Yan Lianke: Lenin's Kisses

The first person to head into the fields that day was Jumei, leading three of her surtwin 1daughters — her three little nins. 3They spread out with their crates, bags, and wicker baskets like flowers in a field of grass — each reaching one hand into the deep snow to pull out the ears of wheat, and then snipping them off with a pair of scissors in the other hand.

All of the villagers, including those who were blind or crippled, followed Jumei’s lead and went to harvest their own snow-covered wheat.

Everyone was very busy on this snow day.

The people gathering wheat were scattered like a herd of sheep through the white hills, and the clicking of their scissors echoed crisply across the snow-covered landscape.

Jumei’s family plot was positioned against the wall of the gorge, abutting two adjacent plots and opening onto a path that led up to Balou’s Spirit Mountain. Her several- mu -large plot was oddly shaped, but was basically a large square. Jumei’s eldest daughter, Tonghua, was blind. She never went to work in the fields, and instead would sit in a corner of the courtyard for a while after each meal before eventually going back inside. She had never ventured beyond the entrance to the village, where the path up to the ridge began, and regardless of where she went, all she could see was an indistinct haze. At high noon, she could see a light pink sheet. She didn’t actually know that what she was seeing was the color pink, and instead described it as being like running her hand through muddy water. In the end, however, what she saw was basically pink.

Tonghua didn’t know that snow is white, or that water is clear. She didn’t know that tree leaves turn green in the spring, turn yellow in autumn, then fall off and turn white in winter. Accordingly, she was expected only to dress and feed herself, and paid scant attention to this hot blizzard in the middle of the sweltering summer. Meanwhile, Jumei’s second and third daughters, Huaihua and Yuhua, together with her youngest, Mothlet, all followed their mother like a flock of chicks to harvest the snow-covered wheat.

The landscape was completely transformed. A pristine white sheet covered the mountains and valleys, broken only by a river that, from above, appeared as black as oil. Jumei and her daughters were harvesting wheat in those snow-covered fields, their hands red from the cold even as their foreheads were covered with a sheen of perspiration.

It was, after all, still summer.

Jumei led her daughters through the rows. They resembled a three-pronged wheat drill, and left the snow-covered field looking as though it had been the site of a cock- or dogfight. Some neighbors came over the ridge, and one, upon seeing the piles of wheat along the path, called out to Jumei:

“Old Ju, I want to come over to your place this year to borrow some grain. . ”

She responded, “If there is any left, you are certainly welcome to have some.”

Another added, “If you don’t have any to spare, you could always simply marry out one of your daughters.”

Jumei smiled happily, but didn’t reply.

The neighbors returned to harvest the wheat in their own fields.

The entire snow-covered ridge became a swarm of activity. If a blind man’s family found itself shorthanded, even the blind man would need to go to the fields and help out. A sighted person would lead him there, pull a wheat stalk out of the snow, and place it in his hand; and in this way the blind man would make his way down the row until there were no more stalks, and then would turn around and head back. Cripples and paraplegics also had to work in the fields just like wholers. 5They would sit on a slick wooden board, and each time they cut a handful of wheat they would nudge their body forward, sliding the board along with them. In this way, they were able to move through the snow even faster than wholers. Those who didn’t have a board would instead use a wicker dustpan, pulling themselves over the snow along the ridges on the underside of the pan. The deaf-mutes were not impeded from working, and given that they could neither speak nor hear they therefore had less to distract them, and consequently were able to work even faster and more diligently than everyone else.

By noon, the entire ridge was suffused with the scent of freshly cut wheat.

When Jumei and her daughters reached the other end of the field, they saw three men waiting there for them. These men were wholers from the city, and they whispered to each other as they gazed out over the snow-covered fields. The snowy wilderness muffled the sound of their voices, the way a well might swallow an errant snowflake. Jumei said, “Go see what they are doing.” Before these words had even left her mouth — and before Huaihua had a chance to respond — Mothlet had risen up out of the white snow and glided over to the ridge.

Huaihua said, “Mothlet, you’re like a spirit.”

Mothlet looked back and said, “Sis, are you hoping that I die and return as a ghost?”

Mothlet appeared to float like an insect or sparrow. Her tiny figure startled the men, one of whom stepped forward and knelt down before her.

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“How tall are you?”

She became bashful. “Mind your own business.”

He laughed. “You look like you’re only about three feet tall.”

She retorted angrily, “ You’re the one who is only three feet tall.”

He chuckled as he patted her head, and told her that he was the township chief. He gestured to the other two men, explaining that one was the county chief and the other was his secretary. He asked her to go find whoever was in charge of the village and have that person come over — telling her to say that the township chief had personally come to investigate the hardships the village had suffered.

Mothlet laughed and replied, “Grandma Mao Zhi is my grandmother, and my mother is right over there gathering wheat.”

The township chief gazed at her with an odd expression, then laughed. “Really?”

She replied, “Really.”

The township chief turned to look at the county chief, who had gone pale. The corners of his mouth were twitching, as though something was either tugging at his heart or pulling at his face. He slowly shifted his gaze from the top of Mothlet’s head over to the vast snow-covered region next to the mountain, whereupon his face gradually reverted back to its normal hue.

The county chief’s baby-faced secretary was tall and slender, and he kept staring at Yuhua and, particularly, Huaihua — whose svelte physique was accentuated by a bright red sweater that made her look like a flame blazing in the snow. As a result, he never managed to shift his gaze over to Mothlet, who intuited what he was thinking and glared at him angrily. She eventually called out over her shoulder,

“Ma, someone’s asking after you — he’s looking for Grandma!”

Mothlet fluttered mothlike back to the field.

The other girls all turned toward their mother, as though it were unprecedented and somehow inappropriate for someone to come looking for her. Jumei’s front pockets were stuffed full of wheat, making her look as though she were pregnant. She lumbered forward, removed the bag of grain from her shoulders, and laid it down in the snow. She then wiped the sweat from her brow with her ice-cold hands and stared at Mothlet.

“Who is that over on the ridge?”

“It is the township chief, the county chief, and his secretary.”

Jumei briefly felt faint, but immediately recovered her composure. Even though she had already wiped her brow, sweat began to pour out like vapor erupting from a steamer. She stood up and used her hand to support the bag of wheat hanging from her chest. Gazing at her daughters, she said coldly,