“Jinlong, this one seems to be having convulsions.”
“Who cares? The old sow doesn’t have enough teats as it is, so let’s hope a few die,” he said venomously.
“No, they’re all going to live.” Huzhu put me down and wiped me clean with a soft red cloth. She was so gentle. It felt wonderful. Without meaning to, I squealed, that damned pig sound.
“Did she have her litter? How many?” That voice was outside the pigpen, loud and very familiar. I shut my eyes in total despair. I not only recognized Hong Taiyue’s voice I could even tell he’d regained his official post. Lord Yama, oh, Lord Yama, all those fine words about being reborn as the pampered son of a high official in a foreign country, when all along you meant to fling me into a Ximen Village pigpen. You tricked me, you shameless, backbiting liar! I fought to free myself from Huzhu’s hands and landed on the ground with a thud. A single squeal, and I passed out.
When I came to, I was lying in a bed of leaves, bright sunlight filtering down through the branches of an apricot tree. The smell of iodine was in the air; shiny ampoules were strewn on the ground around me. My ears were sore, so was my rump, and I knew they’d brought me back from the verge of death. All of a sudden, a lovely face materialized in my head, and I knew she was the one who’d given me the shots; yes, it was her, my daughter, Ximen Baofeng. Trained as a people doctor, she often treated sick animals as well. Dressed in a blue-checked, short-sleeved shirt, she seemed worried about something. But she always looked like that. She tweaked my ear with her cold finger and said to the person next to her:
“He’s okay now, you can take him back to the pen to suckle.”
Hong Taiyue rushed up and rubbed my silky skin with his coarse hand.
“Baofeng,” he said, “don’t think that treating a pig is unworthy of your talent!”
“The thought never occurred to me, Party secretary,” Baofeng replied matter-of-factly as she picked up her medical kit. “As far as I’m concerned, there’s no difference between animals and humans.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Hong said. “Chairman Mao has called upon people to raise pigs. Raising pigs is a political act, and by doing a good job at it you’re showing your loyalty to Chairman Mao. Do you understand what I’m saying, Jinlong and Huzhu?”
Huzhu said yes, but Jinlong leaned against the apricot tree, smoking a cheap cigarette.
“I asked you a question, Jinlong,” Hong said, obviously displeased.
Jinlong cocked his head. “I’m listening, aren’t I?” he said. “Would you like me to recite the entirety of Chairman Mao’s supreme directive on raising pigs?”
“Jinlong,” Hong said as he stroked my back, “I know you’re upset, but keep in mind that Li Renshun of Taiping Village wrapped a fish in a newspaper with Chairman Mao’s image, and was sentenced to eight years. He is undergoing labor reform as I speak. Your problem is far worse than his!”
“Mine was unintentional, and that’s the difference.”
“If yours had been intentional, you’d have been shot,” Hong replied, his anger rising. “Do you know why I protected you?” He looked over at Huzhu. “Partly because Huzhu and your mother got down on their knees and begged me. But the main reason was that I know all about you. You come from bad stock, but grew up under the red flag and were the kind of youngster we wanted to foster in the period before the Cultural Revolution. You’re an educated youngster, a middle-school graduate, just what the revolution needs. Don’t think that raising pigs is unworthy of your talents. Under current circumstances, no job is more glorious or more arduous than raising pigs. By assigning you here, the Party is testing your attitude toward Chairman Mao’s revolutionary line!”
Jinlong flipped his cigarette away, stood up straight, and bowed his head to receive Hong Taiyue’s reprimand.
“You two are lucky – but since the proletariat frowns on luck, let’s talk about circumstances.” Hong raised his hand, with me in it, into the air. “Our village sow has produced a litter of sixteen piglets, a rarity anywhere in the province. The county government happens to be looking for a pig-raising model right now.” He lowered his voice and said with a hint of mystery, “A model, know what I’m saying? You know the meaning of the word, don’t you? The rice paddies at Dazhai are a model. The oil fields at Daqing are a model. The fruit orchards at Xiadingjia are a model. Even the dances for old ladies organized at Xujiazhai are a model. So why can’t the pig farms of Ximen Village be a model? Lan Jinlong, you put on a model opera a few years back, didn’t you? You brought Jiefang and your dad’s ox into the commune, didn’t you? Weren’t you trying to create models?”
Jinlong looked up, eyes flashing. How well I knew the temperament of that son of mine, how his sharp mind turned out outstanding ideas that would amount to what today might be seen as absurd, but at the time were enthusiastically praised.
“I’m getting old,” Hong said, “and now that I’ve been given a second chance, all I hope for is to do a decent job with village affairs and be worthy of the trust of the masses and my superiors. But the prospects for you young people are unlimited. So long as you do your best, you’ll get credit for your successes, and if problems arise, I’ll take the responsibility.” Hong pointed at the commune members digging ditches and building walls in the apricot grove. “A month from now there’ll be two hundred garden-style pigpens out there, with a goal of five pigs for every person. The more pigs we raise, the more fertilizer we’ll get and the greater the harvests we’ll bring in. Grain rolls in, worries fade out; ditches deep, grain stores vast. No more hegemony, only support for worldwide revolution. Every pig is a bomb flung into the midst of the imperialists, revisionists, and reactionaries. So this old sow of ours, with her litter of sixteen piglets, has presented us with sixteen bombs. The old sows are aircraft carriers that will launch all-out attacks against the world’s imperialists, revisionists, and reactionaries. By now you two ought to understand the importance of assigning you to this post.”
I kept my eyes on Jinlong as I listened to this grandiose speech by Hong Taiyue. Now that I’d undergone several rebirths, our father-son relationship had weakened, until it was little more than a faint memory, a few words inscribed on a family register. Hong Taiyue’s speech acted on Jinlong like a powerful stimulant, setting his mind in motion and his heart pumping; he was itching to get started. Rubbing his hands excitedly, he walked up to Hong, cheeks twitching, big, thin ears quivering, and I readied myself for the familiar prolonged monologue that was forthcoming – but this time I was wrong, there was no monologue; a series of setbacks in life had obviously matured him. He took me from Hong Taiyue and held me so close I could feel his heart pound. He bent down and kissed me on the ear. That kiss would one day become a significant detail in the glorified dossier of model pig farmer Lan Jinlong: “Lan Jinlong performed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation in a life-saving attempt on a newborn piglet, snatching the piglet with the purple splotches from the jaws of death. The piglet heralded its salvation with piggish squeals. But Lan Jinlong, enervated by the effort, passed out in the pigpen after uttering resolutely:
“‘Party Secretary Hong, from this day forward, all boars are my father, and all sows are my mother!’”