“Boss lady!”
The boss lady came running outside. What do you know, it was her, Wu Qiuxiang! Would you believe it, Boss Lady? That was when I noticed that the wall just east of the compound gate had been whitewashed to accommodate a sign in red: Qiuxiang Tavern. Wu Qiuxiang, the proprietress of Qiuxiang Tavern, ran up to where Yang Qi was sitting. Her smiling face was heavily powdered; she had a towel over one shoulder and a blue apron around her waist – obviously a shrewd, competent, enthusiastic, professional innkeeper. This was a different world – reforms and openings to the outside world had brought profound changes to Ximen Village. Qiuxiang was all smiles as she asked Yang Qi:
“What can I do for you, Boss Yang?”
“Don’t call me that,” Yang said with a glare. “I’m just a peddler of bamboo poles, not the boss of anything.”
“Don’t be modest, Boss Yang. At ten yuan apiece, the sale of ten thousand makes you a wealthy man. If you’re not a boss, then there can’t be a soul in Northeast Gaomi Township worthy of the title.” Matching her exaggerated compliment with a touch on Yang’s shoulder, Qiuxiang continued. “Just look at how you’re dressed. What you’re wearing had to cost at least a thousand.”
“You women, open your bloody mouths and out comes the flattery At this rate, you’ll won’t be happy until I explode like one of those bloated dead pigs back on the pig farm.”
“Okay, Boss Yang, you’re not worth a thing, a pauper, does that sound better to you? You close the door on me before I have a chance to ask for a loan. Now then,” Qiuxiang said with a pout, “what can I get for you?”
“Huh? Are you mad at me? Don’t pout like that, it gives me a hard-on.”
“To hell with you!” Qiuxiang fired back, slapping Yang Qi on the head with her greasy towel. “Now tell me, what do you want?”
“A pack of cigarettes. Good Friends.”
“That’s all? What about liquor?” With a quick glance at the red faces of Tiger and Dragon Sun, she said, “These brothers look to be in dire need of a drink.”
“Boss Yang is buying today,” thick-tongued Dragon said, “so we ought to drink less.”
“Is that an insult directed my way?” Yang Qi exclaimed as he banged his fist on the table. “I may not be rich,” he said with feigned anger, “but I won’t go broke buying a few drinks for you two.” He reached out and pinched Qiuxiang on the rear and said, “Okay, two bottles of Black Vat.”
“Black Vat? Too low-class. For friends like this, the least you can do is treat them to some Little Tiger.”
“Damn, Qiuxiang, you sure know how to take a hint and run with it,” Yang Qi said with a note of resignation. “All right, make it Little Tiger.”
Lan Jiefang, I’m painting a detailed picture of what was going on in the Ximen family compound, describing what I heard and saw as a pig at the gate, in order to bring the conversation around to a very important individual, Hong Taiyue. After a new office building was built for the production brigade, the original headquarters – the five rooms belonging to Ximen Nao – were taken over by Jinlong and Huzhu as their living quarters. And there’s more. Immediately after announcing the rehabilitation of the bad elements in the village, Jinlong announced that he was changing his name from Lan to Ximen. All this held considerable meaning, and the loyal old revolutionary Hong Taiyue was greatly puzzled.
Following his retirement, Hong began acting more and more like Lan Lian, cooped up at home during the day, and out the door as soon as the moon climbed into the sky. Lan Lian worked his land under moonlight; Hong roamed the village like an old-time night watchman, up and down all the streets and byways. Jinlong said: The old branch secretary’s level of consciousness is high as always – he’s out there every night protecting us. That, of course, wasn’t what Hong intended. He had a heavy heart over the changes that had occurred in the village and didn’t know what to do about it. So he walked and he drank out of a canteen people said had belonged to the Eighth Route Army. He wore an old army jacket over his shoulders, a wide leather belt around his waist, and straw sandals on his feet, topped by army leggings. The only thing that kept him from total resemblance to an Eighth Route soldier was the absence of a repeater rifle slung over his back. He’d take a couple of steps, then a swig from his canteen, and finally utter a loud curse. By the time the canteen was empty, the moon would be low in the western sky and he’d be falling-down drunk. On some nights he made it back to his bed to sleep it off; on other nights he’d simply bed down by a haystack or on an abandoned millstone and sleep till sunrise. He was spotted sleeping by a haystack by early-morning market goers, his brows and beard coated with frost, his face nice and ruddy, with no sign of feeling the cold. He’d be snoring away so peacefully no one wanted to wake him from whatever he was dreaming. Sometimes he’d head out to the fields on a whim and start a conversation with Lan Lian, but not by stepping on Lan Lian’s plot of land. No, he’d stand on somebody else’s property and engage the independent farm in a verbal battle. But since Lan Lian was busy working, he had little time for idle chatter, so he just let the old man talk, which he was only too happy to do. When Lan Lian did open his mouth, though, a pointed comment as hard as a rock or as sharp as a knife emerged and shut the old man up on the spot, so enraging him he could hardly stand. During the “Contract Responsibility System” phase, for instance, Hong Taiyue said to Lan Lian:
“Isn’t this the same as bringing back capitalism? Wouldn’t you say it was a system of material incentives?”
In a low, muffled voice, Lan Lian replied: “The best is yet to come, just you wait and see!”
Then when that led to the phase of a system of “household responsibility for production,” Hong stood alongside Lan Lian’s plot of land and jumped up and down, cursing:
“Shit, are they really giving up on the People’s Commune, ownership at the three levels of commune, brigade, and production team levels, with the production team as the base, from each according to his ability and to each according to his needs, all that?”
“Sooner or later, we’ll all be independent farmers,” Lan Lian said coldly.
“Dream on,” Hong said.
“You just wait and see.”
Then when the subsistence system went into effect, Hong got roaring drunk and came up to Lan Lian’s land, wailing and cursing angrily, as if Lan Lian himself were the person responsible for all the earth-shaking reforms:
“Lan Lian, you motherfucker, it’s just like you said, you bastard. This subsistence system is nothing but independent farming, isn’t it? After thirty hard, demanding years, we’re right back to the days before Liberation. Well, not for me. I’m going to Beijing, right up to Tiananmen Square, and I’ll go to Chairman Mao’s Memorial Hall and weep to his spirit. I’ll tell Chairman Mao I’m going to file a complaint against all of you. Our land, the land we fought for and turned red, and now they want a new color…”
Grief and anger drove Hong out of his mind, and as he rolled on the ground, he lost sight of boundaries. He rolled onto Lan Lian’s land just as Lan was cutting down beans. Hong Taiyue, rolling on the ground like a donkey, rolled into the bean lattice, crushing the pods and sending beans popping and flying all over the place. Lan pressed Hong to the ground with his sickle and said unsparingly: