Read Online The Garlic Ballads by Mo Yan - Free Book Online Page B

loaded cartons, cabinets, tables, chairs, stools. Probably helping some official move, he surmised as he became absorbed in the activity. But after a while, the sight of all that stuff was more than he could bear, so he looked away.
    Fourth Aunt knelt silently, her hair brushing the ground. When he heard a soft rattle in her throat, he assumed she must be asleep. Another image from the Cultural Revolution flashed before his eyes: his aging mother being vilified on her hands and knees. He shook his head to drive away some bottleneck flies straying from the vile puddle in front of the horse-faced young man. Mother was kneeling on bricks, her arms pulled behind her … she rested a hand on the ground to ease the pain, only to have it stepped on by a rough leather boot … she screamed … fingers bent and twisted so badly she couldn’t straighten them out….
    “Fourth Aunt,” he whispered. “Fourth Aunt…”
    She grunted softly, in what he took to be a reply.
    The restaurant delivery boy rode skillfully up on his bike. This time he carried the food in one hand and steered with the other as he threaded his way between a couple of white poplars, trailing the fragrance of vinegar and garlic.
    Gao Yang looked at the sinking sun, whose rays were growing gender and friendlier by the minute. He knew that the comrade policemen were by then dipping steamed dumplings in the vinegary, garlicky sauce; this held a hidden and frightful significance. When they finish their meal, he reminded himself, they’ll come out to put me into a shiny red van and take me … where will they take me? Wherever it was, it had to be better than being shackled to a tree, right? But who could say? Actually, it made no difference what happened, as he saw it. “The people’s hearts are made of steel, but the Law is a forge.” If I’m guilty, there goes my head. Another breeze rose up, rusding the leaves of the poplars and carrying the brays of a distant mule, which chilled the nape of his neck. He forced himself to stop thinking about what might happen.
    A woman carrying a bundle stumbled up to the compound gate, where she argued with a young man who wouldn’t let her pass. Failing to force her way past him, she took the long way around the poplar grove. Gao Yang watched her approach. It was Jinju, so heavy with child she could barely walk. She was weeping. The bundle in her hands was large and round, the exact shape and size of a human head. But when she got closer, he saw it was only a melon. Not having the heart to look her in the eye, he sighed and lowered his head. Compared with poor Jinju, he had no complaints. People ought to count their blessings.
    “Mother … Mother …” Jinju was so close he could all but touch her. “Mother … dear Mother … what’s wrong?”
    I’m not crying, Gao Yang reminded himself, I am not crying, I’m not
    Jinju fell to her knees besides Fourth Aunt and cupped the old lady’s gray, grimy head. She was sobbing and mumbling like an old woman.
    Gao Yang sniffled, closed his eyes, and strained to listen to the shouts of farmers calling their livestock out in the fields. The modulated, rhythmic braying of that mule fell upon his ears. It was the sound he feared most of all, so he looked back at Jinju and Fourth Aunt. The soft orange rays of the sun lit up Fourth Aunt’s face framed in Jinju’s hands.
    “Mother … it’s all my fault…. Mother … wake up….”
    Fourth Aunt’s lids rose slowly, but the whites of her eyes barely showed before the lids closed again, squeezing out a couple of sallow tears, which slid down her cheeks.
    Gao Yang watched Fourth Aunt’s white, prickly tongue emerge to lick Jinju’s forehead, like a bitch bathing her pup or a cow cleaning its calf. At first the sight disgusted him, but he reminded himself that she wouldn’t be doing that if her hands were free.
    Jinju took the melon out of her bundle, cracked it open with a well-placed thump, then scooped out some reddish pulp