The Four Books by Yan Lianke Page B

received a blossom immediately retired to their room. It was winter, and cold and windy outside. Those who didn’t receive a blossom didn’t say a word, and instead just sat in the middle of the courtyard watching the Child and each other. These included the Theologian, the Scholar, and the Musician, among others. The Author followed everyone in claiming he could produce fifteen thousand jin of grain per mu , whereupon he accepted his blossom and retired to his room. By this point there were only a dozen or so people still sitting in the courtyard in the cold, watching one another and stubbornly refusing to utter the words “I can.” The Child glared at them, appearing as tense as a drawn bow with arrow cocked. He returned to his room, then reemerged to see if any of them would utter those critical words.
    How would the Child resolve this situation?
    As the wind blew, the grass rolled over the ground. The earth supported both the people and the grass, just as it supported the courtyard and the entire region. The Child stood in front of those remaining, and with an icy gaze he asked,
    “So, can you or can’t you?”
    No one said a word.
    “If you can’t speak, just nod.”
    No one responded, and the Child shouted,
    “For the last time, is anyone else willing to commit to producing fifteen thousand jin per mu ?”
    The Scholar, the Theologian, and the Musician remained frozen in place, refusing to speak, or even nod. Everyone else crowded around, as though watching a performance. By this point it was almost noon, but the sun was behind a cloud, casting a gray light. In the courtyard, everyone’s face appeared ashen. The Child didn’t say a word. With that icy gaze and pursed lips, he stood there motionless. Suddenly he spun around and headed back to his room. Everyone followed him with their eyes, watching that door that was like all the others. No one realized that he had gone to fetch a scythe. The Child then reemerged, looking very angry. This scythe was brand-new. It didn’t have a trace of rust, and the jujube-wood handle ended in a fork. No one knew why the Child had gone to fetch it. The expression of determination on the faces of the Scholar, Theologian, and the Musician changed to one of confusion. For them, the Child’s gesture was like a gust of wind when all one needs is a piece of wood, or like an eagle flying overhead when what one needs is a gulp of water.
    Completely incommensurate things.
    But that was how the Child responded.
    This is how things came to pass. This is how things were confirmed.
    The Child emerged with the scythe. With a bang, he placed it on the ground. His lips pursed, he picked it up again, letting the blade flicker in the light. He suddenly lay down, placing his neck under the blade. With his head lifted, and the blade directly above him, he stared into the sky.
    Then he shouted,
    “Okay, then . . . if you won’t agree to produce fifteen thousand jin of grain, then come here and slice my head off!”
    Gazing at the sky, he shouted,
    “Before the nation was founded, there was a girl. When a Japanese man asked her something, she refused to respond, and so the Japanese decapitated her. After the nation was founded, she became a national hero.” The Child shouted, “Ever since I was little, I’ve dreamed of doing this! From morning to evening, I would imagine how I would take inspiration from that girl and have someone cut off my own head. I beg you, chop off my head! Chop off my head!”
    The Child shouted again and again,
    “Chop off my head!”
    “Chop off my head!”
    “Theologian, Scholar, I beg you. Come chop off my head!”
    The Musician turned pale.
    Everyone turned pale.
    3. Old Course , pp. 43–51
    The women’s fourth brigade lived in a building belonging to the fourth brigade. There were only a few of them, and they all lived in four rooms, with the remaining four rooms serving as the district’s canteen. Those of us in the first brigade also stayed in