The Garlic Ballads

Gao Yang quaked so violently he set the leaves of the tree in motion. He stopped looking at Gao Ma’s face as it faded into the distance. The policemen’s white backs, Gao Ma’s tanned face, and the black leaves of the acacia trees flattened out and were stamped on the yellow earth.

What happened next took both Gao Yang and the policemen by surprise: Gao Ma crouched down, scooped up some dirt, and flung it in their faces. The powdery soil covered them like dust clouds as they instinctively raised their arms to protect their eyes and stumbled backwards, regaining their three-dimensional form. Gao Ma spun around and climbed up onto the wall. Two shots rang out; two puffs of dust rose from the wall. 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: