The Garlic Ballads

the traffic controller replied in a level voice. “Let’s hear what else you have to say.”
    The young man rushed the controller but was held back by two middle-aged men. “Stop it—stop it this minute! Give him what he wants, and keep your mouth shut.” Two white-uniformed policemen taking a smoke break under a nearby poplar tree ignored this completely.
    What was that all about? Gao Yang was thinking. Of course they’re cunt babies. What did he think they were, asshole babies? Facts may not sound elegant, but they’re still the facts. He congratulated himself for not pulling a stunt like that, but the thought of losing all that juicy garlic nearly broke his heart. He breathed a heavy sigh.
    By this time it was late morning, and Gao Yang’s donkey cart had barely moved an inch. The road was black with vehicles in both directions. From Fourth Uncle he learned that the cold-storage warehouse-where the garlic was bought—was a mile or so east of them. He was itching to see for himself, drawn by the shouts, whinnies, and other signs of frantic activity, but didn’t dare budge from where he was standing.
    Noticing the first pangs of hunger, Gao Yang took a cloth bundle down from his cart and opened it to remove a flatcake and half a chunk of pickled vegetable, first offering some to Fourth Uncle as a courtesy, then digging in when his offer was refused. When it was about half-gone, Gao Yang plucked five stalks of garlic from his load, thinking, I’ll count these as part of the highway toll. Crisp and sweet, they complemented his meal perfecdy.
    He was still eating when another man in a uniform and broad-billed cap came up and blocked his way, scaring the wits out of him. Quickly taking out his slip of paper, he waved it in front of the man and said, “I already paid, comrade.”
    “This is from the controller station,” the man said after giving the slip a cursory glance. “I need to collect a two-yuan commodity tax.”
    Gao Yang’s first emotion this time was anger. “I haven’t sold a single stalk of garlic yet,” he said.
    “You won’t stick around to pay once you have,” the commodity-exchange official said.
    “I don’t have any money!” Gao Yang said testily.
    “Now you listen to me,” the man said. “The co-op won’t buy your garlic without seeing a tax receipt.”
    “Comrade,” Gao Yang said, softening his attitude, “I mean it, I don’t have any money.”
    “Then give me five pounds of garlic.”
    This dizzying turn of events had Gao Yang on the verge of tears. “Comrade, this little bit of garlic is all I’ve got. Three pounds here and five pounds there, and before long I won’t have anything left. I’ve got a wife and lads, and this is all the garlic I could harvest, working day and night. Please, comrade.”
    “Government policy,” the man said sympathetically. “You have to pay a tax when you deal with the commodity exchange.”
    “If it’s government policy, then go ahead and take what you want,” Gao Yang mumbled. “Imperial grain levies, national taxes … they’re killing me, and I can’t raise a hand in my own defense.
    The commodity-exchange official picked up a bundle of garlic and flipped it into the basket behind him. Again, two young boys who looked like puppets on a string were in charge of the basket. As Gao Yang watched his garlic flip end-over-end into the basket, his nose began to ache, and two large teardrops slid out of the corners of his eyes.
    At high noon the blazing sun drained the energy out of Gao Yang and his donkey; the latter listlessly raised its tail and released a dozen or so road apples. That brought over a gray-uniformed man in a broad-billed cap who wrote out a slip of paper and handed it to Gao Yang. “A two-yuan fine for littering,” he said. Another man, this one in a white uniform and broad-billed cap, strolled up, wrote out a slip, and handed it to Gao Yang. “As sanitation inspector I’m fining you two yuan.”
    He just stared at the environment and sanitation inspectors. “I don’t have any money,” he said weakly. “Take some garlic.”

3.

    Night was falling when Gao Yang and Fourth Uncle finally reached the purchasing station in front of the cold-storage warehouse. The scales were manned by two operators whose faces had all the radiance of dead embers. After stiffly announcing the weights, the scale operators entered figures on their receipt pads with ballpoint pens. Gao Yang broke out in a cold sweat when he