said, ‘if Pocky Leng’s playing games with us, I’ll lop his damned head off! The sun isn’t directly overhead yet, so we’ll wait a little longer. If the convoy hasn’t come by noon, we’ll go to Tan Family Hollow and settle accounts with Leng. For now, go into the sorghum field and get some rest. I’ll send Douguan for food. Douguan!’
Father looked up at Commander Yu.
‘Go tell your mom to have the women make some fistcakes, and tell her I want lunch here by noon. Say I want her to bring it herself.’
Father nodded, hitched up his trousers, stuck the Browning pistol into his belt, and ran down the dike. After heading north down the highway for a short distance, he cut across the sorghum field, heading northwest, weaving in and out among the plants. In the sea of sorghum he bumped into some longmule bones. He kicked one, dislodging a couple of short-tailed, furry field voles that had been feasting on marrow. They looked up fearlessly, then burrowed back into the bone. The sight reminded Father of the family’s two black mules, reminded him of how, long after the highway had been completed, the pungent smell of death hung over the village every time a southeastern wind rose.
A year earlier, the bloated carcasses of dozens of mules had been found floating in the Black Water River, caught in the reeds and grass in the shallow water by the banks; their distended bellies, baked by the sun, split and popped, released their splendid innards, like gorgeous blooming flowers, as slowly spreading pools of dark-green liquid were caught up in the flow of water.
5
ON HER SIXTEENTH birthday, my grandma was betrothed by her father to Shan Bianlang, the son of Shan Tingxiu, one of Northeast Gaomi Township’s richest men. As distillery owners, the Shans used cheap sorghum to produce a strong, high-quality white wine that was famous throughout the area. Northeast Gaomi Township is largely swampy land that is flooded by autumn rains; but since the tall sorghum stalks resist waterlogging, it was planted everywhere and invariably produced a bumper crop. By using cheap grain to make wine, the Shan family made a very good living, and marrying my grandma off to them was a real feather in Great-Granddad’s cap. Many local families had dreamed of marrying into the Shan family, despite rumours that Shan Bianlang had leprosy. His father was a wizened little man who sported a scrawny queue on the back of his head, and even though his cupboards overflowed with gold and silver, he wore tattered, dirty clothes, often using a length of rope as a belt.
Grandma’s marriage into the Shan family was the will of heaven, implemented on a day when she and some of herplaymates, with their tiny bound feet and long pigtails, were playing beside a set of swings. It was Qingming, the day set aside to attend ancestral graves; peach trees were in full red bloom, willows were green, a fine rain was falling, and the girls’ faces looked like peach blossoms. It was a day of freedom for them. That year Grandma was five feet four inches tall and weighed about 130 pounds. She was wearing a cotton print jacket over green satin trousers, with scarlet bands of silk tied around her ankles. Since it was drizzling, she had put on a pair of embroidered slippers soaked a dozen times in tong oil, which made a squishing sound when she walked. Her long shiny braids shone, and a heavy silver necklace hung around her neck – Great-Granddad was a silversmith. Great-Grandma, the daughter of a landlord who had fallen on hard times, knew the importance of bound feet to a girl, and had begun binding her daughter’s feet when she was six years old, tightening the bindings every day.
A yard in length, the cloth bindings were wound around all but the big toes until the bones cracked and the toes turned under. The pain was excruciating. My mother also had bound feet, and just seeing them saddened me so much that I felt compelled to shout: ‘Down with feudalism! Long live
Father looked up at Commander Yu.
‘Go tell your mom to have the women make some fistcakes, and tell her I want lunch here by noon. Say I want her to bring it herself.’
Father nodded, hitched up his trousers, stuck the Browning pistol into his belt, and ran down the dike. After heading north down the highway for a short distance, he cut across the sorghum field, heading northwest, weaving in and out among the plants. In the sea of sorghum he bumped into some longmule bones. He kicked one, dislodging a couple of short-tailed, furry field voles that had been feasting on marrow. They looked up fearlessly, then burrowed back into the bone. The sight reminded Father of the family’s two black mules, reminded him of how, long after the highway had been completed, the pungent smell of death hung over the village every time a southeastern wind rose.
A year earlier, the bloated carcasses of dozens of mules had been found floating in the Black Water River, caught in the reeds and grass in the shallow water by the banks; their distended bellies, baked by the sun, split and popped, released their splendid innards, like gorgeous blooming flowers, as slowly spreading pools of dark-green liquid were caught up in the flow of water.
5
ON HER SIXTEENTH birthday, my grandma was betrothed by her father to Shan Bianlang, the son of Shan Tingxiu, one of Northeast Gaomi Township’s richest men. As distillery owners, the Shans used cheap sorghum to produce a strong, high-quality white wine that was famous throughout the area. Northeast Gaomi Township is largely swampy land that is flooded by autumn rains; but since the tall sorghum stalks resist waterlogging, it was planted everywhere and invariably produced a bumper crop. By using cheap grain to make wine, the Shan family made a very good living, and marrying my grandma off to them was a real feather in Great-Granddad’s cap. Many local families had dreamed of marrying into the Shan family, despite rumours that Shan Bianlang had leprosy. His father was a wizened little man who sported a scrawny queue on the back of his head, and even though his cupboards overflowed with gold and silver, he wore tattered, dirty clothes, often using a length of rope as a belt.
Grandma’s marriage into the Shan family was the will of heaven, implemented on a day when she and some of herplaymates, with their tiny bound feet and long pigtails, were playing beside a set of swings. It was Qingming, the day set aside to attend ancestral graves; peach trees were in full red bloom, willows were green, a fine rain was falling, and the girls’ faces looked like peach blossoms. It was a day of freedom for them. That year Grandma was five feet four inches tall and weighed about 130 pounds. She was wearing a cotton print jacket over green satin trousers, with scarlet bands of silk tied around her ankles. Since it was drizzling, she had put on a pair of embroidered slippers soaked a dozen times in tong oil, which made a squishing sound when she walked. Her long shiny braids shone, and a heavy silver necklace hung around her neck – Great-Granddad was a silversmith. Great-Grandma, the daughter of a landlord who had fallen on hard times, knew the importance of bound feet to a girl, and had begun binding her daughter’s feet when she was six years old, tightening the bindings every day.
A yard in length, the cloth bindings were wound around all but the big toes until the bones cracked and the toes turned under. The pain was excruciating. My mother also had bound feet, and just seeing them saddened me so much that I felt compelled to shout: ‘Down with feudalism! Long live
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