Mo Yan - The Garlic Ballads

“If it’s government policy, then go ahead and take what you want,” Gao Yang mumbled. “Imperial grain levies, national taxes … they’re killing me, and I can’t raise a hand in my own defense.

The commodity-exchange official picked up a bundle of garlic and flipped it into the basket behind him. Again, two young boys who looked like puppets on a string were in charge of the basket. As Gao Yang watched his garlic flip end-over-end into the basket, his nose began to ache, and two large teardrops slid out of the corners of his eyes.

At high noon the blazing sun drained the energy out of Gao Yang and his donkey; the latter listlessly raised its tail and released a dozen or so road apples. That brought over a gray-uniformed man in a broad-billed cap who wrote out a slip of paper and handed it to Gao Yang. “A two-yuan fine for littering,” he said. Another man, this one in a white uniform and broad-billed cap, strolled up, wrote out a slip, and handed it to Gao Yang. “As sanitation inspector I’m fining you two yuan.”

He just stared at the environment and sanitation inspectors. “I don’t have any money,” he said weakly. “Take some garlic.”

3.

Night was falling when Gao Yang and Fourth Uncle finally reached the purchasing station in front of the cold-storage warehouse. The scales were manned by two operators whose faces had all the radiance of dead embers. After stiffly announcing the weights, the scale operators entered figures on their receipt pads with ballpoint pens. Gao Yang broke out in a cold sweat when he saw all the uniformed men patrolling the area.

“Well, we made it,” a relieved Fourth Uncle commented.

“Yeah, we made it,” he echoed.

Fourth Uncle was next in line, ahead of Gao Yang, and the look of anxious anticipation on his face made Gao Yang’s heart race, only to beat even faster and harder when he noticed the inspector standing next to the scale.

A uniformed man with a bullhorn climbed onto a red table. “Attention, farmers,” he announced. “The warehouse is temporarily suspending the purchase of garlic. We’ll notify local co-ops when we’re ready to open again, and they’ll get the word out to you.”

Gao Yang felt as if he had been clubbed. His head spun, and he had to clutch the donkey’s back to keep from falling.

“That’s it?” Fourth Uncle cried. “You stop buying just when I reach the scale? I’ve been on the road since midnight, almost twenty-four hours!”

“Go home, garlic farmers. Once we’ve cleared some space in the warehouse we’ll let you know.”

“I live fifteen miles away!” Fourth Uncle complained, his voice cracking.

The scale operator stood up, abacus in hand.

“Comrade, I paid a highway toll and a commodity tax …” said Fourth Uncle.

“Keep your receipts. They’ll still be valid the next time. Now go home, all of you. We’re working day and night. As soon as this load is safely stored, we’ll open for business again.”

People at the rear surged forward, screaming, shouting, bawling, swearing.

Still gripping his bullhorn, the man jumped down off the table and ran like mad, bent at the waist. The steel gate slammed shut just as a swarthy young man hopped onto the red table and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Shit! You have to go through back doors to get anything done — even at a crematorium! What chance does our garlic have?” He jumped down and disappeared amid the piles of garlic.

His place was taken by a pimply-faced youngster who shouted, “You inside the warehouse, I’ll impale your old lady on my dick!”

Roars of laughter.

Someone removed a scale hook and flung it at the galvanized-steel warehouse door. Chng! When the surging crowd knocked over the scales and smashed the table, an old man stormed out of the warehouse. “What is this, an uprising?”

“Grab the old bastard! Beat him! His son, Pocky Liu from the Commerce Department, gives the old bastard a hundred a month to be a gatekeeper!”

“Beat him— beat him —BEAT HIM!” Men rushed the gate and began pounding it with their fists.

“Let’s get out of here, Fourth Uncle,” Gao Yang urged. “Not selling our garlic is one thing. Getting into trouble is another.”

“I’d like to go up there and get my licks in!”

“Come on, Fourth Uncle, let’s get out of here. If we head due east, we’ll come out on the north side of the tracks.”

So Fourth Uncle turned his cart around and set out to the east, followed closely by Gao Yang, who was leading his donkey.

After a few hundred yards they looked back and saw that a fire had been set in front of the warehouse gate. A man whose skin showed up red ripped down the signboard and consigned it to the flames. “The cold-storage warehouse is actually called a ‘temperature-controlled warehouse.’ Gao Yang informed Fourth Uncle. “That’s what the sign said.”

“Who gives a shit what it’s called?” Fourth Uncle replied. “I hope they burn the fucker down!”

They were still watching when the gate fell and the crowd swarmed into the compound. Flickering light from the flames danced on people’s faces, even from that distance. Thunderous shouts carried over to Gao Yang and Fourth Uncle, that and the sound of glass splintering.

A black sedan drove up from the east. “The authorities!” Gao Yang said with alarm as the car screeched to a halt near the fire and the occupants jumped out. They were immediately pushed into the gutter as the mob began pounding the roof of the car with clubs, filling the air with dull thuds. Then someone dragged a burning log from the fire and crammed it into the besieged sedan.

“Let’s get out of here, Fourth Uncle!” Gao Yang insisted.

Fourth Uncle, beginning to share Gao Yang’s fear, smacked his cow on the rump with his switch.

As they headed down the road they heard a massive explosion behind them, and when they turned to look, they saw a fiery column rise into the air, higher than the building, lighting up the area for miles around. Not sure what he was feeling, ecstasy or terror, Gao Yang heard his own heartbeat and felt a clammy sweat on his palms.

4.

The two men skirted the county town and crossed the railroad tracks before Gao Yang breathed a sigh of relief, feeling like a man who has escaped from a wolves’ den. He couldn’t tell if Fourth Uncle shared his relief. If he listened carefully, he could still hear the din back at the warehouse.

After heading north for a mile or so, they heard the putt-putt of a diesel engine and the splashing of water a little east of the road, where a ring of pale lamplight was visible. The sound of water reminded Gao Yang how thirsty he was; Fourth Uncle must be just as thirsty, he figured, since he hadn’t eaten or drunk anything all day. “Watch my cart, Fourth Uncle, while I get us some water. The animals need to be fed and watered, since we still have a long ways to go.”

Reining in his cow in silent assent, Fourth Uncle edged his cart over to the side of the road, as Gao Yang took down a metal pail and headed toward the light, soon locating a narrow footpath amid some knee-high cornstalks whose leaves brushed his legs and pail. The lamplight was dim, yet he could tell that its source was probably no more than a couple of arrow shots from the road, although getting to it would not be easy. The sound of the diesel engine and splashing water remained constant, as if forever beyond his reach. At one point the path simply vanished, forcing him to thread his way through the field, careful not to trample any stalks. He couldn’t help noticing the difference between the rich soil beneath his feet and the mineral-poor dirt back home, far from town. Then the footpath reappeared, and a few steps later widened enough to accommodate a small cart. Shallow ditches separated it from rolling farmland that gave off an aromatic mixture of cotton, peanuts, corn, and sorghum, each odor quite distinct.