Life and Death are Wearing Me Out

by Mo Yan

  “Brother Hong, you’re too important to worry about the problems of small fry like us. You mustn’t bring yourself down to the level of this coarse laborer.”

  I saw the tautness in Hong Taiyue’s face fall away. Like a man climbing off his donkey to walk downhill, in other words, using her arrival as a way forward, he said:

  “Yingchun, I don’t have to rehash your family history for you. You two can act recklessly if you think your own situation is hopeless, but you have to think about your children, whose whole lives are ahead of them. Eight or ten years from now, when you look back, Lan Lian, you’ll realize that everything I said to you today was for your own good, for you, your wife, and your children. It’s the best advice anyone could give.”

  “I understand, Brother Hong,” she said as she tugged at Lan Lian’s arm. “Tell Brother Hong you’re sorry. We’ll go home and talk about joining the commune.”

  “What’s there to talk about?” Lan Lian said. “Even brothers are dividing up family property, so what good is putting strangers together to eat out of the same pot?”

  “You really are stubborn,” Hong Taiyue said indignantly. “All right, Lan Lian, go ahead, be out there all by yourself. We’ll see who’s more powerful, you or the commune. Today I’m all but pleading with you to join the commune, but one day, Lan Lian, you’ll get down on your knees and beg me to let you in, and that day is not far off, take my word for it!”

  “I won’t join! And I’ll never get down on my knees in front of you!” His eyes were lowered as he continued. “Your Party regulations state, ‘Joining a commune is voluntary, leaving it is permissible.’ You cannot force me to join!”

  “You’re a stinking dog turd!” Hong Taiyue said in a furious out-burst.

  “Brother Hong, please don’t. . .”

  “You can stop that Brother this and Brother that,” Hong said scornfully. “I’m the Party secretary,” he said to Yingchun with a look of disgust. “And I’m the village chief, not to mention a member of the village security force!”

  “Party secretary, village chief, security officer,” Yingchun echoed timidly, “we’ll go home and talk this over . . .” She shoved Lan Lian and sobbed, “You stubborn ass, your head is made of stone, come home with me right now ...”

  “I’m not going anywhere until I’m finished with what I have to say. Village chief, you injured my donkey, so you have to pay to fix his leg.”

  “I’ll pay, all right, with a bullet!” Hong Taiyue patted his holster and laughed. “Lan Lian, oh my, Lan Lian, you’re really something.” Then, raising his voice, he exclaimed, “Tell me who this apricot tree belongs to.”

  “It belongs to me.” Huang Tong, commander of the local militia, had been standing in his doorway, watching the argument develop. He ran up to Hong Taiyue and said, “Party secretary, village chief, security officer, this tree was given to me during land reform, but it hasn’t produced a single apricot, and I’ve been thinking of taking it down one day. Like Ximen Nao, it has a score to settle with us poor peasants.”

  “That’s a bunch of crap!” Hong Taiyue said coldly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. If you want to be on my good side, then don’t make up stories. This tree produces no fruit because you haven’t taken care of it. It’s got nothing to do with Ximen Nao. The tree may belong to you now, but sooner or later it’s going to be the property of the commune. The road to collectivization requires the complete elimination of private ownership. Stamping out exploitation is a universal trend. And that is why you’d better start taking care of this tree. If you let that donkey gnaw at its bark one more time, I’ll flay the skin off your back!”

  Huang Tong nodded and forced a smile onto his face. Flashes of gold emerged from his squinty eyes. His mouth was open just enough to reveal his yellow teeth and purple gums. Huang Tong’s wife, Qiuxiang, Ximen Nao’s second concubine, appeared then, a carrying pole over her shoulder, with her twins, Huzhu and Hezuo, seated in a basket on each end. She had brushed her swept-back hair with osman-thus oil and powdered her face; she wore a dress with floral piping and green satin shoes embroidered with purple flowers. An audacious woman, she was dressed just as she had been when she’d been my concubine, with rouged cheeks and smiling eyes. She cut a lovely figure, with curves in all the right places, nothing like a laboring woman. I knew the woman well. She did not have a good heart. She had a sharp tongue and a devious mind, a woman whose only virtue was in bed, not someone to get close to or confide in. She had high aspirations, and if I hadn’t kept her down, my wife and my first concubine would have died at her hand. Even before I became a dirty dog, this wench saw the writing on the wall and turned on me, saying I’d raped her, that I ran roughshod over her, that Ximen Bai mistreated her on a daily basis; she even opened her blouse in front of a crowd of men at the great account-settling meeting and pointed out scars on her breasts, wailing and sputtering loudly, This is where the landlord’s wife burned me with the red-hot bowl of a pipe, these are where that tyrant Ximen Nao poked me with an awl. As someone who’d studied to be a stage actress, she knew exactly how to worm her way into people’s hearts. I, Ximen Nao, brought her into my house out of kindness. She was at the time a teenager whose hair was still in braids as she followed her blind father from place to place and sang for money. Unfortunately, her father died on the street one day, and she had to sell herself in order to bury him. I took her in as a maidservant. You ungrateful bitch, if Ximen Nao hadn’t come to your rescue, you’d have died from the elements or been forced into a life of prostitution. The whore made tearful accusations, spouting lies that sounded so truthful that the women at the foot of the stage were sobbing openly, whetting their glistening sleeves with a torrent of tears. The slogans took over, rage swept over the crowd, and that sealed my doom. I’d known that in the end I’d die at this whore’s hand. She wept, she howled, but before long, she stole a glance at me out of those long, narrow eyes. If not for the two militiamen who had me by the arms, I’d have rushed up, not giving a damn what happened to me afterward, and slapped her hard — once, twice, three times. I’m not afraid to tell the truth: at home, because of all the lies she told, I did that, I slapped her three times, and she fell to her knees, wrapped her arms around my legs, tears clouding her eyes, and I saw that look, so enchanting, so pitiful, so full of affection, that my heart softened and my maleness hardened; what can you do with a woman who can’t stop telling lies, who’s lazy and spoiled? But three hard slaps, and they crawl into bed with you as if drunk. A flirtatious woman like that, I tell you, was my punishment. Old Master, Old Master, dear Elder Brother, go ahead, kill me, put me to death, cut me to pieces, but my soul will still wrap itself around you . . . she pulled a pair of scissors out of her bodice and tried to stab me, but was stopped by the militiamen and dragged down off the stage. Up till that moment I’d clung to the idea that she was putting on an act to protect herself; I couldn’t believe that any woman could have such deep-seated loathing for someone she’d cuddled with in bed . . .

  She picked up Huzhu and Hezuo in their baskets, apparently heading to market, and gave Hong Taiyue a come-hither look. Her dark little face was like a black peony.

  “Huang Tong,” Hong said, “keep an eye on her, she’s in need of remolding. Make sure she stops acting like a landlord’s mistress. Send her out to work in the fields and stop her from going from one marketplace to another.”

  “Are you listening?” Huang Tong placed himself in front of Qiuxiang. “The Party secretary is talking about you!”

  “Me? What did I do? If I can’t go to market, why not shut it down? If you’re afraid I’m too attractive to men, go get some sulfuric acid and ruin my face.” All this chatter from her tiny mouth was a terrible embarrassment to Hong Taiyue.

  “You slut, you’re just itching to be smacked around!” Huang Tong growled.

  “Says who, you? If you so much as touch me the wrong way, I’ll fight you till both our chests are bloody!”

  Huang Tong slapped he
r before anyone could react. Everyone stood there dumbstruck, and I was waiting for Qiuxiang to make a frightful scene, to roll around on the ground, to threaten suicide, the sorts of things she always did. But I waited in vain. She didn’t resist at all. She just threw down her carrying pole, covered her face, and bawled, throwing a fright into Huzhu and Hezuo, who also started bawling. From a distance, their glistening, fuzzy little tops looked like monkey heads.

  Hong Taiyue, who started the war, turned into peacemaker, trying to smooth things over between Huang Tong and his wife. Then, without a sideward glance, he walked into what had been the main house of the Ximen estate; now a badly printed wooden sign hanging on the brick wall proclaimed, “Ximen Village Party Committee.”

  My master wrapped his arms around my head and massaged my ears with his rough hands, while his wife, Yingchun, cleaned my injured leg with salt water and wrapped it with a piece of white cloth. At that sorrowful yet warm moment, I was no Ximen Nao, I was a donkey, one about to become an adult and accompany his master through thick and thin. Like it says in the song that Mo Yan wrote for his new play, The Black Donkey:

  A man’s soul in a black donkey’s body

  Events of the past floating off like clouds

  All beings reborn amid the six paths, such bitterness

  Desire is unquenchable, fond dreams persist

  How can he not recall his past life

  And pass the days as a contented donkey?

  4

  Gongs and Drums Pound the Heavens

  as the Masses Join the Co-op

  Four Hooves Plod through the Snow

  as the Donkey Is Shod

  The first of October, 1954, China’s National Day, was also the day Northeast Gaomi Township’s first agricultural cooperative was established. Mo Yan, about whom we’ve already spoken, was born on that day, as well.

  In the early morning, Mo Yan’s father ran anxiously up to the house and, when he saw my master, began wiping his tear-filled eyes with his sleeve, not saying a word. My master and his wife were eating breakfast at the moment, but they put down their bowls at the sight that greeted them and asked: What’s happened, good uncle? In the midst of his sobs, Mo Yan’s father managed to say: The baby, she had the baby, a boy. Are you saying that Aunty has had a baby boy? my master’s wife asked. Yes, Mo Yan’s father said. Then why are you crying? my master asked. You should be happy. Mo Yan’s father just stared at my master. Who says I’m not? If I wasn’t happy, why would I be crying? My master laughed. Yes, he said, of course, you’re crying because you’re happy. Why else would you cry? Break out the liquor, he said to his wife. We are going to celebrate. None for me today, Mo Yan’s father begged off. I have to spread the good news to lots of people. We can celebrate another day Yingchun, Mo Yan’s father said as he bowed deeply to my master’s wife. I have you and your Deer Placenta Ointment to thank for this. The boy’s mother said she’ll bring him to show you after her month of lying in. We’ll both kowtow to you. She said you have stored up such good fortune that she wants the boy to be your nominal son, and if you say no, I’m to get down on my knees and plead. My master’s wife said: You two are cutups. I’m happy to do it. There’s no need for you to get down on your knees. — And so, Mo Yan isn’t only your friend, nominally, he’s your brother.

  Your brother Mo Yan’s father had no sooner left the house than things started heating up in the Ximen estate compound — or should I say the village government office compound. First, Hong Taiyue and Huang Tong pasted up a pair of couplets on the main gate. Then the musicians filed in, crouched down in the yard, and waited. These men looked familiar to me somehow. Ximen Nao’s memory seemed to be returning, but fortunately my master came in with the feed and brought an end to my recollections. Thanks to the opening in my lean-to, I was able to watch the goings-on outside as I ate. At about mid-morning, a teenage boy came running into the yard carrying a little flag made of red paper.

  “He’s coming!” he shouted. “The village chief wants you to start!”

  The musicians scrambled to their feet, and in no time, drums banged, gongs clanged, followed by blaring and tooting wind instruments welcoming the honored guest. I watched as Huang Tong ran around shouting, “Out of my way, make room, the district chief is here!”

  Under the leadership of Hong Taiyue, head of the co-op, District Chief Chen and several of his armed bodyguards strode in through the gate. The lean district chief, with his deep sunken eyes, swayed as he walked; he was wearing an old army uniform. Farmers who had joined the co-op swarmed in after him, leading their livestock, all draped in red bunting, and carrying farm tools over their shoulders. Within minutes, the yard was filled with farm animals and the bobbing heads of their owners, bringing the place alive. The district chief stood on a stool beneath the apricot tree and waved to the massed crowd. His gestures were received with shouted greetings, and even the animals were caught up in the celebration: horses whinnied, donkeys brayed, cows mooed, increasing the happy clamor and adding fuel to the joyous fire. In the midst of all that noise and activity, but before the district chief had begun his speech, my master led me — or should I say, Lan Lian led his young donkey — through the crowd, under the gaze of the people and their animals, right out through the gate.

  Once out of the compound, we headed south, and as we passed the elementary school playground, by Lotus Bay we saw all the bad elements, moving rocks and dirt under the supervision of two militiamen armed with rifles adorned with red tassels; they were building up an earthen platform north of the playground, the place where operas had been performed, where mass criticism meetings had been held, and where I, Ximen Nao, had stood when I was being struggled against. Deep in Ximen Nao’s memory lay the recognition of all these men. Look there, that skinny old man whose knees are nearly buckling from the weight of the big rock he’s carrying, that’s Yu Wufu, who was head of security for three months. And look there, that fellow carrying two baskets of earth on a carrying pole, that’s Zhang Dazhuang, who went over to the enemy, taking a rifle with him, when the Landlords’ Restitution Corps launched an attack to settle scores. He was a carter for my family for five years. My wife, Ximen Bai, arranged his marriage with Bai Susu, her niece. When I was being struggled against, they said that I slept with Bai Susu the night before she was married to Zhang Dazhuang, which was a barefaced lie, a damned rumor; but when they called her up as a witness, she covered her face with her jacket, wailed tearfully, and said nothing, thus turning a lie into the truth and sending Ximen Nao straight down to the Yellow Springs of Death. Look over there at the young man with the oval face and slanty eyebrows, the one who’s carrying that green locust log; that’s Wu Yuan, one of our rich peasants, and a dear friend of mine. He’s quite a musician, plays both the two-stringed erhu and the suona. During off seasons on the farm, he played with the local band as they walked through town, not for money but for the sheer pleasure of it. And then there’s that fellow with a few scraggly hairs on his chin, the one with the worn-out hoe over his shoulder who’s standing on the platform dawdling and trying to look busy; it’s Tian Gui, the onetime manager of a flourishing liquor business, a skinflint who kept ten hectoliters of wheat in his grain bins but made his wife and kids eat chaff and rotten vegetables. Look, look, look, that woman with the bound feet carrying half a basket of dirt but having to stop and rest every four or five steps, that’s my formal wife, Ximen Bai. And look there, behind her, it’s Yang Qi, the village public security head, a cigarette dangling from his lips and a willow switch in his hand. Quit loafing and get to work, Ximen Bai, he snarls. She is so alarmed she nearly falls, and the heavy basket of dirt lands on her tiny feet. She shrieks, my wife does, then cries softly from the pain, and begins to sob, like a little girl. Yang Qi raises his switch and brings it down hard — I pulled the rope out of Lan Lian’s hand and ran at Yang Qi — the switch snapped in the air a mere inch from Ximen Bai’s nose, didn’t touch her, showing what an expert the man is. The thieving, depraved bastard — a glu
ttonous, hard-drinking, whoremongering, chain-smoking gambler — squandered what his father left him, made his mother’s life such a misery that she hanged herself from a roof beam, and here he was, a redder-than-red poor peasant, a frontline revolutionary. I was going to drive a fist right into his face — actually, I don’t have a fist, so I’d have had to kick him or bite him with my big donkey teeth. Yang Qi, you bastard, with your scraggly chin hairs and dangling cigarette and willow switch, one of these days, I, Ximen Donkey, am going to take a big bite out of you.

  My master jerked me back by the rope, saving that gangster Yang Qi from a bad ending. So I raised up and kicked with my hind legs, striking something soft — Yang Qi’s belly. Since becoming a donkey, I’ve been able to take in a lot more with my eyes than Ximen Nao ever could — I can see what goes on behind me. I watched as that bastard Yang Qi hit the ground hard, and I saw his face turn ashen. It took him a long moment to catch his breath, and when he did he called out for his mother. You bastard, your mother hanged herself because of you! Calling for her won’t do you any good!

  My master threw down the rope and rushed over to help Yang Qi up. Back on his feet, Yang picked up the switch to hit me over the head, but my master grabbed his wrist. “I’m the only person who can do that, Yang Qi,” my master said. “Fuck you, Lan Lian!” Yang Qi roared. “You, with your cozy relationship with Ximen Nao, are a bad element who’s wormed his way into the class ranks. I’ll use this switch on you too!” But my master tightened his grip on the man’s wrist, drawing yelps of pain from someone who had abused his body by bedding all the loose women in town; finally he let the switch fall to the ground. With a shove that sent Yang stumbling backward, my master said, “Consider yourself lucky my donkey doesn’t have iron shoes yet.”