The Garlic Ballads

late-afternoon sun shone directly down on the prisoners. Everything turned black for Gao Yang, whose arms felt as if they had floated away, leaving a burning sensation in his shoulders. The horse-faced young man beside him was puking loudly. Gao Yang turned to look at him.
    The drooping head at the end of the man’s long neck forced his shoulder blades straight up. His chest heaved violently, and there was a sticky, nasty mess on the ground, a mixture of red and white; bottleneck flies were already swarming over from the toilet. Gao Yang jerked his head around, as his stomach lurched and a pocket of air rushed noisily to his throat. His mouth flew open and out gushed a yellow liquid.
    The wailing of Fourth Aunt, who was on his left, had soon turned to sobs, and now even they had faded away. Was she dead? Alarmed by this thought, he turned to look. No, she wasn’t dead. She was gasping for breath, and if her arms hadn’t been pulled so tightly behind her, she would have been sprawled facedown on the ground. One of her shoes had fallen off, revealing a dark, pointed foot stretched out to the side, where ants swarmed over it. Her head wasn’t touching the ground, but her white hair was.
    I’m not crying, Gao Yang muttered to himself. I’m not.
    Summoning all his energy, he got to his feet and pushed his back against the tree trunk as hard as he could, in order to take some of the pressure off his arms. The policewoman, Song Anni, came up to survey the scene. She removed her cap, smoothing her lush black hair, but kept her sunglasses on as she wiped her moist, shiny lips with a handkerchief that quickly covered her mouth as her glance landed on the horse-faced young man’s mess. “No problems here?” she asked in a muffled voice.
    Gao Yang didn’t feel like answering, and Fourth Aunt was incapable of it, so it was up to the horse-faced young man: “No p-problem, even if I f-fuck your old lady!”
    Terrified that she was going to hit the young man, Gao Yang spun around to look at him. But the policewoman just turned and walked away, her mouth covered by the handkerchief.
    “Worthy brother,” Gao Yang said, struggling to get the words out, “don’t make things any harder on yourself.”
    The young man just grinned. His face was as pale as a sheet of paper.
    The policewoman returned with Zhu and Zheng in tow. Zhu had a metal pail, Zheng carried three empty beer bottles, and the policewoman held a ladle.
    At the tap the water pressure was so strong it made Zhu’s pail sing; he filled it to overflowing and carried it away without turning off the water, which sloshed over the bricks and tiles on the ground. The fragrance of fresh water drifted on the air to Gao Yang, who breathed it in deeply. It was almost as if a strange beast in his stomach were calling out: “Water… Your Honor… be merciful… water, please” Zheng no sooner put one of his bottles under the tap than it was full, froth quickly gathering at the top. He walked up to Gao Yang with three full bottles. “Want some?”
    Gao Yang nodded vigorously. He could smell the water, and the sight of Zheng’s puffy face filled him with such gratitude he nearly wept.
    Zheng held one of the bottles up to Gao Yang, who grabbed the mouth with his teeth and sucked in thirstily, taking a huge slug, some of it taking a wrong turn down his windpipe. He choked so violently his eyes rolled back in his head. Zheng tossed the bottle to the ground and began pounding him on the back. Water shot out of Gao Yang’s mouth and nose.
    “Slow down,” Zheng said. “There’s plenty.”
    Even after polishing off three bottles of water, Gao Yang was still thirsty. His throat was on fire, but he could see by the look of displeasure on Zheng’s face that it would be unwise to ask for more.
    The horse-faced young man struggled to his feet and was helped to some water by Whiskers Zhu. Gao Yang stared greedily as he drank five bottles. Two more than me, he grumbled inwardly.
    Fourth Aunt was probably unconscious, since the policewoman was ladling water over her. Clear when it hit her, the water dripped to the ground a dirty gray. Her short-sleeved jacket, made of mosquito netting and long a stranger to soap and water, regained some of its original whiteness in the dousing. With wet clothes clinging to her back, she looked skeletal, her shoulder blades poking up like sharp crags. Hair stuck to her scalp, from which dirty water dripped to the ground and formed shiny