Life and Death are Wearing Me Out by Mo Yan Read Free Book Online Page A

of the co-op, District Chief Chen and several of his armed bodyguards strode in through the gate. The lean district chief, with his deep sunken eyes, swayed as he walked; he was wearing an old army uniform. Farmers who had joined the co-op swarmed in after him, leading their livestock, all draped in red bunting, and carrying farm tools over their shoulders. Within minutes, the yard was filled with farm animals and the bobbing heads of their owners, bringing the place alive. The district chief stood on a stool beneath the apricot tree and waved to the massed crowd. His gestures were received with shouted greetings, and even the animals were caught up in the celebration: horses whinnied, donkeys brayed, cows mooed, increasing the happy clamor and adding fuel to the joyous fire. In the midst of all that noise and activity, but before the district chief had begun his speech, my master led me — or should I say, Lan Lian led his young donkey — through the crowd, under the gaze of the people and their animals, right out through the gate.
    Once out of the compound, we headed south, and as we passed the elementary school playground, by Lotus Bay we saw all the bad elements, moving rocks and dirt under the supervision of two militiamen armed with rifles adorned with red tassels; they were building up an earthen platform north of the playground, the place where operas had been performed, where mass criticism meetings had been held, and where I, Ximen Nao, had stood when I was being struggled against. Deep in Ximen Nao’s memory lay the recognition of all these men. Look there, that skinny old man whose knees are nearly buckling from the weight of the big rock he’s carrying, that’s Yu Wufu, who was head of security for three months. And look there, that fellow carrying two baskets of earth on a carrying pole, that’s Zhang Dazhuang, who went over to the enemy, taking a rifle with him, when the Landlords’ Restitution Corps launched an attack to settle scores. He was a carter for my family for five years. My wife, Ximen Bai, arranged his marriage with Bai Susu, her niece. When I was being struggled against, they said that I slept with Bai Susu the night before she was married to Zhang Dazhuang, which was a barefaced lie, a damned rumor; but when they called her up as a witness, she covered her face with her jacket, wailed tearfully, and said nothing, thus turning a lie into the truth and sending Ximen Nao straight down to the Yellow Springs of Death. Look over there at the young man with the oval face and slanty eyebrows, the one who’s carrying that green locust log; that’s Wu Yuan, one of our rich peasants, and a dear friend of mine. He’s quite a musician, plays both the two-stringed erhu and the suona. During off seasons on the farm, he played with the local band as they walked through town, not for money but for the sheer pleasure of it. And then there’s that fellow with a few scraggly hairs on his chin, the one with the worn-out hoe over his shoulder who’s standing on the platform dawdling and trying to look busy; it’s Tian Gui, the onetime manager of a flourishing liquor business, a skinflint who kept ten hectoliters of wheat in his grain bins but made his wife and kids eat chaff and rotten vegetables. Look, look, look, that woman with the bound feet carrying half a basket of dirt but having to stop and rest every four or five steps, that’s my formal wife, Ximen Bai. And look there, behind her, it’s Yang Qi, the village public security head, a cigarette dangling from his lips and a willow switch in his hand. Quit loafing and get to work, Ximen Bai, he snarls. She is so alarmed she nearly falls, and the heavy basket of dirt lands on her tiny feet. She shrieks, my wife does, then cries softly from the pain, and begins to sob, like a little girl. Yang Qi raises his switch and brings it down hard — I pulled the rope out of Lan Lian’s hand and ran at Yang Qi — the switch snapped in the air a mere inch from