From experience Gao Yang knew that traffic controllers dealt with motor vehicles; so when one of them, an imposing young fellow in gray, blocked his way, black satchel in hand, he was unconcerned, even flashing him a friendly, if foolish, grin.
The stony-faced young man wrote out a slip of paper, handed it to him, and said, “That’ll be one yuan.”
Taken by surprise, and not sure what was going on, Gao Yang could only stare. The man in gray waved the slip of paper in front of him. “Give me one yuan,” he said icily.
“What for?” Gao Yang asked anxiously.
“Highway toll.”
“For a donkey cart?”
“It wouldn’t matter if it was a handcart.”
“I don’t have any money, comrade. My wife just had a baby, and that cost me every penny I owned.”
“I’m telling you to hand it over. Without one of these,” he said, waving the slip of paper in the air, “without one of these, the marketing co-op wont buy your garlic.”
“Honest, I don’t have any money,” Gao Yang insisted as he turned his pockets inside-out. “See — nothing!”
“Then I’ll take some of your garlic. Three pounds.”
“Three pounds is worth three yuan, comrade.”
“If you don’t think that’s fair, then hand over the money.”
“That’s blackmail!”
“Are you calling me a blackmailer? You think I like doing this? It’s state-mandated.”
Oh, well … if it’s state-mandated, then go ahead.”
The man scooped up a bundle of garlic and tossed it into a basket behind him — attended by two boys — and stuffed the white slip of paper with the official red seal into Gao Yang’s hand.
The traffic controller then turned to Fourth Uncle, who handed over two fifty-fen notes. He was also given a white slip of paper with a red seal for his troubles.
The boys picked up the nearly full basket and staggered under its weight toward the traffic control station, where a truck was parked. Two men in white, who appeared to be loaders, leaned against the rear bumper with their arms crossed.
At least twenty gray-uniformed men were busy handing out slips of paper from their black satchels. An argument erupted between one of them and a young fellow in a red vest who spoke his mind: “You bunch of cunt babies are worse than any son of a bitch I can think of!” The traffic controller calmly slapped him across the face without batting an eye.
“Who do you think you are, hitting me like that?” the young man in the red vest shrieked.
“That was a love tap,” the traffic controller replied in a level voice. “Let’s hear what else you have to say.”
The young man rushed the controller but was held back by two middle-aged men. “Stop it — stop it this minute! Give him what he wants, and keep your mouth shut.” Two white-uniformed policemen taking a smoke break under a nearby poplar tree ignored this completely.
What was that all about? Gao Yang was thinking. Of course they’re cunt babies. What did he think they were, asshole babies? Facts may not sound elegant, but they’re still the facts. He congratulated himself for not pulling a stunt like that, but the thought of losing all that juicy garlic nearly broke his heart. He breathed a heavy sigh.
By this time it was late morning, and Gao Yang’s donkey cart had barely moved an inch. The road was black with vehicles in both directions. From Fourth Uncle he learned that the cold-storage warehouse-where the garlic was bought — was a mile or so east of them. He was itching to see for himself, drawn by the shouts, whinnies, and other signs of frantic activity, but didn’t dare budge from where he was standing.
Noticing the first pangs of hunger, Gao Yang took a cloth bundle down from his cart and opened it to remove a flatcake and half a chunk of pickled vegetable, first offering some to Fourth Uncle as a courtesy, then digging in when his offer was refused. When it was about half-gone, Gao Yang plucked five stalks of garlic from his load, thinking, I’ll count these as part of the highway toll. Crisp and sweet, they complemented his meal perfecdy.
He was still eating when another man in a uniform and broad-billed cap came up and blocked his way, scaring the wits out of him. Quickly taking out his slip of paper, he waved it in front of the man and said, “I already paid, comrade.”
“This is from the controller station,” the man said after giving the slip a cursory glance. “I need to collect a two-yuan commodity tax.”
Gao Yang’s first emotion this time was anger. “I haven’t sold a single stalk of garlic yet,” he said.
“You won’t stick around to pay once you have,” the commodity-exchange official said.
“I don’t have any money!” Gao Yang said testily.
“Now you listen to me,” the man said. “The co-op won’t buy your garlic without seeing a tax receipt.”
“Comrade,” Gao Yang said, softening his attitude, “I mean it, I don’t have any money.”
“Then give me five pounds of garlic.”
