The Garlic Ballads

noon. Spasms in his belly, a swelling in his head.
    Each cellmate grabbed a steamed bun, leaving one, fist-sized and gray in color, with a shiny skin. Gao Yang knew it belonged to him, but he had no appetite.
    The middle-aged inmate and his younger cellmate laid their bowls alongside the soup basin. The old man followed suit, then glanced at Gao Yang with his putrid eyes.
    “Don’t feel like eating, eh, my man?” the middle-aged man said. “Probably haven’t digested all that rich food you had for breakfast, right?”
    Gao Yang clenched his teeth to ward off the powerful feelings of nausea.
    “Say, you old scoundrel, do the honors. And save some for him.” The middle-aged man’s voice carried the tone of authority.
    The aging prisoner picked up a greasy ladle and buried it in the soup, stirring it for a moment. Then he lifted the ladle, taking care not to spill any, and with surprising deftness and balance filled the middle-aged inmate’s proffered bowl. He wore an obsequious grin. But the middle-aged man’s expression didn’t change a bit. The second ladleful was dispatched more quickly, with no attempt at deftness or balance, straight into the bowl of the youngest inmate.
    “You old hooligan!” the young man yelled. “All I got was watery broth.”
    “You got plenty,” the old man retorted. “So what do you have to complain about?”
    The young man looked at Gao Yang as if seeking an ally. “Did you know that this old bastard was caught stirring the family ashes? When his son became an official in town, he left his old lady at home like some kind of grass widow. And so this one started sleeping with his own daughter-in-law—”
    Before the young prisoner could finish, his aging cellmate threw the aluminum ladle at him, hitting him with such force that he grabbed his head and howled, as soup dripped down his face. The collision had chipped the ladle, which the old inmate picked up, standing as straight as his twisted torso would allow, his neck rigid, a venomous look on his face.
    The young inmate, accepting the challenge, picked up his steamed bun, looked at it long and hard, then flung it at the old hooligan’s head, which was as bald as the steamed bun except for funny-looking tufts of hair along the sides. The bun landed in the middle of that broad, shiny head. The old man wobbled and stumbled backwards, wagging his head as if he were trying to shake something out of it. After careening off his bald skull, the gray bun bounced once on the floor in front of the young inmate, who snatched it out of the air and held it up to see if it had been damaged.
    The entire episode made Gao Yang’s hair stand on end, but it cured his nausea. The rumblings in his belly also came to an abrupt end; as if a plug had been pulled, the water seemed to empty into his intestines and from there into his bladder. Now he had to pee.
    When the old prisoner was finished filling the bowls with soup and a few wispy vegetables, a bit remained at the bottom of the basin. He looked at Gao Yang, then at the middle-aged man.
    “Leave it for our friend here,” the latter demanded.
    “Where’s your bowl?” the old inmate asked Gao Yang.
    With his bladder about ready to burst, Gao Yang could barely stand straight, let alone speak.
    The middle-aged inmate bent over and slid a wash basin out from under Gao Yang’s cot. Gray, with a red “9” stenciled on the side, it held a gray bowl for food and a pair of red chopsticks—plus the contrasting white of cobwebs and black of dirt and soot.
    Gao Yang pressed his back hard against the gray wall to lessen the pressure on his bladder as much as possible. He observed that the middle-aged inmate was the only one who was confident about eating in front of him. The other two stood in separate corners, faces to the wall, bent over at the waist, necks scrunched down between their shoulders, holding their steamed buns with both hands against their abdomens, as if the buns were living objects that would scamper away if they loosened their grip. The would-be killer wolfed his food down, the young inmate chewed his food slowly and thoroughly, while the old man broke chunks off his steamed bun with trembling fingers and rolled them into doughy pellets, which he popped into his mouth and washed down with a mouthful of soup. His hands never stopped shaking, as if he were excited, or agitated, or nervous; and as he ate, a gummy liquid oozed from his festering tear ducts, under lids that no