Free Red Sorghum by Mo Yan Page B

couldn’t escape the prenoon deluge. Sorghum crumpled under the wild rain. Toads took refuge under the stalks, their white pouches popping in and out noisily; foxes hid in their darkened dens to watch tiny drops of water splashing down from the sorghum plants. The rainwater washed Yu Zhan’ao’s head so clean and shiny it looked to Grandma like a new moon. Her clothes, too, were soaked. She could have covered herself with the curtain, but she didn’t; she didn’t want to, for the open front of the sedan chair afforded her a glimpse of the outside world in all its turbulence and beauty.

6
    FATHER PARTED THE sorghum and threaded his way northwest, towards our village, as fast as his legs would carry him. Badgers with humanlike feet scattered clumsily across the ditches, but he ignored them. Once he was on the road, and didn’t have to worry about getting tangled up in the sorghum plants, he ran like the wind, his red cotton waistband sagging like a crescentmoon under the weight of his Browning. Although the pistol banged painfully against his hip, the growing numbness made him feel like a real man – powerful, even invincible. He could see the village in the distance. The gloomy, faded gingko tree at the entrance, which had stood for nearly a century, waited in sombre greeting. As he ran, he took the pistol from his waistband and aimed at birds gliding gracefully in the sky above him.
    The street was deserted, except for somebody’s lame, blind donkey, which was tethered to a crumbling wall; it stood motionless, its head drooping low. A solitary crow with wet dark-blue feathers was perched on a stone-roller. The villagers had gathered in the distillery compound, which had been paved with red gravel in the days when sorghum was purchased and stacked there, back when Grandma ambled unsteadily on her tiny feet, a white horsetail whisk in her hand and the glow of dawn in her cheeks, as she watched the drunken hands buy sorghum. Now the people faced southeast, awaiting the sound of gunfire. Children my father’s age were uncharacteristically well behaved, no matter how they itched to act up.
    Father and Sun Five, who had skinned and butchered Uncle Arhat the year before, ran into the square from different directions. Sun Five hadn’t been the same since the skinning. Arms and legs thrashing, eyes staring straight ahead, cheeks twitching, a stream of gibberish pouring from his foaming mouth, he had fallen to his knees and shouted, ‘Elder brother elder brother elder brother, Commander made me do it, couldn’t help myself. . . . You exist in heaven, where you ride a white horse on a carved saddle, wear fine clothes, carry a golden whip. . . .’ When the villagers saw him like this, their loathing abated. A few months after he went mad, his behaviour turned truly bizarre. He would begin shouting, and the corners of his eyes and mouth would turn up as snot and slobber dripped unchecked. No one could make any sense of the gibberish, and the villagers called it heavenly retribution.
    Father ran up breathlessly, Browning in hand, his head covered with white sorghum powder and red dust. The ragged Sun Five, his belly a mass of wrinkles, stumbled into the square, his left leg rigid, his right leg rubbery. Everyoneignored him, for they were all too busy watching the impressive figure of my father.
    Grandma walked up to him. Although still in her early thirties at the time, she wore her hair in a bun, neat bangs covering her shiny forehead like a beaded curtain. Her eyes were as moist as autumn rains; people blamed that on the wine fumes. More than fifteen years of romantic, soul-stirring adventures had turned her from a virginal teenager into a bold young woman.
    ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
    Still trying to catch his breath, Father stuck his Browning into his waistband.
    ‘Didn’t the Japs come?’
    ‘We won’t show that son of a bitch Detachment Leader Leng any mercy!’ Father exclaimed.
    ‘What