Mo Yan - The Garlic Ballads

He struggled to grab an invisible handle that was the only thing keeping him from falling into a stupor — like a man grasping a drooping willow branch as he sinks into a quagmire. The space before his eyes was light one minute, dark the next. In the darkness, all the demons danced; his dead parents and the cluster of red children leaped and spun, giggling as they circled him, tickling him under the arms or tweaking his ears or nipping him on the buttocks. Father wandered a glass-strewn street, willow switch in hand, frequendy stumbling for no apparent reason — sometimes intentionally, it seemed, and sometimes as if an invisible behemoth had pushed him. But every time he fell, either by design or by accident, he rose with shards of glass inlaid in his face, which sparkled and shone.

When Gao Yang reached out to grab the spirits, the darkness vanished, leaving only the giggles of spirits to reverberate near the ceiling. The emerging sun lit up the sky, but not his cell, even though he could make out the shapes of objects in it. The towering middle-aged inmate pounded angrily on the creaky door with both fists, while the other cellmates — one old and one young — raised their voices like wolves baying at the moon.

Thudding footsteps in the corridor signaled the approach of the guards. A face appeared at the opening. “Is this a rebellion or something?”

“It’s no rebellion. Number Nine’s so sick I think he’s dying.”

“This cell’s more trouble than all the others combined! I’ll tell the watch officer when he comes on duty.”

“He’ll be dead before then.”

The guard shone his flashlight on Gao Yang, who squeezed his eyes shut to keep out the blinding light.

“His color looks pretty rosy to me.”

“Because he’s got a fever.”

“Why all the fuss over a common cold?” The guard walked off.

Gao Yang returned to an agonizing realm of alternating light and darkness, where Father and Mother led little demons up to torment him. He could feel their breath and smell their odor. But, as before, when he reached out, they vanished, taking the darkness with them and leaving behind only the anxious faces of his cellmates.

Breakfast was slid in through the slot at the bottom of the door. He overheard his cellmates talking in hushed voices.

“Try to eat something, buddy,” the middle-aged inmate said as he held him by the shoulders.

He didn’t even have the strength to shake his head.

Some time later he heard the door open and felt a rush of fresh air fill the cell, which helped clear his head. One blanket after another was peeled away like layers of skin.

“What’s wrong?” It was a gentle, feminine voice. A simple question, so earnest and so warm. Dimly he saw the once-kindly face of his mother. Opening his eyes to gaze through strata of mist, he discerned the shape of a large white face atop a long white gown. The gown had an antiseptic smell; the wearer, the clean, soapy smell of an aristocratic woman.

It was an aristocratic woman, husky and thick-waisted, who held his wrist in icy fingers that moved up to his forehead, drawing the welcome antiseptic smell more powerfully to his nostrils. As he breathed it in greedily, the stuffiness of his chest began to dissolve. The scent of the woman gave him a powerful sense of well-being; an airy feeling of sadness, beauty, and blessedness all rolled into one cradled him. His nose ached — he was about to cry.

“Hold this down.” He watched her shake a glittering glass tube, then slip it under his armpit. “Hold it tight.”

A dark, gaunt, uniformed man wearing an unsure, uneasy expression stood behind the woman, hiding like a bashful child in front of strangers.

“You should be dressed,” the woman said.

He tried to say something in reply, but was unable to.

“That’s how you people brought him in,” the middle-aged inmate said. “Stripped to the waist and barefoot.”

“Warden Sun.” The woman turned to address the gaunt man behind her. “Can you have his family bring him some clothes?”

The warden nodded, then disappeared behind her.

“What’s it like, being in here?” he heard the warden ask.

“Great!” the young inmate boomed. “Cool, comfortable, a touch of Paradise! If not for those damned lice, that is.”

“Lice, you say?”

“No — at least none that can speak.”

Officer, how about dispensing some of that revolutionary humanism by getting rid of the lice in here?”

“That’s a reasonable request,” the warden said. “Dr. Song, have the infirmary make up some pesticide.”

“All together there are three of us in the infirmary. Where are we supposed to find the time to mix pesticide for every cell in the place?” Dr. Song grumbled as she removed the thermometer from under Gao Yang’s armpit. He heard her suck in her breath when she held it up to the fight.

From her leather bag she removed an instrument, draped it around her neck, and stuck the ends in her ears. Then she lifted a shiny, round metal object dangling from the end of a quivering rubber tube and bent over until her large white face was directly over his. The smell of her skin nearly sent him into another world, as the metal object moved heavily from spot to spot on his chest — a most pleasurable pressure.

If my life ends right now, in this cell, I’ll die fulfilled, he thought hazily. An aristocratic woman has touched my forehead and put her face next to mine, so close I can smell her natural fragrance and see the skin, fair as powder, below her neck when she bends over. It doesnt get any better than this.

She tapped him. “Roll over,” she said gently, then held up a glass tube with dark rings around its surface. It was filled with a golden fluid and tipped with a long silvery needle. He rolled over as he was told. Her fingers, so soft and gentle, so cool and refreshing, so wonderful, grabbed the band of his underpants and jerked them down, exposing his buttocks to the cold air, which touched his anus; every muscle tensed. Something even colder touched his left cheek and began spreading outward.

“Relax!” This time her voice was stern. “Relax your muscles. What are you afraid of? Havent you ever had a shot before?”

She smacked him on the rear. “How am I supposed to stick a needle in something this tight?”

What more could I ask of life? An aristocratic woman like this doesnt even care how dirty I am. She smacked my grimy ass with her clean hand! I could die here and now with no regrets.

Gently she rubbed the spot with two fingers. “What happened to your foot?” she asked. “Why is it so swollen?”

His thoughts turned to his ankle and the lacks rained on it by the policemen, and he was so overwhelmed by the pressure of the well-being he felt now that he was incapable of answering.

Again she smacked him on the rear, but this time that was followed by a bee sting. He heard her breathe heavily as she pushed the needle in, and felt her pinkie make painless little nicks in his skin. Never before had such tenderness settled upon him. Feeling as if his very soul were in suspended animation, he shook with sobs.

The doctor pulled the needle out. As she put her instruments into her medical kit, she said, “What are you crying for? It didn’t hurt that much.”

‘ He said nothing, for all he could think was, She’ll be leaving now that she’s given me the shot.

“Doctor,” the young inmate said, “I’m constipated. Would you check me out while you’re at it?”

“Why get rid of it? Let it stay put,” she told him.

“That’s no way for a doctor to talk.”

“How am I supposed to talk to a little hooligan like you?”

“You have no right to call me a little hooligan. Your daughter and I were schoolmates. We even considered marriage.”