Armed with revolutionary fervor, my half brother Ximen Jinlong called upon his imagination in leading the four Sun brothers – his four warrior protectors – and a pack of bored kids – his shrimp soldiers and crab generals – as well, it goes without saying, as a bunch of adults who dearly loved a show, in taking the Great Cultural Revolution into its second year, when spring arrived on the land.
They built a platform under the apricot tree with a wooden plank, then hung hundreds of red cloth streamers from the branches of the tree to represent flowers in bloom. Every night, the fourth Sun brother – Tiger Cub – climbed up onto the platform and, puffing out his cheeks, blew his bugle to call the masses to gather round. It was a lovely little bronze bugle, adorned with a red tassel. When it first fell into his hands, Tiger Cub puffed his cheeks out and practiced on it every day, making sounds like a lowing cow. But he mastered the instrument in the days leading up to spring, and was able to produce sweet music, mostly from popular folk tunes. He was a talented youngster, a quick study, no matter what he put his hand to. My brother had people mount a rusty old cannon on top of the platform and scoop several dozen holes out of the compound wall for gun ports, then had them stack cobblestones alongside each hole. Though there were no firearms to hand out, village youngsters with red-tasseled spears stood sentry beside the holes. Every few hours, Jinlong would climb onto the platform and survey the surroundings with a pair of homemade binoculars, creating the impression of a general observing enemy activities. The air was so cold his fingers were like carrots that had been washed in ice water; his cheeks, fittingly, were as red as late-autumn apples. Dressed only in his military tunic and unlined pants, in order to preserve the desired image, he kept his sleeves rolled up high and wore only a brown imitation army cap. Pus and blood oozed from chilblains on his ears; his nose ran continuously. Physically, he was a mess, but he was bursting with energy. The fires of passion burned in his eyes.
Seeing him out there like that, my mother worked through the night to make a padded coat for him; to preserve the image of a commanding officer, Huzhu helped to give the coat a military look. They even sewed a floral pattern into the collar with white thread. My brother refused to wear it. Mother, he said somberly, don’t fuss like an old woman. The enemy could attack at any minute, and my men are manning their stations in the snow and ice. Should I be the only person wearing a padded coat? My mother glanced all around and discovered that my brother’s “four warrior attendants” and his running dogs were similarly dressed in imitation military uniforms they’d dyed brown, and that they too suffered from running noses, the frozen tips of which looked like hawthorn fruit. And yet, a look of sacred dignity was frozen on each little face.
My brother mounted his platform every morning, a bullhorn fashioned out of sheet metal in his hand as he held forth to his running dogs below, to villagers who came to be entertained, and to the entire snowbound village, adopting the tone of a great man, which he had learned at the feet of Braying Jackass, exhorting his little revolutionary generals and poor and lower-middle peasants to wipe the scales from their eyes and sharpen their vigilance, to hold their ground to the very last, to wait patiently for spring to arrive with its warmth and new flowers, when they would link up with the main forces under the command of Commander in Chief Chang. His oration was frequently interrupted by a spell of hacking coughs; wheezing sounds like clucking chickens emerged from his chest, hacking sounds emerged from his throat, and we knew that signified the presence of phlegm. But clearing his throat and spitting out the phlegm as he stood on the platform would not become a military commander, so he swallowed the offensive material, to the disgust of all My brother’s hacking coughs were not the only cause of interruption; shouted slogans from the foot of the platform frequently broke into his oration. The second Sun brother – Tiger Sun – took the lead in shouting slogans. He had a booming voice, was somewhat educated, and knew just when to shout to incite the crowd into reaching the apex of revolutionary fervor.
During a particularly heavy snowstorm one day, as if the sky had opened up and sent ten thousand eiderdown pillows to earth, my brother mounted the platform, raised his megaphone, and was about to harangue his audience when he rocked back and forth, dropped his megaphone, and tumbled to the ground, landing with a thud. Stunned by what they’d just seen, people screamed and ran up to him, all talking at once: What’s wrong, Commander? Commander, what’s wrong? My mother ran crying out of the house, with only a tattered goatskin coat thrown over her shoulders to ward off the cold, and which made her appear unusually big.
That goatskin coat had been one of a lot of tattered coats our village’s former public security chief Yang Qi had bought from Inner Mongolia on the eve of the Cultural Revolution. Emitting a rank odor, it was stained by cow dung and dried sheep’s milk. When he tried to peddle those coats, Yang Qi was accused of profiteering and brought under escort to the commune by Hong Taiyue, who threw him in jail. The coats were locked in the storeroom awaiting final disposition by the commune. Then the Cultural Revolution was launched, and Yang Qi was released and sent home, where he joined Jinlong’s rebel faction and was the strongest voice of the people when Hong Taiyue was held up to public criticism. Yang worked hard to curry favor with my brother, desperate to be appointed deputy commander of the Ximen Village Red Guard detachment. My brother refused his request. The Ximen Village Red Guard detachment, he said decisively, is under unified leadership. There are no deputies. Deep down, he was contemptuous of Yang Qi, a repulsively ugly man with shifty eyes. Considered one of the proletarian thugs, he possessed a belly full of wicked thoughts and was exceedingly destructive. He could be used, but not in a position of authority. I personally overheard my brother say that to his trusted followers in the command headquarters. In a foul mood over having failed in his attempt to gain favor, Yang Qi then conspired with the locksmith Han Liu to break into the storeroom and retrieve the coats that had been taken from him, which he decided to sell out on the street. With winds whistling and snow falling, icicles hanging like sawtooth fangs from the eaves, this was ideal weather for goatskin coats. Villagers crowded round, turning the coats – stained and dirty, patchy, covered with mouse droppings, and nauseatingly foul smelling – over in their hands. Smooth-tongued Yang Qi spoke of his tattered, rotting goods as if they’d once been part of the imperial wardrobe. He picked up a short, black coat, slapped the greasy, worn-out fur -pow pow. Listen to that. Take a look. Feel it, try it on. Listen, it’s like a brass gong. Look, it’s like silk and satin. Look again, the fur is black as paint, and you’ll start to sweat when you slip it on. With one of these coats over your shoulders, you can crawl on ice and lie in the snow without feeling the least bit cold! A nearly new black goatskin coat for only nineteen yuan, about the same as finding one lying in the street. Go ahead, Great-Uncle Zhang, try it on. Oh, oh, my dear uncle. That coat fits like the Mongolian tailor made it just for you. One inch more and it’s too long, one inch less and it’s too short. So, what do you think, hot enough for you? It’s not? Touch your forehead, you’re sweating, and you say it’s not hot? Eight yuan? If not for the neighborhood connection, I wouldn’t sell it for fifteen. You won’t go higher than eight? Old Uncle, what can I say? Last autumn, I smoked a couple of your pipes, so I owe you for that. A man can’t rest till he pays off a debt. All right, then, nine yuan, and I lose money on this sale. Nine yuan and it’s yours. Take it home with you, but first get a rag and wipe the sweat from your forehead. You don’t want to catch cold. Eight, you say? How about eight-fifty? I’ll lower it a bit and you raise it a bit. After all, you’re a generation older than me. If it was anybody else I’d smack him in the ear so hard he’d roll all the way down to the river. Eight yuan, it’s like I’m giving you a transfusion of my own blood, type O, the same as Dr. Bethune. All right, eight yuan, but Old Zhang, now you’re the one who owes me a favor. He counted the sticky bills: five, six, seven, eight, all right, the coat is yours. Now take it home and show the missus. Sit around in it for half an hour, and I guarantee the snow on your roof will melt. The heat you give off, even from a distance, will turn the snow in your yard into little rivers and the icicles hanging from your eaves will clatter to the ground…