The Garlic Ballads

Gao Ma screamed-”Mother!”-and tumbled over to the other side.

Gao Yang screamed, too, and banged his head against the tree trunk. The shrill cries of a little girl emerged from the acacia grove behind Gao Ma’s home.

The soil beyond the grove was barren and sandy; after that came a sandbar dotted with red willows, which sloped into a dry riverbed. A second sandbar rose on the other side, fronting a government compound ringed by white poplars, and an asphalt road that led to the county seat.

CHAPTER 2

Paradise County garlic is long and crunchy-

For pork liver or fried mutton forget the onions and ginger:

Planting leeks and selling garlic will make you rich-

You’ll have new clothes, new homes, even a new bride….

– From a ballad sung one summer night in 1986 by Zhang Kou, the blind minstrel

1.

The garlic stalks had all been sold, and braids of bulbs hung from the eaves. Next came the millet crop, which was spread out to dry before being stored in vats and barrels. The threshing floor in front of Fourth Aunt’s home was swept clean by dusk, with stacks of aromatic chaff rising darkly beneath shimmering starlight. June breezes sweeping in from the fields made the lantern flame dance, despite the glass shade, against which green moths banged noisily-tick tick tick. No one was paying any attention to this except for Gao Ma. All the others sat or stood or squatted in the lamplight, absorbed by the sight of Zhang Kou, the blind minstrel, on a stool, his high cheekbones illuminated by golden lamplight that transformed his dark, gaunt face.

I’m going to hold her hand tonight, that’s all there is to it, Gao Ma resolved with growing excitement. Waves of cool contentment rippled from his body as, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fourth Aunt’s daughter, Jinju, standing no more than three steps from him. As soon as Zhang Kou picks up his erhu to sing the first line of his ballad, I’ll grab her hand and squeeze it, squeeze each finger. That face, round like a golden-petaled sunflower, is enough to break your heart. Even her ears are golden. She may not be tall, but she’s strong as a baby ox. I can’t wait any longer; she’s twenty already. The heat from her body warms me.

Zhang Kou coughed, and Gao Ma silently moved a step closer to Jinju. Now, like everyone else, he kept his eyes on Zhang Kou.

The fresh aroma of horse manure drifted over from the far edge of the threshing floor, where a chestnut colt galloped noisily, whinnying with spirit. Stars shone brightly in the deep, dark, downy-soft canopy of heaven, beneath which cornstalks, straining to grow tall, stretched and rustled. Everyone was watching Zhang Kou and murmuring unintelligibly from time to time. Zhang Kou sat straight as a board as he fingered his erhu with one hand and pulled the horsehair bow with the other, making the two strings sing out with a muffled scratchiness slowly rounding out into crisp, mellow notes that tightened around his listeners’ eager hearts. Eyelashes buried in his sunken sockets fluttered, and as he stretched his neck toward his audience, he tilted his head backward as though gazing into the starry night.

Gao Ma edged up so close to Jinju he could hear the faint sound of her breathing and feel the heat of her voluptuous body. His hand moved timidly toward hers, like a pet wanting to nuzzle. Fourth Aunt, perched on a high stool in front of Jinju, coughed. Gao Ma shuddered and jammed his hand into his pants pocket; with an impatient shrug of his shoulders, he stepped out of the ring of light and hid his face in the shadow of someone’s head.

Zhang Kou’s erhu wept, but the sound was soft and gentle, glossy and smooth, like silken strands flowing into his listeners’ hearts, driving the accumulated filth ahead of it, and into their muscles and flesh, ridding them of their earthly dust. With eyes glued to Zhang Kou’s mouth, they listened as a hoarse yet sonorous lyric flowed from the gaping hole in his face:

“What I’m saying is”-the word “is” soared upward, then settled slowly, languidly, as if it wanted the crowd to follow it from this world into a fantastic realm beckoning to all, asking only that they close their eyes-”what I’m saying is, a breath of fresh air emerged from the Third Plenum of the Central Committee: Citizens of Paradise County will be poor no longer.”

His erhu never varied from the same simple refrain, and his audience, though enraptured by the music, also quietly laughed at him. The source of their mirth was his gaping mouth, which could accommodate a whole steamed bun. The blind bastard had no idea how big his mouth was. Their tittering appeared not to bother him. When Gao Ma heard Jinju giggle, he pictured a smiling face: lashes fluttering, teeth glistening like rows of polished jade. No longer able to restrain himself, he peeked out of the corner of his eye; but her lashes weren’t fluttering, and her teeth were hidden behind compressed lips. Her solemn expression mocked him somehow.

“The county government called on us to plant garlic-the marketing co-op would buy our harvest-one yuan a pound-put it in cold storage-resell at a profit in the spring…” Having grown accustomed to the sight of Zhang Kous gaping mouth, the crowd forgot its mirthful-ness and listened intently to his ballad.

“The people celebrated when they sold their garlic / Fried some pork, rolled out flatcakes and filled them with green onions / Big Sister Zhang’s belly as big as an urn / Oh!’ she says, look at me, fm pregnant!’…” The crowd roared playfully. “Damn you, blind old man!” a woman shouted. A heated fart escaped from Big Sister Li: “Ha, ha,” half the women in the audience doubled over laughing.

Jinju was one of them. Damn you, Zhang Kou, do you have to say things like that? Gao Ma swore to himself. When you bend over, your round, tight rear end sticks straight up and I can see the line of your underpants through your thin trousers. That’s what happens in the field during the day. Try a tale from Red Crag, Zhang Kou. I want to hold your hand, Jinju. I’m twenty-seven already; you’re twenty. I want you to be my wife. When you hoe your bean field, I spray my cornfield, my heart sounding like aphids on corn in the dry season. The fields seem endless. Off to the south stands Little Mount Zhou, with its volcanic opening, into which the clouds settle. I ache to talk to you at times like that, but your brothers are always nearby, barefoot and stripped to the waist, their skin burned black by the sun. You are fully dressed, and sweat-soaked. What color are you, Jinju? You are yellow, you are red, you are golden. Yours is the color of gold; you glisten like gold.

Zhang Kou’s erhu grew more melodious as his voice rose with a tale from Red Crag:

Jiang Xueqin, out for a stroll,

The police chief swaggers toward her,

A golden watch on his wrist,

His neck a ten-foot garlic stalk.

He crouches as he walks,

He has a Chinese papa and an American mama,

Who joined to produce a living monster.

He hers through slanted eyes,

A pistol held in each hand.

He blocks her way, a sinister hugh,

H eh heh…

Pistols pressed up to Big Sister Jiang’s breasts.

She’s too good for someone like Liu Shengli. Marrying him would be like planting a