Pow!

POW! 29

That plump, golden goose is now nothing but a pile of bones. The boy leans back his corpulent body and exhales loudly, the expression on his face one of intoxicating, after-meal contentment. Bright sunlight falling on his face paints an enchanting image. Lan Laoda walks up to him, bends over and asks lovingly: ‘Have you had enough, dear?’ The boy rolls his eyes and belches. Then he closes his eyes and Lan Laoda straightens up. At his signal, a nanny approaches meekly to remove the bib from under the boy's chin while her workmate gently wipes the grease from the corners of his mouth with a clean white handkerchief. Annoyed, the boy brushes her hand away and makes a few short indecipherable noises. The bearers lift the chair and head back to the highway, the nannies trotting along awkwardly, trying to keep up with the bearers’ longer strides.

Father stood up, held his glass out to Great Uncle Han, and said: ‘Here's to you, Station Chief Han.’

What was that all about? I quickly figured it out. Only months before, the man had been Township Dining Hall Manager Uncle Han but he now ran the meat-inspection station. He was wearing a light grey uniform with red epaulettes and a wide-brimmed hat that sported a large red insignia. Seemingly reluctant to stand up, he raised his body slightly, clinked glasses with Father and sat back down. He looked funny in those clothes, like a paper cut-out.

‘Station Chief Han,’ I heard Father say, ‘we'll need you to keep an eye out for us.’

Han took a drink before picking up a long slice of dog meat with his chopsticks and stuffing it into his mouth. ‘Lao Luo,’ he sputtered as he chewed, ‘don't you worry. This plant may be located in your village but it serves the township, even the city. Your meat products can be found in all corners of the land, and I'm not exaggerating when I say that samples of it might even show up on the provincial governor's table when he entertains foreign dignitaries. So, how could I not give you all the help you need?’

Father glanced at Lao Lan, in the seat of honour, as if seeking help. But the man responded with what appeared to be a confident smile. Mother, who was sitting next to him, refilled Lao Han's glass, picked up hers and stood up. ‘Station Chief Han,’ she said, ‘Elder Brother Han, please don't stand. Congratulations on your promotion. Cheers.’

‘Young sister,’ Lao Han replied as he got to his feet, ‘I can remain sitting with Luo Tong but not with you.’ He continued meaningfully, ‘Everyone knows that Luo Tong has got this far because of you. He's the nominal head of this plant but you're the one in charge.’

‘Chief Han,’ Mother replied, ‘please don't say that. I'm just a woman, and, even though we can make a difference here and there, important matters are best left to you men.’

‘You're much too modest!’ Lao Han said as he clinked glasses with her—loudly—and then drained his. ‘Lao Lan,’ he said, ‘while we're all here together, I want you to know exactly what's going on. The township government did not decide to assign me to this position lightly, but only after careful thought. Interestingly, they did not have the authority to appoint, only to recommend. The municipal government had the final word.’ He stopped and looked round the table, then went on self-importantly, ‘So why did they choose me? Because I know Slaughterhouse Village inside and out, and because I'm an authority on meat. I can tell good meat from bad, and if my eyes can't spot the difference my nose can. I know precisely how Slaughterhouse Village got rich and know all about your shady deals. And it's not just me. People in the township and municipal governments are well aware that you injected water and chemicals into your meat. You also treated meat from diseased animals and sold it in the city. Have you made enough off your unlawful earnings by now?’ Lao Han looked at Lao Lan, who just smiled. ‘Lao Lan,’ he went on, ‘you've succeeded where others have failed because of your ability to see the big picture—you realized that these underhand tactics were no good for the long haul. So you took the initiative of doing away with independent butchers and founded this plant before the government stepped in. It was a wise and clever move. You scratched the leaders where they itched. Their blueprint is for us to become the largest meatpacking enterprise in the province, the industry's base from where meat is sent everywhere in the province, in the country, in the whole world. Goddamn it, Lao Lan, like a gangster's gangster, you never do anything small. I could see you stealing from the Emperor's treasure house or taking liberties with the Empress herself. Go small, and it's like a mouse stealing a bit of grease, not worth talking about. So I want to thank you. If there were no United Meatpacking Plant, there'd be no inspection station, and without that, obviously, there'd be no department-level position of Station Chief. Here's to you!’ Lao Han stood up and touched glasses with everyone round the table. Then he tossed down his drink. ‘Good stuff!’ he complimented.

Huang Biao walked in with a steaming platter containing half a pig's head covered in a reddish brown sauce. The aroma filled nostrils at the table, although the taste had been overwhelmed by spices and would not have appealed to a true connoisseur.

Lao Han's eyes lit up. ‘Has this pig's head been injected with water, Huang Biao?’

‘Station Chief Han,’ Huang Biao replied respectfully, ‘what you see here is the head of a wild boar the manager sent me to buy in South Mountain. Not a drop of water has been added. Taste it and see for yourself. We might be able to pull something over your eyes but not your mouth.’

‘I like the sound of that.’

‘You're the expert where meat's considered. I'd never show off in front of you.’

‘All right, I'll give it a try.’ Lao Han picked up his chopsticks and stuck them into the flesh; it immediately fell away from the bones. He chose a piece of lean meat from the cheek, about the size of a mouse, and put it in his mouth. He blinked, he chewed, he swallowed. ‘Not bad,’ he said, dabbing his lips with a napkin, ‘but no match for Wild Mule's.’

Father's face flushed bright red. Mother's face grew pinched.

‘Eat, everyone,’ Lao Lan said loudly, ‘eat it while it's hot. It's no good cold.’

‘Yes, eat it while it's hot,’ said Han in immediate agreement.

Huang Biao slipped away while the diners were sticking their chopsticks into the pig's head. He didn't see me hiding outside the window but I saw him. His servile smile on the way in was replaced by a crafty, malicious smirk on the way out, an alarmingly swift transformation. ‘All right, people,’ I heard him say under his breath, ‘now's the time for you to get a taste of my piss!’

It seemed like such a long time since Huang Biao had pissed in the pot of meat that it had become illusory, unreal, like a dream. It no longer seemed important that a beautiful, succulent pig's head had soaked in the man's urine. My father ate it, my mother ate it. Nothing happened. There was no need to tell them that the meat had been enhanced by Huang Biao's piss. They were getting the meat they deserve. Truth is, they loved it. Their lips glowed like fresh cherries.

It didn't take long for them to eat and drink their fill or for their faces to reflect the contentment that comes only after a satisfying meal.

Huang Biao cleared the table. The uneaten meat that had turned cold—choice cuts that had gone to waste—he tossed to the dog tied up outside the kitchen. Sprawled lazily on the ground, it carefully picked out the pieces that appealed to it and ate only those few. How infuriating, how galling! Whoever heard of a lowly mutt turning up its nose at meat when there are people in this world for whom it is beyond their reach?

But, having no time to waste on an ill-bred dog, I turned back to watch the adults in the other room. Mother wiped the table with a clean rag and then covered it with a sheet of blue felt. Then she fetched a yellow mah-jongg set from a cabinet against the wall. I knew that villagers played mah-jongg, that some even gambled on it. But Father and Mother had been quite hostile towards the game. Once, when we were walking down an alley, Mother and I passed by the eastern wing of Lao Lan's house and heard the swishing of mah-jongg tiles. With a sneer, she'd said softly: ‘Son, everything is worth learning, everything but gambling.’ I can still see the stern look on her face, but she was obviously no stranger to mah-jongg.

Mother, Father, Lao Lan and Lao Han sat round the table, while a young man wearing the same uniform as Lao Han—his nephew and his aide—poured tea for all four players and then retired to the side to sit and smoke. I spotted several packs of high-quality cigarettes on the table, each costing as much as half a pig's head. Father, Lao Lan and Lao Han were heavy smokers. Mother didn't smoke, but she made a show of lighting up and, with a cigarette dangling from her lips, expertly arranged her tiles. She looked a bit like one of those femme fatales you see in old films, and I could hardly believe how much she'd changed in a few short months. The poorly dressed and unkempt Yang Yuzhen who'd spent her days dealing in junk had ceased to exist. It was as miraculous a change as a caterpillar turning into a butterfly.

These were not your typical mah-jongg players. No, this was high-stakes gambling. Each player sat behind a stack of money, with nothing smaller than a ten-yuan note. The money fluttered when the tiles were mixed. Lao Han's pile grew as the rounds progressed, those in front of the other three shrank. He had to stop to wipe his sweaty face from time to time and frequently rolled up his sleeves to rub his hands. He had removed his hat and tossed it onto the sofa behind him. Lao Lan never stopped smiling. Father wore a detached look. Mother was the only animated one among them, muttering to herself. There was something about her unhappiness that didn't seem quite real—it was really a ploy to let Lao Han savour his winning ways.

‘No more,’ she said after a while, ‘that's it for me. I've had terrible luck.’

Lao Han straightened his pile of money and counted it. ‘How about taking some of mine?’

‘Not on your life! Lao Han! Thanks to me you've done well today. Next time I'll win it all. Even take that uniform off your back.’

‘Big talk,’ Han said. ‘Unlucky in love, lucky at the table. Since I've never had any luck in love, I'll always win at the table.’

My eyes were glued to Lao Han's hands as he counted his money. In two hours he'd won nine thousand.

Smoke rises, fires blaze and crowds buzz at the barbecue stands across the road, a scene of frenetic activity. But only Lan Laoda's bodyguards are standing, arms folded, in front of the four barbecue stands in the temple yard, while he paces at the gate. He's frowning, as if weighed down with daunting concerns. Hungry participants at the festival glance at us as they come and go but no one approaches us. The cooks keep flipping the meat on the grill, which has begun to smoke. I see they're growing annoyed, but their scowls turn to fawning smiles whenever one of the bodyguards looks their way. The cook who's grilling goslings cups a cigarette and takes a drag when no one's looking. The sound of singing from across the way comes to us on the wind. They're the songs a Taiwanese chanteuse sang some thirty years ago. They were popular when I was a little boy, travelling across China from city to town to village. Lao Lan said that his third uncle had been the singer's sole patron. Now her songs have returned and the clock has turned back. In a black dress under a white vest, she's cut her bangs just above her eyebrows; like a lovely swallow, she comes flying across the road and throws herself into Lan Laoda's arms. ‘Big Brother Lan,’ she mews coquettishly. He picks her up, twirls her round a time or two and then flings her to the floor. She falls upon a thick wool carpet on which are embroidered a male and female phoenix frolicking amid peonies—a spectacularly colourful display. The singer's now-naked body lies in the light of a crystal chandelier, her eyes glazing over. With his hands clasped behind his back, Lan Laoda takes several turns round her, like a tiger circling its prey. She gets to her knees and says, flirting: ‘Come on, Big Brother.’ He sits on the carpet and crosses his legs to scrutinize her figure. He's in suit and tie, she hasn't a stitch on, a wondrous contrast. ‘What do you plan to do, Lan Laoda?’ she pouts. ‘I had lots of women before you,’ he says, almost to himself. ‘My boss gave me fifty thousand US dollars every month for expenses, and if I couldn't spend it all he called me a stupid arse.’ I can't divulge his name to you, revered Wise Monk, and I swore to Lao Lan that if I ever told a soul I'd die with no offspring. ‘It didn't take me long to learn how to throw money about like dirt,’ he says. ‘I went from woman to woman like a carousel. But since I found her, you're the first woman to take her clothes off for me. She's the line of demarcation, and since you're the first woman on this side of that line you deserve an explanation. I'll never say this to anyone again, not ever. Are you willing to be her stand-in? Are you willing to call out her name while I'm screwing you? Are you willing to pretend to be her?’ The singer mulls that over for a moment. ‘Yes, Lan Laoda,’ she says thoughtfully, ‘I am. Whatever makes you happy. I wouldn't flinch if you told me to kill myself.’ Lan Laoda takes the singer in his arms and cries out emotionally, ‘Yaoyao…’ After they roll and writhe on the carpet for an hour or so, the singer—hair askew, lipstick gone, a woman's cigarette dangling from her lips—sits on a sofa with a glass of red wine, and when two streams of white smoke emerge from her mouth the signs of age on her face cannot be erased. Wise Monk, why has this singer's youth vanished after having sex with Lan Laoda for only an hour, and why does she have the face of an old woman? Could this be a case of ‘Ten days in the mountains are a thousand years on earth’? Lao Lan has said that Shen Yaoyao was in love with his third uncle. So was the singer. Enough women to form a division have been in love with him. I know that Lao Lan was boasting, Wise Monk, so just laugh off what I‘m saying.