by Mo Yan
One person in the crowd, wearing a khaki jacket, rose slowly out of the dust. She was up on all fours as she began clawing at the dirt in front of her, digging out something the same color as her jacket, the same color as everything else out there on the street. She dug out one, and then another. They made sounds like giant salamanders. In the midst of the celebration over victory in the War of Resistance, Third Sister, the Bird Fairy, had brought a pair of twin boys into the world.
The Bird Fairy and her babies made me momentarily forget my own troubles. Slowly I moved up closer to her to get a look at my new nephews. I had to step over the legs of men lying in the road, and the heads of others; finally, I was close enough to see the wrinkled skin — face and body — of the two dirt-colored little guys: they were bald, like a pair of lush green gourds. Crying with their mouths wide open made for a frightening sight, and for some unfathomable reason, I imagined their bodies covered with a thick layer of fishy scales. I backed off, carelessly stepping on a soldier’s hand as I did. But instead of hitting me, or yelling at me, he just grunted softly and slowly raised himself into a sitting position; from there he slowly got to his feet, and when he wiped the dust from his face, I saw it was Lu Liren, Fifth Sister’s husband. He was looking for his wife, who was struggling to sit up in the grass by the wall; she rushed into his arms, wrapped her arms around his head, and rubbed it frantically. “We won, we won, victory is ours! We’ll call our child Shengli — Victory,” Fifth Sister said.
By this time, the sun was exhausted, like an old man about to call it a day and get some sleep. The moon spat out rays of clear light, giving it the look of an anemic yet beautiful widow. With his arm around Fifth Sister, Lu Liren started to walk off just as Sima Ku entered the village at the head of his anti-Japanese commando battalion.
The battalion included three companies. First came the cavalry company, comprised of sixty-six horses of mixed Xinjiang and Mongol breed and their riders, all armed with American submachine guns. Next came the bicycle company, comprised of sixty-six Camel brand bicycles, the riders armed with German weapons. Third in line was the mule company, comprised of sixty-six powerful, fast-moving mules and their riders, all armed with Japanese M-38 carbines. There was also a small special unit, comprised of thirteen camels carrying bicycle repair equipment and spare parts, plus weapon repair tools, spare parts, and ammunition. They also carried Sima Ku and Shangguan Zhaodi, plus their daughters, Sima Feng and Sima Huang. Riding on the back of yet another camel was an American by the name of Babbitt. Perched atop the last camel was dark-skinned Sima Ting; he was wearing army trousers, a lavender satin shirt, and a frown.
Babbitt, who had gentle blue eyes, soft blond hair, and red lips, wore a red leather jacket over heavy cotton, multipocketed trousers, and deerskin boots. Uniquely attired, he sat high up on the back of his camel, rocking back and forth as he entered the village with Sima Ku and Sima Ting.
Sima Ku’s battalion swept into the village like a whirlwind. The six horses in the front rank were black, and were ridden by handsome young soldiers in woolen khakis; their brass buttons had been polished to a glittering sheen, as had their riding boots, the submachine guns in their hands, and the helmets on their heads; even their horses’ black flanks shone. The horses slowed down as they approached the spot where soldiers lay sprawled in the dirt; they held their heads high and began to prance as their riders fired their weapons into the darkening sky, a sparkling, eardrum-pounding chain of tracer bullets that sent leaves fluttering to the ground. Lu Liren and Shangguan Pandi, spooked by the burst of gunfire, stepped away from one another. “Which unit are you?” Lu Liren asked, raising his voice. “Your granddad’s unit,” one of the riders fired back. His words still hung in the air when a fusillade of bullets nearly grazed Lu Liren’s head. He sprawled inelegantly on the ground, but quickly got back to his feet and shouted, “I’m commander and political commissar of the demolition battalion, and I demand to see your commanding officer!” His shout was swallowed up by another fusillade of bullets that swept the open space around them. Soldiers of the demolition battalion staggered to their feet. The horsemen spurred their horses forward, breaking ranks to avoid the confusion in the street ahead. The horses were short and extremely nimble; as they stepped over and around the men lying on the ground and those who had barely stood up, only to be knocked down again, they looked like a pack of lithe tomcats on the prowl. As soon as the first rank passed, the others followed close on their heels, sending the standing soldiers spinning and banging into each other, accompanied by a chorus of panicky screams; they looked like trees, rooted in the ground and forced to stand and take a pounding. Even after all the horses had passed, people in the street weren’t fully aware of what had just happened. Then came the mule company. Marching in orderly ranks, they too shone, their riders sitting proudly, weapons at the ready. Meanwhile, the horse company had closed up ranks and was prancing back, squeezing the raggedy ranks of people on the street between the two companies. Some of the more quick-witted soldiers tried to dart down lanes intersecting the street, but their escape routes were blocked by members of the bicycle company, men in purple civilian clothes riding Camel brand bicycles. They fired their German weapons at the feet of the thwarted escapees, throwing dust up into their faces and sending them scurrying back into the middle of the street. Before long, all the officers and men of the demolition battalion had been herded into the area in front of the Felicity Manor gate.
The mule company soldiers were ordered to dismount and move off to the side, opening up a space for the leaders to make an appearance. Demolition battalion soldiers kept their eyes riveted on the section of road, as did the hapless civilians who had been herded together with them. I had a premonition that these new arrivals would somehow be connected to the Shangguan family.
The sun had nearly disappeared below the sandy ridge, leaving only a rosy border around the dreary treetops. Golden-red crows flew rapidly back and forth above the mud huts of the outsiders, and bats put on a flying demonstration in the brilliant glow of dusk. The silence was a sign that the leaders were due any minute.
“Victory! Victory!” The mighty cry heralded the leaders’ arrival. They came from the west, riding up on camels festooned with red satin.
Sima Ku was wearing an olive drab wool uniform and, on his head at a rakish angle, a fore-and-aft cap, which we called a jackass cap. A pair of medals the size of horse hooves were pinned to his chest, his waist was circled by a silver ammunition belt, and he wore a holstered revolver on his right hip. His camel raised its head, turned its lewd lips inside out, pricked up its floppy-dog ears, and squinted its long-lashed eyes. Shaking its shod cloven hooves, twisting its snaky tail, and tightening its pared buttocks, it threaded its way through the mule company like a ship riding the waves, with Sima Ku its proud skipper. He flared his legs, in their fine leather riding boots, threw out his chest, leaned back slightly, and raised a white-gloved hand to straighten his jackass cap; his burnished face was hard beyond description, the red moles on his cheek looked like maple leaves after a frost. It was a face that seemed to have been carved out of a block of red sandalwood, then varnished with three coats of anticorrosive, moisture-proof tung oil. The horse and mule soldiers slapped the butts of their weapons and shouted in unison.
Right behind Sima Ku’s camel came another carrying his wife, Shangguan Zhaodi. She hadn’t changed much in the years since we’d last seen her; she was as fresh and beautiful, as gentle-looking as ever. A white, silky cloak was draped over her shoulders atop a lined jacket with yellow satin piping, and red silk, loose-fitting trousers. She wore tiny brown leather shoes. A deep green jade bracelet decorated each wrist, eight rings adorned her fingers. Lush green grapes hung from her earlobes — I later learned they were made of jadeite.
I mustn’t forget about my two honorable nieces. They rode up on the third camel, behind Zhaodi. Thick ropes between the humps connected two riding baskets woven from waxed boughs. The girl in the left basket, flower
s in her hair, was Sima Feng; the one in the right basket, flowers also in her hair, was Sima Huang.
Next to enter my field of vision was the American, Babbitt. I couldn’t tell how old he was, but the light of life in his green, catlike eyes could only belong to a young man, a rooster barely old enough to mount a hen. He wore a dazzling feather in his cap, and though he swayed with the movements of his camel, his erect posture never varied, like a wood-carved boy tied to a float and tossed into a river. I was impressed. Mystified even. Later on, when we learned who he was, I realized that he rode a camel as if he were in the cockpit of an aircraft. He was an American Air Force pilot who had landed his Camel bomber on a main street in Northeast Gaomi at twilight.
Sima Ting brought up the rear. Even though he was a member of the glorified Sima family, he hung his head, dispirited. His camel, a dusty-looking animal, had a gimp leg.
Lu Liren pulled himself together and walked up to Sima Ku’s camel, where he snapped off an arrogant salute. “Commander Sima,” he said, “allow me to welcome you and your men as guests of our headquarters on this day of national jubilation.”
Sima laughed so hard he rocked back and forth until he was in danger of falling off. He smacked the furry hump in front of him and said to the mule troops beside him and the crowd in front and back, “Did you all hear the shit that just came out of his mouth? Headquarters? Guests? You poor country camel, this is my house, the land of my bloodline. When I was born, my mother’s blood pooled on this very street! You bunch of bedbugs have sucked dry the blood of our Northeast Gaomi Township, and now it is time for you to get the hell out of here! Go on back to your rabbit warrens and let me take my house back.”
It was an impassioned outburst, filled with a richness of sound. He emphasized every sentence by thumping the camel’s hump, and with every thump, the camel’s neck twitched and the soldiers roared. Also, with every thump, Lu Liren’s face paled just a little more. Finally, the camel, provoked beyond its limits, shrank back, bared its teeth, and sent something foul and sticky through its nose and into Lu Liren’s ashen face.
“I protest!” Lu Liren shouted in exasperation as he wiped the muck off his face. “I protest strongly! I’m going to register a complaint with the highest authority!”
“In this place,” Sima Ku said, “that highest authority is me, and I hereby announce that you and your men have half an hour to leave Dalan. If you’re still here after that, I’ll turn my weapons on you.”
“One of these days,” Lu Liren said coldly, “you’ll taste the bitter wine you’ve brewed.”
Ignoring Lu Liren, Sima Ku ordered his troops, “Escort our friends out of the area.”
The horse and mule companies closed up ranks and moved in from the east and the west. The soldiers of the demolition battalion were driven into the lane leading to our house. An armed sentry in civilian clothes stood every few meters on both sides of the lane. Others were in position on the rooftops.
A half hour later, most members of the demolition battalion were climbing soaking wet up the opposite bank of the Flood Dragon River, cold rays of moonlight shining down on their faces. The remaining troops took advantage of the confusion along the river either to escape into the nearby brush or to let the current take them far enough downriver to climb up onto the bank unobserved, wring out their clothes, and take off for home in the dark of night.
A hundred or more members of the demolition battalion stood on the opposite bank of the river like chickens dumped into the pot. As they looked around at each other, some were in tears, others were secretly pleased. After observing his disarmed and disheartened troops, Lu Liren spun around and ran back toward the river, intending to drown himself. But his troops grabbed him and wouldn’t let go. So he stood on the riverbank, deep in thought for several minutes before looking up and shouting across the river at the noisy crowd, “Sima Ku, Sima Ting, just you wait. I’ll be back one day with a vengeance! Northeast Gaomi Township belongs to us, not you! You may control it today, but someday, when all is said and done, it’ll be ours again!”
Well, let Lu Liren and his men go lick their wounds. I had my own problems to attend to. As to whether I’d drown myself in a river or down a well, eventually I chose the river, because I’d heard that rivers empty into the ocean. That year when the Bird Fairy had first displayed her powers, a dozen or more double-masted ships had sailed down the river.
I watched the demolition battalion soldiers struggling to cross the Flood Dragon River under the cold rays of moonlight. Splashing and tumbling and crawling, they stirred up the river, sending waves in all directions. Sima’s troops were not stingy with their ammunition. They fired their weapons into the river, churning the water as if it were aboil. If they’d wanted to destroy the demolition battalion, it would have been like shooting fish in a barrel. But choosing to intimidate them instead, they only killed or wounded a dozen or so men. Years later, when the demolition battalion fought its way back as an independent unit, every officer and soldier who faced a firing squad felt that the punishment did not fit the crime.
I waded slowly out toward the deep water; the surface, calm once again, reflected shards of light, thousands of them. Water grasses ensnared my feet; fish nibbled at my knees with their warm little mouths. I kept walking forward, until the water rose above my navel. I felt spasms in my gut — unbearable hunger. Then Mother’s intimate and revered, incomparably graceful breasts floated into my brain. But she had smeared hot pepper juice on her nipples, and had reminded me over and over, “You’re seven years old, time to stop nursing.” How come I’d had to live to the age of seven? Why hadn’t I died before reaching that age? Tears slid down my cheeks and into my mouth. I really ought to die, and not allow all those unclean foods to contaminate my mouth and digestive tract. Emboldened by the thought, I took several more steps forward, and the water suddenly swallowed up my shoulders; I could sense the rush of dark currents along the riverbed. I steadied my feet on the bottom to resist the powerful current. A swirling eddy drew me to it, and I was terrified. As the mud under my feet was being swept away by the rapid current of the river I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper and being pushed forward, straight into that fearful eddy. I fought to resist the force and began to scream.
Just then I heard Mother’s shouts: “Jintong — Jintong, my son, where are you …”
That was followed by a series of shouts from my sixth sister, Niandi, First Sister Laidi, and a familiar yet somehow alien thin voice; I guessed it was my second sister, the one with rings on all her fingers, Zhaodi.
I shrieked as I fell forward and was swallowed up by the eddy.
When I awoke, the first thing I saw was one of Mother’s wonderfully erect breasts, its nipple gently observing me like a loving eye. The other one was already in my mouth, taking pains to tease my tongue and rub up against my gums, a veritable stream of sweet milk filling my mouth. I smelled the heavy fragrance of Mother’s breast. I later learned that Mother had washed the pepper oil off her nipples with the rose-scented soap Second Sister, Zhaodi, had given her as an act of filial respect, and that she had also dabbed some French perfume in the cleavage between.
The room was aglow with lamplight; a dozen or more red candles had been stuck in silver candelabras on high altars. I noted that several people were seated and standing around Mother, including Sima Ku, my second brother-in-law; who was showing off his new treasure: a cigarette lighter that ignited every time he pressed the top. Young Master Sima observed his father from a distance, indifferent, no trace of intimacy.
Mother sighed. “I ought to give him back to you. The poor thing doesn’t even have a name.”
Sima Ku said, “Since my name, Ku, means a warehouse, let’s fill it with grain — Hang. We’ll call him Sima Liang.”
Mother said, “Did you hear that?” Mother said. “You are now Sima Liang.”
Sima Liang cast an indifferent glance at Sima Ku.
“Good lad,” Sima Ku said, “you remind me of myself when I was
young. Mother-in-law, I thank you for protecting the life of our Sima heir. From this day on, you can look forward to enjoying life. Northeast Gaomi Township is our dominion.”
Mother responded with a noncommital shake of her head. “If you want to be truly filial,” she said to Zhaodi, “you can store up some grain for me. I don’t ever want to go hungry again.”
The following night, Sima Ku organized a great celebration in honor of the national victory in the War of Resistance and his own return to his homeland. Eight surrounding scholar trees were festooned with a cartload of firecrackers, then the men smashed two dozen pig iron woks and dug up a cache of explosives buried by the demolition battalion, with which they fashioned a device that would make a huge explosion. The firecrackers popped and cracked half the night, bringing down all the leaves and small branches from the eight scholar trees. The dazzling splinters of metal from the big device lit up half the sky. They slaughtered a dozen pigs and another dozen head of cattle, then dug up a dozen vats of vintage liquor. Filling large platters with the cooked meat, they laid them out on tables set up in the middle of the street; everyone could help themselves by using the bayonets stuck into the meat to cut off as much as they wanted; if you sliced off a pig’s ear and tossed it to one of the dogs hanging around the table, no one said a word. The vats of liquor were placed beside the tables, each with a ladle hanging on its side. Anyone wanting a drink helped himself; if you felt like taking a bath in the stuff, no one cared. That day was made for village gluttons. The eldest son of the Zhang family, Zhang Qian’er, ate and drank himself dead right there on the street. As they were carrying off his corpse, liquor and meat sprayed from his mouth and nose.