by Li Rui
31
I counted, sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy, seventy-one, seventy-two … what was it that kept splashing on my face? I couldn’t let go—I had to hold the rock drill. Eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty-five, eighty-six … what was it that kept splashing on my face? I saw that the hammer handle was all red. I shouted, Stop! Look at your hands!
He didn’t stop. He said, Ugly Baby, don’t let go, we said one hundred. Then he picked up the count, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one-hundred!
Only when he reached one hundred did he stop swinging that eighteen-pound sledge. Sweat rained from his head, heat rose from his scalp. It was more like the hottest days of summer than the coldest days of winter.
Quick, take a look at your hands.
He opened his hands and I saw that they were covered with blood; I saw a bloody red hand. He smiled and said, It’s nothing, just a little blood.
I said, You’re going to kill yourself, take a break.
Still smiling, he said, My worn-out hands indicate that I’m still not sufficiently tempered. I need to strengthen myself with more striking and polishing!
I hurried over to the fire and grabbed a handful of wood ash and sprinkled it on his hands. Only when I grabbed that bloody hand of his did I realize it was trembling. I pressed his hand to my chest and said, Kugen’r, Kugen’r, what is this all about? Are you trying to kill yourself? All of us cripples together can’t do all the work, how do you expect to do it alone? You’re only human. Your hands are made of flesh, aren’t they? What are you doing? No matter what, I can’t let you continue today. You go home at once!
He was still smiling. He said, Ugly Baby, why are you crying? Is there a revolution where blood doesn’t flow? If we can change the face of Stunted Flats, a little blood is nothing. I’d willingly sacrifice myself!
I pressed the ash into his hand and said, I don’t like to hear that sort of talk. Sacrificing someone comes too easily. If we’re talking sacrifice, let a couple more of these cripples sacrifice themselves. Life is suffering, life is a burden.
He snatched back his hand and said, I’ve already planned it. Our Stunted Flats has a total of twelve valleys, big and small. On average, one can be put in order every two years, and it will take twenty-four years to put them all in order. By then we’ll plant grain on the good flat land in the valley and on the slopes construct fish-scale pits for holding water, and build terraces and plant fruit trees….
I continued, We’ll build a hydroelectric station, build a small school—you can be the teacher and the principal … you must’ve said all this eighty times. It’s all a dream, right?
His eyes lit up like two lanterns in the middle of the day. He said, Ugly Baby, it’s not a dream.
I said, By the time all that happens, how old will you be? Eighty? Ninety?
He said, It doesn’t matter. We’ll build an old-folks home and all of us old people will live there. There’ll be a doctor and a nurse; there’ll be nothing to worry about—there’ll be someone to take care of our food and clothes.
I said, Why, of course, it’ll be no different from an emperor living in a golden palace. If it’s not a dream, what is it? There’s only one emperor under Heaven—if everyone wants to be emperor, isn’t that a dream? Besides, won’t the earthworks we built the first two years be swept away as soon as the water from the mountains increases? Where are we going to find good flat land? Things only get worse when man opposes or contests with Heaven, so will there be any fruit to eat? Other than eating a few extra rations and wasting some energy, what else will we get? Tell me!
He said, We must possess the spirit of the Foolish Old Man who moved the mountains. We mustn’t retreat the moment we encounter difficulty.
I said, In the end, didn’t the Foolish Old Man have help from the immortals? Who do we have? Other than you, the only person of sound body, there are only cripples. Everyone is a damned cripple. If all of us cripples damn well became the Foolish Old Man, we’d all be just a bunch of crippled foolish old men and nothing would get done.
My words immediately extinguished those two lamps. He shook his head and said, None of you understands me; none of you understands what I am really doing. He turned to measure up that patch of stone at his feet. He said, Ugly Baby, Chairman Mao says, “Wherever there is struggle there is sacrifice, and death is a common occurrence.” Sometimes I’d like to sacrifice myself to show all of you. If I sacrificed myself, then you would understand what I am really doing, you would know what it is I’m thinking. After six years, I realize more clearly than ever why sacrifice is happiness to some people. None of you can understand what I am saying; it’ll never be clear to you. If one person dies, nothing will get done, but only at death can a person truly and finally accomplish everything he has thought about doing. None of you knows the meaning of the word “ideal”—that’s my duty. Chairman Mao says, “The serious problem is the education of the peasantry.” But sometimes I think the only way any of you will ever understand the word “ideal” is through the sacrifice of one person. This is my duty. I should be like all revolutionary martyrs and awaken the masses with my own blood, shake the people from their numbness. It’s my duty. One day I will accomplish this; one day I will accomplish everything I want. I want to accomplish everything Zhao Yingjie is capable of.
The sun was in my eyes. I looked up, and all I could see was the back of his head as he faced that patch of stone while grasping the handle of the hammer stained with his blood. His hair looked like a mess of grass on account of his previous strenuous exertions, and now under the sun it glowed as if it had caught fire. That pile of stones seemed to have understood what he said, because the hole just opened also shone under the sun. I really felt like an ignorant beast, like a wooden post. I vaguely felt that what he said must be good educated words, but I damned well couldn’t figure out what he was talking about. He stood tall and large under the sun, the messy grass on top of his head burning like flames, the patch of stone before us also glowing like fire.
I said, Kugen’r, does your hand still hurt?
He didn’t look around.
I said, Kugen’r, does your hand still hurt?
Still he did not turn around. He said, Ugly Baby, go tell the others to take shelter in the cave while I plant the dynamite.
His wild hair was enflamed under the high sun. The bloody hammer handle stood upright and motionless, next to which, in the distance, I could see Tianzhu running toward us. He was shouting, Kugen’r, Kugen’r, you have to stop work for the day, something has happened in the village! Uncle Gimpy hanged himself!
Everyone heard. On that patch of stone, all the cripples stood up, stunned, motionless on that patch of stone. The sun still en-flamed that wild hair.
This time someone really did die! This time someone really was sacrificed! Heavens, what did Uncle Gimpy do?
Tianzhu continued shouting, Stop work, go back to the village, something’s happened, Uncle Gimpy hanged himself!
Someone said, Impossible, he was at last night’s meeting.
Tianzhu was panting like an ox. He said, I already sent two of my kids to Nanliu Village to fetch Uncle Chuandeng. Hurry!
From behind, I saw that head of flame tremble. I heard it say, I never saw that the class struggle in our village was so complicated.
Could anyone have foreseen a hanging? Heavens!
32
Then I saw his eyes.
I finally saw them, a bunch of people gathered on that patch of stone. I shouted, Kugen’r, Kugen’r, you have to stop work for the day, something has happened in the village! Uncle Gimpy hanged himself! All those lowered heads suddenly looked up under the sun, everyone with their mouth and eyes wide open, like a bunch of clay figures thrust up out of the earth. I shouted again, Stop work, go back to the village, something has happened, Uncle Gimpy hanged himself!
Humi said, Impossible, he was perfectly fine at last night’s meeting.
Then I saw his eyes. I said, I already sent two of my kids to Nan
liu Village to fetch Uncle Chuandeng. Hurry! Can’t you see this is fucking important? Is this for real? If it’s not for real, who’s going to lie in the coffin Uncle Chuandeng is going to build? You? Are you going to fucking lie in it, Humi?
Humi lowered his head and said, You’re so crude, swearing at folks. What did I ever do to you to make you hate me so much?
I said, Humi, if someone didn’t fucking swear at you every three days, you’d do nothing but spout nonsense. How can someone dead not be real?
Humi said, What did I ever do to you to make you hate me so much?
Then I saw his eyes. It was as if the matter had suddenly confused and frightened him. He was leaning on the bloody red handle of a sledge. His eyes looked like they were filled with lead, heavy and turbid, motionless. I stared at his eyes. The two of us went to see him this morning; we went, and he hanged himself. Tell me. What is this? If he didn’t hang himself on account of us, then why did he do it? No one else knew about us. Tell me. If it wasn’t on account of us, then who? Tell me. Is this what’s called handling matters? Tell me. That’s just great, the fox hasn’t been caught and a life has been forfeited. Tell me.
Those two eyes of his were as emotionless as two stone beads. He was completely oblivious to what I was asking him with my eyes. He was leaning on that sledge handle, shaking his head. He said, I never saw that the class struggle in our village was so complicated.
Fuck it all to hell. Not complicated? The guy just hanged himself! Tell me! Tell us to “never be careless,” “never be careless,” and still be careless. That’s just great. This fucking time there’s no need to sweep, to sweep clean—the guy is fucking dead, for fuck’s sake! How are we going to handle this?
Those two eyes of his were completely oblivious to what I was asking with my eyes. He said, I never saw that the class struggle in our village was so complicated, too complicated! As he spoke, he reached into his pocket for a handful of fried beans, which he tossed into his mouth and began to chew. Crunching noisily, he looked like a horse.
I saw his eyes and knew that I couldn’t count on him. This trouble was mine alone. I said, Humi, you take over Uncle Gimpy’s duties tonight—sleep in the stable and feed the donkeys.
Head down, Humi said, I’m not going. I’m scared.
I said, What the fuck are you scared of? A bachelor like you has nothing to worry about. What are you afraid of?
Humi said, If I had a wife, it’d be okay—with a partner, there’s nothing to fear. Besides, aren’t Tiecheng, Sanguai, and Laofan all poor unmarried guys? Why does it have to be me?
I said, Are you saying that as production team leader, I can’t order you? Do you fucking want to overturn the heavens? If you don’t fucking go, you needn’t ever work for the production team again, or earn work points!
Humi said, If I obey and go, isn’t that enough? Won’t I starve without work points? I don’t know what I owe you that makes you hate me so much.
I said, So what are you standing around for? Get going! When we get back we still have to kill two goats, prepare two meals for Uncle Chuandeng and his assistant, dig a grave for Uncle Gimpy—what a pain in the ass!
I woke that bunch of clay figures. After half of them left, I stopped him and said, Kugen’r, what are we going to do now that things have blown up like this?
He said, Tianzhu, I know what to do. I think that the more complicated class struggle becomes, the firmer we must be in our stand, the more determined we must be to see the struggle through to the end. I have to do this; I just need to try to figure out how to make the best use of it.
I knew he was completely oblivious to what I was asking with my eyes. I didn’t intend to say any more to him. When someone in your own village dies, what is there to say to an outsider? If you can’t take care of your own affairs, why worry outsiders? Isn’t it a waste of time to count on your sister-in-law to raise your son?
Tiecheng turned and asked, Tianzhu, where are we supposed to dig a grave for Uncle Gimpy and bury him?
I said, Do you have to ask? When he was alive, Uncle Gimpy hoed down at Fifteen Mu. He always said that when he died, he wanted to be buried there. Fifteen Mu originally belonged to the Cao family. Nothing ever went right for him in this motherfucking life; what are you going to say when a person dies? Let him be happy this once, let things work out this once, and let him keep watch over Fifteen Mu.
He turned toward me, those beady eyes of his on me, and said, Tianzhu, that won’t do. You can’t bury a rich peasant on his own land. It’s a political issue, this has grave political implications.
I knew he was completely oblivious to what I was asking with my eyes. I said, Everyone stay where you are. We are also democratic, and the important labor force of Stunted Flats is all here. Speak up, everyone: is it okay to bury Uncle Gimpy at Fifteen Mu? Those who agree, raise your hand!
The group of men, who had started to wander off like a bunch of goats on the slopes, looked back, staring blankly at me, without moving. I pressed them, Raise your damned hands!
They all raised their hands but him. About ten black arms shone in the barren land.
I said, Fine, the minority will obey the majority. Fifteen Mu it is.
He stared at me with those eyes of his. It was a waste of time. He was completely oblivious to what I was asking with my eyes.
He said, Tianzhu, I’ll go to the stable tonight. In the future, I’ll feed the donkeys; there’s no need to send anyone else, nor do you need to record the work points for me. I’m just one person, and I can do a little more work for the production team.
I said, Haven’t I already assigned Humi?
He said, No need. I hope no one will engage in any superstitious feudal activities on account of this matter! So saying, he pulled out a handful of fried beans.
I didn’t reply. It would have been a waste of time. Anyway, he wouldn’t listen or see anything but those few things he always talks about, or his fried beans. A person has to handle their own affairs, and I damn well wouldn’t count on anyone else.
33
I say “impossible” and he fucking tells me to go lay myself out in the coffin. To what do I owe your hating me so much? Besides, can you blame me for that? I walked in front, carrying a sack; I don’t know where she came from, but she ended up following me. If she hadn’t been wa-wa-ing, I never would have seen her. I was walking ahead and she was behind me going Wa-wa. I thought that if I headed into the woods, she’d be afraid to follow. Who could have foreseen that she was so determined to follow me? Who could have seen that by coincidence I was carrying a sack? If you spread a sack on the ground, isn’t it the same as mattress? You can’t blame me that a sack can motherfucking be used as a mattress, can you? You can’t blame me because she was determined to follow me, can you? I know why you hate me. Can you blame me that she kept following me, wa-wa-ing? I went into the woods to gather acorns—I was carrying the sack to gather acorns. But you blame me for spreading the sack on the ground like a mattress and not using it to gather acorns, don’t you? The deeper into the woods we went, the denser it got. There were just the two of us out there. Why did you marry such a dumb and mute woman? Like you, I couldn’t control myself. You couldn’t control yourself; could I? Besides, she’s dumb and mute. Fine, you say she’s a woman or a female animal. If she’s a female animal, it’s okay for you to use her, but not me? But you blame me for spreading the sack on the ground like a mattress and not using it to gather acorns, don’t you? There was no one else there but the two of us. A man and a woman, a male and a female, can you blame me? Deep in the woods, I stood there and she kept wa-wa-ing. I said, Don’t wa-wa, come over here. She came over. Tell me, could I control myself? The tree leaves rustled hua-la, hua-la; all around, it was nothing but hua-la, hua-la, till you couldn’t hear anything else. Hua-la, hua-la, hua-la, hua-la filled the sky and filled the ground. She just kept going Wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa. I said, My ancestors, my living ancestors, my damned ancestors! She just went on wa-wa-wa-ing. I know why you
hate me; can you blame me? She just went on wa-wa-wa-ing. The villagers all say that there is a Humi among the four dogs, and that it’s Third Dog. Why wouldn’t I be sure of it? I’d really like to take Third Dog away. Would that be okay? She just went on wa-wa-wa-ing. How do I know Third Dog is mine? I say he’s mine. Are you okay with that or not? You won’t admit it, so what do you hate me for? I may have done you wrong, but does that give you the right to tell me to lay myself out in a coffin? Does your telling me to go lay myself out in a coffin change anything? Third Dog’s father is still his father—if it’s me, nothing changes. Telling me to go lay myself out in a coffin doesn’t make Third Dog any more your son if he’s not. What’s the point in hating me? How was I to know she’d want to do it with me? How was I supposed to know that a sack spread on the ground was softer than a mattress? How was I to know the leaves were so deep? How was I to know that there was nothing but hua-la, hua-la? My ancestors, my living ancestors, my damned ancestors! She just kept going Wa-wa-wa. When my mother had me, the rice was in the middle of cooking; by the time I was born, the rice was burnt. So I’m called Humi, or “burnt rice.” Third Dog shouldn’t be called Third Dog; Third Dog ought to be called Sack, for if I hadn’t had that sack, there’d be no Third Dog! Sack, Sack, my son, when will you be able to stand in front of others and simply call me Dad? If you fathered him, you are his father; if you didn’t father him, you are not. Yes is yes. No matter what. No is no, no matter what. Third Dog is not Sack. Sack is Third Dog. Sack, my son, do you or don’t you know?