Red Sorghum

shattered buildings, nor would they ever be able to.
    That night, after the smoke and sparks from the other houses had died out, our buildings were still burning, sending skyward green-tinged tongues of flame and the intoxicating aroma of strong wine, released in an instant after all those years. Blue roof tiles, deformed by the intense heat, turned scarlet, then leaped into the air through a wall of flames that illuminated Granddad’s hair, which had turned three-quarters grey in the space of a week. A roof came crashing down, momentarily blotting out the flames, which then roared out of the rubble, stronger than ever. The loud crash nearly crushed the breath out of Father and Granddad.
    Our house, which had sheltered the father and son of the Shan family as they grew rich, then had sheltered Granddad after his murderous deed, then had sheltered Grandma, Granddad, Father, Uncle Arhat, and all the men who worked for them, a sanctuary for their kindnesses and their grievances, had now completed its historical mission. I hated that sanctuary: though it had sheltered decent emotions, it had also sheltered heinous crimes. Father, when you were hiding in the burrow we dug for you in the floor of my home back in 1957, you recalled those days of your past in the unrelenting darkness. On no fewer than 365 occasions, in your mind you saw the roof of your house crash down amid the flames, and wondered what was going through the mind of your father, my granddad. So my fantasies were chasing yours while yours were chasing Granddad’s.
    As he watched the roof collapse, Granddad became as angry as he’d been the day he abandoned Grandma and moved to another village to be with his new love, Passion. He had learned then that Grandma had shamelessly taken up with Black Eye, the leader of an organisation called the Iron Society, and at the time he wasn’t sure what filled his heart – loathing or love, pain or anger. When he later returned to Grandma’s arms, his feelings for her were so confused he couldn’t sortthem out. In the beginning, his emotional warfare scarred only his own heart, and Grandma’s scarred only her own. Finally, they hurt each other. Only when Grandma smiled up at him as she lay dead in the sorghum field did he realise the grievous punishment life had meted out to him. He loved my father as a magpie loves the last remaining egg in its nest. But by then it was too late, for fate, cold and calculating, had sentenced him to a cruel end that was waiting for him down the road.
    ‘Dad, our house is gone. . . .’ Father said.
    Granddad rubbed Father’s head as he stared at the ruins of his home, then took Father’s hand and began stumbling aimlessly down the road under the waning light of the flames and the waxing light of the moon.
    At the head of the village they heard an old man’s voice: ‘Is that you, Number Three? Why didn’t you bring the oxcart?’
    The sound of that voice gave Granddad and Father such a warm feeling they forgot how tired they were and rushed over to see who it was.
    A hunched-over elderly man rose to greet them, carefully sizing up Granddad with his ancient eyes, nearly touching his face. Granddad didn’t like his watchful look and was repulsed by the greedy stench that came from his mouth.
    ‘You’re not my Number Three,’ the old man said unhappily, his head wobbling as he sat down on a pile of loot. There were trunks, cupboards, dining tables, farm tools, harnesses, ripped comforters, cooking pots, earthenware bowls. He was sitting on a small mountain of stuff and guarding it as a wolf guards its kill. Behind him, two calves, three goats, and a mule were tied to a willow tree.
    ‘You old dog!’ Granddad growled through clenched teeth. ‘Get the hell out of here!’
    The old man rose up on his haunches and said amiably, ‘Ah, my brother, let’s not be envious. I risked my life to drag this stuff out of the flames!’
    ‘I’ll fuck your living mother! Climb down from there!’ Granddad lashed out angrily.
    ‘You have no right to talk to me like that. I didn’t do anything to you. You’re the one who’s asking for trouble. What gives you the right to curse me like that?’ he complained.
    ‘Curse you? I’ll goddamn kill you! We’re not in a desperate struggle with Japan just so you can go on a looting binge! You bastard, you old bastard! Douguan, where’s your gun?’
    ‘It’s under the horse’s belly,’ Father said.
    Granddad jumped up onto the