The Garlic Ballads

They shuffled down the street, birds following their progress overhead and sending a foul rain down on prisoners and guards alike. But no one made a sound, as if oblivious to the assault, and no one raised a hand to wipe the black and white bird droppings from his head or shoulders.

The road seemed endless as Gao Yang passed an occasional cluster of buildings with slogans painted on the sides, or a construction site with pale yellow derricks reaching the clouds; but always there were crowds of gawkers, including one hideous — looking, bare-assed juvenile who flung a cow chip at them, although it was impossible to tell if he was trying to hit a prisoner, or a policeman, or both, or was just moved to throw something. Whatever his intent, the missile caused a brief disruption in the procession, but not enough to stop it.

They entered a wooded area and headed down a footpath barely wide enough for three people shoulder to shoulder. The policemen brushed against the mossy bark of trees, making soft scraping sounds. Sometimes the path was strewn with golden leaves, at others covered with pools of foul green water in which tiny red insects snapped and flipped like miniature shrimp; the surface was alive with red insects taking off or landing.

A heavy rain began to fall as they crossed some railroad tracks, raindrops thudding onto shaved heads like pebbles. As Gao Yang tucked his head down between his shoulders, he carelessly banged his injured ankle on a railroad tie, sending sharp pains from the outside of his foot all the way up to the hollow of his knee. The skin above his ankle ruptured, releasing a pool of pus that ran into his shoe. My brand-new shoes, he thought sadly. Officers, can I stop to squeeze the pus out of my foot?” he pleaded with his police escorts.

They ignored his request, like deaf-mutes. No wonder: they cleared the tracks just as a freight train chugged by, its wheels sending clouds of dust into the air and passing so close it nearly separated Gao Yang from the seat of his pants. It also seemed to take the rain with it.

A rooster with immature wing feathers came flapping out of some bushes across the road, cocked its head, and sized up a puzzled Gao Yang. What’s a rooster doing out here in the middle of nowhere? While he was caught up in this question, the rooster rushed him from behind, its neck bobbing with each step, and pecked his injured, pus-filled ankle, causing such intense pain that he nearly broke the iron grip of the policemen on either side of him. Startled by the sudden, violent movement, they dug their fingers into his upper arms.

The little rooster stuck like glue, pecking at him every couple of steps, while the policemen, ignoring his screams of pain, kept propelling him forward. Then, as they negotiated the down slope of a hill, the rooster actually plucked a white tendon out of the open sore on Gao Yangs ankle. Digging in with its claws, its tail feathers touching the ground, its neck feathers fanned out, and its comb turning bright red, it tugged on the tendon with all its might, pulling it a foot or more until it snapped in two. Gao Yang, reeling, turned to see the little rooster swallowing it like one big noodle. The gaunt policeman leaned over and stuck his pointy mouth up to Gao Yang’s ear. “Okay,” he whispered, “he’s plucked out the root of your problem.” The stubble around his mouth brushed against Gao Yang, who involuntarily drew in his neck. The man’s garlic breath nearly bowled Gao Yang over.

Having crossed the tracks, they turned west, then north. Shortly after that they headed east, then doubled back to the south — or so it seemed to Gao Yang. They were walking through fields with waist-high plants on whose branches objects like Ping-Pong balls grew. Green in color, the pods were covered with a pale fuzz. Gao Yang had no idea what they were. But the fat policeman bent down, picked one, popped it into his mouth, and chewed until frothy green slobber dribbled down his chin. Then he spat a sticky gob into the palm of his hand. It looked like something scraped out of a cow’s stomach.

The fat policeman held him fast while his gaunt companion kept tugging forward. Gao Yang’s arms twisted as he lurched sideways, snapping the handcuff chain taut. The stalemate held for a moment, until the gaunt policeman stood still, breathing hard. Yet even though he was no longer pulling Gao Yang forward, his iron grip intensified. The fat policeman bent down and stuck the gooey mass onto Gao Yang’s injured ankle, then covered it with a bristly white leaf. A coolness spread upward. “An old folk remedy for injuries,” the policeman said. “Your sore will heal within three days.”