Life and Death are Wearing Me Out

runs the county hardware company brought in a brand-new Golden Stag bicycle, and I wouldn’t swap this with him!
    As soon as he returned to the village, my brother organized a Ximen Village branch of the Golden Monkey Red Guard faction. When the flag was raised, the village rose up in response. Most of the young villagers held my brother in awe, and now they had their opportunity to get behind him. They occupied the brigade headquarters, sold off a donkey and two oxen for 1,500 yuan, and bought red material, with which they made armbands, red flags, and red tassels for spears, plus a loudspeaker and ten buckets of red paint, which they used to paint the headquarters doors, windows, and walls. They even painted the apricot tree in the yard bright red. When my dad showed his disapproval, Tiger Sun slapped red paint on Dad’s face, making it half red and half blue. Jinlong stood off to the side watching with cold detachment when my dad cursed the youngsters. Throwing caution to the wind, he confronted Jinlong. Has there been another dynastic change, young master? he asked. Jinlong just stood there with his hands on his hips, chest out, and said curtly: That’s right, there has been. Does that mean that Mao Zedong is no longer chairman? Dad asked politely. Caught unprepared, Jinlong paused before responding angrily: Paint the blue half of his face red! The Sun brothers — Dragon, Tiger, Panther, and Tiger Cub — rushed up; two held Dad’s arms, one grabbed him by the hair, and the last one picked up the brush and covered his face with a thick coat of red paint. When Dad reacted by cursing angrily, the paint ran into his mouth and coated his teeth red. He was a fright, with two black eye holes into which paint from his eyebrows could drip at any moment. Mother ran out of the house, crying and screaming: Jinlong, he’s your dad. How can you treat him like that? Jinlong replied icily: The whole nation is red, leaving no spot untouched. The Cultural Revolution is going to seal the doom of the capitalist-roaders, landlords, rich peasants, and counterrevolutionaries. No independent farmer is going to slip through the cracks. If he refuses to abandon his independent activities and continues down the path of capitalism, we’ll drown him in a bucket of red paint! Dad wiped the red paint from his face to keep it from running into his eyes, that was his greatest fear, but all he managed to do, the poor man, was to rub it into his eyes. Blinded by the sting of the paint, he jumped around in agony and screamed pitifully. Soon exhausted by all that jumping, he rolled around on the ground, where he was soiled from head to toe with chicken droppings. Mom’s and Wu Qiuxiang’s chickens, thrown into a panic by all the red paint and the red-faced man, were afraid to stay in their roosts; they flew up onto the wall, onto branches of the apricot tree, even up onto the eaves of the house, and everywhere they landed they left red imprints of their claws. Jiefang, my son, Mother cried out in great sorrow, go get your sister, bring her back to save your dad from going blind! Armed with a red-tasseled spear I ripped out of a Red Guard’s hand, and boiling with anger, I was determined to poke holes in Jinlong and see what flowed out of the body of this brother who had turned his back on his own family. My feelings were, his blood must be black. Mother’s anguished cries and Dad’s agonizing wails made it necessary for me to hold off on my desire to poke holes in Jinlong, at least for the moment. Saving my dad’s eyesight took priority over everything. I ran out onto the street, dragging my spear behind me. Have you seen my sister? I asked a white-haired old woman. She shook her head as she dried her tears; I’m not sure she even understood me. Have you seen my sister? I asked a bald, stoop-shouldered old man. He smiled foolishly and pointed to his ear. Ah, he’s deaf, he can’t hear me. Have you seen my sister? I asked a fellow pushing a cart, grabbing him by the shoulder. His cart tipped over, spilling a load of shiny stones, which clicked against one another as they rolled along the street. He shook his head, a sad smile on his face. He had every right to be angry, but he wasn’t. He was Wu Yuan, one of our rich peasants, a man who could tease the saddest notes out of a flute, which he played with refined elegance. He belonged to the ancients, a man who, as you say, had befriended the tyrannical landlord Ximen Nao. I ran off,