Life and Death are Wearing Me Out

Are you joking? Spreading a rumor? Launching a vicious attack? Saying that Chairman Mao is dead is like signing your own death warrant! How could Chairman Mao be dead? Doesn’t everyone say that he could live at least 158 years? Doubts and questions swirled in the people’s minds when the news broke. Even me, a pig, was puzzled beyond measure, finding it hard to believe. But the tears in Jinlong’s eyes and the solemn look on his face told us that the news was true. The mellow voice from Central People’s Broadcasting Station had a slightly nasal quality as it solemnly informed the Party, the military, and people of all ethnic groups in the country of the death of Chairman Mao. I looked up at the sky, where dark clouds were roiling, and then at the trees, with their bare branches, and finally at the clutter of collapsed pigpens, and I listened to the incongruous croaking of frogs out in the fields and the occasional explosion of another ruptured pig’s belly from a shallow grave; my nostrils filled with a variety of foul smells as I saw images of all the strange things that had happened over the course of several months, including the sudden disappearance of Diao Xiaosan and all the mysterious things he’d said, and I knew conclusively that Chairman Mao was dead.
    What followed was this: Holding the radio in his hands like a filial son carrying his father’s ashes, Jinlong walked solemnly toward the village. Pig farm personnel dropped what they were doing and fell in behind him, somber, respectful looks on their faces. The death of Chairman Mao was a loss not only for humans but for us pigs as well. With no Chairman Mao there could be no New China, and with no New China there could be no Ximen Village Production Brigade Apricot Garden Pig Farm, and with no Ximen Village Production Brigade Apricot Garden Pig Farm there could be no Pig Sixteen! That is why I followed Jinlong and the others out onto the street.
    Radio stations throughout China were of one voice those days, aided by the finest equipment, so naturally, Jinlong turned the volume on his radio all the way up, and whenever he met someone along the way he announced in a manner and style we’d gotten used to, “Chairman Mao is dead!” This announcement was invariably met with stupefied looks. The faces of some contorted in agony; other people merely shook their heads, and others beat their chests and stomped their feet. All fell meekly in line behind Jinlong, and by the time we reached the village a long line stretched out behind me.
    Hong Taiyue emerged from brigade headquarters, but before he could ask what was going on, Jinlong announced, “Chairman Mao is dead!” Hong reacted by doubling up his fist to punch Jinlong in the face. But his fist stopped in mid flight when he realized that virtually the entire village had turned out and saw how the radio in Jinlong’s hands was so loud it vibrated. He pulled his fist back and pounded his own chest, as a shriek of desolation tore from his throat: “Ah, Chairman Mao . . . you have left us . . . how will we get through the days to come?”
    A dirge began to play over the radio, and the slow, solemn strains had Huang Tong’s wife, Wu Qiuxiang, and all the village women wailing piteously Overcome by grief, they sat down in the mud, many of them pounding the ground with their fists and sending water splashing in all directions. Some covered their mouths with hankies and gazed heavenward, others covered their eyes and released grief-stricken cries. As the wails mounted, words followed:
    “We are the earth, Chairman Mao the sky — Now Chairman Mao has died, the sky has fallen—”
    As for the men, lamentations came from some, silent tears from others. When they heard the news, even the landlords, rich peasants, and counterrevolutionaries came running to stand off a short distance and weep silently.
    As a member of the beastly kingdom, who was nonetheless influenced by my surroundings, I was saddened by the news, but maintained my emotional equilibrium. I walked among the crowd, watching and thinking. The death of no other man in recent Chinese history had the effect on people that the passing of Mao Zedong did. Those who didn’t shed a tear even when their own mothers died wept over Mao Zedong until their eyes were red. As always, there were exceptions. Among the thousand or more residents of Ximen Village, when even landlords and rich peasants, who should have held a grudge against Chairman Mao, wept