Pow!

POW! 25

Late night. The four carriers lean against the ginkgo tree, chins on their chests, snoring loudly. The lonely female cat emerges from her hole in the tree and transfers the labourer's uneaten meat from the flatbed truck to her home, over and over until it's all safely tucked away. A white mist rises from the ground, blurring and adding a sense of mystery to the red lights of the night market. Three men with burlap sacks, long-handled nets and hammers, skulk out of the darkness, reeking of garlic. A roadside tungsten lamp that has just been turned on is bright enough for me to see their shifty, cowardly eyes. ‘Wise Monk, hurry, the cat-nappers are here!’ He ignores me. I've heard that some of the restaurants have created a special Carnivore Festival dish with cat as its main ingredient to satisfy the refined palates of tourists from the south. Back when I was roaming the city streets at night I spent some time with cat-napper gangs, so as soon as I saw the tools of their trade I knew what they'd come for. I'm embarrassed to admit, Wise Monk, that when I was hard up in the city I threw in my lot with them. I know that city folk spoil their cats worse than their sons and daughters. Unlike ordinary tomcats, these cats seldom leave their comfy confines, except when they're in heat or ready to mate, and then they prowl the streets and alleyways looking for a good time. People in love take leave of reason, and cats in love make tragic mistakes. Back then, Wise Monk, I fell in with three fellows and went out with them at night to lie in wait where the cats tended to congregate. Under cover of hair-raising screeches and caterwauls, we sneaked up on stupid, fat-as-pigs, pampered felines that shuddered at the sight of a mouse as they rubbed up against one another, and the second they coupled they were snagged by the fellow with the net. Then, while the trapped cats struggled, the fellow with the hammer ran up. A few well-placed thwacks and presto! we had two dead cats. The third fellow picked them out and deposited them in the sack I held. We'd slink off then, hugging the walls, heading for the next cat hangout. Our best haul was two bags full, which we sold to a restaurant for four hundred yuan. Since I wasn't a proper member of the team, more the odd-man-out, they only gave me fifty yuan. I blew it on a meal at a restaurant. I went out a second time, but there wasn't a trace of cats at the underground passageway. Since I knew I'd never find them during the day, I waited till nightfall. But the minute I arrived I was arrested by the metropolitan police. Without as much as a ‘how do you do’ they began to give me the full treatment. I denied I was a cat-napper, but one of them pointed to the blood on my shirt, called me a liar and began all over again. Then they took me to a place where there were dozens of owners of lost cats: white-haired old men and women, richly jewelled housewives and teary-eyed children. As soon as they heard who I was, they pounced on me, hurling tearful accusations and beating me in rage. The men kicked me in the shins and in the balls, the most painful spots, oh, Mother, how it hurt! The women and the girls were worse—they pinched my ears, gouged my eyes and twisted my nose. An old woman with shaking hands elbowed her way up to me and scratched my face. Not entirely satisfied, she then took a bite out of my scalp. Somewhere along the way I fainted. When I woke up I found myself buried under a pile of garbage. I clawed my way out frantically, stuck my head into the open air and took some deep breaths. And there I was, sitting on a pile of garbage, looking down on the bustling city streets in the distance, sore, hungry and feeling like I was at death's door. That's when I thought about my mother and my father, about my sister, even about Lao Lan, thought about how I'd been free to eat all the meat I wanted when I was a slaughterhouse workshop director, about when I could drink as much liquor as I wanted, about when everyone respected me, and the tears fell like pearls from a broken string. I was spent, resigned to dying on top of a garbage heap. Just then, my hand brushed against something soft, and I detected a familiar smell—a packet of donkey meat, a treat from the past. As soon as I tore open the wrapping and feasted my eyes on its lovely countenance, it poured out its woes to me: ‘Luo Xiaotong, you be the judge. They said I'd gone past my best-eaten-by date and threw me out. But there's nothing wrong with me, I'm as nutritious as ever and I smell fine. Eat me, Luo Xiaotong, and you'll bring joy to an otherwise joyless existence.’ I reached down impulsively, my mouth opened automatically and my teeth chattered excitedly. But when the meat touched my lips, Wise Monk, I remembered my vow. The day my sister died from poisoned meat, I raised a vow to the moon that I'd never eat meat on pain of an excruciating death. So I returned the donkey meat to the garbage heap. But I was famished, on the verge of starving. I picked it up again, only to be reminded of Jiaojiao's ghostly pale face in the moonlight. Just then that piece of donkey meat let out a cold laugh: ‘Luo Xiaotong, you take your vows seriously. I was put here to test you. A starving man who can hold true to a vow in the face of a fragrant cut of meat is a praiseworthy individual. Based on this alone, I predict a glorious future for you. Under the right circumstances, you could even become a god and go down in history. The truth is, I'm not a cut of donkey meat, I'm imitation meat sent down by the Moon God to put you to the test. My primary ingredients are soya and egg whites, with additives and starch. So go ahead, put your mind at ease and eat me. I may not be meat, but to be eaten by a meat god is my great good fortune.’ With the imitation meat's words still ringing in my ears, a new avalanche of tears poured forth. Heaven wanted me to survive! As I ate the imitation meat, whose taste was identical to the real thing, I pondered several things. When the time was right I'd cast myself out of this world of pervasive desire. If I was to become a Buddha, so be it, but if not that, then a Taoist immortal, and if not that, then a demon.

To this day I cannot forget the night when I went with Father and Mother to convey our New Year's greetings to Lao Lan. Even though nearly ten years have passed, and I'm now an adult, and even though I've tried hard to put that night out of my mind, the finer details will not let me, almost as if they were shrapnel embedded in the marrow of my bones—resisting all attempts at extrication and proving their existence with pain.

It was after Yao Qi's visit, on the second night of the new year. We'd just finished a quick dinner, when Mother turned to Father, who was enjoying a leisurely smoke. ‘Let's go,’ she said, ‘the earlier we leave, the sooner we'll be back home.’

Father looked up through the haze of smoke. ‘Do we have to?’ he asked, obviously uncomfortable.

‘What's your problem?’ she responded unhappily. ‘I thought we agreed this afternoon. What changed your mind?’

‘What's going on?’ I asked, curious as always.

‘What's going on?’ echoed Jiaojiao.

‘This has nothing to do with you children,’ snapped Mother.

‘I think I'll stay home,’ said Father, giving Mother a hangdog look. ‘Why don't you go with Xiaotong and give him my regards?’

‘Go where?’ I asked. They'd really piqued my interest. ‘I'm ready.’

‘Shut up,’ Mother barked angrily, then turned back to Father. ‘I know how important saving face is to you, but a New Year's visit isn't going to demean you. What's wrong with villagers paying a call on their village head?’

‘People will talk,’ Father said, digging in his heels. ‘I don't want people saying that I'm kissing Lao Lan's arse!’

‘You call New Year's greetings arse-kissing?’ Mother was incredulous. ‘Lao Lan gave us electricity, he gave us a New Year's gift, he gave the children red envelopes—you wouldn't call that arse-kissing, would you?’

‘That's different…’

‘All those promises you made to me, they meant nothing…’ Mother sat on the bench. The colour left her cheeks and they grew wet with tears. ‘Apparently you have no intention of staying with us…’

‘Lao Lan's a big shot!’ Despite my general lack of sympathy for my mother, I hated to watch her cry. ‘Dieh,’ I said, ‘I'm happy to go. Lao Lan's an interesting guy, worth being friends with.’

‘He thinks Lao Lan's beneath him,’ Mother said. ‘He only wants to be friends with arseholes like Yao Qi.’

‘Yao Qi's a bad man, Dieh,’ I said. ‘He called you names when you were away.’

‘Xiaotong, stay out of adults’ affairs,’ Father said gently.

‘I think Xiaotong's got better sense than you.’ Now Mother was angry. ‘After you left, Lao Lan was the only one who treated us well. Yao Qi and the others got a kick out of watching bad things happen to us. It's times like that when you can tell who's good and who's bad.’

‘I'm going, too, Dieh,’ Jiaojiao said.

Father heaved a sigh. ‘All right, have it your way. I'll go.’

Mother went to the wardrobe and took out a blue wool tunic.

‘Wear this,’ she said in a tone that permitted no objection.

Father decided to say nothing. Instead, he dutifully took off his greasy, tattered jacket and put on the tunic. Mother tried to button it up for him; he pushed her hand away. But he didn't resist when she went round and straightened the back.

As a family we walked out of the house and onto Hanlin Avenue. The streetlights that had been installed shortly before New Year's were already lit. Children were out playing chase; a youngster was reading a book under one of the lights; some men were loitering under another, arms crossed, engaged in idle talk. Four young men were showing off their riding skills on brand new motorbikes, revving them up to make as much noise as possible. There was the occasional burst of firecrackers in front of houses that sported a pair of red lanterns in the doorway and a carpet of red confetti on the ground. ‘All those firecrackers,’ Father had muttered on New Year's Eve, ‘you'd think it was the beginning of World War III.’

‘More firecrackers means more money,’ Mother said, ‘and shows how effective Lao Lan's leadership has been.’

That's exactly how we felt as we walked down Hanlin Avenue. Within the confines of a hundred square li, Slaughterhouse was the only village in the area in which the roads had been paved and streetlights installed. Nearly every family lived in multistoreyed, tile-roofed houses; many even had modern interiors.

Hand in hand, our little family of four proceeded down Hanlin Avenue. It was the first time we'd appeared in public as a family. It was also the last. But I felt both proud and contented. Jiaojiao walked along happily. Father seemed less than natural. Mother was calm and unperturbed. Passers-by greeted us—Father barely mumbled a response but Mother heartily returned their greetings. When we turned into Lan Clan Lane, which led to the Hanlin Bridge, Father grew increasingly uneasy. The lane also boasted a dozen or so streetlights, which shone on the black gates and the bright red couplets pasted on them. Coloured lights on the distant Hanlin Bridge put the arch in relief. The largest village compounds were on the other side of the river, lit up holiday-bright.

I knew what was bothering Father—the bright lights. If he'd had his way, the lane would have been pitch black to hide us from view. He'd have been happiest if we'd delivered our New Year's greetings in complete darkness, hidden from public view. I also knew that Mother's feelings were the exact opposite. She wanted people to bear witness to the fact that we were bringing New Year's greetings to Lao Lan, that close bonds of friendship had developed between us, which in turn was a sign that her husband, my father, had turned over a new leaf, transforming himself from a disreputable vagrant into a respectable family man. I knew that the village was alive with talk about us, talk that centred on the virtues of my mother. ‘Yang Yuzhen,’ they said, ‘is quite a woman. She can bear hardships, she has endurance, patience and foresight, and she's eminently sensible, all in all not one to be taken lightly. As I well knew,’ they went so far as to say, ‘Just watch, it won't be long before that family flourishes.’

There was nothing out of the ordinary about the gate to Lao Lan's house; if anything, it was shabbier than his neighbours’. In fact, it did poorly in comparison even with ours. We stood on the steps and banged the knocker against the gate and immediately heard the frantic barks and threatening growls of the wolfhounds on the other side.

Jiaojiao pressed up against me.

‘Don't be scared, Jiaojiao,’ I comforted her. ‘Their dogs don't bite.’

Mother knocked again, but drew no response, except from the dogs.

‘Let's go,’ Father urged. ‘They must be out.’

‘If so, there has to be someone to watch the place,’ Mother said.

She knocked again, neither too hard nor too soft. As if she were saying: I won't stop until you come out to see who's here.

Her efforts were finally rewarded. We heard the sound of a door opening, followed by a girl's crisp command to the dogs: ‘Shut up!’ Next, the sound of footfalls approaching the gate. Then, at last, a question—impatiently delivered—from the other side: ‘Who is it?’

‘It's us,’ Mother replied. ‘Is that Tiangua? I'm Yang Yuzhen, Luo Xiaotong's mother. We're here to wish you a happy New Year.’

‘Yang Yuzhen?’ The name was not familiar to the girl.

Mother nudged me to say something. Tiangua, Lao Lan's only child, had grown quite a bit, and her mother could have had a second child if she'd wanted. She hadn't. I dimly recalled someone saying that Lao Lan's wife was ill and had not been out of the house in years. I knew Tiangua, a girl with dull brown hair and two lines of snot above her mouth. She was a bigger slob than me, and couldn't begin to compare with my sister. I didn't like her one bit. So why did Mother want me to say something? Was I supposed to believe that my voice carried more weight than hers?

‘Tiangua,’ I said finally, ‘open up. It's me, Luo Xiaotong.’

Tiangua stuck her head out through a small opening in the gate, and the first thing I noticed was that there was no snot above her mouth and that she was wearing a nice jacket. Then I saw that her hair wasn't as dull brown as I remembered, and that it was neatly combed. In a word, she was a better-looking girl than I recalled. She sized me up with a squint and a strange look, and those slitted eyes and light hair reminded me of the foxes I'd seen recently. Again the foxes. I'm sorry, Wise Monk, I don't want to talk about them but they keep coming back to me. Foxes, which had been raised as rare animals at first but in such large numbers that they had to be wholesaled at a deep discount to Slaughterhouse Village, where they were slaughtered and their meat mixed with dog to be sold. Our butchers didn't forget to pump the slaughtered foxes full of water, though the process was more difficult than with cows or pigs, since they were so much trickier, so much harder to work on. That's where my thoughts roamed when I heard Tiangua's say ‘My dieh isn't home.’

But, led by Mother, we squeezed in through the gate and pushed Tiangua out of the way. I saw the well-fed wolfhounds jump to their feet, eyes and teeth flashing in the light, metal chains ringing out as they were pulled taut. They were as close to being wolves as dogs could possibly be, and those chains were all that kept them from tearing us limb from limb. On that earlier day, when I'd come alone to invite Lao Lan to dinner, they hadn't seemed as frightening.

‘Tiangua,’ Mother said once she'd elbowed her way into the yard, ‘it's all right if your dieh isn't home. We're just as happy saying hello to you and your niang and chatting for a few minutes.’

Before Tiangua could react, we spotted Lao Lan, standing big and tall in the doorway of his home's eastern wing.