Red Sorghum

strewn with the bodies of dead and wounded soldiers. Bugler Liu was stillsounding his horn intermittently, but blood now flowed from the corners of his mouth and from his nose.
    Detachment Leader Leng removed his cap and bowed towards the sorghum field east of the road. Then he bowed to the west.
    ‘Release Commander Yu and his son!’ he ordered.
    The bodyguards let them go. Blood was seeping through the fingers of the man who was holding his hand over his wounded ass.
    Detachment Leader Leng took the pistols from the bodyguards and returned them to Granddad and Father. His troops were rushing across the bridge, past the trucks and the Jap bodies, gathering up machine guns, carbines, bullets, cartridge clips, bayonets, scabbards, leather belts and boots, wallets, and razors. Some jumped into the river, where they captured the Jap hiding behind the stanchion and raised up the old Jap’s body.
    ‘This one’s a general, Detachment Leader!’ one of Leng’s officers shouted.
    Detachment Leader Leng excitedly looked over the railing. ‘Strip off his uniform and pick up everything that was on him.’ He turned back and said, ‘We’ll meet again, Commander Yu!’
    The bodyguards fell in around him as he headed to the southern edge of the bridge.
    ‘Stop right there, Leng!’ Granddad bellowed.
    Detachment Leader Leng turned and said, ‘Commander Yu, you’re not planning on doing anything foolish, are you?’
    ‘You won’t get away with this!’ Granddad snarled.
    ‘Tiger Wang, leave Commander Yu a machine gun.’
    A soldier walked up and laid a machine gun at Granddad’s feet.
    ‘You can have the trucks and the rice they’re carrying.’
    Detachment Leader Leng’s troops crossed the bridge, formed up ranks on the dike, and marched east.
    The trucks were nothing but charred frames by the time the sun was setting; the stench from the melted tyres was nearly suffocating. The bridge was blocked by the two undamaged trucks at either end. The river was filled with water as black as blood; the fields were covered with sorghum as red as blood.
    Father picked up a nearly whole fistcake from the dike and handed it to Granddad. ‘Here, Dad, eat this. Mom made it.’
    ‘You eat it!’ Granddad said.
    Father stuffed it into Granddad’s hand. ‘I’ll get another one,’ he said.
    Father picked up another fistcake and savagely bit off a chunk.

TWO
Sorghum Wine

1
    WHAT TURNS THE sorghum of Northeast Gaomi Township into a sweet, aromatic wine that leaves the taste of honey in your mouth and produces no hangover? Mother told me once, making sure I understood that I was not to give away this family secret, for, if I did, not only would our family’s reputation suffer, but if our descendants ever decided to set up another distillery they’d have lost their unique advantage. Without exception, the craftsmen from our neck of the woods live by a simple rule: they would rather pass on their skills to their sons’ wives than to their daughters. This established practice carries the same weight as the law in certain countries.
    Mother said that the distillery was already a going concern under the operation of the Shan family. The wine they made wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t nearly as aromatic and rich as the wine that would come later, and it lacked the honeyed after-taste. The incident that resulted in the unique flavour of our wine occurred after Granddad murdered the Shans, and Grandma, following a brief period of discomposure, pulled herself together to display her natural entrepreneurial skills.
    Like so many important discoveries that spring from chance origins or a prankster’s whim, the unique qualities of our wine were created when Granddad pissed in one of the wine casks. How could a man’s piss turn a common cask of wine into a wine of unique distinction? you ask. Well, this takes us into the realm of science, and you won’t hear any nonsense on thesubject from me. Let those interested in the chemistry of brewing toss the matter around.
    Later on, in order to improve upon the process, Grandma and Uncle Arhat hit upon the idea of substituting the alkali from old chamber pots for fresh piss – it was simpler, more efficient, and more controlled. This secret was shared only by Grandma, Granddad, and Uncle Arhat. I understand that the blending was done late at night, when everyone else was asleep. Grandma would light a candle in the yard, burn a wad of three hundred bank notes, then pour the liquid into the