VILLAGERS WHO HAD gone to town to sell straw sandals announced upon their return: ‘Gaomi hasbeen occupied by the Japanese. There’s a Rising Sun at the entrance!’
The panic-stricken villagers could only wait for the calamity they knew was coming. But notall of them suffered from racing hearts and crawling flesh: two among them went about theirbusiness totally unconcerned, never varying their routine. Who were they? One was Old Geng,the other a onetime musician who loved to sing Peking opera – Pocky Cheng.
‘What are you afraid of?’ Pocky Cheng asked everyone he met. ‘We’re still common folk, nomatter who’s in charge. We don’t refuse to give the government its grain, and we always pay ourtaxes. We lie down when we’re told, and we kneel when they order us. So who’d dare punish us?
Who, I ask you?’
His advice calmed many of the people, who began sleeping, eating, and working again. But itdidn’t take long for the evil wind of Japanese savagery to blow their way: they fed human heartsto police dogs; they raped sixty-year-old women; they hung rows of human heads from electricpoles in town. Even with the unflappable examples of Pocky Cheng and Old Geng, rumours ofbrutality were hard for the people to put aside, especially in their dreams.
Pocky Cheng walked around happy all the time. News that the Japanese were on their way tosack the village created a glut in dogshit in and around the village. Apparently the farmers whonormally fought over it had grown lazy, for now it lay there waiting for him to come and claim it.
He, too, walked out of the village as the roosters were crowing for the third time, running intoOld Geng with his shotgun slung over his back. They greeted each other and parted ways. By thetime the eastern sky had turned red, the pile of dogshit in Pocky Cheng’s basket was like a littlemountain peak. He laid it down, stood on the southern edge of the village wall, and breathed inthe cool, sweet morning air, until his throat itched. He cleared it loudly, then raised his voice tothe rosy morning clouds and began to sing: ‘I am a thirsty grainstalk drinking up the morningdew –’
A shot rang out.
His battered, wingless felt hat sailed into the air. Tucking in his neck, he jumped into the ditchbeneath the wall like a shot, bumping his head with a resounding thud against the frozen ground.
Not sure if he was dead or alive, he tried moving his arms and legs. They were working, butbarely. His crotch was all sticky. Fear raced through his heart. I’ve been hit, he thought. He satup and stuck his hand down his pants. With his heart in his mouth, he pulled out his hand,expecting it to be all red. But it was covered with something yellow, and his nostrils twitchedfrom the odour of rotten seedlings. He tried to rub the stuff off on the side of the ditch, but itstuck to his skin. He heard a shout from beyond the ditch: ‘Stand up!’
He looked up to see a man in his thirties with a flat, chiselled face, yellow skin, and a long,jutting chin. He was wearing a chestnut-coloured wool cap and brandishing a black pistol! Aforest of yellow-clad legs was aligned behind him, the calves wrapped in wide, crisscrossed clothleggings. His eyes travelled slowly upward past protruding hips, stopping at dozens of alienfaces, all adorned with the smug smile of a man taking a comfortable shit. A Rising Sun flagdrooped under the bright-red sunrise; onion-green rays glinted off a line of bayonets. PockyCheng’s stomach lurched, and his nervous guts relinquished their contents.
‘Get up here!’ Chestnut Wool Cap barked out angrily.
Pocky Cheng climbed out of the ditch. Not knowing what to say, he just bowed repeatedly.
Chestnut Wool Cap was twitching right under his nose. ‘Are there Nationalist troops in thevillage?’ he asked.
Pocky Cheng looked at him blankly.
A Japanese soldier waved a bloodstained bayonet in front of Pocky Cheng’s chest and face. Heheard his stomach growl and felt his intestines writhe and twist slowly; at any other moment, hewould have welcomed the intensely pleasant sensation of a bowel movement. The Japanesesoldier shouted something and swung the bayonet, slicing Pocky Cheng’s padded jacket downthe middle and freeing the cotton wadding inside. The sharp pain of parted skin and slicedmuscles leaped from his rib cage. He doubled over, all the foul liquids in his body seeming topour out at once.
He looked imploringly into the enraged Japanese face and began to wail.
Chestnut Wool Cap drove the barrel of his pistol into his forehead. ‘Stop blubbering! Thecommander asked you a question! What village is this? Is it Saltwater Gap?’
He nodded, trying hard to control his sobs.
‘Is there a man in the village who makes straw sandals?’ Chestnut Wool Cap softened his tonea little.
Ignoring his pain, he eagerly and ingratiatingly replied, ‘Yes yes yes.’
‘Did he take his straw sandals to market day in Gaomi yesterday?’
‘Yes yes yes,’ he jabbered. Warm blood had slithered down from his chest to his belly.
‘How about pickles?’
‘I don’t know?.?.?. don’t think so.?.?.?.’
Chestnut Wool Cap slapped him across the mouth and shouted: ‘Tell me! I want to know aboutpickles!’
‘Yes yes yes, your honour,’ he muttered obsequiously. ‘Commander, every family has pickles,you can find them in every pickle vat in the village.’
‘Stop acting like a fucking idiot. I want to know if there’s somebody called Pickles!’ ChestnutWool Cap slapped him across the face, over and over.
‘Yes?.?.?. no?.?.?. yes?.?.?. no?.?.?. Your honour?.?.?. don’t hit me . . . Please don’t hit me?.?.?. yourhonour?.?.?.’ he mumbled, reeling from the slaps.
The Japanese said something. Chestnut Wool Cap swept the hat off his head and bowed, thenturned back, the smile on his face gone in an instant. He shoved Pocky Cheng and said with ascowl, ‘We want to see all the sandal makers in the village. You lead the way.’
Concerned about the dung basket he’d left on the wall, Pocky Cheng instinctively cocked hishead in that direction. A bayonet that shone like snow flashed past his cheek. Quickly concludingthat his life was worth more than a dung basket and spade, he turned his head back and set out forthe village on his bandy legs. Dozens of Japs fell in behind him, their leather boots crunchingacross the frost-covered grass. A few grey dogs barked tentatively.
I’m really in a fix this time, Pocky Cheng was thinking. No one else went out to collectdogshit, no one but me, and I ran into some real dogshit luck. The fact that the Japanese didn’tappreciate his good-citizen attitude frustrated him. He led them quickly to each of the sandalmakers’ cellars. Whoever Pickle was, he was sure in one now. Pocky Cheng looked off into thedistance towards his house, where green smoke curled into the sky from the solitary kitchenchimney. It was the most intense longing for home he’d ever known. As soon as he was finishedhe’d go there, change into clean pants, and have his wife rub some lime into the bayonet woundon his chest. The great woodwind player of Northeast Gaomi Township had never been in such amess. Oh, how he longed for his lovely wife, who had grumbled about his pocked face at first,but, resigned at last, had decided that if you marry a chicken you share the coop; marry a dog andyou share the kennel.
The panic-stricken villagers could only wait for the calamity they knew was coming. But notall of them suffered from racing hearts and crawling flesh: two among them went about theirbusiness totally unconcerned, never varying their routine. Who were they? One was Old Geng,the other a onetime musician who loved to sing Peking opera – Pocky Cheng.
‘What are you afraid of?’ Pocky Cheng asked everyone he met. ‘We’re still common folk, nomatter who’s in charge. We don’t refuse to give the government its grain, and we always pay ourtaxes. We lie down when we’re told, and we kneel when they order us. So who’d dare punish us?
Who, I ask you?’
His advice calmed many of the people, who began sleeping, eating, and working again. But itdidn’t take long for the evil wind of Japanese savagery to blow their way: they fed human heartsto police dogs; they raped sixty-year-old women; they hung rows of human heads from electricpoles in town. Even with the unflappable examples of Pocky Cheng and Old Geng, rumours ofbrutality were hard for the people to put aside, especially in their dreams.
Pocky Cheng walked around happy all the time. News that the Japanese were on their way tosack the village created a glut in dogshit in and around the village. Apparently the farmers whonormally fought over it had grown lazy, for now it lay there waiting for him to come and claim it.
He, too, walked out of the village as the roosters were crowing for the third time, running intoOld Geng with his shotgun slung over his back. They greeted each other and parted ways. By thetime the eastern sky had turned red, the pile of dogshit in Pocky Cheng’s basket was like a littlemountain peak. He laid it down, stood on the southern edge of the village wall, and breathed inthe cool, sweet morning air, until his throat itched. He cleared it loudly, then raised his voice tothe rosy morning clouds and began to sing: ‘I am a thirsty grainstalk drinking up the morningdew –’
A shot rang out.
His battered, wingless felt hat sailed into the air. Tucking in his neck, he jumped into the ditchbeneath the wall like a shot, bumping his head with a resounding thud against the frozen ground.
Not sure if he was dead or alive, he tried moving his arms and legs. They were working, butbarely. His crotch was all sticky. Fear raced through his heart. I’ve been hit, he thought. He satup and stuck his hand down his pants. With his heart in his mouth, he pulled out his hand,expecting it to be all red. But it was covered with something yellow, and his nostrils twitchedfrom the odour of rotten seedlings. He tried to rub the stuff off on the side of the ditch, but itstuck to his skin. He heard a shout from beyond the ditch: ‘Stand up!’
He looked up to see a man in his thirties with a flat, chiselled face, yellow skin, and a long,jutting chin. He was wearing a chestnut-coloured wool cap and brandishing a black pistol! Aforest of yellow-clad legs was aligned behind him, the calves wrapped in wide, crisscrossed clothleggings. His eyes travelled slowly upward past protruding hips, stopping at dozens of alienfaces, all adorned with the smug smile of a man taking a comfortable shit. A Rising Sun flagdrooped under the bright-red sunrise; onion-green rays glinted off a line of bayonets. PockyCheng’s stomach lurched, and his nervous guts relinquished their contents.
‘Get up here!’ Chestnut Wool Cap barked out angrily.
Pocky Cheng climbed out of the ditch. Not knowing what to say, he just bowed repeatedly.
Chestnut Wool Cap was twitching right under his nose. ‘Are there Nationalist troops in thevillage?’ he asked.
Pocky Cheng looked at him blankly.
A Japanese soldier waved a bloodstained bayonet in front of Pocky Cheng’s chest and face. Heheard his stomach growl and felt his intestines writhe and twist slowly; at any other moment, hewould have welcomed the intensely pleasant sensation of a bowel movement. The Japanesesoldier shouted something and swung the bayonet, slicing Pocky Cheng’s padded jacket downthe middle and freeing the cotton wadding inside. The sharp pain of parted skin and slicedmuscles leaped from his rib cage. He doubled over, all the foul liquids in his body seeming topour out at once.
He looked imploringly into the enraged Japanese face and began to wail.
Chestnut Wool Cap drove the barrel of his pistol into his forehead. ‘Stop blubbering! Thecommander asked you a question! What village is this? Is it Saltwater Gap?’
He nodded, trying hard to control his sobs.
‘Is there a man in the village who makes straw sandals?’ Chestnut Wool Cap softened his tonea little.
Ignoring his pain, he eagerly and ingratiatingly replied, ‘Yes yes yes.’
‘Did he take his straw sandals to market day in Gaomi yesterday?’
‘Yes yes yes,’ he jabbered. Warm blood had slithered down from his chest to his belly.
‘How about pickles?’
‘I don’t know?.?.?. don’t think so.?.?.?.’
Chestnut Wool Cap slapped him across the mouth and shouted: ‘Tell me! I want to know aboutpickles!’
‘Yes yes yes, your honour,’ he muttered obsequiously. ‘Commander, every family has pickles,you can find them in every pickle vat in the village.’
‘Stop acting like a fucking idiot. I want to know if there’s somebody called Pickles!’ ChestnutWool Cap slapped him across the face, over and over.
‘Yes?.?.?. no?.?.?. yes?.?.?. no?.?.?. Your honour?.?.?. don’t hit me . . . Please don’t hit me?.?.?. yourhonour?.?.?.’ he mumbled, reeling from the slaps.
The Japanese said something. Chestnut Wool Cap swept the hat off his head and bowed, thenturned back, the smile on his face gone in an instant. He shoved Pocky Cheng and said with ascowl, ‘We want to see all the sandal makers in the village. You lead the way.’
Concerned about the dung basket he’d left on the wall, Pocky Cheng instinctively cocked hishead in that direction. A bayonet that shone like snow flashed past his cheek. Quickly concludingthat his life was worth more than a dung basket and spade, he turned his head back and set out forthe village on his bandy legs. Dozens of Japs fell in behind him, their leather boots crunchingacross the frost-covered grass. A few grey dogs barked tentatively.
I’m really in a fix this time, Pocky Cheng was thinking. No one else went out to collectdogshit, no one but me, and I ran into some real dogshit luck. The fact that the Japanese didn’tappreciate his good-citizen attitude frustrated him. He led them quickly to each of the sandalmakers’ cellars. Whoever Pickle was, he was sure in one now. Pocky Cheng looked off into thedistance towards his house, where green smoke curled into the sky from the solitary kitchenchimney. It was the most intense longing for home he’d ever known. As soon as he was finishedhe’d go there, change into clean pants, and have his wife rub some lime into the bayonet woundon his chest. The great woodwind player of Northeast Gaomi Township had never been in such amess. Oh, how he longed for his lovely wife, who had grumbled about his pocked face at first,but, resigned at last, had decided that if you marry a chicken you share the coop; marry a dog andyou share the kennel.