Life and Death are Wearing Me Out

looked like that. She tweaked my ear with her cold finger and said to the person next to her:
    “He’s okay now, you can take him back to the pen to suckle.”
    Hong Taiyue rushed up and rubbed my silky skin with his coarse hand.
    “Baofeng,” he said, “don’t think that treating a pig is unworthy of your talent!”
    “The thought never occurred to me, Party secretary,” Baofeng replied matter-of-factly as she picked up her medical kit. “As far as I’m concerned, there’s no difference between animals and humans.”
    “I’m glad to hear that,” Hong said. “Chairman Mao has called upon people to raise pigs. Raising pigs is a political act, and by doing a good job at it you’re showing your loyalty to Chairman Mao. Do you understand what I’m saying, Jinlong and Huzhu?”
    Huzhu said yes, but Jinlong leaned against the apricot tree, smoking a cheap cigarette.
    “I asked you a question, Jinlong,” Hong said, obviously displeased.
    Jinlong cocked his head. “I’m listening, aren’t I?” he said. “Would you like me to recite the entirety of Chairman Mao’s supreme directive on raising pigs?”
    “Jinlong,” Hong said as he stroked my back, “I know you’re upset, but keep in mind that Li Renshun of Taiping Village wrapped a fish in a newspaper with Chairman Mao’s image, and was sentenced to eight years. He is undergoing labor reform as I speak. Your problem is far worse than his!”
    “Mine was unintentional, and that’s the difference.”
    “If yours had been intentional, you’d have been shot,” Hong replied, his anger rising. “Do you know why I protected you?” He looked over at Huzhu. “Partly because Huzhu and your mother got down on their knees and begged me. But the main reason was that I know all about you. You come from bad stock, but grew up under the red flag and were the kind of youngster we wanted to foster in the period before the Cultural Revolution. You’re an educated youngster, a middle-school graduate, just what the revolution needs. Don’t think that raising pigs is unworthy of your talents. Under current circumstances, no job is more glorious or more arduous than raising pigs. By assigning you here, the Party is testing your attitude toward Chairman Mao’s revolutionary line!”
    Jinlong flipped his cigarette away, stood up straight, and bowed his head to receive Hong Taiyue’s reprimand.
    “You two are lucky — but since the proletariat frowns on luck, let’s talk about circumstances.” Hong raised his hand, with me in it, into the air. “Our village sow has produced a litter of sixteen piglets, a rarity anywhere in the province. The county government happens to be looking for a pig-raising model right now.” He lowered his voice and said with a hint of mystery, “A model, know what I’m saying? You know the meaning of the word, don’t you? The rice paddies at Dazhai are a model. The oil fields at Daqing are a model. The fruit orchards at Xiadingjia are a model. Even the dances for old ladies organized at Xujiazhai are a model. So why can’t the pig farms of Ximen Village be a model? Lan Jinlong, you put on a model opera a few years back, didn’t you? You brought Jiefang and your dad’s ox into the commune, didn’t you? Weren’t you trying to create models?”
    Jinlong looked up, eyes flashing. How well I knew the temperament of that son of mine, how his sharp mind turned out outstanding ideas that would amount to what today might be seen as absurd, but at the time were enthusiastically praised.
    “I’m getting old,” Hong said, “and now that I’ve been given a second chance, all I hope for is to do a decent job with village affairs and be worthy of the trust of the masses and my superiors. But the prospects for you young people are unlimited. So long as you do your best, you’ll get credit for your successes, and if problems arise, I’ll take the responsibility.” Hong pointed at the commune members digging ditches and building walls in the apricot grove. “A month from now there’ll be two hundred garden-style pigpens out there, with a goal of five pigs for every person. The more pigs we raise, the more fertilizer we’ll get and the greater the harvests we’ll bring in. Grain rolls in, worries fade out; ditches deep, grain stores vast. No more hegemony, only support for worldwide revolution. Every pig is a bomb flung into the midst of the imperialists, revisionists, and reactionaries. So this old sow of ours, with her litter