vehicles pulled over when they heard the shriek of the siren, and Gao Yang watched a hounded tractor with an open-air cab crash into a scarred willow tree at the side of the road. Jittery cyclists were left in their dust, making Gao Yang’s chest swell with pride. Have you ever gone this fast before? he asked himself. No, never!
2.
As they sped along, Gao Yang detected the scent of fresh raw garlic in the young man’s blood. Surprised, he breathed in deeply to make sure he wasn’t mistaken. No, it was garlic, all right—raw and clean, like bulbs fresh from the ground, a drop of nectar still clinging to the spot where the stalk has snapped.
Gao Yang touched the drop of nectar with his tongue, and his taste buds were treated to a cool, sweet taste that relaxed him. He surveyed his three acres of garlic field. It was a good crop, the white tips large and plump, some at a jaunty angle, others straight as a board. The garlic was moist and juicy, with downy sprouts beginning to appear. His pregnant wife was on her hands and knees beside him, yanking garlic out of the ground. Her face was darker than usual, and there were fine lines around her eyes, like veins of spreading rust on a sheet of iron. As she knelt, knees coated with mud, her childhood deformity—a stunted left arm that inconvenienced her in everything she did—made the job harder than it ought to have been. He watched her reach down and pinch the stalks with a pair of new bamboo chopsticks; the effort made her bite her lip each time, and he felt sorry for her. But he needed her help, for he’d heard that the co-op was setting up shop in the county town to buy the garlic crop at slighdy over fifty fen a pound, higher than last year’s peak price of forty-five. He knew the county had expanded the amount of acreage given over to garlic this year; and with a bumper crop, the earlier you harvested yours, the sooner you could sell it. That was why everyone in the village, women and children included, was out in the fields. But as he looked at his pitiable pregnant wife, he said, “Why not rest awhile?”
“What for?” She raised her sweaty face. “I’m not tired. I just worry the baby might come.”
“Already?” he asked anxiously.
“I figure some time in the next couple of days. I hope it waits till the harvest is in, at least.”
“Do they always come when they’re due?”
“Not always. Xinghua was ten days late.”
They turned to look behind them, where their daughter sat obediently at the edge of the field, her sightless eyes opened wide. She was holding a stalk of garlic in one hand and stroking it with the other.
“Careful with that garlic, Xinghua,” he said. “Each stalk is worth several fen.”
She laid it down and asked, “Are you finished, Daddy?”
“We’d be in trouble if we were,” he said with a chuckle. “We wouldn’t earn enough to get by.”
“We’ve barely started,” her mother answered tersely.
Xinghua reached down to run her hand over the pile of garlic beside her. “Yi!” she exclaimed. “The pile’s really getting big. We’ll make lots of money.”
“I figure we’ll bring in over three thousand pounds this year. At fifty fen a pound, that makes fifteen hundred yuan.”
“Don’t forget the tax,” his wife reminded him.
Oh, right, the tax,” Gao Yang muttered. “Not to mention extra-high expenses. Last year fertilizer cost twenty-one yuan a sack. This year it’s up to twenty-nine ninety-nine.”
“They think it sounds better than thirty,” she grumbled.
“The government always deals in odd numbers.”
“Money’s hardly worth the paper it’s printed on these days,” his wife complained. “At the beginning of the year you could buy a pound of pork for one-forty, now it’s up to one-eighty. Eggs went for one-sixty a handful, and they were big ones. Now it’s two yuan, and they’re no bigger than apricots.”
“Everyone’s getting rich. Old Su from the business institute
2.
As they sped along, Gao Yang detected the scent of fresh raw garlic in the young man’s blood. Surprised, he breathed in deeply to make sure he wasn’t mistaken. No, it was garlic, all right—raw and clean, like bulbs fresh from the ground, a drop of nectar still clinging to the spot where the stalk has snapped.
Gao Yang touched the drop of nectar with his tongue, and his taste buds were treated to a cool, sweet taste that relaxed him. He surveyed his three acres of garlic field. It was a good crop, the white tips large and plump, some at a jaunty angle, others straight as a board. The garlic was moist and juicy, with downy sprouts beginning to appear. His pregnant wife was on her hands and knees beside him, yanking garlic out of the ground. Her face was darker than usual, and there were fine lines around her eyes, like veins of spreading rust on a sheet of iron. As she knelt, knees coated with mud, her childhood deformity—a stunted left arm that inconvenienced her in everything she did—made the job harder than it ought to have been. He watched her reach down and pinch the stalks with a pair of new bamboo chopsticks; the effort made her bite her lip each time, and he felt sorry for her. But he needed her help, for he’d heard that the co-op was setting up shop in the county town to buy the garlic crop at slighdy over fifty fen a pound, higher than last year’s peak price of forty-five. He knew the county had expanded the amount of acreage given over to garlic this year; and with a bumper crop, the earlier you harvested yours, the sooner you could sell it. That was why everyone in the village, women and children included, was out in the fields. But as he looked at his pitiable pregnant wife, he said, “Why not rest awhile?”
“What for?” She raised her sweaty face. “I’m not tired. I just worry the baby might come.”
“Already?” he asked anxiously.
“I figure some time in the next couple of days. I hope it waits till the harvest is in, at least.”
“Do they always come when they’re due?”
“Not always. Xinghua was ten days late.”
They turned to look behind them, where their daughter sat obediently at the edge of the field, her sightless eyes opened wide. She was holding a stalk of garlic in one hand and stroking it with the other.
“Careful with that garlic, Xinghua,” he said. “Each stalk is worth several fen.”
She laid it down and asked, “Are you finished, Daddy?”
“We’d be in trouble if we were,” he said with a chuckle. “We wouldn’t earn enough to get by.”
“We’ve barely started,” her mother answered tersely.
Xinghua reached down to run her hand over the pile of garlic beside her. “Yi!” she exclaimed. “The pile’s really getting big. We’ll make lots of money.”
“I figure we’ll bring in over three thousand pounds this year. At fifty fen a pound, that makes fifteen hundred yuan.”
“Don’t forget the tax,” his wife reminded him.
Oh, right, the tax,” Gao Yang muttered. “Not to mention extra-high expenses. Last year fertilizer cost twenty-one yuan a sack. This year it’s up to twenty-nine ninety-nine.”
“They think it sounds better than thirty,” she grumbled.
“The government always deals in odd numbers.”
“Money’s hardly worth the paper it’s printed on these days,” his wife complained. “At the beginning of the year you could buy a pound of pork for one-forty, now it’s up to one-eighty. Eggs went for one-sixty a handful, and they were big ones. Now it’s two yuan, and they’re no bigger than apricots.”
“Everyone’s getting rich. Old Su from the business institute
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