Mo Yan - The Garlic Ballads

Gao Ma laughed loud and long. “Now there’s a teacher who knows what it means to suffer!”

“There’s truth to the saying that warmth and comfort give rise to lurid desires, but hunger and cold produce thoughts of larceny,” Old Man Wang said. “Thieves and robbers ran wild a few years back, but there aren’t as many now as there once were. Adultery cases, on the other hand, are way up. If you’d been good and hungry, my boy, Jinju wouldn’t have a big belly today.”

An embarrassed Gao Ma said, “Grandpa Three, with us it’s love. Sooner or later we’ll get married.”

The old-timer shook his head. “My boy, there’s a dark cloud over your head. Blood will be spilled within a hundred days. Be careful, and stay indoors whenever possible.”

I don’t believe in that mumbo-jumbo,” Gao Ma said.

“You must believe,” Old Man Wang said cryptically. “Two suns appeared in the sky this spring. A bad sign. Over New Year’s I watched some TV at Gao Zhileng’s, and the man — or maybe it was a woman — on the screen sang a song that went, A great fire, a great fire, a great fire burns a corner of the Northeast.’ That was a bad sign, too.”

Gao Ma rolled over. Everything the old man said has come true, Gao Ma reflected. I got into trouble, and there was a forest fire in the Northeast. With someone sick at home, it’s easy to become a believer. There’s more to Old Man Wang than i thought.

“Well, back to the crops,” Old Man Wang said. “We can talk some more the next time the well dries up.”

I was happy back then, Gao Ma recalled, and when he thought about the teacher turning the millstone, he nearly laughed all over again. There was half a meter of water at the bottom of the well. I scooped it up for my garlic crop. The young shoots were green under the full moon, which seemed smaller and brighter. The air was fresh and clean, the garlic shoots sparkled like quicksilver, and silvery water slithered down the irrigation troughs. I had confidence back then. I placed my hopes on the crop. To me that garlic was everything. Now it’s all gone. I have nothing.

“That dog whelp at the weights and measures office took my scale.”

“No cursing allowed,” the policeman demanded.

“He said my scale wasn’t accurate, and when I opened my mouth to protest, he crushed the thing under his heel. Then he fined me ten yuan. All I could think was, the price of garlic dropped from sixty fen a pound to twenty, and finally all the way down to three. The agreements we signed with other counties to purchase our garlic were canceled, and when buyers came, they were turned back by the supply and marketing co-op. All to make things hard on garlic farmers. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got, and that’s when I jumped up on the wagon and started shouting slogans. The first was ‘Down with corrupt officials!’ and the other was ‘Down with bureaucrats!’ Find me guilty of whatever you want. It’s up to you. I’m all alone, so it doesn’t matter one way or the other. Cut off my head or put a bullet in it, even bury me alive if you want. It’s all the same to me. I hate you dog-bastard officials! All you know how to do is trample the people! I hate you!”

“Time for a smoke break, Grandpa Three,” Gao Ma said.

Old Man Wang edged the pail up alongside the well with his foot and squatted down.

The moon was so bright and clear the whole world seemed lighted up.

“Got your garhc crop fertilized, Grandpa Three?”

“Not this time. To hell with it,” Old Man Wang said blundy. “I don’t trust those money grubbers at the supply and marketing co-op. How do I know what they put in their fertilizer?”

“You re being too cautious. They can’t adulterate chemical fertilizers.”

“Like they say, there’s never been an honest merchant. You don’t think they get rich by being legitimate, do you?” Old Man Wang said spitefully. “It’s an imperial edict.”

“Just because it’s an imperial edict doesn’t mean it has to be that way forever, does it?”

“Forever and ever,” Old Man Wang said. “The frogs at Zhang Family Bay still don’t croak.”

“Was that an imperial edict, too? Which Emperor?”

“Let me pick up where I left off last time.”

Gao Ma drew his shoulders in. He felt a chill.

When the teacher slipped out of the classroom, Zhang Nine-five went up to the teacher’s desk, sat down, and took charge of the class, ordering all the little mischief makers to form two teams and fight it out. When that was done, he dispensed honors and punishments, just like an emperor. After several days of this, the teacher happened to observe Nine-five’s little game from his vantage point outside the door. He coughed to announce his presence before entering the room, where the students had quickly returned to their seats and were noisily reciting their lessons. Quickly bringing the class to order, the teacher asked, “Have you prepared your lesson, Nine-five?” Zhang Nine-five rose to his feet, leafed through his book, and replied, “Yes. I have.” “You little bastard,” the teacher muttered under his breath, “you call that preparing? … All right,” he said aloud, “let’s hear it.” Snapping his book shut, Zhang Nine-five looked up. Blah blah blah —he recited the entire lesson, every single word of it. The teacher nodded and said, “Take your seat, Nine-five.” But from that day on he treated Zhang Nine-five differendo spending far more time instructing him than he did any of the other students. And Zhang Nine-five took to his lessons like a cow takes to grass. In less than six months, the teacher had poured all his meager knowledge into his student’s head. It was time to move on, and on the eve of his departure he left a note for Zhang Nine-five: “Nine-five, Nine-five, with the heavenly constellations as my witness, you will have a meteoric rise in your career. I hope you don’t forget your old teacher.” Well, the next person on the scene was a teacher of vast learning who was also a remarkable judge of talent; he immediately waived Zhang Nine-five’s tuition. This act set in motion a series of frequent heart-to-heart talks between teacher and student, whose relationship could not have been closer. After one late-night talk, the teacher crawled into bed under the mosquito netting, leaving Nine-five to sleep on his desk. It was a summer night, the land mosquitoes dearly love. Again and again they stung the teacher through the netting. But Nine-five slept through the onslaught, his breathing calm and even. The bewildered teacher sat up and asked loudly, “Aren’t the mosquitoes biting you, Nine-five?” Nine-five replied, “There are no mosquitoes.” “No mosquitoes?” His teacher was amazed. “Aren’t you hot?” “Not at all,” Zhang Nine-five replied. “Let’s change places, Nine-five,” the teacher said. “You sleep under the netting and I’ll take the desk. What do you say?” “All right,” Nine-five agreed. And that’s what they did. When the teacher stretched out on top of the desk, cool breezes swept over him. Not a mosquito anywhere. He could not explain the mystery, though not for lack of trying. But then his thoughts were interrupted by a voice in the air: “Damned idiots! The Emperor’s gone, so stop wasting your time fanning the air above this poor pedant!” As the sound of the voice faded way, the swarm of mosquitoes regrouped overhead, united in their buzzing. The stifling heat returned with a vengeance, and the teacher jumped to his feet, a silent prayer on his lips: Save me, gods and spirits, and forgive me!