The Garlic Ballads by Mo Yan Page B

him fifty-six thousand.”
    “That kind never has trouble getting money,” his wife said. “But people like us, who scratch a living out of the earth, will still be poor thousands of years from now.”
    “Count your blessings,” Gao Yang said. “Think back a few years ago, when we didn’t even have enough to eat. The past couple of years we’ve had good bleached flour for every meal, and our elders never had it that good.”
    “You come from a landlord family, and you can still say your elders never had it as good as us?” his wife mocked him.
    “What good did being landlords do them? They were too stingy to eat and too cheap to shit. Every fen went into more land. My parents suffered their whole lives. Mother told me once that before Liberation in ‘49 , they would start each year with eight ounces of cooking oil, and have six left at the end of the year.”
    “Sounds like some kind of magic to me.”
    “Nope. She said that when they cooked a meal they’d wet a chop-stick in water before dipping it in the oil. Then for every drop of oil that stuck to the chopstick a drop of water remained in the bottle. That’s how you start out with eight ounces and end up with six.”
    “People knew how to get by back then.”
    “But their sons and daughters learned what suffering is all about,” Gao Yang said. “If not for Deng Xiaoping, the landlord label would have stuck to me.”
    “Old Man Deng’s been in power for ten years now. I hope the gods let him live a few more.”
    “Anyone that high-spirited is bound to live a long time.”
    “What puzzles me is how senior officials can eat like kings, dress like princes, and have the medical care of the gods; then, when they reach their seventies or eighties and it’s time to die, off they go. But take a look at our old farmers. They work all their lives, raise a couple of worthless sons, never eat good food or wear decent clothes, and in their nineties they’re still out in the fields every day.”
    “Our leaders have to deal with all lands of problems, while we con cera ourselves with working, eating, and sleeping, period. That’s why we live so long—we don’t wear our brains out”
    “Then tell me why everyone wants to be an official and no one wants to be a peasant.”
    “Being an official has its own dangers. One slip and you re worse off than any peasant could possibly imagine.”
    A stalk of garlic snapped in two as she yanked it out of the ground. She whimpered.
    “Be careful,” Gao Yang grumbled. “Each one’s worth several fen.”
    “Why such a mean look?” His wife defended herself. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”
    “I didn’t say you did.”

    The police wagon passed through a red gateway and screeched to a halt, sending Gao Yang’s head sliding into the horse-faced young man. The scent of blood persisted, but the garlic smell was gone.

C HAPTER 6

    A prefecture head who exterminates clans,
A county administrator who wipes out families,
No lightheaded banter from the mouths of power:
You tell us to plant garlic, and that’s what we do—
So what right have you not to buy our harvest?
—from a ballad by Zhang Kou sung in front of the home of County Administrator Zhong after the glut

1.

    She drifted in and out of consciousness as she lay across Gao Ma’s back, her arms wrapped tightly around his powerful neck. When they crossed Following Stream, leaving one county and entering another, she had sensed that all ties between her and the past, between her and her home, between her and her kin—if they still counted as such—had been cut with one stroke. She could no longer hear the shouts of her father and brother, but felt them on her back. Tipped with golden barbs, they danced in the air before flying across the river and snagging on the tips of jute bushes. With her eyes closed she could concentrate on the sound of Gao Ma’s body crashing through the jute field, so densely packed it stopped even the wind, creating the gentle