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 gluttonous, 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!