The Garlic Ballads

“Let him bunk with the condemned prisoner,” the policeman in the center said to his colleagues.

“Want to bunk with a condemned man, Number Nine?”

“Anything, just so you don’t put me back with them!”

“Okay, but make sure he doesnt try to kill himself. That’ll be your job, for which you’ll get an extra bun at each meal.”

4.

The condemned man, sallow-faced, clean-shaven, with green eyes that rolled around his sunken sockets, terrified Gao Yang, who was in his new cell only a few seconds before realizing what a terrible mistake he’d made. Except for a single cot, the cell was furnished only with a rotting straw mat. The condemned man, manacled hand and foot, hunkered in the corner and glared menacingly at Gao Yang, who nodded and bowed slightly. “Elder Brother, they sent me to keep you company.”

The condemned man’s lips split into what passed for a smile. His face was the color of gold foil, and so were his teeth. “Come over here,” he said with a nod.

Gao Yang was wary, but the manacles were reassuring — how much damage could he do all trussed up like that? Cautiously he approached the condemned man, who smiled and nodded, urging him to come closer, and closer, and closer.

“Elder Brother, is there something you want?”

The words were barely out of Gao Yangs mouth when the condemned man reached out and banged Gao Yang’s head with the handcuff chain. With a cry of pain, Gao Yang crawled and rolled over to the cell door, followed by the condemned man, who hopped in pursuit, murder in his eyes, his manacles scraping the floor. Gao Yang slipped under the outstretched arms and darted over to the bed, only to be driven back to the door when the man came after him again. That went on another dozen times or so, until the condemned man plopped down on the bed and said through clenched teeth, “Don’t come near me or I’ll bite your head off. Since I’m going to die, I want somebody to lead the way.”

An exhausted Gao Yang forced himself to stay away that night. The overhead light, which was left on twenty-four hours a day, allowed a measure of well-being as he curled up on the floor alongside the door, putting as much distance between him and his cellmate as possible.

The condemned mans greenish eyes stayed open all night long, and whenever Gao Yang started to doze off, he stood up. Gradually the threat of danger sharpened Gao Yang’s senses: at the first sign of a rattle he sprang to his feet and readied himself for another confrontation.

At dawn the condemned man finally rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He looked dead already. Gao Yang recalled hearing people talk when he was just a boy about the scary business of spending the night with a corpse. They said that late at night, when everyone’s asleep, the dead rise to haunt the living, chasing them round and round until cockcrow, when they finally lie down again. The night just past was pretty much like that, except that spending the night with a corpse could earn you a tidy sum, while all he’d get for watching his condemned cellmate was an extra bun at mealtime.

At this rate, he thought, I’ll be dead in a month.

He could kick himself.

Old man upstairs, get me out of here. If you do, I’ll never complain, never fight, never ask for help, even if someone dumps a load of shit on my head.

CHAPTER 17

Townsfolk, hard work and sweat never hurt anyone.

Dig wells, lug water, fight the drought:

Watering the garlic makes it grow an inch a night—

Each inch is the gold you turn into cash….

— from a ballad by Zhang Kou urging the townsfolk to fight the April drought

1.

A bright full moon rose slowly like a voluptuous flower, its beams carrying a strong bouquet of new posies that settled over the vast wild-woods. Dry, warm breezes, unique to April, swept across the fields. No rain had fallen in months, leaving the land as parched and chapped as the farmers’ lips. Crops were coated with rust; newly emerged garlic shoots hung their heads in dejection.

Glimmers of lantern light dotted the fields where farmers irrigated their garlic crops by hand. Gao Ma was one of them. Well water was at a premium — no more than twenty bucketfuls came up before the dry bottom reappeared — so he trotted more than a hundred yards to a piece of land farmed by the old graybeard Wang Changli to pass the time while he waited for the next buildup.

Old Man Wang’s well was outfitted with a windlass, but the water level was no higher than anyone else’s. It had just gone dry when Gao Ma ran up.

“Take a break, Grandpa Three, and have a smoke,” Gao Ma said.

“Sure, why not?” the old man said, edging his wooden bucket over to the rim of the well with his foot.

“How about a story?” Gao Ma rolled a cigarette and handed it to Old Man Wang.