Читать онлайн «The Garlic Ballads: A Novel»

Mo Yan

The Garlic Ballads

Northeast Gaorni Township:

I was born there, I grew up there;

Even though there was plenty of misery,

These mournful ballads are for you.

Novelists are forever trying to distance themselves

from politics, but the novel itself closes in on politics.

Novelists are so concerned with “man’s fate” that they

tend to lose sight of their own fate. Therein lies their

tragedy.

— Joseph Stalin

CHAPTER 1

Pray listen, my fellow villagers, to

Zhang Kous tak of the mortal world and Paradise!

The nations founder, Emperor liu of the Great Han

Commanded citizens of our county to plant garlic for tribute….

— from a ballad by Zhang Kou, Paradise County’s blind minstrel

1.

“Gao Yang!”

The noonday sun beat down fiercely; dusty air carried the stink of rotting garlic after a prolonged dry spell. A flock of indigo crows flew wearily across the sky, casting a shadowy wedge. There had been no time to braid the garlic, which lay in heaps, reeking as it baked in the sun. Gao Yang, whose eyebrows sloped downward at the ends, was squatting alongside a table, holding a bowl of garlic broth and fighting back the waves of nausea rising from his stomach. The urgent shout had come in through his unlatched gate as he was about to take a sip of the broth. He recognized the voice as belonging to the village boss, Gao Jinjiao. Hastily laying down his bowl, he shouted a reply and walked to the door. “Is that you, Uncle Jinjiao? Come on in. ”

This time the voice was gentler. “Gao Yang, come out here for a minute. I have to talk to you about something. ”

Knowing the consequences of slighting the village boss, Gao Yang turned to his blind eight-year-old daughter, who sat frozen at the table like a dark statue, her black, beautiful, sightless eyes opened wide. “Dont touch anything, Xinghua, or you might scald yourself. ”

Baked earth burned the soles of his feet; the intense heat made his eyes water.

With the sun beating down on his bare back, he scraped caked-on dirt from his chest. He heard the cry of his newborn baby on the kang, a brick platform that served as the family’s bed, and thought he heard his wife mumble something. Finally, he had a son. It was a comforting thought. The fragrance of new millet drifted up on a southwestern breeze, reminding him that harvest was approaching. Suddenly his heart sank, and a chill worked its way up his spine. He wanted desperately to stop walking, but his legs kept propelling him forward, as the pungent odor of garlic stalks and bulbs made his eyes water. He raised his bare arm to wipe them, confident that he wasn’t crying.

He opened the gate. “What is it, Uncle?” he asked. “Ow! … Mother—!” Emerald bits streaked past him, like millions of green garlic stalks swirling in the air; something struck his right ankle, a dull, heavy, gut-wrenching blow. Momentarily stunned, he closed his eyes and assumed that the sound he heard was his own scream as he slumped to one side. Another dull thud behind his left knee. He screamed in pain— there was no denying it this time — and pitched forward, winding up on his knees on the stone steps. Dazed, he tried to open his eyes, but the lids were too heavy, and the pungent, garlicky air drew tears. Still, he knew he wasn’t crying. He raised his hand to rub his eyes, only to discover that his wrists were snared painfully by something cold and hard; two faint metallic clicks knifed into his brain.