Mo Yan - The Garlic Ballads

“You got plenty,” the old man retorted. “So what do you have to complain about?”

The young man looked at Gao Yang as if seeking an ally. “Did you know that this old bastard was caught stirring the family ashes? When his son became an official in town, he left his old lady at home like some kind of grass widow. And so this one started sleeping with his own daughter-in-law—”

Before the young prisoner could finish, his aging cellmate threw the aluminum ladle at him, hitting him with such force that he grabbed his head and howled, as soup dripped down his face. The collision had chipped the ladle, which the old inmate picked up, standing as straight as his twisted torso would allow, his neck rigid, a venomous look on his face.

The young inmate, accepting the challenge, picked up his steamed bun, looked at it long and hard, then flung it at the old hooligan’s head, which was as bald as the steamed bun except for funny-looking tufts of hair along the sides. The bun landed in the middle of that broad, shiny head. The old man wobbled and stumbled backwards, wagging his head as if he were trying to shake something out of it. After careening off his bald skull, the gray bun bounced once on the floor in front of the young inmate, who snatched it out of the air and held it up to see if it had been damaged.

The entire episode made Gao Yang’s hair stand on end, but it cured his nausea. The rumblings in his belly also came to an abrupt end; as if a plug had been pulled, the water seemed to empty into his intestines and from there into his bladder. Now he had to pee.

When the old prisoner was finished filling the bowls with soup and a few wispy vegetables, a bit remained at the bottom of the basin. He looked at Gao Yang, then at the middle-aged man.

“Leave it for our friend here,” the latter demanded.

“Where’s your bowl?” the old inmate asked Gao Yang.

With his bladder about ready to burst, Gao Yang could barely stand straight, let alone speak.

The middle-aged inmate bent over and slid a wash basin out from under Gao Yang’s cot. Gray, with a red “9”stenciled on the side, it held a gray bowl for food and a pair of red chopsticks — plus the contrasting white of cobwebs and black of dirt and soot.

Gao Yang pressed his back hard against the gray wall to lessen the pressure on his bladder as much as possible. He observed that the middle-aged inmate was the only one who was confident about eating in front of him. The other two stood in separate corners, faces to the wall, bent over at the waist, necks scrunched down between their shoulders, holding their steamed buns with both hands against their abdomens, as if the buns were living objects that would scamper away if they loosened their grip. The would-be killer wolfed his food down, the young inmate chewed his food slowly and thoroughly, while the old man broke chunks off his steamed bun with trembling fingers and rolled them into doughy pellets, which he popped into his mouth and washed down with a mouthful of soup. His hands never stopped shaking, as if he were excited, or agitated, or nervous; and as he ate, a gummy liquid oozed from his festering tear ducts, under lids that no longer had any lashes.

The middle-aged inmate grunted between bites. The young one smacked his lips. By the time the middle-aged inmate had finished off the last bite of his bun, the old man was tossing the final doughy pellet into his mouth, and the young man smacked his lips for the last time. Then they exchanged hurried glances, lowered their heads, and slurped their soup.

The sounds produced a conditioned reflex in Gao Yang: the pressure against an invisible valve grew with each slurp, and the warm urine behind it seemed about to gush forth. His ears filled with garlicky soup sounds: slurping and tumbling inside his eardrums, straining against the walls of his bladder, swelling his urethra. For a brief moment he heard a fine watery spray and felt a warm liquid against his thighs.

After his cellmates had finished off their soup, the old one held his bowl in trembling hands and licked the bottom with his thick, purplish tongue, round and round. Then, still holding their bowls, all three men gaped at Gao Yang: his face was bathed in sweat — he could feel it puddling on his eyebrows — and he knew he must look like a wild man.

“Are you sick, buddy?” the middle-aged inmate asked crudely.

Gao Yang, too far gone to speak by then, concentrated every ounce of energy on an invisible valve that existed somewhere in his mind.

“There’s a jailhouse doctor, you know,” the man said.

Gao Yang doubled over and clutched his belly, then dragged himself to the door, where he was wracked by a urine shudder. He stood on his tiptoes, as if that could hold the valve in place, then banged the door with his fist. It clanged loudly.

Footsteps in the corridor — running — a guard. Gao Yang thought he heard the rifle butt rub against the guard’s pants as he ran. He kept banging on the door.

“What’s going on in there?” the guard yelled through the bars.

“We’ve got a sick man in here,” the middle-aged man replied.

“Who is it?”

“Number Nine.”

“No … not sick.” Gao Yang looked bashfully at his cellmates. “Have to pee … can’t hold it any longer—”

The middle-aged inmate shouted, intentionally drowning out Gao Yang’s complaint. “Open up, he’s at death’s door!”

The rattìe of keys, the bolt thrown back— clang —the door swung open. The guard held a rifle in his left hand and the keys in his right. “What’s the matter, Number Nine?”

Gao Yang bent over. “Comrade,” he said, “I have to pee … comrade

The guard, his face twisted in anger, kicked Gao Yang and forced him back into the cell. “Prick!” he cursed. “Who are you calling comrade?”

The door clanged shut.

Gao Yang banged his head against the door. “I didn’t mean ‘comrade,’” he wailed. “I meant ‘Officer,’ Officer Officer Officer — let me out, I can’t hold it back … can’t hold it back.…”

“You’ve got a chamber pot in there, you prick!” the guard shouted from the other side of the door. “Use it.”

Still holding his belly, Gao Yang spun around and, to the delight of his cellmates, flitted from one end of the cell to the other, searching for the chamber pot.

“Uncle … Elder Brother … Younger Brother … where is the chamber pot? Where is it?” He wept as he looked under all three cots; drops of urine oozed out each time he bent over.

His cellmates looked on and laughed.

“I can’t hold it back,” he sobbed. “I really can’t.”

The valve opened, releasing a blast of warm urine. His mind went blank as his legs began to quake and all the muscles in his body went slack. His legs felt scalded as that thing of his shuddered; he experienced the greatest sense of relief he had ever known.

The urine puddled at his feet, forming lovely patterns on the floor. “Hey, you, get the chamber pot for him, and hurry,” the iniddle-aged inmate snapped. “There’s probably more where that little bit came from.”

The young man dashed over to the wall, opened a tiny gray door beneath the window, and fished out a black plastic chamber pot. A foul stench filled the cell. “Piss in that, and be quick about it,” he said, giving Gao Yang a shove.

Gao Yang took it out with fumbling fingers and aimed it at the chamber pot. Revulsed by what he saw inside, he let go and made loud splashes as the stream hit. It was music to his ears. With enormous relief he closed his eyes, wishing he could listen to that sound forever.

A slap on the neck brought him rudely out of his trance. He had emptied his bladder in the chamber pot, its top now foamy.