Mo Yan - The Garlic Ballads

… They say officials live to serve the people,

so why do they treat the common folk as enemies?

Heavy taxes and under-the-table levies, like ravenous beasts,

force the farmers to head for the huls.

The common folk have a bellyful of grievances,

but they dare not let them out.

For the moment they open their mouths, electric prods close them fast…

At this point in his song something hot stung his blind eyes, as if tears had materialized from somewhere, and he remembered all he had suffered in the county lockup.

The policeman held the hot electric prod up to his mouth until he could hear it crackle. “Shut your trap, you blind fuck!” the policeman spat out venomously. Then the sparking prod touched his lips, and lightning hit him like a thousand needles. His teeth, his gums, his tongue, and his throat — bursts of pain shot to the top of his head and down to the rest of his body. A scream tore from his throat, sending chills up his spine. Blood gushed from his withered eye sockets. “You can make me eat shit,” he said, “but I couldn’t keep my mouth shut if I wanted to. There are things inside me that must be said. I, Zhang Kou, am linked forever to the townspeople….”

“Good for you, Great-Uncle Zhang Kou!” a couple of young fellows shouted. ‘There are half a million people in Paradise County, and yours is the only mouth that dares to speak out!”

“Zhang Kou, you might be elected county head!” someone jeered.

Everyone says our real leaders are chosen by the masses.

But why do the servants keep spending all their masters’ money?

We common folk sweat blood like beasts of burden,

Just so corrupt, greedy officials can grow fat and lazy!

At this point in his song, Zhang Kou bit off each word, loud and crisp, whipping his audience into a frenzy of wild talk.

“Shit! They call themselves public servants, do they? Bloodsucking demons is what they are!”

“They say you can become a county leader for fifty thousand yuan a year!”

“The guest house lays out a fancy spread every day, with enough food to last us a year.”

“Rotten to the core!”

An old man’s voice joined the discussion: “You young people better watch what you re saying. You, too, Brother Zhang Kou. Remember what happened to the people who trashed the government offices!”

Zhang Kou sang his response: “Good brother, stand there quietly and listen to my story…,”

The words were barely out of his mouth when several raucous men elbowed their way into the crowd. “What are you people doing here? You’re blocking traffic and disrupting order. Break it up, move on!”

Realizing at once that the voices belonged to the policemen who had dealt with him in the lockup, Zhang Kou recommenced plucking his erhu:

I sing of a sexy young girl with nice big tits and a willowy waist Sashaying down the street, turning the heads of single young men… .

“Zhang Kou, are you still singing those dirty rhymes?” one of the policemen asked.

“Officer, don’t be too quick to judge me,” Zhang Kou replied. “As a blind man, I have to rely on this mouth of mine for a living. I’m no criminal.”

A young fellow in the crowd spoke up: “Uncle Zhang Kou must be tired after singing all afternoon. He deserves a rest. Come on, folks, dig into your pockets. If you can’t spare ten yuan, a single copper is better than nothing. If everybody pitches in, he can treat himself to some good meaty buns.”

Coins clanked and paper notes rustled on the ground in front of him. “Thank you,” he said repeatedly, “thank you, one and all, young and old.”

“Officers, good Uncles, your rations come from the national treasury, and you make a good enough wage that you’ll never miss the few coins that drop between your fingers. Show some pity for a blind old man.”

“Shit! What makes you think we’ve got any money?” one of the policemen retorted angrily. “You earn more from one acre of garlic than we do from working our asses off all year long!”

“More talk about garlic? Maybe your grandsons will be stupid enough to plant garlic next year!” a young man jeered.

“You there,” the policeman demanded, “what did you mean by that?”

“What did I mean? Nothing. All I’m saying is no more garlic for me. From now on I’m going to plant beans and maybe a little opium,” the young man grumbled.

“Opium? How many heads do you have on your shoulders, you little punk?” the policeman demanded.

“Just one. But you’ll see me begging on the street before I’ll plant another stalk of garlic!” The young man walked off.

“Stop right there! What’s your name? What village?” The policeman ran after him.

“Everybody, run! The police are at it again!” someone shouted. With yells and shrieks, the crowd dispersed in all directions, leaving Zhang Kou in a blanket of silence. He cocked his ear to determine what was going on, but his rapt audience had slipped away like fish in the depths of the ocean, leaving behind a pall of silence and the stink of their sweat. From somewhere off in the distance came the sound of a bugle, followed by the noise of children on their way into a schoolhouse. He felt the warmth of the late-autumn afternoon sun on his back. After picking up his erhu , he groped around on the ground for the coins and paper money the people had thrown at his feet. Gratitude flooded his heart when he picked up an oversized ten-yuan bill; his hand began to quake. The depth of feeling toward his anonymous benefactor was unfathomable.

Back on his feet again, he negotiated the bumpy road, staff in hand, ‘ heading toward the train station and abandoned warehouse he and several other old vagrants called home. Ever since his release from the lockup, where he had been subjected to a barrage of physical abuse, he had earned the veneration of local thieves, beggars, and fortunetellers — the so-called dregs of society. The thieves stole a rush sleeping mat and enough cotting wadding to make him a nice soft bed, and the beggars shared their meager bounty with him. Over the long days and weeks he was on the mend, these were the people who cared for him, restoring in his mind a long-dormant faith in human nature. So, subordinating his own safety to a love for his outcast companions, he sang a ballad of garlic loud and long to protest the mistreatment of the common people.

About midway home, along with the smell of withered leaves on a familiar old tree, he also picked up the biting, metallic scent of rust-resistant oil. He barely had time to react before a hand clamped down on his shoulder. Instinctively, he drew his head down between his shoulders and squeezed his lips shut, fully expecting to be roundly cuffed. But whoever it was merely laughed amiably and said in a soft voice, “What are you flinching for? I wont hurt you.”

“What do you want?” he asked in a quaking voice.

“Zhang Kou,” the man said softly, “you havent forgotten what an electric prod does to the mouth, have you?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Really?”

“I’m just a blind old man who sings tales to get by. That’s how I keep from starving.”

“I’m only thinking about your well-being,” the man said. “No more songs about garlic, do you hear me? Which do you think will give out first, your mouth or the electric prod?”

“Thanks for the warning. I understand.”

“That’s good. Now don’t do anything foolish. A big mouth is the cause of most problems.”