Authors: Yan Lianke
She remained in Liven, but never forgot her desire to leave. Whenever she had any free time, she would go up to the mountain ridge road, and when she encountered travelers from beyond the mountains she would ask them many questions, such as, What is the outside world like? Is the war still going on? Have the Japanese made it to Shandong or Henan province? But most of the people she encountered couldn’t tell her anything, and in this way she finally came to understand just how remote the Balou mountains were from the rest of the world—like a fragment of a rock that had been left behind in a long ravine, or a clump of grass in a vast forest. When Mao Zhi encountered other people along the mountain ridge path, they were almost invariably also from Balou, and knew very little about the outside world. News about the Japanese came and went, but it was impossible to determine what was reliable and what wasn’t. The people of Liven gradually realized that she had walked over with the regiment, and in the process her heart had been wounded, her body scarred, and her leg crippled. After she began to put down roots in Liven, she couldn’t stray far even if she had wanted to. The village was so isolated that there wasn’t even reliable news about the Revolution, and this became the best reason for her to remain there. It was as if she was trying to let time swallow up the past.
Liven had abundant fields and inexhaustible grain, and Mao Zhi gradually got used to living there. She learned to farm and to sew, and in the process became a villager. The stonemason’s mother was a seventy-three-year-old paraplegic. She was the oldest resident of Liven, and knew the ins and outs of the village better than anyone else. Everything regarding the village’s origins and its legends came from her mouth. Mao Zhi was with her every day, and always called her “Grandmother.” One of the villagers remarked, You should have Mao Zhi call you “Mother.” The mother replied, Don’t worry about things that don’t concern you; I know perfectly well what I want Mao Zhi to call me. The villager said, You should tell your son to sleep with her. Mao Zhi glared at him and replied, If you have nothing better to do, then why don’t you give your mouth a rest and mind your own business.
As a result, the villagers came to respect Mao Zhi even more than before.
But even as the villagers came to believe that Mao Zhi would never marry the stonemason, one winter the two of them finally tied the knot. It was only later that the villagers realized that they married the same winter the stonemason’s mother fell ill. Just before she passed away she hugged Mao Zhi and began to weep. As she wept, she told Mao Zhi many things, and Mao Zhi also cried, and told her many things in return. For decades no one knew what they discussed, though, in the end, Mao Zhi agreed to marry the stonemason.
After Mao Zhi agreed, the stonemason’s mother peacefully passed away.
That night, she and the stonemason finally slept together.
That year, Mao Zhi was nineteen years old, while the stonemason was almost thirty-five.
The next day they buried the stonemason’s mother, and he never again went out to polish stones. Instead, he stayed home, watching over Mao Zhi and farming the land. As for Mao Zhi herself, she would sometimes hear news from outside the village—including reports that the Japanese had advanced to the ninetieth parallel—and she would turn slightly pale. When she heard reports that the Japanese were going from the city to the countryside to collect grain, and that when they encountered children they would give them some foreign candy, Mao Zhi looked very suspicious. She would listen carefully to news about the weather and the war, but never again mentioned wanting to leave Liven.
Mao Zhi truly became a resident of Liven. When the stonemason went out to plow the fields, she would lead the ox; and when he went to harvest the grain, she would follow behind to collect the grain into bundles. When the stonemason came down with a fever, she would go into town to buy garlic and scallions to cook him some soup. They were just like all the other families in the village, who—although they might have members who were blind or deaf—would diligently sow and harvest the grain, staying busy throughout the summer and autumn, such that each household would have so much grain and vegetables that the family wouldn’t be able to eat it all. The events of the outside world remained distant from the lives of the residents of Liven, as though the village were located a hundred and eighty thousand
li
from anywhere else. Aside from a handful of villagers who would travel to nearby towns to buy oil and salt, and in the process bring back news of the war—which could have been either true or false—the residents of Liven remained completely cut off.
In this way, one day followed another.
And one month followed another.
Spring, summer, fall, and winter all came and went.
Directly on the heels of the
jichou
Year of the Ox came the
gengyin
Year of the Tiger, which is to say, the thirty-ninth year of the Republic. It was that year—and, specifically, the fall of that year—that Mao Zhi went to a market several dozen
li
from Liven. Previously it had always been men—and, specifically, wholers—who would go to the market, taking with them the various items that each family wanted to sell, and bringing back the various items that each family needed to buy.
This particular fall, by the time autumn leaves were covering the ground, as Mao Zhi was picking persimmons from her fields, she glimpsed in the distance someone in a Mao suit coming from the mountain. From the persimmon tree, she called out,
“Hey! Do you know what is going on outside?”
The person looked up at her.
“What do you want to know?”
“Up to where have the Japanese advanced?”
The person replied with surprise that the Japanese had returned home long ago. Five years had already passed since their surrender in the Year of the Cock—in the eighth month of the thirty-something year of the Republic—and now it was clear that not only did the Republic no longer exist, but many of the towns around Liven had already entered into cooperative societies.
The person at the base of the tree couldn’t imagine what kind of surprise and turmoil his simple remark would elicit in the person up in the tree. He walked away, while Mao Zhi stared out at the land beyond the Balou mountains. The white autumn clouds were drifting across the sky, and the sun was as bright as if it had just been washed, and everything illuminated by this sun underwent a remarkable transformation. Mao Zhi cast a final glance toward the parting shadow of the man in the Mao suit, then climbed down from the tree and went home.
The next day, she woke up early to head into town to go to the market. A round-trip from Liven to Boshuzi Street and back was well over a hundred
li,
and therefore she got up at the first cock crow and was on the road by the second. By the third cock crow, she had already traveled more than ten
li
into the mountains, and by the fourth she had left the mountains entirely.
By the time it was light enough to see several
li
into the distance, Mao Zhi witnessed a remarkable scene. She saw a village with a wheat field on the top of a hill. The field was several
mu
in size, and there were a few dozen men and women hoeing the soil together, systematically working their way from one end of the field and back. Mao Zhi couldn’t understand who could possibly own such a large plot of land, or whose family could have so many people. The largest plot of land in Liven was Deafman Ma’s, which was only eight-point-five
mu.
But this plot was so large that it covered the entire hill. No matter how big a family might be, it couldn’t possibly have more than twenty youthful members able to work the fields. Such a family would need to have more than fifty members in all, if children and the elderly were included as well.
How would a family of fifty-something members not divide the family land between them?
How would a family of fifty-something members manage to cook enough food for everyone?
How would a family of fifty-something members ever make enough clothes for everyone to wear?
How could a family of fifty-something members ever find a large enough house for everyone to live and sleep?
Mao Zhi stood in front of that plot of land, bathed in sunlight. The soil of the recently plowed field was red and moist, as though there were an invisible river flowing through the air. It was precisely in the midst of this dark red color that Mao Zhi noticed that at the head of the field there was a wooden sign that read:
Songshu Village Second Mutual Aid Team.
The sign had been blown by the wind and drenched by the rain, and consequently the words were somewhat blurred. It looked as though the sign had been there for at least two years, if not longer. Mao Zhi didn’t understand what a mutual aid team was, and she just stared at the sign in astonishment. At that point, a young man walked over from the gully at the head of the field and called out, Hey, what are you looking at?
She asked, What is a mutual aid team?
The young man stared at her in amazement, and asked, So, you can read?
She looked at him disdainfully and said, Why wouldn’t I know how to read?
He replied, If you can read, then why don’t you know what a mutual aid team is?
She blushed.
He asked, Is it possible that your village has never organized a mutual aid team or a cooperative society?
The mutual aid teams brought together households which didn’t have an ox with those that did, he told her. They paired strong laborers with weaker ones, and households with plows with those that had only hoes. They brought together households that had a lot of land with those that had less. The teams brought everyone together, so that some would sow, some would harvest, and others would apportion grain for consumption. As a result, there were no longer any landlords and hired hands, or poor people who needed to sell off their own children, and instead every day there would be a new harmonious society. As the young person was speaking, he tied his belt, picked up a hoe that was stuck in the ground, and went to rejoin the crowd of people working in the field.
Mao Zhi continued standing there, stupefied. It was as if the young man’s remarks had opened up a window into a room that had long been shrouded in darkness, letting in a ray of light that illuminated her innermost thoughts. She watched the young man and the group of people hoeing the field, and suddenly realized that profound changes had taken place in the world. The people of Liven knew absolutely nothing of these changes. It was as if the rest of the world had a sun and a moon, while generation after generation of Liven residents had lived in pitch blackness. It was as if the Liven villagers were so cut off from the rest of the world that not even a hint of a breeze could get through. She didn’t know why she hadn’t heard news of this collective farming from the village’s own wholers, who went to market at Boshuzi Street. She didn’t know whether it was that the wholers simply didn’t see anything when they went to market, or that they saw things but didn’t mention them after they returned to Liven. Or, perhaps it was just that the one day they discussed these things in the village canteen, she happened not to be around.
The world had changed enormously over the preceding few years.
Throughout the land, the people had been liberated.
After Beiping was named the nation’s new capital, peasants from all over had been called together to the center of the city, and after their land had been redistributed they were sent to continue farming collaboratively. All of the land now belonged to the government, and was not assigned to specific families or individuals. It was allocated to those who were actually farming and using it, but did not belong to them in the same way that families’ bedding belonged to them. After the world was thrown into disorder, the people were also thrown into disorder. Households were divided into finely calibrated categories of landlords, rich peasants, poor peasants, middle peasants, and lower-middle peasants, but the people of Liven had no knowledge of any of this. They had not even heard the faintest whisper of these developments. So many enormous developments had taken place in the world, but Liven remained ignorant of them all.
Mao Zhi proceeded forward, her heart heavy, as if she didn’t belong to this world. By the time she passed a town and arrived at a village, the sun had already come up and the air was filled with warmth. She saw some more people walking back to the village from the hill behind the town, carrying hoes and wicker baskets. One group followed another, and if they weren’t carrying hoes and shovels, they were carrying wicker baskets. Needless to say, this was a mutual aid team, and whenever one team went to work in the fields, another returned home. They were like soldiers returning to their barracks after having just won a battle, singing as they carried their war trophies. There were singing Henan tunes, and while Mao Zhi couldn’t hear the lyrics clearly, she could see the joyous melodies shimmering like moisture in the morning sky. She stood at an elevated point along the mountain ridge path, gazing down at the peasants as they entered the town, and her eyes filled with envy.