by Mo Yan
POW! 18
Lao Lan's aides pick him up—his hands are a bloody mess, his face black with soot. ‘My eyes! Damn it, my eyes!’ he screams through his pain, ‘I can't see! I can't see you now, Third Uncle!’ Third Uncle means a great deal to the lousy bastard, but why shouldn't he? Most members of the previous generation of Lans were shot, and the few who survived died during the difficult years that followed. Only this unworldly third uncle occupies an iconic spot in his mind. His aides place Lao Lan in the back seat of the Buick; Fan Zhaoxia squeezes into the front with the girl in her arms, and the car makes its unsteady way up to the highway, where, with a blast of its horn, it speeds off to the west and runs smack into a contingent of stilt-walkers who scatter in confusion. One of them barely makes it out of the way, only to have a stilt sink into the mud and topple him to the ground. Several of his fellow walkers hop across the asphalt to extricate him from his troubles. All this reminds me of a Mid-Autumn Festival a decade ago, when my little sister and I scooped up locusts that were sticking their tails into the road's hard surface to lay eggs. My mother was dead by then and my father had been arrested, which effectively orphaned my sister and me. We were on our way to South Mountain to look for mortar shells, with the white moon rising in the east and the red sun setting in the west—in other words, dusk. We were hungry and miserable. A breeze rustled the leaves of nearby crops and autumn insects chirped in the grass—all sounds of desolation. We pulled locusts off the road stretching their abdomens as far as they'd go, then scrounged together some dry kindling, built a fire and flung the misshapen locusts into the flames, where they curled up and gave off a special fragrance. Wise Monk, this was an evil deed, I know that. Eating an egg-laying female locust is the same as eating hundreds of them. But if we hadn't eaten them we'd have starved. This is a problem I've never been able to resolve. Wise Monk gives me a pointed look whose meaning escapes me. The West City stilt-walkers, all employees of a restaurant called Xiang Man Lou, wear white uniforms and chef's hats bearing the restaurant's name. Wise Monk, it's an establishment capable of offering a complete formal banquet, featuring both Chinese and Manchu delicacies. The executive chef, a disciple of Manchu palace chefs, is as skilful as you'd imagine him to be. But he's hot-tempered. A Hong Kong restaurant once tried to lure him away with a monthly salary of twenty thousand Hong Kong dollars, but failed. Japanese and Taiwanese tourists flock to the restaurant to sample its delicacies. These are the only occasions when he deigns to appear in the kitchen; the rest of the time he occupies a seat in the restaurant and drinks oolong tea from a small dark red teapot (all that tea has turned his teeth black). Well, the stilt-walkers are ill fated, for as soon as they leave the asphalt road their stilts stick in the grassy soil, and soon their formation is thrown into disarray. Their corresponding unit from East Town is a contingent of thirty or so marchers from the Lekoufu Sausage Factory, each of whom holds a red string attached to a big, red, sausage-shaped balloon. The pull of the balloons is strong enough to send the men up onto the balls of their feet, looking as if they could float into the blue sky at any minute.
The first time I followed Mother's instructions to go to Lao Lan's house was a bright, sunny afternoon. Melting snow on the road, paved only that autumn, was turning into a dirty sludge; a pair of tyre tracks in the middle, left moments before by an automobile, exposed a bit of the black asphalt underneath. No villager was taxed for the road to be asphalted—Lao Lan had paid for it all, and it was a boon to the villagers who needed to reach the highway into town. That boosted Lao Lan's prestige to an all-time high, or, as they say, when the river floods, all boats rise.
As I walked down the road, which Lao Lan had named Hanlin Avenue, after the famous academy of scholars, I watched water drip, like translucent pearls, from roof tiles facing the sun. The tattoo of dripping water, the cool, earthy aroma of the soil and the melting snow—each left an impression on my mind and seemed to sharpen my senses. The ground near the roadside houses, out of the sun, was still covered by snow; some obscured by piles of garbage and much of it stippled by the jumbled prints of wandering dogs and chickens unsure of their footing. People were entering and leaving Beauty Hair Salon. Thick black smoke billowed from the chimney sticking out from under the eaves; black tar oozed from its base and stained the snow beneath. Yao Qi was standing in his usual pose, smoking his pipe on the steps of his house, a man frozen in deep thought. He waved when he saw me and, though I'd have preferred to ignore him, on second thought I walked up and looked him in the eye, instantly reminded of the indignity I'd suffered at his hands. After Father ran off, he'd once said to me in front of a group of good-for-nothings: ‘Xiaotong, go home and tell your mom to leave her door unlocked for me tonight!’ They'd had a big laugh but I'd retorted angrily: ‘Yao Qi, fuck you and all your ancestors!’ This time I was ready to cut him down to size with every dirty saying I could think of but he took me by surprise: ‘Good Nephew Xiaotong,’ he began amiably. ‘What's your dieh up to these days?’
‘Do you really expect me to tell you?’ I replied icily.
‘You've got quite a temper, young man,’ he said. ‘Go home and tell him to come see me. I need to talk to him about something.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I'm not your message boy, and he wouldn't come to see you anyway.’
‘Yes, quite a temper,’ he said, ‘and obstinate to boot.’
Putting Yao Qi behind me, I turned into Lan Clan Lane, which connected to Hanlin Bridge over Five Dragons River behind the village and became the highway to the county seat. A VW Santana was parked in front of the Lan house. The driver was inside, listening to music, while the neighbourhood children ran round touching the bright exterior with their fingers. The lower half of the car was covered with mud. Obviously, someone of authority was visiting Lao Lan and, since it was mealtime—and drinking time—I could smell the aromatic clouds emanating from inside. Distinguishing the various meaty smells was easy—it was as if I could see them. Then I recalled Mother's admonition: ‘Never call on someone at mealtime. Your arrival will be awkward for them and embarrassing for you.’ But I wasn't there looking for a free snack; on the contrary, I was there to invite Lao Lan to our house for a meal. So I decided to interrupt the party and do what Mother had sent me to do.
It would be my first time inside the Lan compound. And it was just as I'd said earlier. From the outside, the Lan house looked less impressive than ours. But once I was in their front yard I discovered the fundamental difference between the two: ours was like a bun made from white flour wrapped round a filling of rotten cabbage leaves; theirs was a bun made of whole-grain flour wrapped round three delicacies. Theirs had a multi-grain, highly nutritious skin, dark grain with no impurities. And though ours was nice and white, it was made of trashy, chemically whitened flour that's bad for your health. Stored for years in a war-preparedness warehouse, it was wheat powder denuded of all nutritive value. Using edible buns as a metaphor for homes is a stretch, I know that, Wise Monk, so forgive me. But with my poor educational background, that's the best I can come up with. Well, I'd no sooner stepped into the yard than his two fierce wolfhounds erupted in loud, threatening barks. They were chained to splendid doghouses by nickel-plated chain collars that rattled with every move. Instinctively, I backed up against the wall to prepare to ward off an attack. Unnecessarily, as it turned out, because they thought I was beneath them, and their half-hearted barks were mere formalities. Their bowls were filled with fine food, which included bones with plenty of bright red meat on them. Wild beasts survive on raw meat—it's what keeps them mean and fearless. ‘If you feed a ferocious tiger nothing but sweet potatoes, in time it'll turn into a pig.’ Lao Lan said that, and it made the rounds in the village. He also said, ‘Dogs walk the earth eating shit, wolves travel the world eating meat.’ ‘Character qualities stubbornly resist change.’ That's something else he said, and it too made the rounds in the village.
A man in a white cap emerging from the eastern room with a food hamper nearly bu
mped into me. It was Lao Bai, chef at the Huaxi Dog Meat Restaurant, a talented specialist in preparing dog meat and a distant cousin of dog-breeder Huang Biao's wife. Since Bai had come out of that particular room, it was clear that a banquet was in progress and that Lao Lan would not be anywhere else. So I clenched my jaw, walked up and opened the door. The captivating smell of dog meat hung heavy in the air. A steaming copper hot pot sat in the centre of a large revolving dining table surrounded by several diners, including Lao Lan, all busily devouring the food and drink. Their faces shone—half sweat and half oil—as they plucked dripping chunks of dog meat from the hot pot and crammed them into open mouths that complained of the heat but were immediately cooled by slugs of chilled beer. Tsingtao Beer, the best, of course, served in tall glasses, bubbles rising amid the amber liquid. The first to spot me was a fat woman with a face the colour of garnet, but she said nothing—she simply stopped eating, puffed up her cheeks and stared at me.
Lao Lan turned and froze for a moment before his face creased into a broad smile. ‘What do you want, Luo Xiaotong?’ He turned to the fat woman before I could answer and said, ‘The world's most gluttonous boy is in our midst.’ Then he turned back to me. ‘Luo Xiaotong, people say you'll call anyone Dieh who offers you a good meaty meal. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, then, son, sit down and dig in. I want you to know that this is a Huaxi dog-meat hot pot, enhanced with more than thirty herbs and spices, the likes of which I'm sure you've never sampled.’
‘Come here, youngster,’ said the fat woman, whose accent revealed her as a foreigner. The person next to her, obviously a subordinate, echoed her comment: ‘Come here, youngster.’
I swallowed to stop myself from drooling.
‘But that was before,’ I said. ‘Now that my own dieh is back, there's no need to call anyone else Dieh.’
‘Why did that arsehole come back anyway?’ asked Lao Lan.
‘This is where he was born and where my grandparents are buried. Why shouldn't he come back?’ It was up to me to make a case for his return.
‘Now that's a good boy, sticking up for your dieh even at your young age,’ Lao Lan said. ‘Just what a son ought to do. Luo Tong may be a coward but his son isn't.’ He nodded and sipped his beer. ‘So, what do you want?’
‘This wasn't my idea,’ I said. ‘My mother sent me to invite you to dinner tonight.’
‘Will miracles never cease? Your mother is the world's meanest person. She'll pick up a bone a dog's gnawed clean and take it home to make soup. Why the invitation?’
‘You know why,’ I said.
‘What's the boy's name?’ the fat lady mumbled as she chewed on a piece of dog meat. ‘Oh, yes, it's Luo Xiaotong. How old are you, Luo Xiaotong?’
‘I don't know.’
‘Do you really not know how old you are?’ she asked, ‘Or do you not want to tell us? How dare you talk that way in front of the village head! What grade are you in? Primary school or high school?’
‘I don't go to school.’ I snarled. ‘I hate school.’
The woman laughed for some strange reason, even squeezed out a few tiny tears. I decided to ignore her, for she had terrible table manners. I didn't care if she was a mayor's mother or the wife of the provincial governor or if she herself was a mayor or something even higher.
I turned to Lao Lan and said sombrely: ‘Tonight. Our place for dinner and drinks. Please don't forget.’
‘All right, I'll be there, for your sake. You can count on it.’
The final two contingents of marchers meet on the highway. The one from West City represents the Madonna Fur Coat Factory, famous for all sorts of leather goods. Owning a Madonna fur or leather coat is the dream of young men and women with empty purses. The contingent comprises twenty male and twenty female models. It's now midsummer, but they are all wearing the company's fur and leather products; they approach the reviewing stand from west to east and, at a signal from the group leader, begin to strut as if on a catwalk. The male models have closely cropped hair and wear stern expressions. Their female counterparts, who have dyed their hair in a rainbow of colours, have that special model look as they sashay along in colourful furs and leathers but display no emotion, more wild animals than human. Even on such a blistering summer day, their unseasonal attire produces not a drop of sweat. Wise Monk, I've heard rumours of a fire dragon elixir that allows a person to bathe in a frozen river in the heart of winter. From the looks of it, there is perhaps also an ice-and-snow elixir that allows a person to stroll under the sun wearing a fur coat on one of the hottest days of summer.
From East City comes a float shaped like a medicinal tablet with the words Di-a-Tab in the Song Dynasty calligraphic style, sponsored by Ankang Pharmaceutical Group. What surprises me is the absence of marchers for a company as famous as Ankang. Just a float, rolling down the street like a gigantic medicinal tablet. I know all about that so-called anti-indigestion remedy, which I'd encountered five years before, when I was wandering the streets of a well-known city and saw little flags with Di-a-Tab ads flapping in the wind from utility poles on both sides of the street. I also saw a Di-a-Tab ad on a huge LCD TV screen above the city square: a single Di-a-Tab is released into an enormous stomach stuffed to bursting with meat; it dissolves into a white mist that then emerges from the mouth. The accompanying text, bland beyond belief, read: ‘After eating a side of beef, with Di-a-Tab you get relief.’ The idiot who wrote that obviously knows nothing about meat. The relationship of meat to humans is very complex, and there are only a few people on this earth who understand it as well as I do. The way I see it, the creators of Di-a-Tab ought to be dragged over to the grassy knoll by the Wutong River Bridge—East City's old execution ground—and shot. After eating your fill of meat, you sit back quietly to enjoy the digestive process, a post-gustatory delight. But these idiots come along with Di-a-Tab, which just shows how low the human race has fallen. Am I right or am I not, Wise Monk?
POW! 19
Finally, all the contingents of marchers are in their assigned spots on the grassy field and, for the moment, the highway in front of the temple looks deserted. A white utility van speeds in our direction from West City, turns off the highway when it reaches the temple and stops under a gingko tree. Three brawny men jump out. One is middle-aged and dressed in an old army uniform faded nearly white from too many launderings. Lively and spry despite his age, he is clearly a man of unusual abilities. I recognize him right away—Lao Lan's follower Huang Bao, a man who's had considerable dealings with our family and who yet remains a mystery, at least to me. The men take a large net out of the van and then spread it open. Then two of them, one on each end, begin walking towards the ostriches, and I know that the end is nigh. Huang Bao has obviously been sent on a mission for Lao Lan, and as such is playing the role of commander. The ignorant ostriches run straight towards the net, and the necks of three of them are immediately snagged by its holes. All the rest, flustered by the trap the others have stumbled into, turn and run, leaving the unfortunate three to struggle and complain hoarsely. After fetching a pair of garden shears from the van, Huang Bao goes up to the net, and—snip, snip, snip—separates the birds’ heads from their bodies at the thinnest part of the necks. The now-headless torsos perform a brief macabre dance before toppling over, spurts of dark blood gushing like a runaway hose from their truncated, python-like necks. The stink of blood seeps into the temple just as Huang Bao and his crew's mortal enemy arrives on the scene, a manifestation of the saying ‘Every evil man fears someone worse.’ Five stony-faced men in black emerge from somewhere behind the temple. The tallest among them, wearing sunglasses, a cigar dangling from his lips, is the mysterious Lan Daguan. As his four henchmen charge Huang Bao and his men, they draw rubber truncheons from their belts and, without a ‘by your leave’, begin cracking open heads. The sickening crunches and spurts of blood chill my heart. No matter what, Huang Bao has been counted as one of us, a fellow villager. I see him holding his head i
n pain. ‘Who are you?’ he shouts. ‘Who gave you orders to attack us?’ Blood oozes from between his fingers. His attackers remain silent and simply raise their truncheons once more. Huanb Bao has lost this battle; stumbling over to the highway, he runs away, shouting: ‘Just wait, you guys…’ Now you may think none of this makes any sense but it's all happening before my eyes. Lan Daguan crouches in front of one of the ostrich heads, reaches out and touches hairs that are still quivering. Then he stands up, takes out a white silk handkerchief, cleans his blood-stained finger with it and then throws it away. It is swept up by a gust of wind before it hits the ground and, like an oversized white butterfly, flaps its way over the temple roof and disappears from view. He now walks up to the temple and stands there a moment before removing his sunglasses, as if to show his face. I see the ravages of time on that face and the depths of melancholy in those eyes. A piercing crackle fills the air, a burst of loudspeaker static, followed by a man's husky announcement: ‘Stand by for the Tenth Annual Twin Cities Carnivore Festival and Foundation-Stone-Laying Ceremony for the Meat God Temple!’
