Big Breasts and Wide Hips by Mo Yan
“What took you so long to get here, Mother?” Pandi asked critically. Mother didn’t give her the satisfaction of responding. Instead she picked up the handles of the cart and led us, goat and all, twisting and turning through the crowd, into a small courtyard ringed by a rammed-earth wall; we suffered no end of curses and complaints as we wound our way through tiny spaces amid the crowd of people. Pandi helped Mother take the little ones off the cart in order to leave the cart and goat outside the courtyard, where the donkeys and horses were tethered. There were no baskets and no hay, so the animals fed on the bark of the trees. We left the cart in the lane, but took the goat inside with us. Pandi gave me a look, but didn’t say anything, since she knew that that goat was my lifeline.
Inside the house, a dark shadow swayed in the bright lamplight. A county official was bickering loudly about something. We heard Lu Liren’s hoarse voice. Armed soldiers were loitering in the courtyard, nursing their sore feet. Stars twinkled in the deepening night. Pandi led us into one of the side rooms, where a weak lantern projected ghostly shadows onto the walls. An old woman, dressed in funeral clothes, lay in an open coffin. She opened her eyes when we entered. “Do me a favor, kind people, and put the lid on my coffin,” she said. “I want this space to myself.” “What’s this all about, old aunty?” Mother asked her. “This is an auspicious day for me,” the old woman replied. “Do that for me, will you, kind people?” “Try to make the best of it, Mother,” Pandi said. “It’s better than sleeping in the street.”
We did not sleep well that night. The bickering in the main room continued late into the night, and the moment it stopped, gunfire erupted out on the street. That disturbance was followed by a blazing fire in the village, the flames licking skyward like red silk banners, lighting up our faces and that of the old woman lying comfortably in her coffin. At sunrise she was no longer moving. Mother called out to her, but she didn’t open her eyes. A check of her pulse showed that she had died. “She’s a semi-immortal,” Mother said as she and First Sister placed the lid on.
The next few days were even harder on us, and by the time we reached the foot of Da’ze Mountain, Mother’s and First Sister’s feet were rubbed raw. Big and Little Mute had both developed coughs, while Shengli had a fever and diarrhea. Reminded of the pills Fifth Sister had given her, Mother took out one and gave it to Shengli. Poor Eighth Sister was the only one who wasn’t sick. It had been two full days since we’d last seen Pandi or, for that matter, any county or district officials. We’d seen the mute once, as he carried a wounded soldier on his back, a man whose leg had been blown off, and whose blood dripped off his torn, useless pant leg. He was sobbing. “Do a good deed, Commander, finish me off, the pain’s killing me, oh dear Mother …”
It must have been on our fifth day on the road when we saw a tall, white, tree-covered mountain rise up out of the north. A little monastery sat on its peak. From the bank of the Flood Dragon River, behind our house, this mountain was visible on clear days; but it had always shown up dark green. Seeing it close up, its shape and clean, crisp smell made me realize how far from home we had traveled. As we walked along a broad gravel-paved road, we met a detachment of troops on horseback coming toward us; the soldiers were dressed the same as those of the 16th Regiment. It was clear, as they passed us, heading in the opposite direction, that our home had become a battlefield. Foot soldiers were the next to come down the road, followed by a detachment of donkeys pulling artillery pieces, the muzzles sporting bouquets of flowers; soldiers perched on the big guns had smug, confident airs. After the artillery detachment passed, stretcher bearers and two columns of wagon troops came down the road; the wagons were loaded with sacks of flour and rice, plus bales of hay. We hugged the roadsides timidly to let the troops pass.
Some of the foot soldiers stepped out of line with their Mausers and asked what was going on. At this point, Wang Chao, the barber, who had joined the procession with his smart-looking rubber-tired cart, ran into trouble, as one of the wooden-wheeled provisions carts broke an axle. The driver flipped the cart over, removed the axle, and examined it closely until his hands were black with grease. His son was no more than fifteen or sixteen, with sores on his face and an ulcerated mouth. He was wearing a shirt with no buttons and a belt made of hemp. “What happened, Dad?” he said. “The axle’s broken, son.” Father and son took the wheel off of the axle. “Now what, Dad?” His father walked to the side of the road and wiped his greasy hands on the rough bark of a poplar tree. “Nothing we can do,” he said. Just then a one-armed soldier in a thin army uniform, rifle over his back and a dogskin cap on his head, stepped out of the line of carts ahead and ran over.
“Wang Jin!” he shouted angrily. “What are you doing out of line? What’s the idea? Are you trying to make our Iron and Steel Company lose face?”
“Political Instructor,” Wang Jin said with a frown, “we broke an axle.”
“You couldn’t let it happen a little earlier or a little later, could you? You had to wait till we were going into battle, didn’t you? I told you to check your cart carefully before we left, didn’t I?” He slapped Wang Jin angrily.
“Ouch!” Wang Jin yelped as he lowered his head; blood trickled out of his nose.
“Why did you hit my father?” the gutsy youngster asked the political instructor.
The political instructor froze. “I didn’t do it intentionally,” he said. “But you’re right, I shouldn’t have bumped him. But if the provisions don’t get there in time, I’ll have you both shot.”
“We didn’t break the axle on purpose,” the youngster said. “We’re poor and we had to borrow this cart from my aunt.”
Wang Jin pulled some ratty cotton filling out of his sleeve and stuffed it up his bloody nose. “Political Instructor,” he muttered, “please be reasonable.”
“Reasonable?” the political instructor said menacingly. “Getting provisions up to the front lines is reasonable. Not getting them there is unreasonable. I’ve had enough of your prattling. You’re going to transport these two hundred and forty pounds of millet up to Taoguan Township if you have to lug it on your backs!”
“Political Instructor, you’re always saying how we need to be practical and realistic. Two hundred and forty pounds of millet… he’s just a boy … please, I beg you …”
The political instructor looked up into the sunny sky, then down at his watch, and surveyed the area. His gaze fell first on our wooden-wheeled cart, then on Wang Chao’s rubber-tired cart.
Wang Chao was a bachelor, a practiced barber who had made plenty of money, some of which he spent on his favorite food, pig’s head. Well fed, he had a square face, big ears, and a healthy complexion. Nothing like a farmer. In his cart he carried a box with his barber’s tools and an expensive quilt wrapped with a dog’s pelt. The cart was made from the wood of a scholar tree, coated with tung oil that made the wood shine. It was a good-looking, good-smelling cart. Before setting out, he’d pumped up the tires, so that the cart bounced lightly on the hard surface of the road, hardly disturbing its contents. A strong man, he was never without a flask of liquor, from which he drank regularly as he moved spryly, singing little ditties and having a grand old time. Among us refugees, he was royalty.
The political instructor’s dark eyes rolled in his head as he headed over to the side of the road with a smile on his lips. “Where are you people from?” he asked pleasantly.
No one answered him. Then his glance shifted to the face of Wang Chao and his smile vanished, replaced by a look as formidable as a mountain and as forbidding as a remote monastery. “What do you do for a living?” he asked, his eyes fixed on Wang Chao’s big, oily face.
Wang Chao rather stupidly looked away, tongue-tied.
“By the looks of you,” the political instructor said, “if you’re not a landlord, you’re a rich peasant, and if you’re not a rich peasant, you’re a shop owner. Whatever you are, you certainly don’t make a living by the sweat of your brow. No, you’re a parasite who li
“You’ve got me all wrong, Commander,” Wang Chao protested. “I’m a barber, a man who makes a living with his hands. I live in two run-down rooms. I’ve got no land, no wife, and no kids. If I eat my fill, no one in the family goes hungry. I eat for today, and let tomorrow take care of itself. They checked my background at the district and gave me a label as an artisan, which is the same as a middle peasant, basic work.”
“Nonsense!” the one-armed man said. “As I see it, you may have a clever mouth, but a parrot can’t talk its way through Tong Pass. I’m commandeering your cart!” He turned to Wang Jin and his son. “Take down the millet and load it on this cart.”
“Commander,” Wang Chao said, “this little cart cost me half a lifetime of savings. You’re not supposed to appropriate poor people’s possessions.”
The one-armed man replied angrily, “I gave one of my arms in the cause of victory. Just how much is one little cart worth? Our frontline troops are waiting for these provisions, and I don’t want to hear any protests from you.”
“You and I are from different districts, sir,” Wang Chao said. “And different counties. So what authority do you have to commandeer my cart?”
“Who cares about county or district,” the one-armed man said. “This is support for the front lines.”
“No,” Wang Chao, “I can’t let you do that.”
The one-armed man knelt down on one knee, took out a pen, and removed its cap with his teeth. Then he laid a slip of paper across his knee and scribbled something on it. “What’s your name?” he asked. “And which county and district are you from?”
Wang Chao told him.
“Your county head, Lu Liren, and I are old comrades-in-arms. So here’s what we’ll do. After the battle’s over, you give this to him, and he’ll see that you get a new cart.”
Wang Chao pointed to us and said, “That’s Lu Liren’s mother-in-law, sir. That’s his family.”
“Madam,” the one-armed man said, “you’ll be my witness. Just tell him that the situation was critical, and that Guo Mofu, political instructor of the Eighth Militia Company of the Bohai District, borrowed a pushcart belonging to the villager Wang Chao, and ask him to take care of it for me.”
Then he turned back to Wang Chao. “That’ll do it,” he said as he pressed the slip of paper into Wang’s hand. Then he turned and said angrily to Wang Jin, “What are you standing around for? If we don’t get these provisions there in time, you and your son will taste the whip, and me, Guo Mofu, I’ll taste the bullet!” He turned to Wang Chao. “Unload your cart, and be quick about it!”
“What am I supposed to do, sir?” Wang Chao said.
“If you’re worried about your cart, you can come along with us. Our porter company has enough food for one more man. Once the battle’s over, you can take your cart with you.”
“But, sir, I just escaped from there,” Wang Chao said tearfully.
“Are you going to make me take out my pistol and put a bullet in you?” the enraged political instructor demanded. “We’re not afraid to spill blood and make sacrifices for the revolution. I can’t believe you’re making such a fuss over a little cart.”
“Aunt,” Wang Chao said pathetically. “You’re my witness.”
Mother nodded.
Wang Jin and his son gleefully walked off with Wang Chao’s rubber-tired cart, as the one-armed man nodded politely to Mother, before turning and running off to catch up with his men.
Wang Chao sat down on his quilt, a pained look on his face, mumbling to himself. “Talk about bad luck! Why does everything happen to me? Who did I offend?” Tears slid down his fat cheeks.
We finally made it to the foot of the mountain, where the gravel road spoked off into ten or more narrow paths that wound their way up the mountainside. That evening, the refugees gathered in groups where all sorts of dialects were spoken, to pass on conflicting reports. We suffered through the night huddled amid the underbrush at the foot of the mountain. Dull explosions, like peals of thunder, sounded both to the north and the south, as artillery shells tore through the darkness in sweeping arcs. The air turned cold and damp as the night deepened, and bitter winds snaked out of mountain crevasses, violently shaking the leaves and branches of our shelter and setting fallen leaves rustling. Foxes in their dens cried mournfully. Sick children moaned like unhappy cats; the coughs from old folks sounded like gongs being struck. It was a terrible night, and when dawn broke, we would find dozens of frozen corpses lining the mountain hollows — children, old folks, even young men and women. Our family owed its survival to the unusual low trees, with their golden leaves, that protected us. They were the only trees whose leaves had not fallen. We lay together on the thick, dry grass beneath the trees, huddled under the one quilt we’d brought. My goat lay up against my back and shielded me from the wind. The hours after midnight were the worst. The rumble of artillery fire to the south only increased the stillness of the night; people’s moans cut deeply into our hearts and made us tremble. A melody much like the familiar “cat’s meow,” our local drama, sounded in our ears. It was a woman’s sobs. Amid the overwhelming silence, the sounds sliced into the rocks, cold and damp, and dark clouds stuck to the icy quilt that covered us. Then the rain came, freezing rain; raindrops fell on our quilt, they fell on the rustling yellow leaves, they fell on the mountainside, they fell on the refugees’ heads, and they fell on the thick coats of baying wolves. Most of the raindrops turned to ice before they hit the ground, where they formed a hard crust.
I was reminded of that night years before when Elder Fan Three had led us away from sure death, his torch held high, flames the red of a roan colt dancing in the air. That night I’d been immersed in a warm sea of milk, holding on to a full breast with both hands and feeling myself fly up to Paradise. But now the frightful apparition began, like a golden ray of light splitting the darkness, or like the beam of light from Babbitt’s film projector; thousands of icy droplets danced in the light, like beetles, as a woman with long, flowing hair appeared, a cape like sunset draped over her shoulders, its embedded pearls glittering and casting shimmers of light, some long and some short. Her face kept changing: first Laidi; then the Bird Fairy; then the single-breasted woman, Old Jin; and then suddenly the American woman …
“Jintong!” Mother was calling me. She brought me out of my hallucinations. In the darkness, she and First Sister were massaging my arms and legs to bring me back before I fell into the abyss of death.
The sound of someone crying emerged from the underbrush in the hazy sunlight of early morning. People faced with the stiffened corpses of loved ones gave vent to their grief with loud wails. But thanks to the yellow leaves on the trees above us and the tattered quilt that covered us, all seven of our hearts were still beating. Mother handed each of us one of the pills Pandi had given her. I said I didn’t want mine, so Mother shoved it into the mouth of my goat. After chewing up the pill, the goat turned its attention to the leaves of the underbrush; they, like the branches from which they hung, were covered by a filmy layer of ice, which also hung from boulders on the mountainside. There was no wind, but a freezing rain continued to fall, making a loud tattoo on the branches. The surface of the mountain glistened like a mirror.
One of the refugees, leading a donkey with a woman’s corpse draped over its back, was trying to make his way up one of the mountain paths. But the going was so treacherous that the donkey slipped on the ice, and every time it got to its feet, it hit the ground again. The man wanted to help, but he invariably fell down too. It did not take long for their plight to result in the corpse slipping off the animal’s back and into a ditch. Just then a golden-pelted wildcat emerged from one of the mountain hollows carrying a child in its mouth as it bounded awkwardly from one boulder to another, struggling to keep its balance as it moved. A woman whose hair was in disarray was chasing the wildcat, shrieking and wailing as she ran, but she too kept losing her footing on the icy rocks. Unfazed, every time she f
Danger lurked for everyone: if they tried to move, they fell; if they didn’t try, they froze to death. And since freezing to death was not an option, they kept falling, and soon lost sight of their evacuation goal. The mountaintop monastery had by then turned white and gave off a frigid glare. So did the trees halfway up the mountain. At that height, the freezing rain turned to snow. Lacking the nerve to climb to the top, the people merely kept moving at the foot of the mountain. We looked up and spotted the body of Wang Chao the barber hanging from a rubber tree; he had looped his belt over a low-hanging branch, the weight of his body nearly breaking it off from the trunk. The toes of his shoes were touching the ground, his pants were down around his knees, and his padded jacket was tied around his waist to salvage his image, even in death. One look at that purple face and protruding tongue, and I turned away in disgust. But too late to keep the image of his dead face from appearing often in my dreams from that day on. No one gave him a second thought, although several simple-looking people were fighting over his quilt and the dog pelt that covered it. In the midst of their grappling, a tall young man suddenly screamed in pain; a ratty little man beside him had bitten off a chunk of one of his protruding ears. The fellow spat the earlobe into his hand, looked it over, and handed it back to it owner, before picking up the heavy quilt and dog pelt. To keep from falling, he took little hops over to the side of an old man, who promptly whacked him on the head with a forked stick used to keep a cart from rolling away. The little fellow hit the ground like a sack of rice. The old man picked up the quilt, backed up against a tree, holding on to his prize with one hand and brandishing his forked stick with the other. Some foolhardy young devils entertained thoughts of taking the quilt away from the old man, but a mere tap of his forked stick sent them tumbling to the ground. The old man was wearing a long robe cinched at the waist with a length of coarse cloth from which hung his pipe and tobacco pouch. His long white beard was dotted with icy globules. “Come on if you’re willing to die!” he shouted shrilly as his face seemed to lengthen and green lights shot from his eyes. His would-be attackers fled in panic. Mother reached a decision: Turn back!