Big Breasts and Wide Hips

by Mo Yan

  On my way over, an old laborer told me that Commander Ma Ruilian was the wife of the farm director, Li Du, in other words, the “first lady.” When I reported for duty, knapsack and bedding over my back, she was out at the breeding farm giving a demonstration on crossbreeding. Tied up in the yard were several ovulating female animals: a cow, a donkey, a ewe, a sow, and a domestic rabbit. Five breeding assistants — two men and three women — in white gowns, masks over their mouths and noses, and rubber gloves, were holding insemination utensils, standing like attack troops ready for battle. Ma Ruilian had a boyish haircut; her hair was as coarse as a horse’s mane. She had a round, swarthy face; long, narrow eyes; a red nose; fleshy lips; a short neck; a thick chest; and full, heavy breasts like a pair of grave mounds. Shit! Jintong cursed to himself. Ma Ruilian my ass! That’s Pandi! She must have changed her name because of the rotten reputation the name Shangguan had earned. That being the case, Li Du had to be Lu Liren, who was once called Jiang Liren, and maybe before that something else Liren. The fact that this name-changing couple had been sent here must have meant they were out of favor. She was wearing a short-sleeved cotton shirt of Russian design and a pair of wrinkled black trousers over high-topped sneakers. She was holding a Great Leap cigarette in her hand, the greenish smoke curling around her fingers, which looked like carrots. She took a drag on her cigarette. “Is the farm journalist here?” A sallow-faced middle-aged man wearing reading glasses ran out from behind the horse-tethering rack, bent at the waist. ‘Tm here,” he said. “Here I am.” He was holding a fountain pen poised over an open notebook, ready to write. Commander Ma laughed loudly and patted the man on his shoulder with her puffy hand. “I see the chief editor himself has come.” “Commander Ma’s unit is where the news is,” he said. “I wouldn’t trust anyone else to come.” “Old Yu here is a real zealot!” Ma Ruilian complimented him as she patted him on the shoulder a second time. The editor paled and tucked his neck down between his shoulders, as if afraid of the cold. Later on, I learned that this fellow, Yu Zheng, who edited the local newsletter, had been the publisher and editor of the provincial Party Committee newspaper until he was labeled a rightist. “Today I’m going to give you a headline story,” Ma Ruilian said, giving the urbane Yu Zheng a meaningful look and taking a deep drag on the stub of her cigarette, nearly burning her lips. Then she spat it out, tearing the paper and sending the few remaining shreds of tobacco floating in the air — this little trick of hers was enough to frustrate anyone scavenging cigarette butts on the ground. As she exhaled the last of the smoke, she asked her assistants, “Ready?” They responded by raising their insemination utensils. The blood rushed to her face as she wrung her hands and clapped uneasily. She then took out a handkerchief to dry her sweaty palms. “Horse sperm, who has the horse sperm?” she asked loudly. The assistant holding the horse sperm stepped forward and said, “Me, I’ve got it,” the words muffled by the mask over his mouth. Ma Ruilian pointed to the cow. “Give it to her,” she said, “inseminate her with the horse sperm.” The man hesitated, looking first at Ma Ruilian and then at his fellow assistants, lined up behind him, as if he wanted to say something. “Don’t just stand there,” Ma Ruilian said. “Strike while the iron’s hot if you want to get things done!” With a mischievous look, the assistant said, “Yes, ma’am,” and carried the horse sperm over behind the tethered cow. As her assistant inserted the insemination utensil into the cow, Ma Ruilian’s lips were parted and she was breathing heavily, as if the instrument were being inserted in her and not in the cow. But immediately afterward, she issued a stream of rapid commands: She ordered that the bull’s sperm envelop the sheep’s egg and that the ram’s sperm merge with the rabbit’s egg. Under her direction, the donkey’s sperm was inserted into the sow and the boar’s seed injected into the donkey’s womb.

  The editor of the farm newsletter’s face was lusterless, his mouth hung slack, and it was impossible to tell if he was about to burst into tears or burst out laughing. One of the assistants — the one holding the ram’s sperm — a woman with curled lashes above small but bright, jet black eyes with very little white showing — refused to carry out Ma Ruilian’s order. She tossed her insemination utensil into a porcelain tray and removed her gloves and mask, revealing the fine hairs on her upper lip, a fair nose, and a nicely curved chin. “This is a farce!” she said angrily.

  “How dare you!” Ma Ruilian snarled as she smacked her palms together, her eyes sweeping across the woman’s face. “Unless I’m mistaken,” she said darkly, “you have been capped.” She reached up as if taking a hat off her head. “Not a cap you can remove at will. No, you’re an ultra-rightist, and that will be with you forever, a rightist who will always wear the cap. Am I right?” The woman’s head slumped weakly to her chest, as if her neck were a frost-laden blade of grass. “You’re right,” she said, “I am a lifelong ultra-rightist. But, as I see it, these are unrelated issues, one scientific and one political. Politics are fickle, always shifting, where black is white and white is black. But science is constant.” “Shut your mouth!” Ma Ruilian jerked and sputtered like an out-of-control steam engine. “I am not going to let you spread your poison in my breeding farm! Who are you to be talking about politics? Do you know the name of politics? Do you know what it eats? Politics are at the heart of all labor! Science divorced of politics is not true science. There is no science that transcends politics in the proletariat dictionary. The bourgeoisie has its bourgeois science, and the proletariat has its proletarian science.” “If proletarian science,” the woman responded, risking it all, “insists on crossbreeding sheep and rabbits in the hope of producing a new species of animal, then as far as I’m concerned, that so-called proletarian science is nothing more than a pile of dog shit!”

  “Qiao Qisha, how can you be so arrogant?” Ma Ruilian’s teeth were chattering from anger. “Take a look at the sky and then look down at the ground. You should understand the complexity of things. Calling proletarian science dog shit makes you an out-and-out reactionary! That comment alone is enough for us to throw you in jail, even put you in front of a firing squad! But seeing how young and beautiful you are …” Shangguan Pandi, now Ma Ruilian, softened her tone. “I’m willing to let it go this time, but I demand that you carry out your breeding mission! If you refuse, I wouldn’t care if you were the flower of the medical college or the grass of the agricultural college. I can break that horse with the gigantic hooves, so don’t think I can’t do the same with you!”

  The well-meaning newsletter editor spoke up: “Little Qiao, do as Commander Ma says. This is, after all, a scientific experiment. Over in Tianjin District, they successfully grafted cotton onto a parasol tree, and rice onto reeds. I read that in The People’s Daily. This is an age of breaking down superstitions and liberating thought, an age of creating human miracles. If you can produce a mule by mating a donkey with a horse, who can say you won’t produce a new species of animal by mating a sheep with a rabbit? So go ahead, do as she says.”

  The flower of the medical college and ultra-rightist, Qiao Qisha, felt her face turn beet red, and indignant tears swam in her eyes. “No,” she said obstinately, “I won’t do it. It flies in the face of common sense!”

  “You’re being foolish, little Qiao,” the editor said.

  “Of course she’s foolish. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be an ultra-rightist!” Ma Ruilian shot back, offended by the editor’s concern for Qiao Qisha.

  The editor lowered his head and held his tongue.

  One of the other assistants walked up. “I’ll do it, Commander Ma. Sheep sperm into a rabbit is nothing. I don’t care if you want me to inject Director Li Du’s sperm into the sow’s womb.”

  The other assistants broke up laughing, while the newsletter director managed to cover up his laughter by pretending to cough. “Deng Jiarong, you bastard!” Ma Ruilian cursed, enraged. “This time you’ve gone too far!”

  Deng removed his mask, exposing his insolent horselike face. With a reckless sneer, he said,
“Commander Ma, I don’t have a cap, permanent or not. I come from three generations of miners, as red and upright as they come, so don’t try to intimidate me the way you did with little Qiao.” He turned and walked off, leaving Ma Ruilian to vent her anger on Qiao Qisha. “Are you going to do it, or aren’t you? If you don’t, I’ll take back your grain coupons for the rest of the month.”

  Qiao Qisha held back, and held back, until she could hold back no longer. Tears coursed down her cheeks and she cried openly. She picked up the insemination utensil in her gloveless hand, stumbled over to the rabbit — it was a black animal tethered by a piece of red rope — and held it down to keep it from struggling free.

  At that moment, Pandi, now Ma Ruilian, spotted me. “What are you doing here?” she asked coldly. I handed her the note from the farm management director. She read it. “Go to the chicken farm,” she said. “They’re short one laborer.” Then she turned her back on me and said to the newsletter editor, “Old Yu, go turn in your story. You can leave out the unnecessary parts.” He bowed. “I’ll bring the galleys over for you to check,” he said. Then she turned to Qiao Qisha. “In accordance with your wishes, Qiao Qisha, your transfer out of the breeding station is approved. Get your things and report to the chicken farm.” Finally, she turned back to me. “What are you waiting for?” “I don’t know where the chicken farm is,” I said. She looked at her watch. “That’s where I’m headed now, so come with me.”

  She stopped when the whitewashed wall of the chicken farm came into view. We were on the muddy path leading to the chicken farm, which ran past the munitions scrapyard; the little ditch alongside the road ran red with rust, and the fenced-in yard was overrun by weeds that covered the caterpillar tracks of crumbling tanks, their rusting cannons pointing into the blue sky. Tender green morning glory vines were wrapped around the remaining half of a heavy artillery piece. A dragonfly rested on the muzzle of an antiaircraft gun. Rats scampered in and out of the gun turret. Sparrows had made a nest in one of the cannons to raise their fledglings, feeding them emerald-colored insects. A little girl with a red ribbon in her hair sat dully on the blackened tire of a gun carriage, watching a couple of little boys bang rocks against the controls of one of the tanks. Ma Ruilian, who had been staring at the scrapyard desolation, turned to me. No longer the commander who was ordering people around at the breeding station, she said, “How’s everyone at home?”

  I turned away and stared at the antiaircraft gun, the morning glories appearing like little butterflies, in an attempt to hide my anger. What kind of question was that, coming from someone who’d gone and changed her name?

  “There was a time when your future couldn’t have been brighter,” she said. “We were happy for you. But Laidi ruined everything. Of course, it wasn’t all her fault. Mother’s foolishness also …”

  “If you have nothing more for me,” I said, “I’ll report to the chicken farm.”

  “Well, I see you’ve developed a temper since I last saw you!” she said. “That’s encouraging. Now that our Jintong is twenty, it’s time to sew up the crotch of his pants and throw away the nipple.”

  I swung my bedding over my shoulder and headed off to the chicken farm.

  “Stop right there! There’s something you need to understand. Things have not gone well for us these past few years. Every time we open our mouths, people accuse us of rightist leanings. We’ve had no choice.” She took the slip of paper out of her pocket and reached into a little bag hanging around her neck for a pen. After scribbling something, she handed the slip to me and said, “Ask for Director Long and give him this.” I took it from her. “Is there anything else? If so, let’s hear it.” She hesitated for a moment, then said, “Do you have any idea how hard it’s been for old Lu and me to get to where we are today? Please don’t cause us any trouble. I’ll do what I can for you in private, but in public …”

  “Don’t say it. When you decided to change your name, you ended your relationship with the Shangguan family. You’re no sister of mine, so don’t give me any of that Til do what I can for you in private.’“

  “Terrific! Next time you see Mother, tell her that Lu Shengli is doing fine.”

  Paying her no more attention, I started walking, following the rusty, symbolic fence that had gaps big enough to allow a cow in to graze among the relics of war, heading for the white wall of the chicken farm and feeling quite pleased with how I’d handled myself. I felt as if I’d won a decisive battle. Go to hell, Ma Ruilian and Li Du, and go to hell all you rusty gun barrels, like a bunch of turtles sticking your heads out of your shells. All you mortar chassis, all you artillery gun shields, all you bomber wings — you can all go to hell. I rounded some towering plants and found myself at the edge of a field covered with a sort of fishnet between two rows of red-roofed buildings. Inside, thousands of white chickens were in constant, lazy movement. A single large rooster with a bright red comb was perched high up, a king surveying his harem, crowing loudly. The clucking of the hens was enough to drive a person crazy.

  I handed the slip given to me by Ma Ruilian to a one-armed woman, Director Long. One look at her cold face told me that this was no ordinary woman. “You’ve come at the right time, youngster,” she said after reading the note. “Here are your duties. Every morning you will rake up the chicken droppings and deliver them to the pig farm. Then you’ll go to the feed processing plant and bring the coarse chicken feed we’ll need back with you. In the afternoons, you and Qiao Qisha, who will be here soon, will deliver the day’s output of eggs to the farm management office, and from there you’ll go to the grain storehouse and bring back enough fine chicken feed for the next day. Got it?” “Got it,” I replied as I stared at her empty sleeve. She sneered when she saw where I was looking. “There are only two rules around here. One, no lying down on the job, and two, no sneaking food.”

  The moon lit up the sky that night as I lay on some flattened cardboard boxes in the storage room of the chicken farm dorm, finding it hard to sleep amid the soft murmuring of hens. I was next to the women’s dorm, which held a dozen or so chicken tenders. Their snores came though the thin wall, along with the sound of someone talking in her sleep. Cheerless moonlight streamed in through the window and the gaps in the door, illuminating the words on the boxes:

  AVIAN FLU VACCINE

  KEEP DRY AND OUT OF SUNLIGHT

  FRAGILE, DO NOT STACK

  THIS SIDE UP

  Slowly, the moonlight slipped across the floor, and I heard the roar of East Is Red tractors out in the early summer fields, driven by members of the night-shift tractor detail cultivating virgin land. The day before, Mother had walked me to the head of the village, holding in her arms the baby left behind by Birdman Han and Laidi. “Jintong,” she said, “remember that the tougher the job, the harder you have to work at living. Pastor Malory used to say that he’d read the Bible from cover to cover, and that’s what it all came to. Don’t worry about me. Your mother is like an earthworm — I can live wherever there’s dirt.” I said, “Mother, I’m going to watch what I eat so I can send you the surplus.” “I don’t want you to do that,” she said. “As long as my children eat their fill, that’s enough for me.” When we reached the bank of the Flood Dragon River, I said, “Mother, Zaohua has become an expert at…” “Jintong,” Mother said in frustration, “During all these years, not a single girl in the Shangguan family has taken advice from anyone.”

  Sometime in the middle of the night, a commotion broke out in the chicken house. I jumped to my feet and stuck my face up against the window, where I saw chickens seething under the tattered net like foam-capped waves. A green fox was leaping amid them in the watery moonlight, an undulating ribbon of green satin. Raising the alarm, the women next door rushed outside half dressed, one-armed Commander Long in the lead, armed with a black pistol. The fox had a fat hen in its mouth and was scampering along the base of the wall, the hen’s foot scraping the ground. Commander Long fired; flames shot from the muzzle of her pistol. The f
ox stopped in its tracks and dropped the hen. “You hit it!” one of the women shouted. But the glossy eyes of the fox swept the women’s faces. Its long face was haloed in moonlight; it wore a sneer. The women were stunned by that mocking grin, and Commander Long’s arm fell weakly to her side. But then she steeled herself and fired another round. It didn’t come close, did, in fact, raise a puff of dirt in the vicinity of the women. With no more concerns, the fox picked up the hen and slipped nonchalantly through the metal ribs of the enclosure, the women watching its exit as if in a trance. Like a puff of green smoke, the fox disappeared among the war relics in the scrapyard, where the grass grew tall and will-o’-the-wisps dotted the landscape — a fox paradise.

  The following morning, my eyelids felt weighted down as I pulled a full cartload of chicken droppings over to the pig farm. When I turned the corner of the scrapyard, I heard a shout behind me. I turned and saw the rightist Qiao Qisha running briskly toward me. “The director sent me to help you,” she said indifferently. “You push from behind,” I said, “and I’ll pull.”

  The two wheels of the heavy cart kept getting stuck in the soft earth of the narrow road, and each time that happened, I had to turn and tug with all my might, my arched back nearly touching the ground. At the same time, she pushed with everything she had. Once the wheels were free, she’d look over at me before I turned around. The sight of her jet black eyes, the fine hairs on her upper lip, her fair nose and nicely curved chin, as well as her expression, which was filled with hidden meaning, reminded me of the fox in the chicken coop. That look lit up a dark place in my brain.