by Mo Yan
With his bedroll in his hand, Yu Zhan’ao entered through the back door and spotted the familiar figure of an old man sitting behind the counter working his abacus, occasionally taking a sip from a small, dark-green decanter beside it.
‘Foreman,’ Yu Zhan’ao announced, ‘are you hiring?’
Uncle Arhat looked up at Yu Zhan’ao and reflected for a moment. ‘Are you looking for permanent or temporary work?’
‘Whatever you need. I’m interested in working for as long as I can.’
‘If you want to work for a week or so, I can do the hiring. But if you’re interested in a permanent job, the mistress has to approve.’
‘Then you’d better go ask her.’
Yu Zhan’ao walked up and sat on one of the stools as Uncle Arhat lowered the counter bar and walked out the rear door. But he turned and came back in, picked up a crudely made bowl, half-filled it with wine, and set it on the counter. ‘Your mouth must be dry. Have some wine.’
Yu Zhan’ao’s thoughts were on the woman’s remarkable schemes as he drank. ‘The mistress wants to see you,’ Uncle Arhat said when he returned. They went over to the western compound. ‘Wait here,’ Uncle Arhat said.
Grandma walked outside with poise and grace. After grilling Yu Zhan’ao for a while, she waved her hand and said, ‘Take him over there. We’ll try him for a month. His wages start tomorrow.’
So Yu Zhan’ao became a hired hand in the family distillery. With his strength and clever hands, he was an ideal worker, and Uncle Arhat sang his praises to Grandma. At the end of the first month, he summoned him and said, ‘The mistress likes the way you work, so we’ll keep you on.’ He handed him a cloth bundle. ‘She wants you to have these.’
He undid the bundle. Inside was a pair of new cloth shoes. ‘Foreman,’ he said, ‘please tell the mistress that Yu Zhan’ao thanks her for the gift.’
‘You can go,’ said Uncle Arhat. ‘I expect you to work hard.’
‘I will,’ Yu Zhan’ao promised.
Another two weeks passed, and Yu Zhan’ao was finding it harder and harder to control himself. The mistress came to the eastern compound every day to look around, but directed her questions only to Uncle Arhat, paying hardly any attention to the sweaty hired hands. That did not sit well with Yu Zhan’ao.
Back when the distillery was run by Shan Tingxiu and his son, the workers’ meals were prepared and sent over by café owners in the village. But after Grandma took charge, she hired a middle-aged woman whom everyone called ‘the woman Liu’, and a teenaged girl named Passion. They lived in the western compound, where they were responsible for all the cooking. Then Grandma increased the number of dogs in the compound from two to five. Now that the western compound was home to three women and five dogs, it became a lively little world of its own. At night the slightest disturbance set off the dogs, and any intruder not bitten to death would surely have the wits frightened out of him.
By the time Yu Zhan’ao had been working the distillery cooker for eight weeks, it was the ninth lunar month, and the sorghum in the fields was good and ripe. Grandma told Uncle Arhat to hire some temporary labourers to clean the yard and open-air bins in preparation for the harvest. They were clear, sunny days with a deep sky. Grandma, dressed in white silk and wearing red satin slippers, carried a willow switch around the yard, with her dogs running on her heels, drawing strange looks from the villagers, although none dared so much as fart in her presence. Yu Zhan’ao approached her several times, but she stayed aloof and wouldn’t bestow a word on him.
One night Yu Zhan’ao drank a little more than usual, and wound up getting slightly drunk. He tossed and turned on the communal kang, but couldn’t fall asleep, as moonlight streamed in through the window in the eastern wall. Two hired hands sat beneath a bean-oil lantern mending their clothes.
Then Old Du took out his stringed instrument and began playing sad tunes, striking resonant chords in the hearts of the listeners. Something was bound to happen. One of the men mending his clothes was so moved by Old Du’s melancholy tunes that his throat began to itch. ‘It’s no fun being alone,’ he sang hoarsely, ‘no fun at all. Tattered clothes never get sewn. . . .’
‘Why not get the mistress to sew them for you?’
‘The mistress? I wonder who will feast on that tender swan.’
‘The old master and his son thought it would be them, and they wound up dead.’
‘I hear she had an affair with Spotted Neck while she was still living at home.’
‘Are you saying Spotted Neck murdered them?’
‘Not so loud. “Words spoken on the road are heard by snakes in the grass!”’
Yu Zhan’ao lay on the kang sneering.
‘What’re you smirking for, Little Yu?’ one of them asked.
Emboldened by the wine, he blurted out, ‘I murdered them!’
‘You’re drunk!’
‘Drunk? I tell you, I murdered them!’ He sat up, reached into the bag hanging on the wall, and pulled out his short sword. When he slid it out of the scabbard, it caught the moon’s rays and shone like a silverfish. ‘I’ll tell you guys,’ he said with a thick tongue, ‘our mistress . . . I slept with her. . . . Sorghum fields . . . Came at night and set a fire . . . stabbed one . . . stabbed the other. . . .’
One of his listeners quietly blew out the lantern, throwing the room into a murky darkness in which the moonlit sword shone even more brightly.
‘Go to sleep go to sleep go to sleep! We have to be up early tomorrow to make wine!’
Yu Zhan’ao was still mumbling. ‘You . . . damn you . . . pretend you don’t know me after you hitch up your pants . . . work me like an ox or a horse. . . . Don’t think you can get away with it. . . . Tonight I’m going to . . . butcher you. . . .’ He climbed off the kang, sword in hand, and staggered outside. The other men lay in the dark, staring wide-eyed at the moon glinting off the weapon in his hand, not daring to utter a sound.
Yu Zhan’ao walked into the moonlit yard and looked at the glazed wine vats glistening in the light like jewels. A southern breeze swept over from the fields, carrying the bittersweet aroma of ripe sorghum and making him shiver. The sound of a woman’s giggle drifted over from the western compound. As he slipped into the tent to move the bench outside, he was met by the pawing sounds of the black mule tethered behind the feed trough. Ignoring the animal, he carried the bench over to the wall. When he stepped on it and straightened up, the top of the wall reached his chest. A light behind the window illuminated the paper cutout. The mistress was playing games with the girl Passion on the kang. ‘Aren’t you a couple of naughty little monkeys?’ he heard the woman Liu say. ‘It’s bedtime; now, go to sleep!’ Then she added, ‘Passion, look in the pot and see if the dough has begun to rise.’
Holding the sword in his mouth, Yu Zhan’ao climbed up onto the wall. The five dogs rushed over, looked up, and began to bark, frightening him so badly he lost his balance and tumbled into the western compound. If Grandma hadn’t rushed out to see what was going on, the dogs probably would have torn him to pieces, even if there had been two of him.
After calling off the dogs, Grandma shouted for Passion to bring out the lantern.
The woman Liu, rolling-pin in hand, came running out on big feet that had once been bound and screamed, ‘A thief! Grab him!’
Passion followed, lantern in hand, the light falling on the battered face of Yu Zhan’ao. ‘So it’s you!’ Grandma said coldly.
She picked up the sword and tucked it into her sleeve. ‘Passion, go fetch Uncle Arhat.’
No sooner had Passion opened the gate than Uncle Arhat entered the compound. ‘What’s going on, Mistress?’
‘This hired hand of yours is drunk,’ she said.
‘Yes, he is,’ Uncle Arhat confirmed.
‘Passion,’ Grandma said, ‘bring me my willow switch.’
Passion fetched Grandma’s white willow switch. ‘This’ll sober you up,’ Grandma said as she twirled the switch in the air and brought it down
hard on Yu Zhan’ao’s buttocks.
Stung by the pain, he experienced a sense of numbing ecstasy, and when it reached his throat it set his teeth moving and emerged as a stream of gibberish: ‘Mistress Mistress Mistress . . .’
Grandma whipped him until her arm was about to fall off, then lowered the switch and stood there panting from exhaustion.
‘Take him away,’ she said.
Uncle Arhat stepped up to pull Yu Zhan’ao to his feet, but he refused to get up. ‘Mistress,’ he shouted, ‘a few more lashes . . . just give me a few more . . .’
Grandma whipped him twice on the neck with all her might, and he rolled around on the ground like a little boy, kicking the air with his legs. Uncle Arhat called for a couple of hired hands to carry him back to the bunkhouse, where they flung him down on the kang; he rolled around like a squirming dragonfly, a stream of filth and abuse gushing from his mouth. Uncle Arhat picked up a decanter, told the men to pin his arms and legs, and poured wine down his throat. As soon as the men let go, his head lolled to the side and he grew silent. ‘You drowned him!’ one of them exclaimed fearfully, bringing the lantern up. Yu Zhan’ao’s face was contorted out of shape, and he sneezed violently, extinguishing the lantern.
He didn’t wake up until the sun was high in the sky. He walked into the distillery as though stepping on cotton; the men watched him curiously. Recalling the beating he’d received the night before, he rubbed his neck and his buttocks, but felt no pain. Thirsty, he picked up a ladle, scooped some wine from the flow, tipped back his head, and drank it down.
Old Du the fiddler said, ‘Little Yu, your mistress gave you quite a beating last night. I’ll bet you won’t be climbing that wall again.’
Up till then the gloomy young man had instilled a measure of fear in the others, but that had evaporated when they heard his pitiful screams, and now they outdid one another teasing him mercilessly. Without a word in reply, he grabbed one of them, raised his fist, and buried it in the man’s face. A quick exchange of glances, and the others rushed up, threw him to the ground, and began raining blows on him with fists and feet. When they’d had their fill, they took off his belt, stuck his head into the crotch of his pants, tied his hands behind his back, and threw him to the ground.
Like a stranded tiger or a beached dragon, Yu Zhan’ao struggled to get free, rolling around on the ground like a ball for as long as it takes to smoke a couple of pipefuls. Finally, having seen enough, old Du went up, untied Granddad’s hands, and freed his head from his pants. Yu Zhan’ao’s face was pallid as a sheet of gold paper as he lay on the pile of firewood like a dying snake. It took him a long time to catch his breath. Meanwhile, the others held on to their tools, just in case he took it into his head to get even. But he just staggered over to one of the vats, ladled out some wine, and began gulping it down. When he was finished, he climbed back up onto the pile of firewood and fell fast asleep.
From then on, Yu Zhan’ao got roaring drunk every day, then climbed up onto the pile of firewood and lay there, his moist blue eyes half closed, a mixed smile on his lips: the left side foolish, the right side crafty, or vice versa. For the first few days, the men watched him with interest; after a while, they began to grumble. Uncle Arhat tried to get him to do some work, but Yu Zhan’ao just looked at him out of the corner of his eye and said, ‘Who the hell do you think you are? I’m the master here. That kid in her belly is mine.’
By then my father had grown in Grandma’s belly to about the size of a little ball, and in the mornings the sound of her retching in the yard drifted over to the western compound. The experienced old-timers talked about nothing else. When the woman Liu brought over their food, they asked her, ‘Old Woman Liu, is the mistress with child?’
She glared at them. ‘Watch out, or someone might cut out your tongue!’
‘Looks like Shan Bianlang knew what he was doing after all!’
‘Maybe it’s the old master’s.’
‘No wild guessing! Do you really think a spirited girl like that would let one of the Shan men touch her? I’ll bet it was Spotted Neck.’
Yu Zhan’ao jumped up from the pile of firewood and gestured gleefully. ‘It was me!’ he shouted. ‘Ha ha, it was me!’
They had a good laugh over that, and cursed him roundly.
On more than one occasion, Uncle Arhat urged Grandma to dismiss Yu Zhan’ao, but she invariably replied, ‘Let him rant and rave if he wants to. I’ll fix his wagon sooner or later.’
One day she walked into the compound, her thickening waist obvious to all, to speak with Uncle Arhat.
Avoiding her eyes, he said softly, ‘Mistress, it’s time to break out the scales and buy the sorghum.’
‘Is everything ready? The compound and the grain bins?’
‘Everything’s ready.’
‘When did you do it in the past?’
‘Just about now.’
‘Let’s wait a while longer this year.’
‘We might lose out. There are at least ten other distilleries.’
‘The harvest has been so good this year there’s more than they can handle. Put up a notice that we’re not ready yet. We’ll buy when the others have had their fill. By then we can name our own price, and the grain will have more time to dry out.’
‘You’re probably right.’
‘Anything else we need to talk about?’
‘Not really, except for that hired hand. He gets so drunk every day he can hardly move. Let’s pay him off and get rid of him.’
Grandma thought for a moment. ‘Take me to the distillery so I can see for myself.’
Uncle Arhat led the way to the distillery, where the workers were just then pouring fermented mash into the distiller. The firewood beneath the cooker crackled and the water roiled, sending clouds of steam into the distiller, a three-foot-high wooden vessel with tightly woven bamboo strips at the base, which fitted over the cooker. Four men with wooden spades ladled the sorghum mash, a green-spotted, sweet-smelling fermented mixture, from the vat into the steaming distiller. Since the steam had nowhere else to go, it filtered up through the cracks in the base, and the alert men dumped the mash wherever the steam was coming through, to keep the heat from dissipating.
When they saw Grandma approaching, they threw themselves into their work. From his firewood perch, Yu Zhan’ao, who looked like a dirty-faced, ragged beggar, stared at Grandma with a cold glint in his eyes.
‘I came to see how sorghum is converted into wine,’ Grandma said.
Uncle Arhat moved a stool over for her.
The men, favoured by her presence, worked as never before. The stoker kept the fires blazing under the cookpots. The water bubbled, sending sizzling steam snaking its way up through the distiller to merge with the panting sounds of the workers. When they had filled the distiller with mash, they covered it with a tight-fitting honeycombed lid to let the mixture cook until wisps of steam began to ooze from the tiny openings in the lid. They quickly brought over a double-plate pewter object with a concave centre. Uncle Arhat told Grandma it was the distiller. She walked over to get a closer look, then returned to the stool without a word.
The men placed the pewter distiller over the wooden one to block out the steam. The only sounds came from the roaring fires beneath the cookpot. The wooden distiller was white one minute and orange the next, as a delicate, sweet aroma, sort of like wine but not quite, seeped through the wooden vessel.
‘Add cool water,’ Uncle Arhat said.
The men climbed up onto a bench and began pouring cool water into the concave centre of the pewter distiller. One of them stirred the water rapidly with what looked like an oar, and after about half the time it takes a joss stick to burn down, Grandma’s nostrils were filled with the smell of wine.
‘Get ready to catch the wine,’ Uncle Arhat ordered.
Two men ran up with wine crocks woven of wax reeds and covered with ten layers of paper, then sealed with many coats of varnish. They placed the crocks under distiller spouts that
looked like duck beaks.
Grandma stood up and stared at the spouts as the stoker shoved pieces of pine-oil-soaked firewood into the stoves, which crackled loudly and spat out clouds of white smoke that lit up the men’s greasy, sweaty chests.
‘Change the water!’ Uncle Arhat shouted.
Two men rushed into the yard and came running back with four buckets of cool well water. The man on the stool pulled a lever, releasing the heated water from the top of the distiller. Then he poured in the fresh water and continued stirring.
Grandma was stirred by the solemn, sacred labour. Just then she felt my father move inside her belly, and looked over at Yu Zhan’ao, who was lying on the pile of firewood staring at her with a sinister glint in his eyes, the only cold spots in the steamy distilling tent. The stirring in her heart cooled off. She averted her eyes and calmly watched the two men with the crocks, who were waiting for the wine to flow.
The aroma grew heavier as wisps of steam escaped through the seams of the wooden distiller. Grandma watched the spouts brighten, the glow freezing for a moment, then slowly beginning to stir as clear, bright drops of liquid rolled down into the wine crocks like tears.
‘Change the water!’ Uncle Arhat yelled. ‘Stoke the fire!’
Hot water poured from the open taps as more cool water was dumped in, maintaining a steady temperature on the lid, causing the steam between the layers to cool and form a liquid, which gushed out through the spouts.
The first wine out was warm, transparent, and steamy. Uncle Arhat picked up a clean ladle, half-filled it, and handed it to Grandma. ‘Here, Mistress, taste it.’
The rich aroma made her tongue itch. Father stirred in her belly again. He was thirsty for the wine. First she sniffed it and touched it to her tongue, then took a sip to savour its bouquet. It was amazingly aromatic and slightly pungent. She took a mouthful and swished it around with her tongue. Her cheeks softened as though they were being rubbed gently with silky cotton. Her throat went slack, and the mouthful of warm wine slid down. Her pores snapped open, then closed, as a feeling of incredible joy suffused her body. She swigged three mouthfuls in rapid succession, her belly feeling as though it were being massaged by a greedy hand. Finally, she tipped back her head and drained the ladle. By then her face was flushed and her eyes sparkled; she had never looked so beautiful, so irresistible. The men gaped with astonishment, neglecting their work.