The Garlic Ballads

yellow and some white, some clear and some murky—into the air. Most crashed down on the wall dividing the boys’ and girls’ lavatories, but at least two landed on the other side. By far the most turbulent stream belonged to Wang Tai himself—Gao Yang was absolutely certain of that.
    A shriek erupted from the girls’ lavatory, followed by curses.
    Gao Yang couldn’t believe it when Wang Tai put the blame on him.
    The principal dragged Gao Yang into his office and smacked him in front of the teachers. “The sons of heroes are as solid as bricks, the sons of reactionaries are all little pricks,” he announced, before turning to one of the younger teachers. “Liu Yaohua, go to Gaotong Village and tell Wang Tai’s and Gao Yangs fathers I want to see them.”
    Gao Yang burst out crying, afraid his father would suffer again, all because of him.

    The old inmate scooped the bun out of Gao Yang’s piss and squeezed it with both hands; it made a bubbling sound as the gummy urine dripped through his gnarled, grimy fingers. After he’d squeezed it dry, he wiped his hands on his pants, then tore off a chunk and popped it into his mouth.
    “See, buddy, he’s eating it. Now, go on, drink up. It’s your own piss, so it can’t hurt you,” the grinning middle-aged inmate said, softly enough so the guards wouldn’t hear him.
    Gao Yang glared at the would-be murderer, feeling morally superior to someone for the first time in his life. Killer! Thief! Incestuous old bastard! When the poor and lower-middle-class peasants made me drink my own piss, I did it. And when the Red Guards made me drink it, I did it. But for common criminals like you? “I won’t do it!” he announced defiantly,
    “Are you sure about that?” the middle-aged inmate asked with a thin laugh.
    “I’m sure,” Gao Yang replied as he glanced at the old man, who was gobbling up the piss-soaked bun; he felt a wave of nausea rise in his throat.
    “You’d better do as he says, if you know what’s good for you,” the young inmate urged him.
    “If the guards ordered me to drink it, I’d have no choice,” Gao Yang replied. “But I’ve done nothing to offend any of you.”
    “Maybe not,” the young man said sympathetically. “But rules are rules.”
    “Go on, drink,” the old inmate added his encouragement. “People have to learn how to deal graciously with humiliation. Look at me—I’m drinking your piss, aren’t I?”
    “I’m not the tyrant you think I am, friend,” the middle-aged inmate said earnestly. “Believe me, it’s for your own good.”
    Beginning to waver, Gao Yang was actually touched by the man’s apparent sincerity.
    “Go on, Little Brother, drink it,” the old man croaked, his throat filled with pieces of steamed bun.
    “Do as he says, Elder Brother,” the young cellmate urged him with watery eyes.
    Gao Yang’s nose began to ache—he was about to cry—and when he looked at the three criminals who shared his cell, he felt like a man whose loved ones were coaxing him into taking a dose of bitter medicine.
    “I’ll drink it … I’ll drink it…” His throat tightened until he couldn’t string together a complete sentence.
    “Good boy—that’s what I like to hear!” the middle-aged inmate said with a friendly pat on the shoulder.
    Gao Yang sank slowly to his knees on the cement floor in the middle of his own puddle of piss, which retained the enticing odor of garlic. As he closed his eyes, images of his father and mother drifted into his mind. Father wore a tattered conical rain hat, a scrawny tuft of hair peeking through the hole at the top. He was hunched over and was wheezing badly. Mother, struggling on tiny bound feet, was hauling a wagon uphill in the snow. Gao Yang quickly flattened his feverish lips against the cold cement floor. The smell of garlic—ah, the smell of garlic! He sucked up a mouthful of cool urine, and another, and a third … ah, the smell of garlic!
    The middle-aged man grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him up. “Little Brother,” he said, “you can stop now.”
    After being led over to his cot, Gao Yang sat on the edge as if in a trance, not saying a word for about half as long as it takes to smoke a pipeful. A gurgle rose in his throat. Another long pause before his lips parted and he blurted out tearfully, “Father … Mother … today your son … drank his own piss … again.”

    Father wore his tattered conical rain hat, and wheezed badly. He held a switch in