You are on page 1of 12

3/20/13

Mo Yan: : The New Yorker

FICTION

BULL
by Mo Yan

NOVEMBER26,2012

twasLaoLanwhoinventedthescientific methodofforcingpressurizedwaterintothe pulmonaryarteriesofslaughteredanimals.With thismethod,youcouldemptyabucketfulofwater intoatwohundredjinpig,whilewiththeold methodyoucouldbarelyemptyhalfabucketof waterintothecarcassofadeadcow.Theamount ofmoneythattheclevertownspeoplehavespent onwaterfromourvillagewhentheythoughtthey werepayingformeatintheyearssincewillnever beknown,butImsureitwouldbeashockinglyhighfigure. LaoLanhadasubstantialpotbellyandrosycheekshisvoicerangoutlikeapealing bell.Inaword,hewasborntobearichofficial.Afterrisingtothepositionofvillagehead, heselflesslytaughthisfellowvillagersthewaterinjectionmethodandservedastheleader ofalocalrichesthroughrusemovement.Somevillagersspokeoutangrilyandsome attackedhimonwallposters,callinghimamemberoftheretaliatorylandlordclass,which wasintentonoverthrowingtheruleofthevillageproletariat.Buttalklikethatwasoutof fashion.OverthevillageP.A.system,LaoLanannounced,Dragonsbegetdragons, phoenixesbegetphoenixes,andamouseisbornonlytodigholes.Sometimelater,wecame torealizethathewaslikeakungfumasterwhowillneverpassonallhisskillstohis apprenticeswhoholdsbackenoughforasafetynet.LaoLansmeatwaswaterinjected, likeeveryoneelses,buthislookedfresherandsmelledsweeter.Youcouldleaveitoutin thesunfortwodaysanditwouldntspoil,whileotherswouldbemaggotinfestedifit didntsellthefirstday.SoLaoLanneverhadtoworryaboutcuttingpricesifhissupplydid notsellrightawaymeatthatlookedasgoodashiswasneverindangerofgoingunsold. Myfather,LuoTong,toldmeitwasntwaterthatLaoLaninjectedintohismeatbut formaldehyde.MyfatherwasmuchsmarterthanLaoLan.Hedneverstudiedphysics,but heknewallaboutpositiveandnegativeelectricityhedneverstudiedbiology,buthewas anexpertonspermandeggsandhedneverstudiedchemistry,buthewaswellawarethat formaldehydecankillbacteria,keepmeatfromspoiling,andstabilizeproteins,whichis
www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2012/11/26/121126fi_fiction_mo?printable=true&currentPage=all 1/12

3/20/13

Mo Yan: : The New Yorker

howheguessedthatLaoLanhadinjectedformaldehydeintohismeat.Ifgettingrichhad beenonmyfathersagenda,hedhavehadnotroublebecomingthewealthiestmaninthe village,ofthatImsure.Buthewasadragonamongmen,anddragonshavenointerestin accumulatingproperty.Youveseencritterslikesquirrelsandratsdigholestostorefood, butwhoseverseenatiger,thekingoftheanimals,dosomethinglikethat?Tigersspend mostoftheirtimesleepingintheirlairs,comingoutonlywhenhungersendsthemhunting forprey.Similarly,myfatherspentmostofhistimeholedup,eating,drinking,andhavinga goodtime,comingoutonlywhenhungerpangssenthimlookingforincome.Neverfora momentdidheresembleLaoLanandpeopleofthatilk,whoaccumulatedbloodmoney, puttingaknifeinwhiteandtakingitoutred.Norwasheinterestedingoingdowntothe trainstationtoearnaporterswagesbythesweatofhisbrow,likesomeofthecoarser villagemen.Fathermadehislivingbyhiswits. Inancienttimes,therewasafamouschefnamedPaoDing,whowasanexpertatcarving upcows.Inmoderntimes,therewasamanwhowasanexpertatsizingthemupmyfather. InPaoDingseyes,cowswerenothingbutbonesandedibleflesh.Thatswhattheywerein myfatherseyes,too.PaoDingsvisionwasassharpasaknifemyfatherswasassharpas aknifeandasaccurateasascale.WhatImeantosayis:ifyouweretoleadalivecowupto myfather,hedtaketwoturnsaroundit,threeatmost,occasionallystickinghishandup undertheanimalsforelegjustforshowandconfidentlyreportitsgrossweightandthe quantityofmeatonitsbones,alwaystowithinakiloofwhatmightregisteronthedigital scaleusedinEnglandslargestcattleslaughterhouse.Atfirst,peoplethoughtmyfatherwas justawindbag,butaftertestinghimseveraltimestheywerebelievers.Hispresencetook blindluckoutoftheequationindealingsbetweencattlemenandbutchers,andestablisheda basisoffairness.Oncehisauthoritywasinplace,boththecattlemenandthebutchers courtedhisfavor,hopingtogainanedge.But,asamanofvision,hewouldneverjeopardize hisreputationforpettyprofits,sincebydoingsohedsmashhisricebowl.Ifacattleman cametoourhousewithagiftofwineandcigarettes,myfathertossedthemintothestreet, thenclimbedourgardenwallandcursedloudly.Ifabutchercamewithagiftofapigs head,myfatherflungitintothestreet,thenclimbedourgardenwallandcursedloudly.Both thecattlemenandthebutcherssaidthatLuoTongwasanidiot,butthefairestmanthey knew. Peopletrustedhimimplicitly.Ifatransactionreachedastalemate,thepartieswouldlook athimtoacknowledgethattheywantedthingssettled.Letsquitarguingandhearwhat LuoTonghastosay!Allright,letsdothat.LuoTong,youbethejudge!Withacocky air,myfatherwouldwalkaroundtheanimaltwice,lookingatneitherthebuyernorthe seller,thenglanceupintotheskyandannouncethegrossweightandtheamountofmeaton thebone,followedbyaprice.Hedthenwanderofftosmokeacigarette.Buyerandseller wouldreachoutandsmackhands.Good!Itsadeal!Oncethetransactionwascompleted, buyerandsellerwouldcomeuptomyfatherandeachwouldhandhimatenyuannoteand
www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2012/11/26/121126fi_fiction_mo?printable=true&currentPage=all 2/12

3/20/13

Mo Yan: : The New Yorker

thankhimforhislabors.Whatmustbemadeclearisthat,beforemyfathershowedupatthe cattleauctions,thedealshadbeennegotiatedbyoldstylebrokers,dark,gaunt,wretchedold men,somewithqueueshangingdowntheirbacks,whowereproficientintheartofhaggling byfingersignshiddeninwide,overlappingsleeves,thuslendingtheprofessionanairof mystery.Myfathereffectivelydrovetheshiftyeyedbrokersoffthestageofhistory.This remarkableadvanceinthebuyingandsellingofcattleonthehoofcould,withonlyabitof exaggeration,becalledrevolutionary.Myfatherskeeneyewasnotlimitedtocattlebut workedonpigsandsheepaswell.Likeamastercarpenterwhocanbuildatablebutcanalso buildachairand,ifhesespeciallytalented,acoffin,myfatherhadnotroublesizingup evencamels.

arlyonesummerday,Fathercarriedmeonhisshouldersovertothethreshingfloor.We werestilllivinginthethreeroomshackwedinheritedfrommygrandfather.Ourshack lookedparticularlyshabbyandawfulnowthatitwastuckedinamongabunchofnewly builthouseswithredtiledroofs,likeabeggarkneelinginfrontofaclutchoflandlordsand richmerchantsinsilksandsatins,askingforahandout.Thewallaroundouryardcame barelyuptoanadultswaistandwastoppedbyweeds.Thankstomylazy,gluttonousfather, welivedalifeofextremes,withpotfulsofmeatonthestoveduringgoodtimesandempty potsduringthebad.WheneverhewasthetargetofMothersfranticcurses,hedsay,Any daynow,verysoon,thesecondlandreformcampaignwillbegin,andyoullthankmewhen itdoes.DontforaminuteenvyLaoLan,sincehellwinduplikethatlandlordfatherofhis, draggedofftothebridgeheadbyamobofpoorpeasantstobeshot.Hedaimanimaginary rifleatMothersheadandfireoffaround:bang!Shedgrabherheadwithbothhandsand gopalewithfright.Butthesecondlandreformcampaigndidntcomeanddidntcome,and poorMotherwasforcedtobringhomerottensweetpotatoesthatpeoplehadthrownawayso shecouldfeedthepigs.Ourtwolittlepigsnevergotenoughtoeatandtheysquealed hungrilymostofthetime.Itwasannoying. Thatmorning,Fatherhadrailedangrily,Whatthehellareyousquealingabout?Keepit upandIlltossyoutwolittlebastardsinapotandhaveyoufordinner! Cleaverinhand,Motherglaredathim.Donteventhinkaboutit,shesaid.Thoseare mypigs.Iraisedthem,andnobodywillharmahaironthem.Eitherthefishdiesorthenet breaks. Takeiteasy,Fathersaid,withagleefullaugh.Iwouldnttouchthoseskinandbones animalsforanything. Itookalonglookatthepigsitwastruethattherewasntmuchmeatoneitherofthem, butthosefourfleshyearswouldhavemadeforgoodsnacking.Tome,theearswerethebest partofapigsheadnofat,notmuchgrease,andtinylittleboneswithanicecrunch.They werebestwithcucumbersthethornyoneswithflowersandsomemashedgarlicand sesameoil.Wecaneattheirears!Isaid.
www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2012/11/26/121126fi_fiction_mo?printable=true&currentPage=all 3/12

3/20/13

Mo Yan: : The New Yorker

Illcutoffyourearsandeatthemfirst,youlittlebastard!Mothersaid.Shegrabbed holdofmyearandjerkedithard,whileFathertriedtopullmefreebytheneckandI screamedforallIwasworth,afraidmyearwouldberippedoff.Myscreamssoundedlike thesquealsofpigsbeingslaughteredinthevillage.Intheend,Father,withhissuperior strength,managedtoyankmefree. RageturnedMothersfacewaxenandherlipspurpleshestoodatthestoveshaking fromheadtotoe.Emboldenedbymyfathersprotection,Icursed,spittingoutherfullname: YangYuzhen,youstinkingoldlady,youremakingmylifealivinghell! Stunnedbymyoutburst,shejuststaredatme,whileFatherchuckled,pickedmeup,and tookoffrunning.WewerealreadyoutintheyardbythetimeweheardMothersshrillwail. Icoulddie,Imsomad,youlittlebastard.... Fatherrappedmeontheheadandsaidsoftly,Youlittleimp,howdidyouknowyour mothersname? Ilookedupintohisswarthy,sombreface.Iheardyousayit! WhendidIevertellyouhernamewasYangYuzhen? YoutoldittoAuntieWildMule.Yousaid,YangYuzhen,thatstinkingoldlady,is makingmylifealivinghell! Fatherclampedhishandovermymouthandsaidunderhisbreath,Shutup,damnyou. Ivebeenaprettygoodfathersofar.Dontyougoandruinthingsformenow. Mothercameoutofthehouse,cleaverinhand.LuoTong,sheshouted,LuoXiaotong, youtwosonsofbitches,youscruffybastards,IwouldntcareifIdiedtodayifIcouldtake thetwoofyouwithme.Todaywillseetheendofthisfamily! Theterriblelookonherfaceannouncedtomethatthiswasnojoke.Myfathermayhave ledadissipatedlife,buthewasnofool.Thesmartmanavoidsdanger.Hesweptmeup, tuckedmeunderhisarm,turned,andrantowardthewallandallbutsomersaultedoverit, puttingmyenragedmotherandawholelotoftroublebehindus.Iharborednodoubtsabout herabilitytoscamperoverthewall,asweddone,butshechosenotto.Oncesheddriven usoutoftheyard,shestoppedchasingus.Shejumpedaboutforawhileatthefootofthe wall,thenwentbackinsidetofinishchoppingtherottingsweetpotatoesandfilltheairwith loudcurses.Itwasabrilliantwaytoletoffsteam:nobloodandnomess,nofallingafoulof thelaw,yetIknewthatthoserottenpotatoesweresurrogatesfortheheadsofherbitter enemies. Now,asIthinkback,IrealizethatthetruebitterenemyinhermindwasneitherFather normeitwasWildMule,whoranawineshopinthevillage.Mymotherwasconvinced thatthesluthadseducedmyfather,andIsimplycannotsayifthatwasorwasnotafair assessmentofthesituation.WhereFatherandWildMulesrelationshipwasconcerned,the onlypeoplewhoknewwhodseducedwhom,whodcastthefirstflirtatiousglance,werethe twoofthem.
www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2012/11/26/121126fi_fiction_mo?printable=true&currentPage=all 4/12

3/20/13

Mo Yan: : The New Yorker

evenoreightcattlemerchantsweresittingontheirhaunchesattheedgeofthethreshing floorwhenwegotthere,smokingcigarettesastheywaitedforthebutcherstoshowup. (Onceourvillagehadbeenturnedintoahugeslaughterhouse,thefields,forallintentsand purposes,wereleftfallow,andthethreshingfloorhadbecometheplacewherecattlewere boughtandsold.)Thecattlestoodofftotheside,absentmindedlychewingtheircud, obliviousoftheirimpendingdoom.Themerchants,mostfromthewesterncounties,spoke withfunnyaccents,likeradioplayactors.Theyshowedupeverytendaysorso,each bringingalongtwoheadofcattle,maybethree.Forthemostpart,theycameonaslow, mixedfreightandpassengertrain,menandbeastsinonecar,arrivingatthestationnearest ourvillageataroundsunset.Theydidntreachourvillagetillaftermidnight,eventhough thestationwasnomorethantenliaway.Astrollthatshouldhavetakenanhourortwotook thesemerchantsandtheircattleagoodeight.Whydidtheyprefertoreachourvillageinthe middleofthenight?Thatwastheirsecret.WhenIwasyoung,Iaskedmyparentsandsome ofthevillagegraybeardsthatveryquestion.Buttheyjustgavemestonylooks,asifId askedthemthemeaningoflifeoraquestionwhoseanswereveryoneknew. Thecattlesarrivalwasasignalforthevillagedogstosetupachorusofbarks,which wokeupeveryoneman,woman,young,andoldandinformedusthatthecattle merchantswerehere.Inmyyouthfulmemories,theywereamysteriouslot,andthissenseof mysterywassurelytiedtotheirlatenightentryintothevillage.Onsomemoonlitnights, whenthesilencewasbrokenbythechorusofdogsbarking,Motherwouldsitup,wrappedin acomforter,stickherfaceclosetothewindow,andgazeatthesceneoutside.Thiswas beforeFatherskippedoutonuswithWildMule,buttherewerealreadynightswhenhe didntcomehome.Noiselessly,Idsitup,too,andlookpastMother,outthewindow,atthe cattlemerchantsdrivingtheanimalssilentlypastourhouse,thefreshlybathedcattle glintinginthemoonlightlikegiantpiecesofglazedpottery.Ifithadntbeenforthe seethingcurrentofbarks,IdhavethoughtIwasobservingabeautifuldreamscapeeven withthedogs,asIthinkbacknow,itseemedlikeone. Ourvillageboastedseveralinns,butthemerchantsneverbeddeddownintheminstead, theyledtheircattlestraighttothethreshingfloorandwaitedtheretilldawn,evenifthe windwashowlingoritwaspouringrain,iftheairwasbittercoldorsteamyhot.Therewere stormynightswheninnkeeperswentouttodrumupbusiness,butthemerchantsandtheir cattleremainedintheinhospitableelementslikestatues,unmoved,nomatterhowflowery theinvitation.Wasitbecausetheydidntwanttopartwiththatlittlebitofmoney?No. Peoplesaidthataftertheysoldtheircattletheywentintotowntogetdrunkandwhore aroundonaspendingspreethatstoppedonlywhentheyhadjustenoughtobuyaticketfor theslowtrainhome.Theirlifestylecouldnothavebeenmoredifferentfromthatofthe peasants.Theirthinking,too.Asachild,onmorethanoneoccasionIheardsomeofour
www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2012/11/26/121126fi_fiction_mo?printable=true&currentPage=all 5/12

3/20/13

Mo Yan: : The New Yorker

moreeminentvillagerscomment,withasigh,Hai,whatkindofpeoplearethey?Whatin theworldisgoingoninsidethoseheadsoftheirs?Whentheycametomarket,theybrought browncowsandblackones,malesandfemales,fullygrowncowsandimmatureones,and oncetheyevenbroughtanursingheiferwhoseteatslookedlikewaterjugs,andmyfather hadtroubleestimatingapriceforher,sincehedidntknowiftheudderwasedibleornot. Thecattlemerchantswouldstandwhentheysawmyfather.Theyworemirrored sunglassesearlyinthemorning,whichwasaspookysight,thoughtheysmiledasashowof respect.Myfatherwouldliftmeoffhisshoulders,squatdownonhishaunchestenfeetorso fromthemerchants,pulloutacrumpledpackofcigarettes,andremoveacrooked,damp cigarette.Thecattlemerchantswouldtakeouttheirpacks,andtenormorecigaretteswould landonthegroundbyFathersfeet.Hedgatherthemupandlaythembackdownneatly. LaoLuo,youoldfuckhead,oneofthemerchantswouldsay.Smokeem.Youdontthink weretryingtobuyyourfavorswithafewpaltrycigarettes,doyou?Fatherwouldjust smileandlighthischeapsmoke. Thevillagebutcherswouldstartshowingupthen,intwosandthrees,alllookingasif theywerefreshfromabath,thoughIcouldsmellthescentofbloodontheirbodies,which goestoshowthatbloodwhetherfromcowsorpigsdoesntwashoff.Thecattle,smelling thebloodonthebutchers,wouldhuddletogether,fearflashingintheireyes.Excrement wouldspurtfromthebungholesoftheyoungcowstheolderoneslookedcomposed,butI knewthatwasforshow,sinceIcouldseetheirtailsdrawupundertheirrumpstokeepthem fromemptyingtheirbowels.Theirlegstrembled,liketheripplesonapondinapassing breeze. Negotiationsbeganassoonasthebutchersarrived.Astheycircledtheanimals,acasual observermightthinktheywerehavingtroubledecidingwhichonestobuy.But,ifoneof themreachedoutandgrabbedahalter,withinthreesecondstheotherswoulddothesame, and,lightningquick,allthecowswouldhavebuyers.Noonecouldrecalleverseeingtwo butchersfightoverthesameanimal,butifsomethinglikethathadhappenedthedispute wouldhavebeenquicklyresolved.Inmostoccupations,competitorsarerivals,butthe butchersinourvillagewereunitedinfriendship,preparedtoconfrontanyandallopponents asabrotherhood.Wheneachofthemhadahalterinhand,thecattlemerchantsapproached languidlyandthebargainingbegan.Nowthatmyfatherhadcementedhisauthority,these negotiationstookonlittleimportance,becameproforma,amerecustom,foritwasleftto himhehadthelastword.Themenwouldjockeybackandforthforawhile,thenwalkup tomyfather,cowintow,likeapplicantsforamarriagelicenseatthetownhall. Butsomethingspecialoccurredonthisparticularday:insteadofheadingstraightforthe cows,thebutcherschoseinsteadtopacebackandforthattheedgeofthesquare,their meaningfulsmilesmakinganyonewhosawthemuncomfortable.And,whentheypassedin frontofmyfather,somethingwashiddeninthosesmilesthathintedatunpleasantness,asif aconspiracywereafoot,onethatcoulderuptatanymoment.IcastatimidglanceatFather,
www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2012/11/26/121126fi_fiction_mo?printable=true&currentPage=all 6/12

3/20/13

Mo Yan: : The New Yorker

whosattherewoodenlysmokingoneofhischeapcigarettes,justashedideveryday.The bettercigarettestossedhiswaybythemerchantslayonthegrounduntouched.Oncethe dealswerestruck,thebutcherswouldcomeover,gatherupthecigarettes,andsmokethem. And,astheysmoked,theywouldpraisemyfatherforhisincorruptibility.LaoLuo,one wouldsay,halfinjest,ifallChinesewerelikeyou,Communismwouldhavebeenrealized decadesago.Hedsmilebutsaynothing.Andthiswasthemomentwhenmyheartwould swellwithprideandIdvowthatthiswashowIwoulddothings,thathewasthekindof manIwantedtobe.Itwasobvioustothemerchantsaswellthatsomethingwasintheairthat day,andtheyturnedtolookatmyfather,exceptforafewwhocoollyobservedthebutchers astheypaced.Atacitagreementhadbeenreached:everyonewaswaitingtoseewhatwould happen,likeanaudiencepatientlywaitingfortheplaytobegin. Abrightredsunroseabovethefieldsintheeast,likeablacksmithsruddyface,andthe leadingactorinthedramafinallyappearedatthethreshingfloor:LaoLan,atall,huskyman withwelldevelopedmuscles.Hehadabushybrownbeard,thesamecolorashiseyes, whichmadeyouwonderifhewasofpureHanstock.Theminutehestrodeintothesquare, everyoneseyeswereonhim.Withthesunshiningdown,hisfaceglowed.Hewalkedupto myfather,buthisgazewasfixedonthefieldsbeyondthesquatearthenwall,whereraysof morningsundazzledtheeye.Thecropswerejadegreentheflowerswereinbloom, releasingtheirperfumeintotheairtheskylarkssangintherosyredsky.Myfather,who seemedtobenothingintheeyesofLaoLan,mightaswellnothavebeensittingbythewall atall.And,naturally,ifmyfathermeantnothingtohim,Imeantevenless.Maybehewas blindedbythesunthatwasthefirstthoughtthatenteredmyjuvenilemindbutIquickly understoodthatLaoLanwastryingtoprovokemyfather. Ashecockedhisheadtospeaktothebutchersandthemerchants,heunzippedhispants, tookouthisdarktool,andletlooseastreamofburnedyellowpissrightinfrontofmy fatherandme.Aheatedstenchassailedmynostrils.Itwasamightystreamhedprobably beensavingitupallnight,withoutrelievinghimself,sothathecouldhumiliatemyfather. Thecigarettesonthegroundtumbledandrolledinthemansurine,swellingupuntilthey losttheirshape.Astrangelaughhadarisenfromtheclustersofbutchersandmerchants whenLaoLantookouthistool,buttheybrokethatoffsoabruptlyitwasasifagigantic handhadreachedoutandgrabbedthembythethroat.Theystaredatus,slackjawedand tonguetied,looksofsurprisefrozenontheirfaces.Noteventhebutchers,whohadknown thatLaoLanwantedtopickafightwithmyfather,hadimaginedthatheddosomethinglike this.Hispisslandedonourfeetandonourlegs,someevensprayingintoourfacesandour mouths.Ijumpedup,enraged,butFatherdidntmoveamuscle.Hesattherelikeastone. Fuckyouroldlady,LaoLan!Icursed.Myfatherdidntmakeasound.LaoLanworea superiorsmile.Myfatherseyeswerehooded,likethoseofafarmertakingpleasureinthe sightofwaterdrippingfromtheeaves. WhenLaoLanfinishedpissing,hezippeduphispantsandwalkedovertowherethe
www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2012/11/26/121126fi_fiction_mo?printable=true&currentPage=all 7/12

3/20/13

Mo Yan: : The New Yorker

cattlewerestanding.Iheardlongsighsfromthebutchersandmerchants,butcouldnttellif theyweresorrythatnothinghadhappenedorhappythatithadnt.Withthat,thebutchers walkedinamongthecattleandinnotimemadetheirselections.Thenthemerchantswalked upandthebargainingcommenced.ButIcouldtellthattheirheartswerentinit,that somethingotherthanmakingdealswasontheirminds.Thoughtheywerentlookingatmy father,Iwassuretheywerethinkingabouthim.Andwhatwashedoing?Hedbroughthis kneesupandwashidinghisfacebehindthem,likeahawksleepinginthecrotchofatree. SinceIcouldntseehisface,Ihadnowayofknowingwhathelookedlikeatthatmoment. ButIwasunhappywithwhatIsawasweakness.Imayhavebeenonlyaboy,butIknewhow badlyLaoLanhadhumiliatedmyfather,andIalsoknewthatanymanworthhissaltwould nottakethatwithoutafightIdprovedthatbymycurses.Butmyfatherremainedsilent,as ifheweredead. Thatdaysnegotiationswerebroughttoaclosewithouthisintervention.But,whenthey wereover,allthepartieswalkedupasusualandtossedsomenotesathisfeet.Firsttodothis wasnoneotherthanLaoLan.Thatmongrelbastard,apparentlynotcontenttopissinmy fathersface,tookouttwobrandnewtenyuannotesandsnappedthembetweenhisfingers togetmyfathersattention.Itdidntwork,forhekepthisfacehiddenbehindhisknees, whichseemedtodisappointLaoLan.Hetookaquickglanceallaround,thenflungthetwo notesdownatmyfathersfeet,oneofthemlandinginastillsteamingpuddleofhispiss, whereitnestledupagainstthesoggy,disintegratingcigarettes.Atthatmoment,myfather mightaswellhavebeendead.Hedlostfaceforhimselfandhisancestors.Hewaslessthan aman,reducedtothelevelofthebloatedcigarettesswimminginhisadversaryspiss.After LaoLanhadtosseddownhismoney,themerchantsandbutchersfollowedhislead, sympatheticlooksontheirfaces,asifwewereafatherandsonteamofbeggarswho deservedtheirpity.Theytosseddowndoubletheamounttheyusuallygavemyfather,either asarewardfornotresistingorinanattempttocopyLaoLansgenerosity. AsIstaredatallthosenoteswhichhadfallenatourfeetlikesomanydeadleaves,I begantocry,andatlonglastFatherlookedup.Therewasnosignofangeronhisface,orof sadness.Ithadallthelustreofadriedoutpieceofwood.Hegazedatmecoldly,alookof perplexityinhiseyes,asifhehadnoideawhyIwascrying.Ireachedoutandclawedathis neck.Dieh,Isaid,yourenolongermyfather.IllcallLaoLanDiehbeforeIevercall youDiehagain! Momentarilystunnedbymyshouts,themenaroundusquicklyburstoutlaughing.Lao Langavemeathumbsup.Xiaotong,hesaid,yourereallysomething,justwhatIneed,a son.Fromnowon,yourewelcomeatmyhouseanytime.Ifitsporkyouwant,thatswhat youllget,andifitsbeefyoullhavethat,too.AndifyoubringyourmamaalongIll welcomeyoubothwithopenarms. Thatwastoogreataninsulttoignore,soIrushedhimangrily.Heeasilysidesteppedmy charge,andIwoundupfacedownonthegroundwithacutandbleedinglip.
www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2012/11/26/121126fi_fiction_mo?printable=true&currentPage=all 8/12

3/20/13

Mo Yan: : The New Yorker

Withaloudguffaw,hesaid,Youlittleprick,attackingmeaftercallingmeDieh!Who inhisrightmindwouldwantasonlikeyou? Sincenooneofferedtohelpmeup,Ihadtogettomyfeetonmyown.Iwalkedoverto myfatherandkickedhiminthelegtoventmydisappointment.Notonlydidthatnotmake himangryhewasntevenawareofit.Hejustrubbedhisfacewithhislarge,softhands. Thenhestretchedhisarmsandyawnedlikealazytomcat,lookeddownattheground,and, slowly,conscientiously,carefully,gatheredthenotesthatweresteepinginLaoLanspiss, holdingeachoneuptothelight,asiftomakesureitwasntcounterfeit.Finally,hepicked upthenewnotefromLaoLanthathadbecomedirtyintheurineanddrieditonhispants. Nowthatallthemoneywasstackedneatlyonhisknees,hehelditwiththemiddletwo fingersofhislefthand,spatonthethumbandforefingerofhisrighthand,andcountedit.I ranovertograbitoutofhishand,intendingtotearitupandflingitintoLaoLansface,to avengethehumiliationthathadsettledonusboth,fatherandson.Buthewastoofastfor mehejumpedupandheldhislefthandhighintheair,muttering,Youfoolishboy,what doyouthinkyouredoing?Moneysmoney.Itsnottoblamepeopleare.Donttakeyour angeroutonmoney.Grabbinghiselbowwithmylefthand,Itriedtoclawmywayuphis bodytoripthatshamefulmoneyoutofhishand.Ididntstandachance,notwithafull grownman.IwassomadIrammedmyheadintohishipoverandover,buthejustpattedme ontheheadandsaidgenially,Thatsenoughnow,son,dontgetcarriedaway.Lookover thereatLaoLansbullsee,itsgettingangry. Itwasabig,fatLuxibullwithstraighthornsandasatinyhideoverripplingmuscles,the kindIsawlateronathletesonTV.Itwasagoldenyellow,allbutitsface,which, surprisingly,waswhite.Idneverseenawhitefacedbullbefore.Itwascastrated,andthe wayitlookedatyououtofthecornerofoneofitseyeswasenoughtomakeyourhairstand onend.NowthatIthinkback,thatwasprobablythelookpeopledescribewhentheytalk abouteunuchs.Castrationchangesamansnatureitdoesthesamewithbulls.Bypointing outthebulltome,Fathermademeforgetaboutthemoney,atleastforthemoment.Iturned justintimetoseeLaoLanswaggeroutofthesquare,leadinghisbull.Whynotswagger, afterthewayhedhumiliatedmyunresistingfather?Hisprestigeinthevillageandamong thecattlemerchantshadrisendramatically.Hedgoneupagainsttheonlypersonwho dismissedhimasirrelevant,andwonnooneinthevillagewouldeverdefyhimagain.That onlymakeswhathappenednextsostartlingthatImnotsureIbelieveitevennow,years later. ThatLuxibullofhisstoppedinitstracks.LaoLantuggedonthehaltertogetitmoving again.Itdidntrespond.Withouteventrying,thebullmadeamockeryofLaoLansshowof strength.Acattlebutcherbytrade,hehadanodorthatcouldnormallymakeatimidcalf shakelikealeafandcauseeventhemoststubbornanimaltomeeklyawaititsdeathwhenhe stoodinfrontofit,knifeinhand.Unabletogetthebullmovingagainbytuggingonits halter,hewentaroundandsmackeditontherumpwithanearpiercingyell.Now,most
www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2012/11/26/121126fi_fiction_mo?printable=true&currentPage=all 9/12

3/20/13

Mo Yan: : The New Yorker

animalswouldhavelostcontroloftheirbowelsinthewakeofthatsmackandyell,butthis Luxibulldidntsomuchaspiddle.Stillenjoyingtheglowofvictoryovermyfather,and actinglikeacockysoldier,LaoLankickedtheanimalinitsunderbelly,givingnothoughtto thenatureofabull.Well,theanimalshifteditsrump,letoutaloudroar,lowereditshead, andflungLaoLanintotheairwithitshorns,asifheweighednomorethanastrawmat.The cattlemerchantsandbutcherswereshockedbywhathadjusthappened,shockedand speechless,andnoneofthemwenttoLaoLansaid.Thebulllowereditsheadagainand charged.Now,LaoLanwasnoordinaryman,andwhenhesawthosehornscomingathimhe rolledoutoftheway.Eyesblazingwithanger,thebullturnedtochargeagain,andLaoLan savedhisskinbyrollingoutofthewayasecondtimeandathird. Whenhewasfinallyabletoscrambletohisfeet,wesawthathewasinjured,ifonly slightly.Hestoodtherefacingdownthebull,hipsshiftedtooneside,nottakinghiseyesoff theanimalforasecond.Thebulllowereditshead,slobbergatheringatthecornersofits mouth,andsnortedloudly,asitpreparedforthenextcharge.LaoLanraisedhishandto distractthebull,buthewasclearlyonlyputtingonafronttoappearbrave.Helookedlikea terrifiedbullfighterwhowoulddoanythingtosaveface.Hetookacautiousstepforward thebulldidntmove.Rather,itdroppeditsheadevenlower,asignthatthenextchargewas imminent.Intheend,LaoLanabandonedhismachoposturing,gaveonefinal,blustery shout,turned,andranmadly.Thebulltookoffafterhim,itstailstickingoutstiffand straight,likeanironrod.Hooveskickedmudinalldirections,likeasprayofmachinegun firemeanwhile,LaoLan,hellbentonescaping,headedinstinctivelytowardtheonlookers, hopingtofindsalvationinthecrowd.Butrescuinghimwasthelastthingontheirminds. Withshrieksallaround,they,too,ranfortheirlives,cursingtheirparentsfornotgiving themmorethantwolegs.Luckily,thebullhadenoughintelligencetosingleoutLaoLanand notventitsangeronanyoneelse.Themerchantsandbutcherssentsandflyingasthey scrambledoverwallsanduptrees.LaoLan,stupefiedbyhispredicament,ranstraight towardFatherandme. Withasenseofdesperation,Fathergrabbedmebytheneckwithonehandandtheseat ofmypantswiththeother,andflungmeupontothewallonlysecondsbeforethatdamned LaoLantookrefugebehindhim,grabbinghisclothessothathecouldntbreakfree,and wouldscreenhimfromthechargingbull.Myfatherretreatedso,ofcourse,didLaoLan, untiltheywerebothbackedupagainstthewall.Fatherwavedthemoneyinhishandinfront ofthebullandmuttered,Bull,ah,bull,theresnobadbloodbetweenyouandme,notnow, notever,soletsworkthisout... Itallhappenedfasterthanwordscandescribe:Fatherthrewthemoneyatthebullsface andleapedontoitsbackbeforetheanimalknewwhatwashappening.Thenhestuckhis fingersinthebullsnose,grabbeditsnosering,andjerkeditsheaduphigh.Thecowsthe merchantsbroughtfromthewesterncountieswerefarmanimals,sotheyallhadnoserings. Now,thenoseisabullsweakspot,andnoone,notthebestfarmeralive,knewmoreabout
www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2012/11/26/121126fi_fiction_mo?printable=true&currentPage=all 10/12

3/20/13

Mo Yan: : The New Yorker

bullsthanmyfatherdid,thoughhehimselfwasntmuchofafarmer.Tearssprangtomy eyesasIsatontopofthewall.Imsoproudofyou,Father,Ithought,ofthewayyou washedawaythehumiliationandreclaimedourlostfacewithyourwiseandcourageous action. Thebutchersandmerchantshelpedhimgetthewhitefacedyellowbulldownonthe groundinordertokeepitfromgettingupagainandhurtinganyone,oneofthebutchersran home,rabbitfast,tofetchaknife,whichheofferedtothenowpalefacedLaoLan,butLao Lantookastepbackwardandwavedthemanoff,turningthetaskovertosomeoneelse.The butcherlookedfromsidetoside,knifeinhand:Wholldoit?Nobody?Well,then,Iguess itsuptome.Herolleduphissleeves,wipedthebladeagainstthesoleofhisshoe,then hunkereddownandclosedoneeye,likeacarpenterwithaplumbline.Takingaimatthe slightindentationinthebullschest,heplungedtheknifein,and,whenhepulleditout, bloodspurted,andpaintedmyfatherred. Nowthatthebullwasdead,everyoneclimbeddownblackishredbloodcontinuedto flowfromthewound,bubblinglikewaterfromafountainandreleasingaheatedodorinto thecrispmorningair.Themenstoodaroundlikedeflatedballoons,shrivelledand diminishedsomehow.Therewassomuchtheywantedtosay,butnoonesaidaword.Except myfather,whotuckedhisheaddownlowbetweenhisshoulders,openedhismouthtoreveal asetofstrongbutyellowteeth,andsaid,Oldmaninthesky,Iwassoscared! Atthat,everyoneturnedtolookatLaoLan,whoclearlywishedhecouldcrawlintoa hole.Hetriedtocoverhisembarrassmentbylookingdownatthebull,whoselegswere stretchedoutstraight,themeatypartsofitsthighsstilltwitching.Oneofitsblueeyes remainedopen,asiftoreleasethehatredinside.Damnyou!LaoLansaidashekickedthe deadanimal.Youspendyourwholelifehuntingwildgeese,onlytonearlyhaveyoureye peckedoutbyagosling.Helookedupatmyfather.Ioweyouone,LuoTong,butyouand Iarentfinished. Finishedwithwhat?myfatherasked.Theresnothingbetweenyouandme. Dontyoutouchher!LaoLanhissed. Ineverwantedtotouchhershewantedmeto,myfathersaid,withaproudlittle laugh.Shecalledyouadog,andshellneverletyoutouchheragain. Atthetime,Ihadnoideawhatthiswasallabout,thoughlater,ofcourse,Ifiguredout thattheyweretalkingaboutWildMule. ButwhenIasked,Dieh,whatareyoutalkingabout?,hesaid,Nothingachildneeds toknow. Son,LaoLansaid,didntyousayyouwantedtobeamemberoftheLanfamily? ThenwhydidyoucallhimDiehjustnow? Yourenothingbutapileofstinkydogshit!Isaid. Son,hesaid,yougohomeandtellyourmotherthatyourfatherfoundhiswayinto WildMulescaveandcantgetout.
www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2012/11/26/121126fi_fiction_mo?printable=true&currentPage=all 11/12

3/20/13

Mo Yan: : The New Yorker

Thatmademyfatherasangryasthebullhadbeenheloweredhisheadandchargedat LaoLan.Theywerentateachothersthroatsformorethanamomentbeforeothersrushed overtopullthemapart.But,inthatbriefmoment,LaoLanhadmanagedtobreakmyfathers littlefingerandmyfatherhadbittenoffhalfofLaoLansear.Spittingitoutangrily,hesaid, Howdareyousaythingslikethatinfrontofmyson,youdogbastard! (Translated,fromtheChinese,byHowardGoldblatt.)


PHOTOGRAPH:TIMKLEIN/GALLERYSTOCK

Togetmoreof TheNewYorker'ssignaturemixofpolitics,cultureandthearts: SubscribeNow

www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2012/11/26/121126fi_fiction_mo?printable=true&currentPage=all

12/12

You might also like