Life and Death are Wearing Me Out

fired into the stronghold of the imperialists, revisionists, and reactionaries. . . .” He waved his fist as he shouted his incendiary message to the crowd. That shout and gesture reminded this wise and experienced pig of a movie scene and had me wondering whether being shot from a cannon would be a dizzying and shuddering experience. And what would happen if a fat pig suddenly fell into the stronghold of the imperialists, revisionists, and reactionaries? They’d probably die of sheer joy.
    It was, by this time, ten in the morning, and there was no sign that the speech would end anytime soon. I looked over at a pair of green Jeeps at the edge of the clearing, where the white-gloved drivers were leaning against the cabs, one having a leisurely smoke, the other, clearly bored, checking his wristwatch every few seconds. Back then, a Jeep commanded greater respect than a Mercedes or BMW does today, and a watch was far more estimable than a diamond ring now. That watch sparkled in the bright sunlight and caught the eye of several youngsters. Hundreds of bicycles stood in neat rows behind the Jeeps, the means of transportation for all the grassroots attendees from the county, the commune, and the village. A dozen or so armed militiamen formed a protective semicircle around all this material wealth, a clear symbol of the status of the owners.
    “We must ride the mighty east wind of the Cultural Revolution to carry out the pig-raising program outlined in the supreme directive of our great leader Chairman Mao, to study the advanced experience of the Ximen Village Production Brigade, and to elevate the raising of pigs to the level of politics. . . .” The official spoke fervently, accentuating his speech with forceful gestures. Shiny saliva bubbles gathered at the corners of his mouth, like a crab trussed up with rice straw.
    “What’s going on?” Diao Xiaosan asked as he stood up in his urine-soaked quarters. He had a vacant look in his bloodshot eyes, showing the effects of the alcohol he’d drunk. I had no desire to engage the moron in conversation, but he rose up and rested his chin on the top of his wall to see what was happening outside. He was so hung over he couldn’t keep his balance, and he’d barely gotten his front legs off the ground when his hind legs gave out and deposited him in his own filthy leavings. The almost ridiculously unhygienic pig had piss and shit piled in every corner of his living quarters; just my bad luck to live next door to someone like that. There was white paint on his face and his protruding front teeth were yellow, like a couple of gold inlays favored by rich upstarts.
    I saw a dark figure slip out of the audience — the meeting was well attended, anywhere from three to five thousand — and head for the big ceramic vat beneath the apricot tree, where the person bent over and looked inside. I knew what he wanted — sugar water. That was long gone. The people ahead of him had drunk deeply, not because they were thirsty, but for the sugar, one of the sparest commodities of the day, something you got only with a ration card. A mouthful of sugar back then was probably more satisfying than sex is today. For the sake of image, countywide, the leaders of the Ximen Village Production Brigade had called a meeting of commune members to go over all aspects of the on-site conference. One of the items was to forbid any commune member, adult or child, to help himself to sugar water; anyone who had the audacity to disobey would lose a hundred work points. The ugly looks on the faces of people from outlying villages as they fought over the drink was shameful, and I was proud of the Ximen villagers for their high degree of consciousness, or, should I say, their degree of self-control. I noticed the perplexed looks in their eyes as they watched the outsiders drink the sugar water, and though I knew those looks represented complex feelings, I admired the people nonetheless. Holding back like could not have been easy.
    But there was one person for whom holding back was simply too difficult. I don’t have to name names for you to know who that person was. He leaned into the vat like a horse drinking water, trying to lick up the last few drops at the bottom. But his neck was too short, the vat too deep, so he found a ladle, strained to tip the vat over, then dipped the ladle into the pooled water. When he let go of his hand, the vat tipped back straight, and I could tell by how carefully he held