Life and Death are Wearing Me Out

haystack. Only a few traces of red paint remained here and there on his face. The birthmark had reappeared, now darker than ever, almost indigo blue. I reached up and touched my own birthmark; it felt like leather. My mark of ugliness. When I was young, people called me “Junior Blue Face,” which brought me pride, not shame. But as I grew older, anyone who called me “Blue Face” was in for a hard time. I’d heard people say that we were independent farmers because of our blue faces, and there were even comments that my dad and I kept ourselves hidden during daylight, and only came out to work the land at night. I don’t deny that there were nights we worked by moonlight, but not because of our blue birthmarks. Tying our independent streak to a biological defect was bullshit. We chose independence out of a conviction that we had the right to stand alone. I’d gone along with Dad because I’d thought it would be fun. But now I was drawn to something a lot more fun than that. Especially grating was the fact that I was an independent farmer and had a blue face. I’d begun to regret my decision to follow Dad, was beginning to hate him and his independent farming. I looked at his blue face with a measure of disgust; I hated him for passing that defect on to me. A man like you, Dad, should have stayed a bachelor, but if that was impossible, you should never have had a child!
    “Dad!” I shouted. “Dad!”
    He opened his eyes slowly and stared at me.
    “Dad, I want to join the commune!”
    Obviously, this came as no surprise. The look on his face didn’t change. He took out his pipe, filled it, stuck it in his mouth, struck his flint to send a spark onto some sorghum stalks, then blew on the tiny flame until he could use it to light his pipe. He sucked in deeply and exhaled two streams of smoke though his nose.
    “I want to join the commune. Let’s take the ox and join up, all three of us. . . . Dad, I can’t take it anymore—”
    His eyes snapped fully open. “You little traitor!” he said, drawing out each word. “You go ahead if you want to, but not me, and not the ox!”
    “Why?” I was feeling both abused and angry. “Here’s where things stand. When the campaign was just getting under way, an independent farmer in Pingnan County was strung up from a tree and beaten to death by the revolutionary masses. My brother said that by parading you through the streets, he was covertly protecting you. He said that after they take care of the landlords, rich peasants, counterrevolutionaries, bad elements, and capitalist-roaders, they’ll come after the independent farmers. Dad, Jinlong said the two thick limbs on the apricot tree were just waiting for you and me. Dad, are you listening?”
    He knocked the bowl of the pipe against the sole of his shoe, stood up, and started preparing food for the ox. The sight of his bent back and sunburned neck reminded me of my childhood, when he’d carry me on his shoulders to market to buy persimmons for me. The thought saddened me.
    “Dad,” I said, starting to get worked up, “society is changing. County Chief Chen has been overthrown, and I’ll bet the bureau head who gave you safe passage has too by now. It doesn’t make sense for us to keep farming independently. If we join the commune while Jinlong is chairman, it’ll make him and us look good. . . .”
    Dad stayed bent over low as he worked the sieve, completely ignoring me. I was starting to get steamed.
    “Dad,” I said, “no wonder people say you’re like a rock in the crapper, hard and stinky! Sorry to say it, Dad, but I can’t follow you down this dead end into darkness. If you won’t look out for me, I’ll have to look out for myself. I’m not a child any longer. I want to join the commune, find a wife, and walk down a bright, shiny road. You can do what you want.”
    Dad dumped the straw into the feed trough and stroked the ox’s deformed horn. Then he turned to face me, not a hint of anger on his face. “Jiefang,” he said gently, “you’re my son, and I want only the best for you. I know perfectly well how things stand these days. That Jinlong has a heart as hard as a rock, and the blood that flows through his veins is more lethal than a scorpion’s tail. He’ll do absolutely anything in the name of ‘revolution.’ “He looked up, squinting in the bright sunlight. “How,” he wondered, “could the landlord, a good and decent man, sire an evil son like that?” Tears