ON THE TWENTY- THIRD day of the twelfth month in 1973, Eighteen Stabs Geng celebrated hiseightieth birthday. Waking at the crack of dawn, he overheard the weak, sickly voice of an oldneighbour woman – ‘Yongqi?.?.?.’ – and the gravelly voice of a man – ‘Feeling better, Ma?’ Theold woman replied, ‘No, I’m dizzier when I wake up than when I go to bed.?.?.?.’
Eighteen Stabs Geng strained to sit up by resting his hands on the icy mat. He, too, felt dizzythis morning. A cold wind whistled outside, driving snow flurries against the murky paper on thewindow. He threw his moth-eaten dog pelt over his shoulder, reached out for his dragon-headcane leaning against the wall behind the door, and stumbled out the door. The yard was coveredby a thick blanket of snow, and as he gazed at the crumbling earth wall all he could see was a seaof silvery white, dotted here and there with sorghum husks.
The snowfall showed no sign of letting up. He turned back, a sense of the survivor’s goodfortune in his heart, but when he raised the lids of the rice and flour vats with the head of hiscane, both were empty. Last night’s eyes hadn’t tricked him. His stomach had not been visited byfood for two days now, and his useless old intestines twitched and twisted. It was time toswallow his pride and ask for some grain. Although his belly was empty and he was shiveringfrom the cold, he knew that getting grain out of the hardhearted branch secretary was not going tobe easy. He decided to boil some water to warm his belly before going out for a showdown withthat bastard. He raised the lid of the water vat. No water, just chunks of ice.
It dawned on him that he hadn’t lit the stove for three days, and that it had been ten days sincehis last visit to the well. He went into the yard and scooped up twenty or thirty gourdfuls ofsnow, which he dumped into his cracked, unscrubbed pot. Then he looked around for somefirewood, but there was none. So he went into the bedroom, tore a handful of straw from the matcovering the kang, and hacked up some woven sorghum cushions and a block of straw with hiscleaver. He knelt down and started a fire with his flintstone. Matches that used to sell for two fena box now required a ration coupon, which he didn’t have, and he couldn’t afford matches thatdidn’t require a coupon. He was a penniless old bastard.
Tongues of red flame began to lick out of the black hole in the stove, so he pressed up close towarm his freezing belly. The chill melted away, but his back was as cold as ever. After quicklystuffing more straw into the stove, he turned his back to the fire. The chill melted from his back,but ice re-formed on his belly. A body cold on one side and warm on the other only increased hismisery, so he concentrated on feeding straw into the stove to get some water boiling. With abellyful of hot water, he could stand up to that little bastard, and if he couldn’t squeeze any grainout of him, at least he’d take him away from his toasty stove for a while.
As the fire began to die out under the pot of water, he shoved the last handful of straw into thegreedy, gaping black mouth of the old Kitchen God and prayed it would burn slowly. But the fuelflared up and burned like mad, with no sign of progress in the pot. So he jumped up, more nimblythan even he thought possible, and dashed into the bedroom, where he ripped out the last fewhandfuls of straw from under the kang mat, and stuffed them into the stove hole, a desperateattempt to melt the ice in the pot. Then, with brutal determination, he shoved his little three-legged stool into the stove hole and jammed his nearly bald broom down the black throat of theKitchen God, which belched once or twice and vomited clouds of dense black smoke. Turningpale with fright, he frantically fanned the air around the stove, which kept swallowing, thenspewing clouds of smoke. A loud crackle preceded the harsh, glowing flames from the stool andthe broom, as he paused to catch his breath. Stung by the smoke, his old eyes shed tears likegummy mucus, which coursed down his leathery face.
The water in the pot began to sizzle like chirping cicadas – music to his ears – and a childlikegrin spread across his face. However, when the fire began to dim, his smile was quickly replacedby a look of panic. Jumping to his feet, he searched for something, anything, to burn. The beamsand crossbars would work, but he wasn’t strong enough to pull them down. Suddenly heremembered the story of Iron Crutch Li, one of the Eight Immortals, who incinerated his ownleg. According to legend, Iron Crutch Li stuck his leg into the stove and listened to it crackle.
‘Dear brother,’ his wife had said, ‘you’ll make yourself a cripple.’ And just as she had forecast,the leg was ruined. Of course Geng knew he was no immortal, and even without burning his leghe could barely take a step. But, gimp or no, he was going to make his way to the branchsecretary’s home and demand some grain.
Finally, as the fire in the stove was about to die, Geng’s gaze fell upon the spirit shrine set intothe wall, and the black tablet it held. He reached up with his dragon-head cane to knock it loose.
Dust flew and fear gripped his old heart as a profound misery suddenly penetrated the marrow ofhis bones. He picked up the ash-covered fox-spirit tablet, to which he’d made offerings for thirty-six years, and flung it into the belly of the stove. Hungry flames began licking the tablet, whichsizzled and spat out juicy, dark red drops?.?.?. scorching the flesh of the red fox that had diligentlylicked the eighteen wounds on his body with its cool, glorious tongue. Nothing would ever shakehis belief that there was something miraculous about the fox’s tongue, since his wounds had beenfree of infection even after he’d crawled back to the village.
Although he was sure that his miraculous salvation portended good fortune in his future, itsomehow never came. Eventually he became a pensioner, protected by the ‘five guarantees’ offood, clothing, medical aid, housing, and burial, and knew that his good fortune had finallyarrived. But even that soon vanished, as he was neglected by everyone, including the littlebastard who had been squatting in the basket over the mule’s back whittling a willow switchyears earlier – the current branch secretary, who would probably be provincial secretary by nowhad he not been responsible for the deaths of nine people during the Great Leap Forward. Thelittle bastard had cancelled his eligibility for the ‘five guarantees’.
The wooden tablet burned as slowly as a living fox, and as the blood-red tongues of flamebarked away, he heard the water in the pot seethe and boil.
After scooping up the scalding water with the cracked gourd, he quickly sipped a mouthful andsent it coursing down to his stomach. He shuddered, then swallowed another mouthful. Now hewas an immortal.
By the time he’d drunk two gourds of the hot water, his body was sweaty, and the lice,rejuvenated by the warmth, began to squirm and crawl around. Now he was hungrier than ever,but at least his strength had returned. Supported by his dragon-head cane, he walked out into thesnowy landscape, shards of white jade cracking beneath his feet, his mind as clear as a brightAugust sky. The street was deserted, except for a black dog who stopped every so often to shakethe snow off its back.
He followed the dog to the home of the little bastard, whose shiny black gate was closed tight.
Fiery winter- sweet blossoms atop the wall drooped down like bright- red droplets. Absent-mindedly admiring them, he walked up the stone steps, breathed deeply, and knocked on thegate. A dog barked, but there were no human sounds. Suddenly gripped by fury, he leanedagainst the wall to steady himself, raised his dragon-head cane, and pounded the hasp of theshiny black gate. The dog on the other side roared and howled.
Finally the gate opened. A bright-eyed, pudgy little dog darted out and charged at him, butquickly retreated when Old Geng waved his cane in its face. Next out was a fair-skinned middle-aged woman. ‘Oh, it’s you, Master Geng,’ she said genially when she saw Eighteen Stabsstanding at the gate. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I want to see the secretary,’ he answered hoarsely.
‘He went to a meeting at the commune,’ she said sympathetically.
‘Let me in,’ he said weakly. ‘I want to ask him what right he had to make me ineligible for apension. I was bayoneted eighteen times by the Japs, but they didn’t kill me. Did I go through allthat just so I could starve to death at his hands?’
‘Master Geng,’ the woman said awkwardly, ‘he’s not home, honest. He went to a meeting atthe commune early this morning. If you’re hungry, come in and have something to eat. We don’thave much, but there are plenty of yam cakes.’
‘Yam cakes?’ he said icily. ‘Not even your dog eats yam cakes!’
The woman was losing patience. ‘I won’t force you to eat them. He’s not home. He’s in ameeting at the commune. That’s where you’ll find him!’ She pulled her head back in andslammed the gate shut. He raised his cane and pounded on the gate again, but was so weak henearly crumpled to the ground. As he shuffled through the foot-deep snow on the street, hemumbled, ‘Go to the commune.?.?.?. Go to the commune.?.?.?. Sue the little bastard.?.?.?. Sue himfor oppressing decent folk, sue him for holding back my grain.’ Even after he’d walked a longway, he could still smell the delicate fragrance of winter sweets amid the falling snow; hestopped and turned, then spat in the direction of the shiny black gate. The winter-sweet blossomswaved in the falling snowflakes like crackling tongues of flames.
It was nearly dusk by the time he reached the commune gate, whose steel ribs were as bigaround as his thumb; each was tipped with a barb. He could see through the spaces that the snowon the ground in the commune yard was black and filthy. People in new clothes and new caps,with large heads, fleshy ears, and greasy mouths, were scurrying back and forth. Some carrieddebristled pigs’ heads – the tips of the ears were blood-red – others carried silvery ribbonfish, andstill others carried recently slaughtered chickens and ducks. He banged his dragon-head caneagainst the metal ribs, raising a loud clatter; but the people inside were too busy to give himanything but chilly glances before continuing on their way. He shouted angrily, tearfully, ‘Yourhonour?.?.?. leader?.?.?. I’ve been treated unjustly.?.?.?. I’m starving.?.?.?.’
A young man with three fountain pens in his coat pocket walked over and said coolly, ‘What’sall the racket about, old-timer?’
Seeing all those pens in the young man’s pocket, he assumed he’d caught the attention of aranking official, so he knelt down in the snow, grabbed hold of two metal ribs in the gate, andsaid tearfully, ‘Eminent leader, the production-brigade branch secretary has held back my grainrations. I haven’t eaten for three days, I’m starving, eighteen stabs by the Japs didn’t kill me, nowI’m going to starve to death.?.?.?.’
‘What village are you from?’ the young man asked him.
‘Don’t you know me, eminent leader?’ he asked. ‘I’m Eighteen Stabs Geng.’
The young man laughed. ‘How am I supposed to know you’re Eighteen Stabs Geng? Go homeand see your brigade leader. The commune organisations are on holiday.’
Old Geng banged on the metal gate for a long time, but no one else paid him any attention.
Soft yellow light shone down from the windows in the compound, in front of which featherysnowflakes swirled silently. Firecrackers exploded somewhere in the village, reminding him thatit was time to send off the Kitchen God to make his report in heaven. He wanted to go home, butas he took his first step he fell headlong to the ground, as though shoved. When his face hit thesnow, it felt amazingly warm, reminding him of his mother’s bosom – no, it was more like hismother’s womb. His eyes were closed in the womb, where he swam in complete freedom, withno worries about food, clothes, anything. He was indescribably happy; the absence of hunger andcold brought him extreme joy.
The golden rays of light from the commune windows and the fiery-red winter-sweet blossomsat the home of the branch secretary lit up the world like rapidly licking flames, and the glareblinded him; snowflakes swirled like gold and silver foil as each family sent off its Kitchen Godon a paper horse to soar up to heaven. With all that light streaming down on him, his body felthot and dry, as though he’d caught fire. He quickly stripped off his jacket – hot. Then he took offhis padded pants – hot. Took off his padded shoes – hot. Took off his felt cap – hot. Naked, justas he had emerged from his mother’s womb – hot. He lay down in the snow, the snow scalded hisskin; he rolled around in the snow – hot, so hot. He gobbled up some snow, it burned his throat asthough it were filled with sunbaked pebbles of sand. Hot! So hot! Rising from the snow, hegrabbed the metal ribs of the gate, but they scalded him, and he couldn’t pull his hands off thegate. The last thing he wanted to shout was: Hot! So hot!
The young man with the pens in his pocket came out early the next morning to shovel snow.
When he casually raised his head and glanced at the gate, his face paled with fright. What he sawwas the old man from last night, who’d called himself Eighteen Stabs Geng, stark naked, hishands stuck to the gate, like the crucified Jesus. His face had turned purple, his limbs were spreadout, his staring eyes were fixed on the commune compound; hard to believe he was a lonely oldman who had died of starvation. The young man made a careful count of the scars on his body.
There were eighteen, all right, no more, no less.
Eighteen Stabs Geng strained to sit up by resting his hands on the icy mat. He, too, felt dizzythis morning. A cold wind whistled outside, driving snow flurries against the murky paper on thewindow. He threw his moth-eaten dog pelt over his shoulder, reached out for his dragon-headcane leaning against the wall behind the door, and stumbled out the door. The yard was coveredby a thick blanket of snow, and as he gazed at the crumbling earth wall all he could see was a seaof silvery white, dotted here and there with sorghum husks.
The snowfall showed no sign of letting up. He turned back, a sense of the survivor’s goodfortune in his heart, but when he raised the lids of the rice and flour vats with the head of hiscane, both were empty. Last night’s eyes hadn’t tricked him. His stomach had not been visited byfood for two days now, and his useless old intestines twitched and twisted. It was time toswallow his pride and ask for some grain. Although his belly was empty and he was shiveringfrom the cold, he knew that getting grain out of the hardhearted branch secretary was not going tobe easy. He decided to boil some water to warm his belly before going out for a showdown withthat bastard. He raised the lid of the water vat. No water, just chunks of ice.
It dawned on him that he hadn’t lit the stove for three days, and that it had been ten days sincehis last visit to the well. He went into the yard and scooped up twenty or thirty gourdfuls ofsnow, which he dumped into his cracked, unscrubbed pot. Then he looked around for somefirewood, but there was none. So he went into the bedroom, tore a handful of straw from the matcovering the kang, and hacked up some woven sorghum cushions and a block of straw with hiscleaver. He knelt down and started a fire with his flintstone. Matches that used to sell for two fena box now required a ration coupon, which he didn’t have, and he couldn’t afford matches thatdidn’t require a coupon. He was a penniless old bastard.
Tongues of red flame began to lick out of the black hole in the stove, so he pressed up close towarm his freezing belly. The chill melted away, but his back was as cold as ever. After quicklystuffing more straw into the stove, he turned his back to the fire. The chill melted from his back,but ice re-formed on his belly. A body cold on one side and warm on the other only increased hismisery, so he concentrated on feeding straw into the stove to get some water boiling. With abellyful of hot water, he could stand up to that little bastard, and if he couldn’t squeeze any grainout of him, at least he’d take him away from his toasty stove for a while.
As the fire began to die out under the pot of water, he shoved the last handful of straw into thegreedy, gaping black mouth of the old Kitchen God and prayed it would burn slowly. But the fuelflared up and burned like mad, with no sign of progress in the pot. So he jumped up, more nimblythan even he thought possible, and dashed into the bedroom, where he ripped out the last fewhandfuls of straw from under the kang mat, and stuffed them into the stove hole, a desperateattempt to melt the ice in the pot. Then, with brutal determination, he shoved his little three-legged stool into the stove hole and jammed his nearly bald broom down the black throat of theKitchen God, which belched once or twice and vomited clouds of dense black smoke. Turningpale with fright, he frantically fanned the air around the stove, which kept swallowing, thenspewing clouds of smoke. A loud crackle preceded the harsh, glowing flames from the stool andthe broom, as he paused to catch his breath. Stung by the smoke, his old eyes shed tears likegummy mucus, which coursed down his leathery face.
The water in the pot began to sizzle like chirping cicadas – music to his ears – and a childlikegrin spread across his face. However, when the fire began to dim, his smile was quickly replacedby a look of panic. Jumping to his feet, he searched for something, anything, to burn. The beamsand crossbars would work, but he wasn’t strong enough to pull them down. Suddenly heremembered the story of Iron Crutch Li, one of the Eight Immortals, who incinerated his ownleg. According to legend, Iron Crutch Li stuck his leg into the stove and listened to it crackle.
‘Dear brother,’ his wife had said, ‘you’ll make yourself a cripple.’ And just as she had forecast,the leg was ruined. Of course Geng knew he was no immortal, and even without burning his leghe could barely take a step. But, gimp or no, he was going to make his way to the branchsecretary’s home and demand some grain.
Finally, as the fire in the stove was about to die, Geng’s gaze fell upon the spirit shrine set intothe wall, and the black tablet it held. He reached up with his dragon-head cane to knock it loose.
Dust flew and fear gripped his old heart as a profound misery suddenly penetrated the marrow ofhis bones. He picked up the ash-covered fox-spirit tablet, to which he’d made offerings for thirty-six years, and flung it into the belly of the stove. Hungry flames began licking the tablet, whichsizzled and spat out juicy, dark red drops?.?.?. scorching the flesh of the red fox that had diligentlylicked the eighteen wounds on his body with its cool, glorious tongue. Nothing would ever shakehis belief that there was something miraculous about the fox’s tongue, since his wounds had beenfree of infection even after he’d crawled back to the village.
Although he was sure that his miraculous salvation portended good fortune in his future, itsomehow never came. Eventually he became a pensioner, protected by the ‘five guarantees’ offood, clothing, medical aid, housing, and burial, and knew that his good fortune had finallyarrived. But even that soon vanished, as he was neglected by everyone, including the littlebastard who had been squatting in the basket over the mule’s back whittling a willow switchyears earlier – the current branch secretary, who would probably be provincial secretary by nowhad he not been responsible for the deaths of nine people during the Great Leap Forward. Thelittle bastard had cancelled his eligibility for the ‘five guarantees’.
The wooden tablet burned as slowly as a living fox, and as the blood-red tongues of flamebarked away, he heard the water in the pot seethe and boil.
After scooping up the scalding water with the cracked gourd, he quickly sipped a mouthful andsent it coursing down to his stomach. He shuddered, then swallowed another mouthful. Now hewas an immortal.
By the time he’d drunk two gourds of the hot water, his body was sweaty, and the lice,rejuvenated by the warmth, began to squirm and crawl around. Now he was hungrier than ever,but at least his strength had returned. Supported by his dragon-head cane, he walked out into thesnowy landscape, shards of white jade cracking beneath his feet, his mind as clear as a brightAugust sky. The street was deserted, except for a black dog who stopped every so often to shakethe snow off its back.
He followed the dog to the home of the little bastard, whose shiny black gate was closed tight.
Fiery winter- sweet blossoms atop the wall drooped down like bright- red droplets. Absent-mindedly admiring them, he walked up the stone steps, breathed deeply, and knocked on thegate. A dog barked, but there were no human sounds. Suddenly gripped by fury, he leanedagainst the wall to steady himself, raised his dragon-head cane, and pounded the hasp of theshiny black gate. The dog on the other side roared and howled.
Finally the gate opened. A bright-eyed, pudgy little dog darted out and charged at him, butquickly retreated when Old Geng waved his cane in its face. Next out was a fair-skinned middle-aged woman. ‘Oh, it’s you, Master Geng,’ she said genially when she saw Eighteen Stabsstanding at the gate. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I want to see the secretary,’ he answered hoarsely.
‘He went to a meeting at the commune,’ she said sympathetically.
‘Let me in,’ he said weakly. ‘I want to ask him what right he had to make me ineligible for apension. I was bayoneted eighteen times by the Japs, but they didn’t kill me. Did I go through allthat just so I could starve to death at his hands?’
‘Master Geng,’ the woman said awkwardly, ‘he’s not home, honest. He went to a meeting atthe commune early this morning. If you’re hungry, come in and have something to eat. We don’thave much, but there are plenty of yam cakes.’
‘Yam cakes?’ he said icily. ‘Not even your dog eats yam cakes!’
The woman was losing patience. ‘I won’t force you to eat them. He’s not home. He’s in ameeting at the commune. That’s where you’ll find him!’ She pulled her head back in andslammed the gate shut. He raised his cane and pounded on the gate again, but was so weak henearly crumpled to the ground. As he shuffled through the foot-deep snow on the street, hemumbled, ‘Go to the commune.?.?.?. Go to the commune.?.?.?. Sue the little bastard.?.?.?. Sue himfor oppressing decent folk, sue him for holding back my grain.’ Even after he’d walked a longway, he could still smell the delicate fragrance of winter sweets amid the falling snow; hestopped and turned, then spat in the direction of the shiny black gate. The winter-sweet blossomswaved in the falling snowflakes like crackling tongues of flames.
It was nearly dusk by the time he reached the commune gate, whose steel ribs were as bigaround as his thumb; each was tipped with a barb. He could see through the spaces that the snowon the ground in the commune yard was black and filthy. People in new clothes and new caps,with large heads, fleshy ears, and greasy mouths, were scurrying back and forth. Some carrieddebristled pigs’ heads – the tips of the ears were blood-red – others carried silvery ribbonfish, andstill others carried recently slaughtered chickens and ducks. He banged his dragon-head caneagainst the metal ribs, raising a loud clatter; but the people inside were too busy to give himanything but chilly glances before continuing on their way. He shouted angrily, tearfully, ‘Yourhonour?.?.?. leader?.?.?. I’ve been treated unjustly.?.?.?. I’m starving.?.?.?.’
A young man with three fountain pens in his coat pocket walked over and said coolly, ‘What’sall the racket about, old-timer?’
Seeing all those pens in the young man’s pocket, he assumed he’d caught the attention of aranking official, so he knelt down in the snow, grabbed hold of two metal ribs in the gate, andsaid tearfully, ‘Eminent leader, the production-brigade branch secretary has held back my grainrations. I haven’t eaten for three days, I’m starving, eighteen stabs by the Japs didn’t kill me, nowI’m going to starve to death.?.?.?.’
‘What village are you from?’ the young man asked him.
‘Don’t you know me, eminent leader?’ he asked. ‘I’m Eighteen Stabs Geng.’
The young man laughed. ‘How am I supposed to know you’re Eighteen Stabs Geng? Go homeand see your brigade leader. The commune organisations are on holiday.’
Old Geng banged on the metal gate for a long time, but no one else paid him any attention.
Soft yellow light shone down from the windows in the compound, in front of which featherysnowflakes swirled silently. Firecrackers exploded somewhere in the village, reminding him thatit was time to send off the Kitchen God to make his report in heaven. He wanted to go home, butas he took his first step he fell headlong to the ground, as though shoved. When his face hit thesnow, it felt amazingly warm, reminding him of his mother’s bosom – no, it was more like hismother’s womb. His eyes were closed in the womb, where he swam in complete freedom, withno worries about food, clothes, anything. He was indescribably happy; the absence of hunger andcold brought him extreme joy.
The golden rays of light from the commune windows and the fiery-red winter-sweet blossomsat the home of the branch secretary lit up the world like rapidly licking flames, and the glareblinded him; snowflakes swirled like gold and silver foil as each family sent off its Kitchen Godon a paper horse to soar up to heaven. With all that light streaming down on him, his body felthot and dry, as though he’d caught fire. He quickly stripped off his jacket – hot. Then he took offhis padded pants – hot. Took off his padded shoes – hot. Took off his felt cap – hot. Naked, justas he had emerged from his mother’s womb – hot. He lay down in the snow, the snow scalded hisskin; he rolled around in the snow – hot, so hot. He gobbled up some snow, it burned his throat asthough it were filled with sunbaked pebbles of sand. Hot! So hot! Rising from the snow, hegrabbed the metal ribs of the gate, but they scalded him, and he couldn’t pull his hands off thegate. The last thing he wanted to shout was: Hot! So hot!
The young man with the pens in his pocket came out early the next morning to shovel snow.
When he casually raised his head and glanced at the gate, his face paled with fright. What he sawwas the old man from last night, who’d called himself Eighteen Stabs Geng, stark naked, hishands stuck to the gate, like the crucified Jesus. His face had turned purple, his limbs were spreadout, his staring eyes were fixed on the commune compound; hard to believe he was a lonely oldman who had died of starvation. The young man made a careful count of the scars on his body.
There were eighteen, all right, no more, no less.