10
for ten years i had been away from my village. now i stood before second grandma’s grave,affecting the hypocritical display of affection i had learned from high society, with a bodyimmersed so long in the filth of urban life that a foul stench oozed from my pores. i had paid myrespects at many gravesites before coming to that of the woman whose short but magnificent lifeconstitutes a page in the most heroic and most bastardly history of my hometown. her eerie,supernatural death had awakened in the souls of northeast gaomi township a mysteriousemotion that germinated, grew, and became strong, flowing slowly through the memories ofvillage elders like a sweet scarlet syrup that fortified us and made us capable of facing the worldof the future.
on each of my previous visits to the village, the power of that mysterious emotion wasrevealed in the drunken eyes of those old-timers. comparisons are always risky, but when iapproach them logically, i discover to my horror that in my ten years away from the village ihave seen eyes like that only in the fragile heads of pet rabbits, turned red by boundless desire.
there are, it appears, two separate human races, each evolving in accordance with its own valuesystem. what frightens me is that my eyes, too, have taken on that crafty look, and that i havebegun to utter only the words that others have spoken, themselves repeating the words of stillothers. have i no voice of my own?
second grandma leaps from her grave holding a golden-hued mirror, the deep lines of amocking grin tilting the corners of her full lips. ‘you’re no grandson of mine. look at yourself!’
her clothes flutter, and everything is the same as when she was put in her coffin, yet she isyounger and lovelier than i had imagined; the messages carried by her voice prove that she isinfinitely more thoughtful and profound than i. her thoughts are liberal, dignified, and richlyresilient, yet serene and firm, whereas mine float tentatively in the air like the transparentmembrane of a reed flute.
i look at my reflection in second grandma’s brass mirror. as i’d feared, the clever look of apet rabbit shines in my eyes; words that belong to others, not to me, emerge from my mouth, justas the words emerging from second grandma’s mouth on her deathbed belonged to others, not toher. my body is covered with the seals of approval of famous people.
i am scared to death.
‘grandson!’ she says magnanimously. ‘come home! you’re lost if you don’t. i know youdon’t want to, i know you’re scared of all the flies, of the clouds of mosquitoes, of snakesslithering across the damp sorghum soil. you revere heroes and loathe bastards, but who amongus is not the “most heroic and most bastardly”? as you stand before me now, i can smell the pet-rabbit odour you brought with you from the city. quick, jump into the black water river andsoak there for three days and nights – i only hope that when the catfish in the river drink thestench that washes off your body they won’t grow rabbit ears!’
second grandma returns swiftly to her grave. the sorghum stands straight and silent; the sun’srays are wet and scorching hot; there is no wind. the grave is covered with weeds whosefragrance fills my nostrils. it is as though nothing has happened. off in the distance i hear thehigh-pitched songs of peasants tilling their fields.
the sorghum around the grave is a variety brought in from hainan island; the lush greensorghum now covering the rich black soil of northeast gaomi township is all hybrid. thesorghum that looked like a sea of blood, whose praises i have sung over and over, has beendrowned in a raging flood of revolution and no longer exists, replaced by short-stalked, thick-stemmed, broad-leafed plants covered by a white powder and topped by beards as long as dogs’
tails. high yield, with a bitter, astringent taste, it is the source of rampant constipation. with theexception of cadres above the rank of branch secretary, all the villagers’ faces are the colour ofrusty iron.
how i loathe hybrid sorghum.
hybrid sorghum never seems to ripen. its grey-green eyes seem never to be fully opened. istand in front of second grandma’s grave and look out at those ugly bastards that occupy thedomain of the red sorghum. they assume the name of sorghum, but are bereft of tall, straightstalks; they assume the name of sorghum, but are devoid of the dazzling sorghum colour.
lacking the soul and bearing of sorghum, they pollute the pure air of northeast gaomi townshipwith their dark, gloomy, ambiguous faces.
being surrounded by hybrid sorghum instils in me a powerful sense of loss.
as i stand amid the dense hybrid sorghum, i think of surpassingly beautiful scenes that willnever again appear: in the deep autumn of the eighth month, under a high, magnificently clearsky, the land is covered by sorghum that forms a glittering sea of blood. if the autumn rains areheavy, the fields turn into a swampy sea, the red tips of sorghum rising above the muddy yellowwater, appealing stubbornly to the blue sky above. when the sun comes out, the surface of thesea shimmers, and heaven and earth are painted with extraordinarily rich, extraordinarily majesticcolours.
that is the epitome of mankind and the beauty for which i yearn, for which i shall alwaysyearn.
surrounded by hybrid sorghum, whose snakelike leaves entwine themselves around my body,whose pervasive green poisons my thoughts, i am in shackles from which i cannot break free; igasp and groan, and because i cannot free myself from my suffering i sink to the depths ofdespair.
then a desolate sound comes from the heart of the land. it is both familiar and strange, like mygranddad’s voice, yet also like my father’s voice, and like uncle arhat’s voice, and like theresonant singing voices of grandma, second grandma, and third grandma, the woman liu. theghosts of my family are sending me a message to point the way out of this labyrinth:
you pitiable, frail, suspicious, stubbornly biased child, whose soul has been spellbound bypoisonous wine, go down to the black water river and soak in its waters for three days and threenights – remember, not a day more or a day less – to cleanse yourself, body and soul. then youcan return to your real world. besides the yang of white horse mountain and the yin of theblack water river, there is also a stalk of pure-red sorghum which you must sacrifice everything,if necessary, to find. when you have found it, wield it high as you re-enter a world of densebrambles and wild predators. it is your talisman, as well as our family’s glorious totem and asymbol of the heroic spirit of northeast gaomi township!
