Life and Death are Wearing Me Out

snake-spirits, led by County Chief Donkey Chen Guangdi, charged out of the compound with boundless joy. As we have already seen, Donkey Chief Chen’s body had fused with the papier-mâché donkey, and as he came on the scene now, he had a human head. But that changed with a scant few motions. In one of those scenes you see in the movies or on TV, his ears got longer and stood straight up, like fat leaves growing out of a tropical stem or large gray butterflies emerging from cocoons, looking like satin glistening with an elegant gray luster, covered by a layer of long downy hairs, without doubt soft to the touch. Then his face elongated; his eyes grew bigger and moved to the sides of his widening nose, white in color and covered with short, downy hairs, without doubt soft to the touch. His mouth sagged and split into a pair of thick fleshy lips, also without doubt soft to the touch. Two rows of big white teeth were covered at first by donkey lips, but the moment he laid eyes on the female Red Guard, with her red armband, his lips flared back and the big teeth made an appearance. We’d owned a donkey before, so I was well acquainted with donkey ways, and I knew that when one of them flares back his lips, sexual excitement is on its way, and he will display his enormous organ, up till then safely sheathed. Happily, County Chief Chen retained enough of his human instincts that the donkey transformation remained incomplete, and though he flared his lips, he kept his organ hidden from view. Fan Tong, former commune Party secretary, was next to appear — that’s right, County Chief Chen’s onetime secretary, the one who absolutely loved donkey meat, especially the male organ — so the Red Guards fashioned one for him out of a big white turnip, Northeast Gaomi Township’s most abundant crop. Actually, there wasn’t much fashioning involved: a few swipes with a knife on the head and some black ink was all it took. There are few things richer than the people’s imagination. No one needed to be told what the black-dyed turnip represented. This Fan fellow, his face twisted in a frown, moved slowly owing to the fat he carried on his body; he could not keep up with the rhythm of the drums and gongs, and that threw the entire column of ox-demons and snake-spirits into mass confusion. A Red Guard tried to remedy the situation by smacking him on the rump, which only succeeded in making him jump and cry out in pain. The smacks then moved to his head, which he tried to ward off with the fake donkey dick in his hand. But it snapped in two, exposing its true nature as a turnip: white, crunchy, high water content. The crowd laughed uproariously, including even the Red Guards. Fan Tong was handed over to two female Red Guards, who forced him to eat the two halves of the fake donkey dick in front of everyone. The black dye, he said, was toxic, and he refused to eat. The female Red Guards’ faces reddened, as if they’d been humiliated. You hoodlum, you stinking hoodlum! A beating is too good for you, what you need is to be kicked! They stepped back and began kicking Fan Tong, who rolled around on the ground, crying piteously, Little generals, little generals, don’t kick me, I’ll eat it, I’ll eat. . . He scooped up the turnip and bit off a chunk. Faster, eat faster! He bit off another chunk. His cheeks bulged so much he couldn’t even chew, so he tried to force it down his throat and ended up choking himself until his eyes rolled back in his head. A dozen or more ox-demons and snake-spirits followed County Chief Donkey out, each with a unique trick and display, an entertainment extravaganza for the lookers-on. The drums, gongs, and cymbals were handled with high professional standards, since the musicians were members of the county opera percussion division. Their repertoire consisted of dozens of cadences, and the local musicians were not in their league. In comparison with them, our Ximen Village percussion team was like a bunch of kids banging on pieces of scrap metal trying to scare off sparrows.
    The Ximen Village parade made its way up from east of the marketplace. Sun Long — Dragon Sun — carried a drum on his back; Sun Hu — Tiger Sun — beat it from behind. The gong was struck by Sun Bao, Panther Sun; the cymbals clanged by Sun Biao, Tiger Cub Sun. The four Sun brothers were from a poor peasant family, and it made sense for the loud percussion instruments to be in their hands. They were preceded by the village