Life and Death are Wearing Me Out

and dirty, patchy, covered with mouse droppings, and nauseatingly foul smelling — over in their hands. Smooth-tongued Yang Qi spoke of his tattered, rotting goods as if they’d once been part of the imperial wardrobe. He picked up a short, black coat, slapped the greasy, worn-out fur — pow pow. Listen to that. Take a look. Feel it, try it on. Listen, it’s like a brass gong. Look, it’s like silk and satin. Look again, the fur is black as paint, and you’ll start to sweat when you slip it on. With one of these coats over your shoulders, you can crawl on ice and lie in the snow without feeling the least bit cold! A nearly new black goatskin coat for only nineteen yuan, about the same as finding one lying in the street. Go ahead, Great-Uncle Zhang, try it on. Oh, oh, my dear uncle. That coat fits like the Mongolian tailor made it just for you. One inch more and it’s too long, one inch less and it’s too short. So, what do you think, hot enough for you? It’s not? Touch your forehead, you’re sweating, and you say it’s not hot? Eight yuan? If not for the neighborhood connection, I wouldn’t sell it for fifteen. You won’t go higher than eight? Old Uncle, what can I say? Last autumn, I smoked a couple of your pipes, so I owe you for that. A man can’t rest till he pays off a debt. All right, then, nine yuan, and I lose money on this sale. Nine yuan and it’s yours. Take it home with you, but first get a rag and wipe the sweat from your forehead. You don’t want to catch cold. Eight, you say? How about eight-fifty? I’ll lower it a bit and you raise it a bit. After all, you’re a generation older than me. If it was anybody else I’d smack him in the ear so hard he’d roll all the way down to the river. Eight yuan, it’s like I’m giving you a transfusion of my own blood, type O, the same as Dr. Bethune. All right, eight yuan, but Old Zhang, now you’re the one who owes me a favor. He counted the sticky bills: five, six, seven, eight, all right, the coat is yours. Now take it home and show the missus. Sit around in it for half an hour, and I guarantee the snow on your roof will melt. The heat you give off, even from a distance, will turn the snow in your yard into little rivers and the icicles hanging from your eaves will clatter to the ground. . . .
    With my brother valiantly leading the way, his “four warrior attendants” arrayed spiritedly around him, the Red Guard forces came raucously up the street. A weapon was tucked into my brother’s belt, a starter’s pistol he’d taken from the elementary school PE instructor. Light glinted off the chrome barrel, which was shaped like a dog’s dick. The “four warrior attendants” were also sporting belts, made from the hide of a Production Brigade cow that had recently starved to death. Not completely dry and not yet tanned, the belts stank something awful. Each of them had a revolver tucked into his belt, the ones used by the village opera troupe, all beautifully carved out of elm by the skilled carpenter Du Luban, and then painted black. They were so real-looking that if they fell into the hands of bandits, they could be used in robberies. The back part of the one in Dragon Sun’s belt had been hollowed out to make room for a spring, a firing pin, and a detonating cap. When fired, it produced a louder crack than a real pistol. My brother’s pistol used caps, and when he pulled the trigger, it popped twice. The underlings behind the “four warrior attendants” were all carrying red-tasseled spears over their shoulders, the metal tips polished to a shine with sandpaper and razor sharp. If you buried one in a tree, it was hard work pulling it out. My brother led his troops at a fast clip. The eye-catching red tassels against the virgin snow created a spectacular tableau. When they were about fifty yards from the spot where Yang Qi was selling his rank goods, my brother drew his pistol and fired it into the air: Pow! Pow! Two puffs of smoke quickly dissipated above him. Comrades! he shouted. Charge! Holding their spears as weapons, the words Kill Kill Kill thundered overhead as they sloshed through the snow, turning it to mud with loud crunches. As soon as they reached the spot, my brother gave them a signal, and they surrounded Yang Qi and a dozen or so of his potential goatskin coat customers.
    Jinlong glared at me, and I glared right back. Truth be told, I was feeling lonesome and would have loved to join his Red Guard unit. Their