Staring at his stubborn son, Grandfather rolled a cannonlike cigarette, held it in his mouth, and puffed. He coughed several times. If Dad would remain silent, the embarrassing situation would not last long. But Dad got angrier and repeated his comment about education in a school. That drove Grandfather to stiffen deeper into silence. This was what Mom hoped and expected. Only after many years did the Child come to understand that hostile dynamic.
In the moment, he just played with the yellow dog. Even chickens and dogs preferred to stay away from a child his age. The dog suffered from being nearby. If the Child stayed with Grandfather, the dog shied away. When the Child played with other kids, the dog followed Grandfather closely. The dog barked from under the child’s bottom. It sounded like the child was farting.
Dad did not give up, pressing Grandfather for an answer. Grandfather said unhappily, “The potatoes are not harvested, and my boy is a good helping hand.” Grandfather knew what Dad would answer. He put his hand on the Child’s head with his eyes closed, totally ignoring Dad and Mom. Like the Mountain God, his face emotionless, he heard nothing Dad said.
Dad, inspired by Mom, spoke his mind. “What can a broom-size kid do? I will stay another day and harvest all the potatoes in the morning.”
Grandfather kept silent, his hand still resting on the Child’s head. But the head became warm and active under Grandfather’s hand and started talking. “I grew the potatoes with Grandfather, but you’re going to harvest them? That’s not fair!” Grandfather’s eyes opened, and he happily hugged the Child together with the dog in his arms. Grandfather was the mightiest hero on earth, glaring at Dad and Mom.
“Mind your own business,” Dad said. “Do not speak without thinking.”
Early the next morning, Grandfather took the young boy and walked out of the village. The dog followed for a short distance and then went back to guarding the home.
Corn, cotton, and sunflowers had all been harvested. Some of the land was plowed, so the field seemed wide open with a few stems of corn and sunflowers shivering in the wind. The stubble looked yellowish-black, worn out after the harvest had been taken away. The ground itself appeared worn, with sand dunes in the front. The Sun rose slowly, dull and sleepy.
A year earlier, Grandfather had explained to the Child that the Sun seemed lazy only because it was so far away. The Child, however, was suspicious. He didn’t think the Sun was so far away. Several times the Child murmured, “It’s a window.” The Sun rising over the dunes was like a window slowly opening, as if pushed by two men who left the village and ran across the field to the horizon while the village and the Earth slept soundly. Their wheat, corn, and sunflower fields were near the village, but the one with the potatoes was far away.
A day or so later, when Grandfather woke the Child, the dog was still sleepy. The Child spilled several drops of warm water into the dog’s ears from a bottle. The dog first howled in its dream and then dropped its head as though hit by a bullet and could not wake up again.
“That’s the Sun licking your bottom.”
“Why not licking your bottom?”
“There is no shit scar on Grandfather’s bottom; that is why the Sun does not like licking it.”
“There is no scar on mine either.”
“You dirty boy, thick pancake-like shit scars cover your bottom.”
“No shit scar on me!” the Child shouted in anger.
When he was two or three years old, Mom had taught him to use paper to wipe his bottom, while other village kids used stones or leaves. Mom asked him to wash his bottom before he went to Grandfather’s to sleep. Mom also told him to say “bottom” instead of the vulgar local word, gou zi. Mom picked up many good things in the small town when she was there on business. But when the Child stayed with Grandfather, he always said gou zi.
The angry Child pulled down his trousers and pushed his buttocks high for Grandfather to check the scars. “Any scars? Any scars?”
Smiling, Grandfather patted the small buttocks. “Scars can’t be wiped or washed off. If you followed Grandfather to the field in the early morning, all the scars would fall off after a few steps.”
The Child was still angry, but Grandfather soothed him, saying, “More scars are a good thing. They mean you are closer to the Sun.”
The Child mumbled, “I don’t like anybody pushing forward and backward behind my bottom.”
“Then run after the bottom of the Sun.”
When the Child was again awakened by his Grandfather in the early morning, he was very excited to find that the Sun did not have a bottom.
Many years later, the Child still remembered that scene—Grandfather and the Child running toward the Sun at dawn. On this special morning, a pair of supernatural eyes jumped from the bottom of his heart into the sky, looking down at the hurrying Grandfather and Child. The Child cried out in surprise. Suddenly he recognized that he was looking at himself through his own eyes.
This realization was crucial, and this self-examination was repeated day after day until gradually it became a habit. After many years the Child understood it was a good habit. The Sun was like an open window only in the morning, as it rose slowly over the sand dune.
Grandfather said, “The Sun is still far away from us.”
It had turned bright by the time they arrived at their field. Grandfather dug a pit in the ground and made a fire with a few clumps of suosuo grass. The grass burned robustly and the fire drove away the cold. The grass was smokeless when it burned, like magma fresh from underground. When the Child saw pictures of volcano eruptions at school, he always thought of Grandfather’s campfire.
The child sat close to the fire, and Grandfather dug. Plump potatoes rolled out of the sandy soil with little effort. The Child long remembered that cool, earthy, wet fragrance from the first potato. The smell reminded him of a cow teat.
Grandfather was very skillful. No potatoes were bruised or damaged. The Child sensed the fresh, rich juice of the potatoes. He became hot from the fire, and beads of sweat appeared on his nose. He grasped a rolling potato with his hands. Two hands were needed. The potato felt wild, fresh out of the sandy soil. It tried to escape from his hands. Although he did everything he could to hang on, it jumped out of his hand and escaped.
The Child grabbed at three of them, one after another, but they all escaped. Worse, the struggle with the potatoes sapped his strength. The Child grew tired. He stood beside Grandfather, eyes wide open, watching the old man drag all those potatoes from the ground. The cool, wet, and earthy fragrance from the piles of potatoes rushed through the air. The Child sneezed several times, and Grandfather told him to warm himself by the fire. So he did.
It was said that the wolf, snake, tiger, and leopard were all afraid of fire. Potatoes acted like animals. Strangely, however, the Child could not smell the potato fragrance near the fire. He moved a bit away and again enjoyed the good smell.
The Child had no choice but to remain by the fire, watching Grandfather’s skillful digging. The sun brightened gradually. Sunbeams like arrows from far away struck his back. Soon Grandfather was covered in arrows. He flung up his arms like a folk hero with thousands of arrows in his heart. He bent forward and showed no signs of giving up.
The golden arrows from the Sun became so dense they could not plunge into Grandfather. He never stopped digging. One potato after another rolled from the soil, and finally the ground was emptied. He loosened his hands and stuck the shovel into the earth. The suosuo grass burned out and the tongues of fire disappeared. The red grass stems cracked and turned into soft ashes. Grandfather buried five potatoes in the fire. The potatoes seared and struggled. Potatoes were strong. Red embers became dark ash. Another fragrant smell emerged. The Child cried out and ran toward the sand dune. The baked potato smell was much stronger than the smell of the fresh earth. He stopped running because the eyes ran faster. Far away toward the horizon, the potato fragrance soared, and it screamed to him like a flock of birds. Grandfather told him all people o
n earth could smell it.
“Would they come?”
“They are most distinguished guests. Of course they will come.”
Grandfather sat with his legs crossed, like a Buddha praying piously. He believed the greatest kindness was in inviting someone to eat. The potatoes in the fire seemed to pray and wait quietly while giving off their powerful scent. To attract guests from far away, the smell became increasingly strong. The Sun stopped at its zenith in the sky. Grandfather scattered the ashes and took one potato. The Child might eat it first; he always ate baked potatoes at home. Grandfather peeled the potato skillfully and wolfed it down as if it were a delicacy.
Eventually a stranger was attracted by the smell. According to Grandfather, the one who smelled the fragrance first was the most respected guest. This most respected guest was like a big stone, emotionless and dull. His hands and feet were stiff; the only active part of his body was his nose. Without saying a word, Grandfather offered water, which was to say the orange juice bottle. The guest rinsed his mouth and washed his hands. He sipped once. As if sipping wine, he swallowed slowly and with difficulty. After a long pause, he sipped again; five times altogether.
Grandfather presented two well-baked potatoes and asked the stranger to choose. He knew which one he would prefer and kept that one in hand. Grandfather peeled the potato. A mist burst out like the potato was an exploding grenade. The smell became stronger. Grandfather handed the hot, tasty potato to the stranger, who started to eat. The potato was too hot. He squatted on the ground, eating with difficulty, as if fighting a ferocious animal. His shoulder and head trembled like the campo wrestlers who fought their finals. When the final wrestling began, everyone at the Mongolian Na Da Mu Festival would hold their breath. Silent wrestling was amazing. Sometimes it lasted for an hour. Even the earth trembled.
In time, Grandfather handed over the second potato. The Child saw that the second one had not been peeled. He realized the stranger wanted to enjoy the peeling himself. When he got yet a third, the stranger raised the potato and looked at it under the Sun. He quickly peeled off the skin and exposed the flesh inside like a piece of tender meat dug from the depths of the earth. He ate it with the Sun hanging over his head like a lamp. He ate the potato in a vigorous yet solemn fashion, as if he were enjoying a great feast. He forgot himself while enjoying the banquet. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with his hand and walked away with his head held high, without saying good-bye or even looking at Grandfather.
“He did not even say ‘thank you,’ Grandfather.”
“He thanked the sky and the earth.”
The last potato in the fire belonged to Grandfather. He peeled the yellowish-black potato but did not rush to eat it. Instead he left enough time for the fragrant smell to pour out until the whole area was overwhelmed by it. Grandfather took one bite. “Grandfather could eat eight in one breath when he was young,” Grandfather murmured, and then he began to sing. But he sang about mutton, not potatoes.
Brother’s meat,
You did not have when I came,
With fat mutton in your hand!
Grandfather repeatedly sang about the fat mutton. Many years later when he had grown up, the Child realized that Grandfather was singing about an enchanting love story from his youth. When Grandfather was carried away by his song, he regarded the Child as his close friend and spoke out his private words: “Meat is good, but the meat eater—man—is better.” To Grandfather his grandson was a buddy. “Be grateful to meat eaters.”
They made another fire, buried another five potatoes in the hot ash, and then left for home. The Child turned frequently to look back. The potato smell had spread several miles ahead of them. The Sun was setting. As Grandfather often said, “The Sun is kowtowing to the potatoes.”
The Child had read some cartoon books brought by Mom from the town. She told him stories explaining the pictures in the book. Accordingly, he knew that everything on earth depended on the Sun for growth. He told this to Grandfather. However, Grandfather’s theories were all centered on the earth. He insisted that the Sun was kowtowing to the potatoes.
“Look with your own eyes. What is the Sun doing?”
Like a desert whirlwind, the smell from the fire overwhelmed the Sun; thus it faltered. Grandfather and the Child stretched their necks to watch the brilliant Sun set in the desert. As Grandfather predicted, the Sun knelt down on the dusty dune suddenly. Now he had more to say.
“Corn, wheat, sunflower, and cotton give life to the Sun. Potatoes are even greater. They make the Sun get into the ground.”
Immediately the Child thought of similar plants like sugar beets and carrots. Grandfather stroked the Child’s big head with satisfaction. The Child also thought of peanuts. Though peanuts were not cultivated in central Asia, everyone knew that peanuts grew underground like potatoes, carrots, and sugar beets. It was as though his intelligence increased with his Grandfather stroking his head. The hand, dry and hard like suosuo grass, was covered with cracks all over. It was this hand that empowered his head. Like a flash of lightning, the suosuo grass on the sand dune appeared in his head. The dry suosuo grass resembled Grandfather’s hand. With his own eyes he saw it burning, smokeless. The vigorous, pure fire looked like the tongue of flame fired from a gun, like a cartoon depiction of magma erupting from a volcano. The big fire from the grass melted the earth. It was this pair of magic hands that were stroking his head.
Owl was soaring across the autumn sky, the vastest and highest sky where he could demonstrate his flying skills. The Child thought of birds and beasts on the earth. He felt his heart beating rapidly, but then it calmed. The big, hovering hand over his head stopped, and the flying owl came to a standstill in the sky as well. Everyone in the desert knew that the bird had masterful control. Owl timed his flight perfectly. The Sun had knelt on the sand dune to kowtow to the last crop on the earth—the potatoes. The Sun should be grateful to the owl, a product of the sky. Owl had picked up the sweeping, fragrant potato smell soaring like a whirlwind into the sky. He knew what was going on.
Grandfather quietly took his hand back, but the Child still associated the hand with the owl. The Child’s face was as red as the fire; his powerful imagination was also visible. Since the Child thought he grew the potatoes by himself, it was unnecessary to describe their fragrant smell when they were ripening.
Three days later, Grandfather transported all the potatoes in his carriage. The Child and dog went with him. Dog liked to bark and jump around the village. When they arrived at the field near the entrance, the dog’s barks became so subdued they sounded like sobs. His voice almost suffocated. The vast desert humbled the dog. Taking a cue from the potatoes, the dog buried his mouth into the earth. No more barks were heard.
The Child helped his Grandfather silently. He checked the ashes of the fire and found that all the baked potatoes had been taken away. They had been eaten and gone far away. He hoped people from the farthest places on earth would come here. This bold idea stirred his mind, and he could not refrain from launching a stone like a rocket. He remained in that throwing position long after the stone was released. He felt like a mighty launching pad that sent the most sophisticated aircraft into outer space from the depth of Zhun Ge’er Basin. The Child cried out from the excitement in his heart.
“I will thank you all; I will thank you all!”
He cried out again and again. Gradually he realized that even his loudest shouts were voiceless, merely in his mind. He knelt down unconsciously. He did not know that kneeling indicated appreciation or gratitude. It was just a simple action that needed no explanation. It would never occur to him that the Sun too, like him, knelt down. He simply did one thing after another.
He dug a small pit and lit a fire with the firewood he’d picked up. He did not use Grandfather’s suosuo grass, but dry cow dung instead. Everybody knew that dry cow dung was the best firewood in the desert. In winter it was the major fuel. In autumn, women and children collected dry cow dung and stockpiled
it in the yard like gold to help them survive the severest winter. He was used to picking up dry cow dung.
He lit a pile of dung. The smoke from cow dung was not straight. Signal smoke usually soared directly into the sky like a long spear, but smoke from cow dung dispersed into the sky like rivers into the sea and became invisible or blended. He buried potatoes in the ashes of the dung. He knew that this launch would travel farther than a rocket. He did this confidently like an adult. Once finished, he dusted his hands.
Grandfather watched the Child closely from beginning to end. He coughed when he felt satisfied. Behind the carriage, he lit a handmade cigarette to smoke his excitement away.
The Child seemed to be the only one on earth. He became intoxicated in this self-absorbed state for a very long time. The boundless quiet was wonderful. Many years later, the Child was not the Child anymore, but the quiet remained in his mind, together with this vast field and this special moment, forever. There were two stories about Grandfather’s potato planting. One was that the sandy soil far away from the village could produce good-quality potatoes, even though everyone else wanted to grow crops near the village. The other was that the sandy soil had been chosen by Grandfather for his tomb. This soil was surrounded by typical Zhun Ge’er sand dunes, covered by red willows and suosuo grass. Apart from Grandfather’s potato farming, this soil served as a perfect place for those who had passed away.
But Grandfather outlived his own expectations. Even after it was predicted that he would soon be gone, he still lived a very healthy life. His coffin was prepared in advance. His wife had passed over ten years earlier, and he buried her in the potato field where the oasis and desert met. Grandmother was said to be ill all the time, and the medicine she took equaled the amount of food she consumed. She suffered more than enough and asked Grandfather by all means to bury her remains in a quiet place. “You should not feel obliged to accompany me. You should find a good tomb. I’ve spoiled your whole life and I feel embarrassed and guilty.”
Old Land, New Tales: Twenty Short Stories by Writers of the Shaanxi Region in China Page 30