Life and Death are Wearing Me Out

Taiyue’s white hair; supported by a couple of young men, he was walking toward me from the pagoda pine east of the main gate. He stopped just in front of the farmers and behind the seated old women, a space that had obviously been saved for him. This was an organized, disciplined crowd of petitioners, led, of course, by Hong Taiyue. He desperately missed the collective spirit of the people’s commune and the stubborn perseverance of Lan Lian, the independent farmer. The two eccentrics of Northeast Gaomi Township had been like a pair of oversize lightbulbs, spreading their light in all directions, like two flying banners, one red, the other black. He reached behind him and took out his ox hip bone, now yellowed with age, but retaining all nine copper coins around the edge; he raised it in the air, then lowered it, over and over, faster and faster, creating a hua-la-la hua-la-la rhythmic sound. That bone was an important memento from his glorious history, like the sword used by a warrior against his enemy. Shaking it was Hong’s special skill. So was clapper talk:
    Hua-lang-lang, hua-lang-lang, the hip bone sings and I begin my theme. What is my story today? Ximen Jinlong’s restoration scheme.
    More people crowded up, filling the compound with noise, but quieting down almost at once.
    Now there’s a Ximen Village in Northeast Gaomi Township, scenic as a dream,
    Where once was a famous Apricot Garden where pigs wer each to a team.
    Grain grew high, animals thrived, Chairman Mao’s revolutionary line was like the sun!
    At this point, Hong flung the bone into the air, spun around, and, so all could see, caught it before it hit the ground. While it was in the air, it sang out its unique sound, almost like a living being. Amazing! The crowd roared. Scattered applause. The expression on Hong’s face underwent a dramatic change. He continued:
    The village’s tyrannical landlord, Ximen Nao, left behind a bastard white-eyed wolf.
    The fellow’s name is Jinlong, from childhood a smooth-talking phony do-gooder
    Who wormed his way into the Youth League and the Communist Party.
    By usurping authority he became Party secretary to settle old scores likea madman.
    He parceled out land for independent farming and stole People’s Commune property
    He restored landlords, rehabilitated the bad, making ox-demons and snake-spirits happy.
    My heart breaks when I say these things, tears and snivel run down my face . . .
    He flung the bone into the air and caught it with his right hand as he dried his eyes with his left. The next time he caught it with his left hand and dried his eyes with his right. That bone was like a white weasel jumping from one hand to the other. The applause was deafening, almost but not quite drowning out the sound of police sirens.
    With increased passion, Hong continued:
    Then in 1991, the little rogue came up with another evil plot,
    He wants to drive us out of the village and turn it into a tourist resort.
    To destroy good farmland for a golf course, a gambling casino, a brothel, a public bath, and turn socialist Ximen Village into an imperialist pleasure dome.
    Comrades, villagers, beat your chests and think, is it time for class struggle?
    Should Ximen Jinlong be killed? Even with his money, his prestige, his support; even if his brother, Jiefang, is deputy county chief. United we are strong. Let us sweep away the reactionaries, sweep them away, sweep them all away . . .
    The crowd responded with a roar. People cursed and swore, they laughed, they stomped their feet, and they jumped in anger. Chaos reigned at the gate. I was just looking for an opportunity to climb out of the car and, as a fellow villager, get them to leave. But Hong Taiyue’s clapper talk had by then implied that I was Jinlong’s backer, and I shuddered to think what might happen if I confronted this fired-up crowd. All I could do was put on my shades to hide my face and lean back in the seat until the police came and broke up the demonstration.
    I watched as a dozen cops standing on the perimeter of the demonstration brandished their clubs — no, now they’re in the midst of the surging crowd, surrounded.
    I adjusted my shades, put on a blue cap, did my best to cover my blue birthmark, and opened the car door.
    “Don’t go out there, Chief,” my driver said, clearly alarmed.
    But I did, and I forged ahead at a crouch, until I tripped over an extended leg and found myself sprawled on the ground. The earpiece of my glasses had