by Mo Yan
The musicians sat near the straw mat and began tuning their instruments, led by the flutist. High notes fell, low notes coiled skyward. The coordinated sounds of the fiddle, the flute, and the balloon guitar formed a single thread with three parts, stopping once they were all in tune. Then they waited. Now out came the percussionists: drummers, gong player, and cymbalist, instruments under one arm and stools under the other; they sat across from the other musicians. A fierce drumbeat banged out the rhythm, followed by the crisp clangs of a gong and the high-pitched beats of a small drum; they were joined by a rope of notes from the fiddle, balloon guitar, and flute that tied up our legs so we couldn’t move and tied up our souls so we couldn’t think. The melody was soft and lingering, sad and dreary, sometimes moaning, sometimes murmuring. What kind of drama was this? Our Northeast Gaomi “cat’s meow” form of singing was called by some “tying up your old lady’s peg.” When the cat’s meow was sung, the three cardinal values of social relations were turned inside out; when you heard the cat’s meow, you forgot even your own mother and father. Then, as the beat picked up, the audience began to tap their feet; our lips began to twitch, our hearts quivered. The waiting was like an arrow on the bow before firing: five, four, three, two, one — the voice reached its highest point, then trailed off, rising hoarsely, higher and higher, until it tore through the heavens.
I was once a girl, gentle and graceful, charming and coy — na! With the sound of the voice lingering in the air, my second sister, Zhaodi, floated out from the Sima compound on tiny steps, as if walking on water, a red cotton flower in her hair and wearing a blue, wide-sleeved jacket over sweeping pants that all but obscurred her embroidered slippers; she carried a basket over her left arm and a wooden club in her right hand. She floated up into the light of the gas lamps and stopped in the center of the straw mat, where she struck a dramatic pose. Her eyebrows were no longer eyebrows; they were crescent moons at the edge of the sky. Her gaze washed up onto our heads; her nose was thin and angular, her thick lips were painted a red more lush than cherry blossoms in May. Absolute silence surrounded her; ten thousand unblinking eyes, ten thousand pounding hearts; pent-up power burst out in a loud roar of approval. My second sister then spread her legs, bent at the waist, and ran, making a complete circle. Her limbs were supple as willow branches, her steps like a snake moving on tassels. There was no wind that night, but it was bitter cold, and yet my sister wore only thin clothing. Mother watched in amazement; my sister’s figure had developed rapidly after eating the eel; her breasts were the size of pears, beautifully shaped, and she was surely destined to carry on the glorious tradition of Shangguan women, with big breasts and wide hips. She wasn’t even breathing hard after making a circle around the yard, her demeanor unchanged. She sang the second line: I shall marry the man of courage, Sima Ku. This line was smooth and even, no rise at the end, but it had a powerful effect on the audience. People whispered to one another, Whose daughter is this? She’s a daughter in the Shangguan family. Didn’t the Shangguan daughter run off with the leader of the musket band? She’s their second daughter. When did she become Sima Ku’s concubine? You dumb fuck, this is opera! Shut the fuck up, both of you! My third sister, Lingdi, and her other sisters shouted from the crowd to protect Second Sister’s reputation. Quiet returned. My husband, an expert at destroying bridges, threw Molotov cocktails at the Flood Dragon River Bridge. In the fifth month, during the Dragon Boat Festival, blue flames shot high into the air, incinerating the Jap devils, who screamed for their mothers and fathers. My husband was badly wounded in the backside. Last night, when a storm blanketed heaven and earth with snow, my husband led his troops to destroy the steel bridge … My sister then went through the motions of breaking a hole in the ice with an ax, then pretended she was washing clothes in the water. She was quaking from head to toe, like a dead leaf on the tip of a branch in the heart of winter. People were captivated by the performance; some roared their approval, others dried their eyes with their sleeves. As a burst of drums and cymbals tore through the air, Second Sister stood up and gazed into the distance. I hear an explosion off in the southwest, and I see flames leap into the sky. It must be my husband, who has destroyed the bridge, and the Jap devils’ train has gone to meet its maker. I must run home to warm a pot of wine and kill a pair of hens for chicken stew… Then my sister gathered her clothes around her and made as if to climb an embankment as her song continued: I look up and see that I am face-to-face with four ravenous wolves … The four fleet-footed men in painted faces who had laid out the mats came somersaulting through the gate. They surrounded my sister and reached out to claw her, like cats closing in on a mouse. The man whose face was painted like a raccoon sang out in a strangled voice: I am the Japanese platoon leader Tatsuda, on the lookout for a pretty young girl. I’ve heard there are some real beauties in Northeast Gaomi. I look up and see a lovely face right in front of me. Hey, there, young lady, come with me, an Imperial soldier, for a good life. The men pounced on my sister, who turned as stiff as a board. Holding her high over their heads, the four “Jap devils” took a turn around the mats. The drums and cymbals beat a frenzied rhythm, like an approaching storm. The audience crowded anxiously up to the stage. “Put my daughter down!” Mother screamed as she rushed up to the stage. I stood up straight in my carrying pouch; the feeling that action brought would return later in life as I rode on horseback. Mother reached out and, like an eagle swooping down on a rabbit, dug into the eyes of “Platoon Leader Tatsuda.” With a cry of alarm, he released my sister, and so did the other three men, letting her drop hard onto the mat. The three actors scampered off the stage, leaving “Platoon Leader Tatsuda” in the grip of Mother, who wrapped her legs around his waist and tore at his face and head with her fingernails. Second Sister got up and wrapped her arms around Mother. “Mother, Mother!” she shouted. “We’re just acting, it isn’t real!”
Members of the audience ran up and pulled Mother off “Platoon Leader Tatsuda.” His face a mass of bloody scratches, he turned and ran in through the gate as if his life depended on it. Gasping for breath, her anger not yet spent, Mother said, “Who dares try to take advantage of my daughter, which one of you dares to do that?” “Mother,” Second Sister spat out angrily, “you have ruined a perfectly good play!” “Listen to me, Zhaodi,” Mother said, “let’s go home. We can’t take part in plays like that.” She reached out to take Second Sister’s arm, but Zhaodi shook her off. “Mother,” she hissed, “don’t make me lose face in front of all these people!” “You’re making me lose face,” Mother replied. “Come home with me right now!” “I’m not going to,” Second Sister said, just as Sima Ku came onstage singing loudly: Vm riding my horse home after blowing up a bridge … He was wearing riding boots and an army cap, and carrying a leather crop. Seated upon an imaginary horse, he stomped on the ground and moved forward, rising and falling in concert with the imaginary reins he was holding, as if galloping on horseback. The pounding of drums and crash of cymbals shook the heavens, string and bamboo instruments rose in harmony; above it all, the strains of a flute tore through the clouds and firmament, driving the soul out of the body of anyone within earshot, not from fear, inspired but not afraid. Sima Ku’s face was as cold and hard as cast iron, somber as death, not a trace of shallow slyness: Suddenly I hear turmoil on the riverbank, and I whip my horse to make it go faster— A two-string huqin made the sound of a horse’s whinnies: Hui-er hui-er hui-er hui… my heart’s on fire, my horse runs like the wind, normal steps made in one, three steps made in two … Faster and faster the drums and cymbals, stomp-stomp, moving ever forward, a hawk’s turn, a split in the air; an old ox gasps for air, the lion dances atop the embroidered ball — Sima Ku performed every acrobatic trick he knew on the straw mat; hard to believe that a heavy medicinal plaster was still stuck to his backside. Second Sister anxiously pushed Mother, who was still grumbling, back into the audience, where she belonged. Three men acting as Japanese soldiers rushed into the center of the stage, bent over at
the waist, planning to lift Second Sister over their heads again. “Platoon Leader Tatsuda” was nowhere to be found, so it was up to the other three; two of them lifted her head and shoulders, the third held her feet, his painted face sticking up between her legs. It was such a funny sight that the audience couldn’t help but giggle, and that turned to laughter when he made a funny face. So then he started hamming it up, and the audience exploded with boisterous guffaws, which drew a scowl from Sima Ku. But he sang on anyway: Suddenly I hear shouts and screams. Its the Japanese soldiers in another murderous rage, and I race forward with no thought for myself— I reach out and grab the shoulders of the Japanese dog. Let go of her! Sima Ku reached out and grabbed the head of the “Japanese soldier” sticking up between Second Sister’s legs and shouts. That’s when the fight commenced. The odds were now three to one, rather than four to one. The end came swiftly for the “Japanese,” and Sima had rescued his “wife.” Holding my sister in his arms, with the “Japanese” on their hands and knees on the mat, Sima Ku strode through the gate amid the strains of joyous music. The four men holding the kerosene lanterns abruptly came to life, following Sima through the gate, taking the light with them and leaving us staring into the darkness …
The next morning, the real Japanese surrounded the village. The crack of rifle fire, the thud of artillery, and the loud whinnies of war ponies startled us out of our sleep. With me in her arms, Mother led my seven sisters down into the turnip cellar, crawling through the dark, dank tunnel until we emerged into a wider space, where Mother lit an oil lantern. In the dim light, we sat on a straw mat, cocking our ears and listening to the scattered noises upstairs.
I don’t know how long we sat there before we heard heavy breathing in the dark tunnel. Mother picked up a pair of blacksmith tongs, quickly blew out the lantern, returning the room to darkness. I began to cry. Mother stuffed one of her nipples into my mouth. It was cold, hard, and rigid, and it had a salty, bitter taste.
The heavy breathing drew nearer; Mother raised the tongs over her head with both hands at the very moment I heard my second sister, Zhaodi, call out in a strange voice, “Mother, it’s me, don’t hit me …” With a sigh of relief, Mother let her hands drop weakly in front of her. “Zhaodi,” she said, “you scared me half to death.” “Light the lantern, Mother,” Zhaodi said. “There’s somebody behind me.”
Somehow Mother got the lantern lit; its pale light shone throughout the cave once again. Second Sister was covered with mud and had a scratch on her cheek. She carried a bundle in her arms. “What is that?” Mother asked, registering her surprise. Second Sister scrunched up her mouth, as translucent tears made tracks through the dirt on her face. “Mother,” she said, her voice cracking, “this is his third wife’s son.” Mother froze. Then: “Take that back to wherever you found it!” she said angrily. Second Sister came up to Mother on her knees, looked up, and said, “Can’t you show some mercy, Mother? His family has just been wiped out. This one is all that’s left to carry on the Sima family line …”
Mother pulled back a corner of the bundle, revealing the dark, thin, long face of the last surviving son of the Sima family. The little tyke was fast asleep, breathing evenly; his mouth puckered up, as if suckling in his dream. My heart filled with hatred for him. I spat out the nipple and howled. Mother shoved the nipple, colder and even more bitter-tasting than before, back into my mouth.
“Tell me you’ll take him, Mother, won’t you?” Second Sister asked.
Mother squeezed her eyes shut and said nothing.
Second Sister stood up, thrust the bundled baby into the arms of Third Sister, Lingdi, fell back onto her knees, and banged her head on the ground in a kowtow. “Mother,” she said through her tears, “I’m his woman while I’m alive, and I’ll be his ghost after I die. Please save this child, and I’ll never forget your kindness as long as I live!”
Second Sister stood up and turned to go back out through the tunnel. Mother reached out and stopped her. “Where are you going?” she sobbed.
Second Sister said, “Mother, he has been wounded in the leg and is hiding under the millstone. I must go to him.”
The stillness outside was shattered by the clatter of horse hooves and the crackle of gunfire. Mother moved over to block the entrance to the turnip cellar. “I’ll do what you say, but I won’t let you risk your life out there.”
“His leg won’t stop bleeding, Mother,” Second Sister said. “If I don’t go to him, he’ll bleed to death. And if he dies, what’s the use of my going on living? Let me go, Mother, please …”
Mother let out a howl, but quickly closed her mouth again. “Mother,” Second Sister said, “I’ll get down and kowtow to you again.”
She fell to her knees and banged her head on the ground, then buried her face in Mother’s legs. But then she parted Mother’s legs and quickly crawled out of the room.
5
The nineteen heads of the Sima family hung from a rack outside the Felicity Manor gate all the way up to Qingming, the day of ancestral worship in the warmth of spring, when flowers were in full bloom. The rack, made of five thick and very straight China fir boards, looked something like a swing set. The heads were strung up with steel wire. Even though crows and sparrows and owls had pecked away most of the flesh, it still took little imagination to distinguish the heads of Sima Ting’s wife; his two foolish sons; the first, second, and third wives of Sima Ku; the nine sons and daughters born to those three women; and the father, mother, and two younger brothers of Sima Ku’s third wife, who were visiting at the time. The air hung heavy over the village following the massacre, the survivors taking on the appearance of living ghosts, cooping themselves up in dark rooms during the daytime, daring to emerge only after night had fallen.
There was no news at all of Second Sister after she left us that day. The baby boy she left behind caused us no end of trouble. Mother had to nurse him to keep him from starving to death during those days we spent in our cellar hideaway. With his mouth and eyes opened wide, he greedily sucked up milk that should have been mine. He had an astonishing capacity, sucking breasts dry and then bawling for more. He sounded like a crow when he cried, or a toad, or maybe an owl. And the look on his face was that of a wolf, or a dog, or maybe a wild hare. He was my sworn enemy; the world wasn’t big enough for the two of us. I howled in protest when he took Mother’s breasts as his own; he cried just as loud when I tried to take back what was mine. His eyes remained open when he cried. They were the eyes of a lizard. Damn Zhaodi for bringing home a demon born to a lizard!
Mother’s face turned puffy and pale under this double onslaught, and I sensed dimly that little yellow buds had begun to sprout all over her body, like the turnips that had been in our cellar over the long winter. The first of them appeared on her breasts, and that resulted in a diminished supply of milk, with a sweet, turnipy taste. How about you, little Sima bastard, has that scary taste eluded you? People are supposed to treasure what’s theirs, but that was getting harder and harder to do. If I didn’t suckle, he would for sure. Precious gourds, little doves, enamel vases, your skin has withered, you’ve dried up, your blood vessels have turned purple, your nipples are nearly black; you sag impotently.
In order for both me and that little bastard to survive, Mother courageously led my sisters out of the cellar into the light of day. The grain in our family storage room was all gone, as were the mule and the donkey; the pots and pans and all the dishes had been smashed; and the Guanyin Bodhisattva in the shrine was now a headless corpse. Mother had forgotten to take her foxskin coat into the cellar with her; the lynx coats belonging to my eighth sister and me were nowhere to be seen. The fur on the other coats, which the rest of my sisters never took off, had by then fallen off, giving them the look of mangy wild animals. Shangguan Lü lay beneath the millstone in the storage room. She’d eaten all twenty or so of the turnips Mother had left for her before moving into the cellar, and had shat a pile of cobblestone-looking turds. When Mother went in to see her
, she picked up a handful of the petrified turds and flung them at her. The skin of her face looked like frozen, decaying turnip peels; her white hair looked like twisted yarn, some sticking straight up, some hanging down her back. A green light emerged from her eyes. Shaking her head, Mother laid several turnips on the floor in front of her. All the Japanese — or maybe it was Chinese — had left for us was a half cellar of sugar beets that had already begun to sprout. Overcome by disappointment, Mother found an unbroken earthenware jar in which Shangguan Lü had hidden her precious arsenic. She poured the red powder into the turnip soup. Once the powder dissolved, a colored oil spread across the surface of the soup and a foul smell filled the air. Mother stirred the mixture with a wooden ladle until it was smooth, then picked it up and slowly poured it into the wok. The corner of her mouth twitched oddly. After ladling some of the turnip soup into a chipped bowl, Mother said, “Lingdi, give this soup to your grandmother.” “Mother,” Lingdi said, “you put poison in it, didn’t you?” Mother nodded. “Are you going to poison Grandma?” “We’ll all die together,” Mother said, to which my sisters responded by weeping, including my blind eighth sister, whose thin cries were little more than the buzzing of a hornet. Her large, black, but sightless eyes filled with tears. Eighth Sister was the most wretched of the wretched, the saddest of the sad. “But we don’t want to die, Mother,” my sisters pleaded tearfully. Even I took up the chant: “Mother… Mother “My poor, dear little children …” Mother said; by then she too was crying. She cried for the longest time, all the while accompanied by her sobbing children. Finally, she blew her nose loudly, took back the chipped bowl, and flung it and its contents into the yard. “We’re not going to die! If death doesn’t frighten a person, then nothing can!” With that comment, she stood up and led us out into the street to find food. We were the first villagers to venture out onto the street. When they spotted the heads of the Sima family, my sisters were afraid. But in a matter of days, it was just another village sight. Mother held the little Sima bastard in her arm, so he was directly opposite me. She pointed to the heads and said to him softly, “I don’t want you to ever forget that, you poor child.”