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Brown Salute

Chris Morey

    Old Ye had been Old Ye since beyond memory. Even when the edict came down that the inhabitants of Village 479 should be known by numbers, he had shrugged off the doubly-inauspicious 44 he was assigned. “If I had drawn it in a game, or if it had appeared in a prophecy, it would be a different matter...”
    The unspoken ‘but’ hung in the air. Unquestioning obedience to the numbering decree, or scornful dismissal of the Great Navigator’s latest brainstorm? Whatever Old Ye’s hearers thought, none chose to denounce his utterance to the village Commissar – not even with five kilos of polished rice as incentive.
    Despite his name, Old Ye’s brain was incisive, his senses acute. Every fine evening, he walked his course to, around, and back from the grove of trees surrounding the village well at a measured pace. While doing so he returned the greetings of passers-by, but did not interrupt his exercise. At home, he ate heartily the evening meal Daughter Number Two had prepared.
    His services had been in demand for settling disputes among the villagers for as long as anyone could recall. He would always explain his reasoning, and if he was unable to decide a case on the merits of the evidence he would say so – unheard-of in a society in which authorities were authorities.
    Those who knew the word called him a Sage. The majority, who did not, spoke his name with a respect they would have struggled to name the source of.

#

    Daughter Number Two, with her squint and club foot, kept Old Ye’s house. She wore her number, 181, with mingled pride and resignation. Was she not part of the mighty machine that, under the wise leadership of the Great Navigator, sowed panic into the hearts of the imperialists as the State inexorably overtook them? Soon, every inhabitant of the world would be as happy and fulfilled as were subjects of the State. The imperialists might broadcast lies to the contrary (listening to them was punishable by death), but no right-thinking person could be misled. Yet when Old Ye called her by her birth name of Syringa Blossom, regret stirred in her breast that the prettiest thing about her had been arbitrarily taken away.
    So even 181’s orthodoxy stretched only so far. Despite the Navigator’s strictures, what was said around the family hearth stayed around the family hearth. Between Old Ye and Syringa, filial loyalty and parental guidance met in what other societies would call tolerance. But Old Ye was careful not to shock her to the extent that she might blurt out some inconvenient truth (as he saw it) or shameless heresy (as the Commissar and his minions would) in the hearing of others.

#

    Twenty-five years ago, rebels led by the Great Navigator overthrew the reactionary generals who had, with the connivance of the imperialist enemy, exploited the groaning citizenry and peasantry – though Old Ye recalled that the dead Marshal Van had been the real leader and the Navigator merely Commissar-in-Chief. After the generals’ final defeat, those who could fled the country. The unlucky ones suffered the full weight of the State’s justice.
    Public memory of the extended torture sessions on Liberation Square was kept alive by filmed excerpts shown at the start and end of every cinema program. Every schoolchild knew and could imitate the screams of the victims; every schoolchild practiced, or had practiced upon him or her, faint juvenile shadows of the same tortures. Thus was the State hardened for the coming global conflict. Images of mangled human wrecks, confessing, confessing, varied the old newsreels. Old Ye had once commented to Syringa that the original culprits could no longer be alive, that the wretches exhibited had no connection with the wicked White generals but had been mutilated deliberately to create living object-lessons.

#

    The Central Commission had declared the anniversary a national holiday of rejoicing, to celebrate the benevolence of the Great Navigator who had devoted his life to improving the lot of his subjects.
    Village 479 did its modest part. Food, money, supplies of all sorts were short, had been short for decades. But that was merely a challenge to be overcome by revolutionary zeal. The village adopted ‘Give for the greater good’, a centrally-coined slogan, as its motto. Children, widows, the weakest members of society, vied to deprive themselves of necessities, luxuries not having featured in the village economy within living memory. Men competed in feats of strength and endurance in the fields, the woods, the quarries, to produce the surpluses needed to make the celebrations worthy of the occasion.

#

    Syringa had just returned from the Distribution Center, where she had deposited items she said the family no longer needed.
    Old Ye had protested.
    “You’d never dare wear that embroidered robe again,” Syringa retorted. “Anyone who saw it would denounce you for an imperialist.”
    Old Ye did not say that the mere fact of the donation marked him out. He was the only man in the house, hence its only possible wearer. His father had told him it had been in the family for over a hundred years. He stroked his wispy beard and considered the ephemerality of all things.
    Syringa held up one of the badges she had collected at the Center, showing the Navigator’s face surrounded by a corona of rays, touching and warming all those fortunate enough to live in his dominions.
    “Father, your old badge is scratched and dirty,” she pointed out. “That’s disrespectful to the Navigator.” She regarded the replacement admiringly. “Isn’t he a handsome man!”
    “Many women think so. Have you noticed that the images of him on badges and banknotes and wall-posters do not age at all?”
    Syringa nodded. “His revolutionary zeal must keep him youthful.”
    Can she really believe that? The Navigator’s face had certainly appeared less often in newspaper photographs lately. Was he unwell, could he even be dead? Old Ye saw no reason why the imposture could not be maintained for years by loyal followers.

#

    “So you plan to march in the grand procession?” Old Ye asked Syringa.
    “Of course. All those whose loyalty is true must do so.”
    “Then I suppose so must I. But it seems a waste of energy, not to mention of breath shouting meaningless slogans.”
    Syringa Blossom’s brows converged with disapproval. “But the Great Navigator’s achievements are real. Few if any go hungry now. The Great Famine just before the Revolution was a catastrophe! They say half the population died.”
    “So they do, but the reality was nowhere near so bad. There was starvation in the north-east, but the generals stripped the State Treasury bare to pay for grain imports. Not one in twenty perished. Whereas look at the Year 8, or the Year 21. Piles of corpses rotting in the streets and fields, the living unable to bury the dead. And every year, typhus and influenza take their toll of the old and weak. The clinics’ shelves are bare. And ?that’s what we have to salute?”
    “Father, your problem is that you have too powerful a memory!” She attempted a conciliatory smile. “If you live in the present, nothing is as bad as it seems.”
    “No doubt, but I have outlived all my peers, and I am too old to change. After all, memory is all that distinguishes us from the brute beasts. Those who do not remember merely repeat their own mistakes.”

#

    “Great news, Father! Evening Star is finally pregnant. I met 85 today, and he told me. He’s organizing a celebration tonight, and we’re invited! I love parties, and I get asked to so few.”
    “Please convey my apologies, Syringa, and offer Evening Star my heartiest congratulations. I’m too old for festivities.”
    Syringa spent much time over her toilette that evening. Not a hair was out of place, and she wore her least-patched clothes and a gaily-colored scarf once picked up from a peddler’s barrow.
    Is she hoping an unattached man will be there? Old Ye wondered. Poor Syringa. An unfulfilled life is no life at all.
    Syringa kissed Old Ye’s cheek and whisked out the door.
    Old Ye went to bed at his usual hour. The noisy opening of the house-door woke him: then sounds of unsteady footsteps and snatches of incoherent song. A good party. He chuckled.
    Next morning, a groaning Syringa brought him tea. “I feel terrible, Father. I think my head is going to explode!”
    “It’s called a hangover, my dear. From drinking too much – or impure – alcohol.”
    “85 bartered for a bottle of rice spirit, to toast the new baby. He insisted I drink. But I only had two small glasses.”
    “And did you enjoy it?”
    “Not much, it burned my throat. But afterwards I felt warm and happy. We all did. I didn’t bargain for the headache, though.”
    “Alcohol can be a pleasant companion, but it’s a hard master. Remember that next time you’re offered any. Perhaps the Navigator was wise to prohibit it to the common people.”

#

    Later that morning the Commissar, flanked by two guards, appeared at Old Ye’s door.
    “You are under arrest.”
    Old Ye tried to hold his voice steady. “On what charges?”
    “That you denigrated the Red Salute to Twenty-Five Years of Progress, and attempted to influence others to your views. This constitutes treason against the State, and against the Great Navigator personally.”
    “I deny denigrating it. And what ‘others’ do you mean?”
    “Your daughter 181. It was she who informed on you.”
    A wail of anguish came from behind Old Ye, stifled as if Syringa had forced a rag into her own mouth.
    “I can’t believe that. It must have been someone else.”
    “That is immaterial. Because she failed to denounce you immediately, she will undergo re-education at the Severe camp at Copper Mountain. Your crime outweighs hers tenfold, and will be dealt with summarily.”
    The Commissar turned to his underlings. “Bind his wrists and hobble his legs.”
    Old Ye was escorted off, shuffling with tiny steps, marveling at his own composure. Age, perhaps, schooled one in resignation. Arbitrary arrest was too common to cause remark, and he knew better than to expect the opportunity to defend himself. Confinement, rather than beating, would be a mercy for one of his years.
    The alcohol was to blame for loosening Syringa’s tongue, and Evening Star or 85 the most likely informer. His elder daughter had always been a temperamental girl, who when he disciplined her would shriek, ‘Rotten imperialist! I hate you! I’ll denounce you!’. Their relations had never run smoothly, but who would have predicted that level of vindictiveness towards a father? People are a mystery, even to a so-called Sage, he mused.
    And Syringa? In sharing his thoughts with her, he’d loaded her with more than she could bear. He should have let his secrets die with him. He had been wrong about memory. The need to connect with others was just as ineradicable a human trait – and human failing.

#

    The Commissar’s men had alerted the whole village. As prisoner and escort approached the center, a cordon of villagers formed to either side of them. Old Ye surveyed their faces: a few thoughtful and even sorrowful, the majority showing hatred, contempt or glee. Pretense, to fool the Commissar? No, their emotions were almost palpable. 38, features twisted in loathing, hissing with rage, spat at him. Like an angry tomcat. No matter that last month Old Ye had coerced the seducer of 38’s daughter to marry her and save her reputation. Debts owed to a traitor were cancelled.
    On the bank of the village cesspool, they halted. Bubbles arose from its lumpy surface, releasing a stench both sulfurous and ammoniacal. What indignity was to be visited on him? He’d carted night-soil with the best of them; it held no terrors for him. Any defilement would be superficial, to be easily washed away. No man or woman living could defile his spirit.
    The villagers assembled in a rough crescent. Children capered before the crowd, turning inexpert cartwheels on the damp soil. The buzz of animated conversation grew louder. The village saw little enough entertainment these days.
    Someone in the rear bawled an obscene curse. “Silence!” a guard shouted.
    Syringa Blossom stood, stony-faced, in the center of the front rank. Old Ye’s sharp eyes caught the manacles attaching her to guards on either side. Copper Mountain would break her in both spirit and body, if she survived at all. She deserved better of me.
    “44!” The shout recalled him from his speculations. The Commissar’s clerk read out the indictment, fewer than twenty words. He folded the paper, turned away.
    The Commissar’s voice rang out.
    “79 and 143! Step forward.”
    The two chosen detached themselves from the watchers. The Commissar approached Old Ye, placed a foot behind his heels, pushed on his chest. Old Ye fell, landing heavily on the sodden brink of the pool.
    “Carry out the sentence!”
    79 took Old Ye’s shoulders, 143 his feet. They swung him rhythmically, counting, ‘one – two – three...’

#

    Old Ye landed on his back with a splash, the dense, viscous mire buoying him up. A mocking cheer rose from the onlookers, with shouts of ‘Brown Salute!’ They didn’t think that up for themselves. He struggled to a vertical position, trying to keep his face –already spattered – clear of the filth soaking into and gradually weighing down his clothes. Taking shallow breaths, he trod water, if ‘water’ was the word. He could not keep this up long, but while he lived, there was hope.
    The Commissar made a sign. One of his men picked up a long pole, perhaps one used to propel ferryboats across the Black Sand River. Grinning, he forced Old Ye’s head under.

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