The Garlic Ballads (41 page)

The policeman no sooner raised his hand than Gao Yang stuck out his arms, wrists together. The policeman retreated a step in the face of such immediate cooperation before separating Gao Yangs hands slighdy and snapping on the cuffs. Then, with a slight jerk of the head, he signaled Gao Yang out into the corridor, where policemen were putting handcuffs on other prisoners. Gao Yang glanced bashfully at his escort, recalling seeing him in the government compound. With a nudge from behind he fell in alongside other prisoners, who filed into the prison yard, where they were told to form a line and count off. There were ten in all. Someone grabbed Gao Yang’s arms. By cocking his head to the left he saw the sharp-featured policeman who had handcuffed him, and by twisting to look behind him he saw another policeman—fat, with pinched lips and puffy cheeks, clearly someone who would brook no nonsense. For some strange reason, Gao Yang tried to look up at the electrified wire atop the wall, but his neck stiffened up on him.

He was last in line, in a column so straight that all he could see were the three backs in front of him, a black one sandwiched between two white ones.

As they filed through the prison gate it dawned on him why he wanted to look at the electrified wire: during the previous day’s exercise period a piece of red cloth hung from the wire, and the old hooligan with whom he had first shared a cell was staring up at it. The malicious middle-aged convict walked up and winked at Gao Yang. “You’re being questioned tomorrow,” he said, “and your wife came to visit you.” Gao Yang stood there, mouth agape, unable to say a word. The other man changed the subject. “The old bastard’s lost his mind. That’s his daughter-in-law’s waistband hanging up there. Know what the old bastard does? Know his name? Know how the old bastard tricked his daughter-in-law? Know who his son is?” Gao Yang shook his head in response to each question. “Well, I can’t tell you,” the man said. “The shock would kill you.”

He squirmed in the grip of the two policemen as they walked, which only made them grip him more tightiy. “Keep moving,” one of them whispered into his left ear, “and don’t try anything funny.”

Crowds lined the road, eyes staring and mouth slack, as if waiting to snap at some floating object.

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.”

The procession had left them far enough behind that all they could see was an expanse of that strange crop. Not a soul anywhere, but there were unmistakable signs of people passing through the foliage. The white underbellies of large green leaves showed the path the procession had taken. Lifting Gao Yang up until his feet left the ground, the policemen began trotting with their prisoner.

Eventually they caught up with the others at a railroad crossing, which, for all they knew, could have been the same one as a while ago. Nine prisoners and eighteen policemen, standing in three rows, were waiting for them on the elevated track bed. A half-turn, and the procession trebled its length, one black sandwiched between two whites, like a stiff black-and-white snake. Fourth Aunt was the only female prisoner, her escorts the only policewomen. They were shouting, the sound loud and lingering, the words indistinguishable.

After rejoining the procession and forming up again into three columns, the procession entered an unlighted tunnel, where the water was ankle deep and dripped from the overhead arch, making a hollow sound in the inky darkness. Some wagons shot past, the horses’ hooves splashing loudly.

They emerged from the tunnel onto May First Boulevard, to their surprise, and five minutes later were in May First Square, walking on a layer of rotting, disgustingly slippery garlic. Gao Yang felt miserable about his new shoes.

Throngs of peasants lined the square. The frost on their faces, dusted with grime, didn’t look as if it would ever melt. Tears streamed down the cheeks of the few who were looking up into the sun, nearly blinded by its rays. One of them looked like an ape man, the kind he’d seen in a Schoolbook—narrow, jutting forehead, wide mouth, long, apelike arms. Anyway, this strange creature leaped out of the crowd, raised one of his long arms, opened his mouth wide, and bellowed, “Hua-lala, hua-lala, one hand on a nice big tit, add soy sauce and vinegar …” Gao Yang had no idea what he meant, but he heard his gaunt police escort mutter angrily, “A loony, a real loony!”

After passing through the square, they turned into a narrow lane, where a boy in a nylon jacket had a pigtailed girl pinned up against a hollow in the wall and was nibbling at her face. She was trying her best to push him away. Mud-spattered geese strutted back and forth behind them. The procession passed so close behind the boy that the girl wrapped her arms around his waist and drew him to her so the column could squeeze by.

They emerged from the lane, and there in front of them, amazingly, was May First Boulevard—again. Across the street a multistoried building was going up behind a rumbling cement mixer tended by a boy and a girl no more than eleven or twelve years old. He was shoveling sand and pouring lime and cement into the funnel, while she squirted water into the funnel with a black plastic hose that shook so violently from the high pressure that she could barely hold it. The mixing oar scraped loudly against the funnel. Then the pale-yellow derrick slowly lifted a prefab concrete slab with airholes. Four men in hard hats sat on it playing poker, shocking observers by their nonchalance.

After another tum around the square, the prison wall was in front of him once again. The electrified wire crackled and gave off blue sparks. The piece of red cloth still hung from it. “Team Leader Xing,” one of the policemen shouted, “shouldn’t we be heading back to rest?”

A tall, heavyset fellow with a dark face glanced at his wristwatch, then looked up at the sky. “Half an hour,” he shouted back.

The prison gate opened with a clang, and the police herded the prisoners inside the yard. Rather than put them back into their cells, they had them sit in a circle on the lush green grass, where they were told to stretch their legs out in front of them, hands on their knees. The police walked off lazily, their place taken by an armed guard who kept watch over the prisoners. Some of the policemen went to the toilet, others did stretching exercises on a horizontal bar.

After ten minutes or so, Fourth Aunt’s escorts emerged with red lacquer trays holding soft drinks in opened bottles with drinking straws. There were two lands. “The colors are different, but they taste exactly the same,” they announced. “One bottle apiece.” One of them bent down in front of Gao Yang. “Which do you want?”

He looked uncertainly at the bottles on her tray. Some were the color of blood; others appeared to be filled with ink.

“Hurry up, choose one. And no changing your mind later.”

“I’ll take a red one,” he said firmly.

She handed him a bottle filled with the red liquid, which he accepted with both hands, then held, not daring to start right away.

After all the drinks were distributed, Gao Yang noticed that everyone but Gao Ma had chosen red.

“Go on, drink,” one of the policewomen said.

But the prisoners just looked at each other, not daring to take a drink.

“You can’t repair a wall with dog shit!” the policewoman complained angrily. “Drink up, I said. On three: one, two, three, drink!”

Gao Yang took a timid sip; a liquid tasting like garlic slid tickling down his throat.

When the soft drinks were finished, the police regrouped, taking up their positions alongside the prisoners to form three ranks. After proceeding out the prison gate, they turned north, crossed the street, and climbed the steps of a large building with a spacious hall. It was packed with spectators, and you could have heard a pin drop. Solemn airs.

A booming voice broke the silence: “Bring up the prisoners associated with the Paradise County garlic incident!”

Two policemen removed Gao Yang’s handcuffs, pulled his shoulders back and forced his head down, then dragged and carried him to the defendants’ dock.

The first thing Gao Yang saw when he looked past the railing was a large, shiny replica of the national seal. He was pinned uncomfortably between his two escorts, one fat, one skinny. A cultured-looking uniformed official with sagging jowls sat beneath the seal; seven or eight additional uniformed men were fanned out beside him, all looking like characters in a movie.

The man in the middle, who was older than the others, cleared his throat and spoke into a microphone wrapped in red: “The first session of the Paradise County garlic incident proceedings will come to order!” He stood up—the guards on either side of him remained seated—and began reading names from a list. When his name was read out, Gao Yang didn’t know what to do. “Say ‘Present,’ “ his skinny escort said, nudging him.

“All defendants are present,” the officer announced. “Now the charges. On the twenty-eighth of May, defendants Gao Ma, Gao Yang, the woman Fang née Wu, Zheng Changnian …” he droned on, “… smashed, looted, and demolished the county government offices, beating and injuring a number of civil servants in the process. The People’s Tribunal of Paradise County, agreeing to hear the case in accordance with Article 105, Section 1, Book 3 of the Criminal Code, has decreed a public trial before a panel of judges.”

Gao Yang heard the spectators behind him buzz excitedly. Order in the court!” the officer demanded, banging the table with his fist. He then took a sip of tea and said, “Three judges make up the panel, headed by me, Kang Botao, presiding judge of the Paradise County People’s Tribunal. My associates are Yu Ya, member of the Standing Committee of the People’s Consultative Congress of Paradise County, and Jiang Xiwang, director of the General Office of the Paradise County Branch of the People’s Congress. Miss Song Xiufen serves as clerk. The prosecutor is Liu Feng, Deputy Chief Procurator of the Paradise County People’s Procuratorate.”