The Garlic Ballads

first.”
    “No, Jinju, we’re not going to die. We’ll make it, and we’ll give your parents something to think about.”
    Seeing the cruel determination in her lover’s eyes, she touched the scab on his forehead with her fingertips. “Does it still hurt?” she asked tenderly.
    “It hurts here.” He grabbed her hand and placed it over his heart.
    She rested her head on his chest. “You’ve suffered because of me. My brothers are heartless wolves.”
    “You don’t have to talk about them like that,” Gao Ma objected magnanimously. “Life’s not easy for them, either.
    “Remember that day last year?” he continued expressively. “You know, when I was helping you in the field and told you I was going to get some fresh batteries for my cassette recorder so you could listen to it? Well, I finally did it. Here, listen to this.” He took the cassette recorder out of his bundle, pushed the play button, and the scratchy sound of a woman’s voice came spilling out: “Moonlight on the fifteenth cascading down on my old home and on frontier passes / In the silent night he longs for someone, and so do I.”
    “It’s a new tape by Dong Wenhua,” Gao Ma said. “She’s in the army, the Shenyang Military District. Short, chubby, real cute.”
    “You’ve seen her?”
    “Only on TV,” he admitted. “Sun Baojia has a new color set. His family planted six acres of garlic this year and sold it for over five thousand yuan. If we weren’t in such a fix, I’d stay home and make a killing on garlic, since this county is going to let us plant even more acreage next year.”
    He plugged the earphones into the recorder, cutting out the speaker, to Jinju’s bewilderment. Then he placed the earphones over her head. “It sounds better this way,” he said loudly.
    She watched him take an envelope filled with ten-yuan bills out of his bundle.
    “I sold off everything I could. My neighbor Yu Qiushui promised to watch my house Maybe we can come back after a few years in the Northeast.”
    She was listening to the woman’s loud singing through the headphones: “Ali Baba, hai! Ali Baba, hai! Ali Baba is a happy young man!”

C HAPTER 7

    The mid-month moon isn’t round till the sixteenth—
After that the erosion begins.
Everyone is happy when the garlic is sold,
But their hearts boil over when it is not…
.
—from a ballad sung by Zhang Kou to garlic farmers

1.

    Gao Yang was put into a large makeshift lockup in the county station house. At first he didn’t know where he was, but the double-paneled red gate had stuck in his mind, for it was the same gate he had passed when he came to town to sell his garlic; he remembered the ditch that served as a sort of moat. The water, filthy to begin with, was a floating home for clumps of half-dead grasses. There was plenty of activity all over town, except at this spot. The polluted water in the ditch was a spawning ground for tiny red insects; the second time he came to town to sell his garlic, he had seen an old white-clad man catching with mosquito netting attached to the end of a long bamboo pole. Someone said he used them as food for goldfish.
    The police removed his handcuffs, and once his hands were free, even the two ugly purple welts girding his wrists did not lessen his tearful gratitude. A comrade policeman hung the cuffs on his belt and gave Gao Yang a shove. “Inside!” he said gruffly, pointing to a cot near the window. “That’s yours,” he said. “From now on you’re Inmate Number Nine.”
    One of his cellmates—a young fellow—jumped down off his cot and clapped his hands. “Welcome, comrade-in-arms. Welcome.” The metal door clanged shut. The young fellow made drumrolls with his mouth and, in the cramped space, began twirling and prancing about. Gao Yang watched him nervously. His head had been shaved, but it had so many little dents that tufts of dark hair the razor missed gave his scalp an ugly, mottled look. As the young fellow twirled around the makeshift cell, Gao Yang’s view of him alternated between a pale, gaunt face and a mole-spotted back. He was so skeletal he didn’t seem to have any hips at all, and when he pranced around the cell he looked like one of those paper figures that turn somersaults when you squeeze the sticks they’re tied between.
    Someone outside banged the door with a hard object, then shouted. Almost immediately a somber, angular face appeared in the window high on the door. “Number Seven, what the hell