The Garlic Ballads

The sound of the pail outside the door was joined by the voice of the guard who had screamed at them moments earlier: “Cook Han, a new man was put in here today — Number Nine.”

Cook Han, or whoever it was, pounded on the door. “Listen up, Number Nine. One steamed bun and a ladleful of soup per prisoner.”

The ladle banged against the pail, after which a basin slid through the hole in the door, followed by another. The first was filled with four steamed buns — gray, with a porcelain sheen — the second half-filled with soup, dark red, with globules of fat floating on the top, along with a few yellowed shreds of garlic.

The whiff of mildewed garlic thudded into Gao Yang’s awareness, causing immediate anxiety and nausea. His stomach gurgled like a restive pool; it seemed still inhabited by the three bottles of cold water he’d swilled down at noon. Spasms in his belly, a swelling in his head.

Each cellmate grabbed a steamed bun, leaving one, fist-sized and gray in color, with a shiny skin. Gao Yang knew it belonged to him, but he had no appetite.

The middle-aged inmate and his younger cellmate laid their bowls alongside the soup basin. The old man followed suit, then glanced at Gao Yang with his putrid eyes.

“Don’t feel like eating, eh, my man?” the middle-aged man said. “Probably haven’t digested all that rich food you had for breakfast, right?”

Gao Yang clenched his teeth to ward off the powerful feelings of nausea.

“Say, you old scoundrel, do the honors. And save some for him.” The middle-aged man’s voice carried the tone of authority.

The aging prisoner picked up a greasy ladle and buried it in the soup, stirring it for a moment. Then he lifted the ladle, taking care not to spill any, and with surprising deftness and balance filled the middle-aged inmate’s proffered bowl. He wore an obsequious grin. But the middle-aged man’s expression didn’t change a bit. The second ladleful was dispatched more quickly, with no attempt at deftness or balance, straight into the bowl of the youngest inmate.

“You old hooligan!” the young man yelled. “All I got was watery broth.”

“You got plenty,” the old man retorted. “So what do you have to complain about?”

The young man looked at Gao Yang as if seeking an ally. “Did you know that this old bastard was caught stirring the family ashes? When his son became an official in town, he left his old lady at home like some kind of grass widow. And so this one started sleeping with his own daughter-in-law—”

Before the young prisoner could finish, his aging cellmate threw the aluminum ladle at him, hitting him with such force that he grabbed his head and howled, as soup dripped down his face. The collision had chipped the ladle, which the old inmate picked up, standing as straight as his twisted torso would allow, his neck rigid, a venomous look on his face.

The young inmate, accepting the challenge, picked up his steamed bun, looked at it long and hard, then flung it at the old hooligan’s head, which was as bald as the steamed bun except for funny-looking tufts of hair along the sides. The bun landed in the middle of that broad, shiny head. The old man wobbled and stumbled backwards, wagging his head as if he were trying to shake something out of it. After careening off his bald skull, the gray bun bounced once on the floor in front of the young inmate, who snatched it out of the air and held it up to see if it had been damaged.

The entire episode made Gao Yang’s hair stand on end, but it cured his nausea. The rumblings in his belly also came to an abrupt end; as if a plug had been pulled, the water seemed to empty into his intestines and from there into his bladder. Now he had to pee.

When the old prisoner was finished filling the bowls with soup and a few wispy vegetables, a bit remained at the bottom of the basin. He looked at Gao Yang, then at the middle-aged man.

“Leave it for our friend here,” the latter demanded.

“Where’s your bowl?” the old inmate asked Gao Yang.

With his bladder about ready to burst, Gao Yang could barely stand straight, let alone speak.

The middle-aged inmate bent over and slid a wash basin out from under Gao Yang’s cot. Gray, with a red “9” stenciled on the side, it held a gray bowl for food and a pair of red chopsticks — plus the contrasting white of cobwebs and black of dirt and soot.