The Garlic Ballads

physical abuse, he had earned the veneration of local thieves, beggars, and fortunetellers—the so-called dregs of society. The thieves stole a rush sleeping mat and enough cotting wadding to make him a nice soft bed, and the beggars shared their meager bounty with him. Over the long days and weeks he was on the mend, these were the people who cared for him, restoring in his mind a long-dormant faith in human nature. So, subordinating his own safety to a love for his outcast companions, he sang a ballad of garlic loud and long to protest the mistreatment of the common people.
    About midway home, along with the smell of withered leaves on a familiar old tree, he also picked up the biting, metallic scent of rust-resistant oil. He barely had time to react before a hand clamped down on his shoulder. Instinctively, he drew his head down between his shoulders and squeezed his lips shut, fully expecting to be roundly cuffed. But whoever it was merely laughed amiably and said in a soft voice, “What are you flinching for? I wont hurt you.”
    “What do you want?” he asked in a quaking voice.
    “Zhang Kou,” the man said softly, “you havent forgotten what an electric prod does to the mouth, have you?”
    “I didn’t say anything.”
    “Really?”
    “I’m just a blind old man who sings tales to get by. That’s how I keep from starving.”
    “I’m only thinking about your well-being,” the man said. “No more songs about garlic, do you hear me? Which do you think will give out first, your mouth or the electric prod?”
    “Thanks for the warning. I understand.”
    “That’s good. Now don’t do anything foolish. A big mouth is the cause of most problems.”
    The man turned and walked off, and a moment later Zhang Kou heard a motorbike start up and go putt-putting down the road. He stood beneath the old tree without moving for a long, long time. The woman who ran a snack shop near the big old tree saw him. “Is that you, Great-Uncle Zhang?” she called out warmly. “What are you standing there for? Come on over for some nice meaty buns, fresh from the oven. My treat.”
    A wry laugh escaped from him as he banged the tree trunk with his staff; then he exploded in furious shrieks: “You black-hearted hyenas, do you really think you can shut me up so easily? Sixty-six years is long enough for any man to live!”
    The poor woman gasped in alarm. “Great-Uncle, who got you so angry? Is anything worth getting hysterical over?”
    “Blind and poor, my life’s never been worth more than a few coppers. Anyone who thinks he can shut Zhang Kou’s mouth better be prepared to overturn the verdicts in the garlic case!” Back on the street again, he began singing at the top of his lungs.
    The proprietress heaved a long sigh as she watched the blind old man’s gaunt silhouette lurch down the street.
    Three days later the autumn rains turned the side street into a sea of mud. As the snack-shop proprietress stood in her doorway gazing at the street lamp at the far end of the street, with raindrops dancing in its pale yellow light, she experienced a sense of desperate loneliness and paralyzing boredom. Before shutting the door and going to bed, she thought she heard the strains of Zhang Kou’s dreary song hover around her. She jerked the door open and looked up and down the street, but the music died out. It returned when she shut the door again, more intimate and moving than ever.
    The next morning they found Zhang Kou’s body sprawled in the side street, his mouth crammed full of sticky mud. Lying beside him was the headless corpse of a cat.
    Rain clouds brought with them the nauseating stench of rotting garlic, pressing it down over the town. Thieves, beggars, and other undesirables carried Zhang Kou’s body up and down the side street, wailing and lamenting from dawn to dusk, when they dug a hole next to the big old tree and buried Zhang Kou in it.
    From that day onward the proprietress of the snack shop heard Zhang Kou sing every night. Soon the little side street turned into a street of ghosts. One by one the local residents moved away, except for the proprietress, who one day hanged herself on the big tree, joining the area’s spectral population.

2.

    All night long Fourth Aunt wheezed and coughed and fussed, robbing her cellmates of their sleep. The one they called Wild Mule cursed angrily, “If you re dying, damn you, be quick about it!”
    ‘Tm not
trying
to cough, girl,” Fourth Aunt said