Life and Death are Wearing Me Out

soaked his necktie. He reached up to loosen his tie, but wound up making it tighter, and tighter, until his face began turning dark. It was almost as if the only way he could rid himself of the torment he was experiencing was to commit suicide this way and expatiate his guilt.
    The onetime turncoat Zhang Dazhuang, at heart a good man, stood up to rescue Yang by removing his tie and hanging it from a branch of the tree. Yang’s neck was red, his eyes bulging.
    “Gentlemen,” he said, “the West German chancellor got down on his knees in the snow before a memorial to the murdered Jews and asked forgiveness for the deeds of Hitler. Now I, Yang Qi, the onetime head of public security, kneel before you to ask your forgiveness.”
    The bright light from the lantern lit up his face, which had grown pale, as he knelt on the ground beneath the necktie that hung over his head like a bloody sword. How symbolic. I was deeply moved by the scene, even if it was slightly comical. This coarse, disagreeable man, Yang Qi, not only knew that the West German chancellor had gone down on his knees to ask forgiveness, but his conscience had told him he had to apologize to men he had mistreated in the past. I couldn’t help looking at him with new eyes, giving him a bit of grudging respect. Vaguely I recalled hearing Mo Yan say something about the West German chancellor, another piece of information he’d gleaned from Reference News.
    The leader of this band of onetime bad characters, Wu Yuan, ran over to help Yang Qi to his feet, but Yang wrapped his arms around a table leg and refused to stand.
    “I’m guilty of terrible things,” he wailed. “Lord Yama has sent his attendants to flay me with their lashes . . . ow . . . that hurts . . . it’s killing me . . .”
    “Old Yang,” Wu Yuan said, “that’s all in the past. Why hold on to those memories when we’ve already forgotten? Besides, society forced you to do what you did, and if you hadn’t beaten us, somebody else would’ve. So get up, get up now. We’ve come through it and have been rehabilitated. And you? You’ve gotten rich. And if your conscience still bothers you, donate the money you made to the cause of rebuilding a temple.”
    Racked by sobs, Yang roared: “I won’t donate money I worked so hard to put aside. How dare you even suggest that! . . . What I want is for you to come beat me the way I beat you years ago. I don’t owe any of you a thing. You owe me. . . .”
    Just then I saw Hong Taiyue walk up on unsteady legs. He passed right by me, reeking of alcohol. In all the years I’d been on the run, this was the first time I’d been able to closely observe the onetime supreme leader of the Ximen Village Production Brigade. His hair, which had turned white, still stuck up in the air like spikes. His face was puffy and he was missing several teeth, which gave him a somewhat dull-witted look. The moment he stepped through the gate, the clamor stopped abruptly, surefire evidence that the men in the compound had not lost their fear of the man who had ruled Ximen Village for many years.
    Wu Qiuxiang rushed up to greet him, and the onetime bad individuals jumped to their feet as a sort of conditioned reflex. “Ah, Party secretary!” she called out with enthusiasm and familiarity as she took Hong Taiyue by the arm, something he was not at all accustomed to. He jerked his arm free, nearly falling over in the process. Qiuxiang reached out and steadied him; this time he let her hold his arm as she led him to a clean table, where he sat down. Since it was a bench, Hong was in constant danger of falling backward; sharp-eyed Huzhu reacted by quickly moving over a chair for him. Resting one arm on the table, he turned sideways to stare at the people under the tree, his eyes bleary and unfocused. After wiping the table in front of Hong in a practiced move, Qiuxiang asked genially:
    “What can I get for the Party secretary?”
    “Let’s see, what’ll I have . . .” He blinked, his heavy eyelids moving slowly up and down. Then he banged his fist on the table, sending the dented old revolutionary canteen bouncing into the air. “What can you get?” he shouted in anger. “Liquor, that’s what! That and two ounces of gunpowder!”
    “Party Secretary,” Qiuxiang said with a smile, “I think you’ve had enough for one day. For now, I’ll have Huzhu make you a bowl of fish broth. Drink it hot and then go home and get some sleep. What do you say?”
    “Fish