Red Sorghum

cakes!’
    The woman was losing patience. ‘I won’t force you to eat them. He’s not home. He’s in a meeting at the commune. That’s where you’ll find him!’ She pulled her head back in and slammed the gate shut. He raised his cane and pounded on the gate again, but was so weak he nearly crumpled to the ground. As he shuffled through the foot-deep snow on the street, he mumbled, ‘Go to the commune. . . . Go to the commune. . . . Sue the little bastard. . . . Sue him for oppressing decent folk, sue him for holding back my grain.’ Even after he’d walked a long way, he could still smell the delicate fragrance of winter sweets amid the falling snow; he stopped and turned, then spat in the direction of the shiny black gate. The winter-sweet blossoms waved in the falling snowflakes like crackling tongues of flames.
    It was nearly dusk by the time he reached the commune gate, whose steel ribs were as big around as his thumb; each was tipped with a barb. He could see through the spaces that the snow on the ground in the commune yard was black and filthy. People in new clothes and new caps, with large heads, fleshy ears, and greasy mouths, were scurrying back and forth. Some carried debristled pigs’ heads – the tips of the ears were blood-red – others carried silvery ribbonfish, and still others carried recently slaughtered chickens and ducks. He banged his dragon-head cane against the metal ribs, raising a loud clatter; but the people inside were too busy to give him anything but chilly glances before continuing on their way. Heshouted angrily, tearfully, ‘Your honour . . . leader . . . I’ve been treated unjustly. . . . I’m starving. . . .’
    A young man with three fountain pens in his coat pocket walked over and said coolly, ‘What’s all the racket about, old-timer?’
    Seeing all those pens in the young man’s pocket, he assumed he’d caught the attention of a ranking official, so he knelt down in the snow, grabbed hold of two metal ribs in the gate, and said tearfully, ‘Eminent leader, the production-brigade branch secretary has held back my grain rations. I haven’t eaten for three days, I’m starving, eighteen stabs by the Japs didn’t kill me, now I’m going to starve to death. . . .’
    ‘What village are you from?’ the young man asked him.
    ‘Don’t you know me, eminent leader?’ he asked. ‘I’m Eighteen Stabs Geng.’
    The young man laughed. ‘How am I supposed to know you’re Eighteen Stabs Geng? Go home and see your brigade leader. The commune organisations are on holiday.’
    Old Geng banged on the metal gate for a long time, but no one else paid him any attention. Soft yellow light shone down from the windows in the compound, in front of which feathery snowflakes swirled silently. Firecrackers exploded somewhere in the village, reminding him that it was time to send off the Kitchen God to make his report in heaven. He wanted to go home, but as he took his first step he fell headlong to the ground, as though shoved. When his face hit the snow, it felt amazingly warm, reminding him of his mother’s bosom – no, it was more like his mother’s womb. His eyes were closed in the womb, where he swam in complete freedom, with no worries about food, clothes, anything. He was indescribably happy; the absence of hunger and cold brought him extreme joy.
    The golden rays of light from the commune windows and the fiery-red winter-sweet blossoms at the home of the branch secretary lit up the world like rapidly licking flames, and the glare blinded him; snowflakes swirled like gold and silver foil as each family sent off its Kitchen God on a paper horse to soar up to heaven. With all that light streaming down on him, his body felt hot and dry, as though he’d caught fire. He quickly stripped off his jacket – hot. Then he took off his padded pants– hot. Took off his padded shoes – hot. Took off his felt cap – hot. Naked, just as he had emerged from his mother’s womb – hot. He lay down in the snow, the snow scalded his skin; he rolled around in the snow – hot, so hot. He gobbled up some snow, it burned his throat as though it were filled with sunbaked pebbles of sand. Hot! So hot! Rising from the snow, he grabbed the metal ribs of the gate, but they scalded him, and he couldn’t pull his hands off the gate. The last thing he wanted to shout was: Hot! So hot!
    The young man with the pens in his pocket came out early the next morning to