling lighthearted, Grandma went to the village store, where she bought a pair of scissors, some red paper, needles and thread, and other domestic utensils. After returning home, she climbed onto the kang beside the window with its brand-new white paper covering and began making paper cutouts for window decorations. She had always produced paper cutouts and embroidery that were so much nicer than anything the neighbour girls could manage – delicate and fine, simple and vigorous, in a style that was all her own.