In the proverbial blink of an eye, it seems, I am halfway to becoming an adult, which will bring an end to the days when I was free to roam the confines of the Ximen estate. A halter has been put over my head and I have been tethered to a trough. At the same time, Jinlong and Baofeng, who have been given the surname Lan, have each grown two inches, and you, Lan Jiefang, born on the same day of the same month in the same year as I, are already walking. You waddle like a duck out in the yard. On a stormy day during this period, the family in the eastern addition has been blessed with the birth of twin girls. That proves that the power of the Ximen Nao estate has not weakened, since everyone seems to be having twins. The first one out was named Huzhu – Co-Operation – and her sister was called Hezuo – Collaboration. They are the offspring of Huang Tong, born from a union between him and Ximen Nao’s second concubine, Qiuxiang. The western rooms were turned over to my master, your father, after land reform; originally, it had been my first concubine, Yingchun’s, quarters. When the eastern rooms were given over to Huang Tong, the original occupant, Qiuxiang, apparently came along with them, and wound up as his wife. The main building of the Ximen estate, five grand rooms, now served as government offices for Ximen Village. It was where daily meetings were held and official business conducted. That day, as I was gnawing on a tall apricot tree, the coarse bark made my tender lips feel like they were on fire. But I was in no mood to stop. I wanted to see what was underneath. The village chief and Party secretary, Hong Taiyue, shouted and threw a sharp rock at me. It hit me in the leg, loud and irritating. Was that pain I felt? A hot sensation was followed by open bleeding. Hee-haw, hee-haw – I thought this poor, orphaned donkey was going to die. I trembled when I saw the blood, and hobbled from the eastern edge of the compound, as far away from the apricot tree as possible, all the way to the western edge. Right by the southern wall, in front of the door of the main building, a lean-to made of a reed mat over a couple of poles, open to the morning sun, had been set up to keep me out of the elements, and was a place to run to when I was frightened. But I couldn’t go there now, because my master was just then sweeping up droppings from the night before. I hobbled up and he saw that my leg was bleeding; I think he’d probably also seen Hong Taiyue throw the rock. When it was on its way, it cut through the colorless air, making a sound like slicing through fine silk or satin, and struck fear into the heart of this donkey. My master was standing in front of the lean-to, a man the size of a small pagoda, washed by the sunlight, half his face blue, the other red, with his nose as the dividing line, sort of like the division between enemy territory and the liberated area. Today that figure of speech sounds quaint, but at the time it was fresh and new. “My poor little donkey!” my master cried out in obvious agony. Then his voice turned angry. “Old Hong, how dare you injure my donkey!” He leaped over me and, with the agility of a panther, got up into the face of Hong Taiyue.
Hong was the highest-ranking official in Ximen Village. Thanks to a glorious past, when all other Party cadres were turning in their weapons, he wore a pistol on his hip. Sunlight and the air of revolution reflected off his fancy brown leather holster, sending out a warning to all bad people: Don’t do anything reckless, don’t harbor evil thoughts, and don’t think of resisting! He wore a wide-brimmed gray army hat, a button-down white jacket, cinched at the waist by a leather belt at least four inches wide, and a gray lined jacket draped over his shoulders. His pants ballooned over a pair of thick-soled canvas shoes, with no leggings. He looked like a member of an armed working team during the war. During that war, I was Ximen Nao, not a donkey. It was a time when I was the richest man in Ximen Village, a time when Ximen Nao was a member of the enlightened gentry, someone who favored resistance against the invaders and supported progressive forces. I had a wife and two concubines, two hundred acres of fine land, a stable filled with horses and donkeys. But Hong Taiyue, I say, you, Hong Taiyue, what were you then? A typical lowlife, the dregs of society, a beggar who went around banging on the hip bone of a bull ox. It was sort of yellow, rubbed shiny, with nine copper rings hanging from the edge, so all you had to do was shake it gently for it to produce a huahua langlang sound. Holding it by the handle, you haunted the marketplace on days ending in 5 and 0, standing on the cobblestone ground in front of the Yingbinlou Restaurant, face smeared with soot, naked from the waist up, a cloth sachet hanging from your neck, your rotund belly sticking out, feet bare, head shaved, dark eyes darting every which way as you sang tunes and did tricks. Not a soul on earth could get as many different sounds out of an ox’s hip bone as you could: Hua langlang, hua langlang, huahua langlang, hualang, huahua, langlang, hualanghualang… it danced in your hand, its gleaming whiteness flickering, the center of attention in the marketplace. You drew crowds, quickly transforming the square into an entertainment center: the beggar Hong Taiyue banging on his ox bone and singing. It may have been more like the squawks of chickens and ducks, but the cadence had a recognizable rhythm, and it was not without a bit of charm:
Then this local gem of a man’s real identity was revealed, and villagers learned to their surprise that he had been an underground member of the Northeast Gaomi Township branch of the Communist Party, who had sent secret reports up to the Eighth Route Army. He’d looked me in the eye after I’d turned over all my riches and, eyes like a pair of daggers, face the color of cold iron, had announced solemnly: “Ximen Nao, during the first stage of land reform, you managed to get by with your deceptive petty favors and phony charity, but this time you’re a cooked crab that can no longer sidle your way around, a turtle in a jar with no way out. You plundered the people’s property, you were a master of exploitation, you ran roughshod over men and had your way with women, you oppressed all the people, you are the epitome of evil, and only your death will quell the people’s anger. If we do not move you, a black rock of an obstruction, out of the road, if we do not chop you, a towering tree, down, land reform in Northeast Gaomi Township will come to a standstill and the poor and downtrodden peasants of Ximen Village will never be able to stand up on their own. The district government has approved and sent forward to the Township Government a judgment that the tyrannical landlord Ximen Nao is to be dragged up to the stone bridge on the outskirts of the village and shot!”
An explosion, a burst of light, and Ximen Nao’s brains were splattered over the gourd-sized stones beneath the bridge, polluting the air around it with a disagreeable stench. These were painful thoughts. I could say nothing in my defense; they refused to let me. Struggle against landlords, smash their dog heads, cut the tall grass, pluck out the thickest hairs. If you want to accuse someone, you’ll never run out of words. We’ll make sure you die convinced of your crimes, is what Hong Taiyue said, but they gave me no chance to argue in my defense. Hong Taiyue, your words meant nothing, you did not make good on your promise.