by Mo Yan
At last, Lao Lan, a brown wool overcoat over a military uniform, appeared in the circle of light cast by the lantern and candles in our house, preceded by a hearty ‘Ha-ha!’ His uniform was the real thing: the collar and shoulders still bore traces of insignias and epaulettes. His overcoat, with its bright shiny buttons, was that of a field officer. A dozen or so years earlier, woollen uniforms like that were worn only by local Party cadres, a sign of their status, in much the same way as the legendary grey Dacron Mao tunics symbolized a commune cadre. Lao Lan had the nerve to go out in a woollen uniform despite the fact that he was only a village cadre, which proved that he did not consider himself a minor official. It was rumoured in the village that he and the town mayor were sworn brothers; as a result, in his estimation, all the county and township heads were beneath him. And with justification, since they found it necessary to get in his good graces for their promotions and personal wealth.
Lao Lan stepped into our brightly lit living room and, with a shrug, let his overcoat slip into the hands of the seemingly simple-minded but actually brilliant Huang Bao, who had entered right on his heels and now stood there respectfully holding the coat and looking like a flagpole. He was the cousin of Huang Biao, who had put down his butcher's knife and begun raising dogs, and of course, the brother-in-law of Huang Biao's pretty wife. A martial-arts master, he was a wizard with spears and clubs and able to fly over eaves and walk up walls; nominally, he was the leader of the village militia while in fact he was Lao Lan's personal bodyguard.
‘Wait outside,’ Lao Lan said to him.
‘Why?’ Mother said generously. ‘He can sit with us.’
But Huang Bao stepped nimbly out of the living room and disappeared into our yard.
Lao Lan rubbed his hands and apologized: ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting. I returned late from an appointment in the city. With all the snow and ice on the ground, I told my driver to go slow.’
‘You honour us by taking time out of your busy schedule, with so many village matters to attend to…’ Father spoke with obsequious formality from where he stood behind the round table, trying to make himself as unobtrusive as possible. ‘We are extremely grateful.’
‘Ha-ha, Luo Tong,’ Lao Lan said with a dry laugh. ‘You've changed since I last saw you.’
‘Getting old,’ Father said as he took off his cap and rubbed his shaved scalp. ‘Nothing but grey hair.’
‘That's not what I'm talking about. Everyone grows old. What I meant was you've got better at expressing yourself since I last saw you. And you've lost that old fight you used to have. These days you talk like an intellectual.’
‘Now you're making fun of me,’ Father said. ‘I've done lots of strange things in the past but the troubles I've had since then have shown how wrong I was. All I can do is beg your forgiveness…’
‘What kind of talk is that?’ Lan subconsciously reached up and touched his damaged ear as he carried on magnanimously, ‘Who doesn't do weird things at some point in their life? And that includes sages and emperors.’
‘All right, you two, enough of that talk,’ Mother said warmly. ‘Village Head, please sit.’
Lan deferred to Father a time or two before taking the chair Mother had borrowed from her cousin.
‘Come sit, all of you, don't stand about. Yang Yuzhen, you've worked hard enough.’
‘The food's getting cold,’ Mother said. ‘I'll go fry some eggs.’
‘I'd rather you sit,’ Lao Lan said. ‘You can fry the eggs when I say so.’
Lao Lan sat in the seat of honour, surrounded by Mother, Jiaojiao, Father and me.
Mother opened a bottle and filled glasses. Then holding up hers, she said: ‘Thank you, Village Head, for the honour of visiting this humble abode.’
‘How could I refuse an invitation from someone so renowned as the man of the hour, Luo Xiaotong?’ He emptied his glass. ‘Have I got that right, Mr Luo Xiaotong?’
‘No one's ever been a guest in our house,’ I said. ‘No one's ever deserved it before today.’
‘What kind of talk is that?’ Father said with a censorious look in my direction. Then he apologized. ‘Youngsters will say anything. Just ignore him.’
‘I see nothing wrong in what he said,’ said Lao Lan. ‘I like boys with a bit of spunk. Xiaotong's future as a man looks bright from what I see of him as a boy.’
Mother placed a drumstick on Lao Lan's plate. ‘Talk like that gives him a big head, Village Head. Best to avoid it.’
Lao Lan picked up the drumstick and laid it on my plate, then picked up the second one and laid it on the plate in front of Jiaojiao. She was timidly pressed up against Father, and I saw sadness mixed with affection in his eyes.
‘Say thank you.’
‘Thank you!’
‘What's her name?’ Lao Lan asked Father.
‘Jiaojiao,’ Mother answered. ‘She's a good girl, and smart too.’
Lao Lan kept placing morsels of meat and fish onto Jiaojiao's and my plates.
‘Eat up, children,’ he said. ‘Go ahead, eat whatever you like.’
‘What about you?’ Mother said. ‘Not to your taste?’
He picked up a peanut with his chopsticks and popped it into his mouth.
‘Do you think I came here for the food?’ he asked as he chewed the peanut.
‘We know,’ Mother said. ‘You're the village head, with many honours and awards, someone who's well known at the city and provincial levels. I can't imagine there's any food you haven't tasted. We invited you here to express our regard for you.’
‘Pour me another,’ Lao Lan said as he held out his glass.
‘Oh, I'm sorry…’
‘Him, too,’ he said, pointing to Father's empty glass.
‘I am sorry,’ she said as she obeyed his instructions. ‘You're the first guest we've ever had, and I have a lot to learn…’
Lao Lan held his glass out to Father and said: ‘Lao Luo, there's no need to talk about the past in front of the children. For the future, if you will do me the honour, bottoms up!’
Father held out his glass with a shaky hand: ‘Like a plucked rooster and a scaled fish, I have nothing to show.’
‘Nonsense,’ Lao Lan said as he banged his now-empty glass on the table and looked hard into Father's face. ‘I know who you are—you're Luo Tong!’
POW! 20
Thousands of fat pigeons flap noisily into the July sky amid strains of rousing music, followed promptly by thousands of colourful balloons. As the pigeons fly over the temple, a dozen or more grey feathers flutter to the ground and merge with the blood-spattered ostrich feathers. The surviving ostriches are huddled under a big tree, which they must assume is a protective umbrella. The carcasses of the three birds that had come to grief at Huang Bao's hands lie in front of the temple and are a disturbing sight. From his spot in front of the temple, as he looks up at the balloons and follows their southern, windblown journey across the sky, Lan Laoda heaves a tortured sigh. An ancient white-haired nun with ruddy cheeks slowly walks out from behind the temple, aided by a pair of much younger nuns, and stops in front of Lan Laoda. In a voice that betrays neither humility nor pride, she asks: ‘For what purpose has the esteemed patron summoned this ancient nun?’ Hands clasped before him, Lan Laoda bows humbly: ‘Reverend Mother, my wife, Shen Yaoyao, has taken up temporary residence in your esteemed nunnery, and I ask the Reverend Mother to watch over her.’ ‘Esteemed patron,’ the ancient nun replies, ‘the woman Yaoyao has already shaved off her hair and taken her vows. Her name in Buddha is Huiming, and I must ask the patron to not disturb her meditations, as per her wish. This ancient nun is but her messenger. In three months she will present the esteemed patron with an important item. Please return in time to receive it.’ Before the nun can say goodbye, Lan Laoda takes out a cheque from his pocket. ‘Reverend Mother, I see that your honourable nunnery is in need of repair, and I humbly ask that you accept this contribution to that end.’ The nun clasps her hands in front of her. ‘Boundless v
irtues will accrue to the esteemed patron for his generous gift. May the Buddha protect and bestow upon him a long, happy and healthy life!’ Lan Laoda hands the cheque to one of the younger nuns, who accepts it with a smile and then her brows shoot up in amazement at the figure written on it. I have a clear view of this young nun, with her almond eyes and cheeks like peaches, her red lips and white teeth; her scalp glistens with a green tint and exudes an aura of youth. The other young nun, who also stands behind their ancient superior, has full lips, pitch-black eyebrows and skin with the sheen of fine jade. What a shame that such lovely young women have chosen a cloistered life. I know, Wise Monk, that such thoughts are vulgar, but I mustn't hide what is in my heart, for that would be an even greater sin. Is that not right? The Wise Monk nods ambiguously. The fifth stage of the celebration is now underway and the ear-throbbing loudspeaker announces a display of mass calisthenics: ‘Exercise Number One: The Phoenix descends, a hundred wild beasts dance.’ A roar from the edge of the field gradually dies out and is replaced by primitive music from the loudspeaker, the sort that evokes pleasant feelings of the remote past. Meanwhile, Lan Laoda seems almost obsessed by the backs of the ancient nun and her two attendants. The grey habits, white collars and green-tinged shaved scalps look so unsullied, so clean and refreshing. A pair of bright-coloured phoenixes dancing in the air creates an atmosphere of elegant mystery on the Festival grounds below. This is the Tenth Annual Carnivore Festival, as I well know, and thus grander than those before it. Just witness the splendid performances at the opening ceremony. The long-tailed phoenixes, crafted by the finest kite artisans, put on one of those splendid performances. As for the dancing beasts, I would not be surprised to see a performance with real and man-made beasts together. The twin cities are home to every animal imaginable, all but unicorns, just as it is home to all birds imaginable, except phoenixes. I know that Lao Lan's Huachang Camel Dancing Troupe will distinguish itself during this stage of the Festival. What a shame that his Ostrich Dancing Troupe has been put out of commission.
Lao Lan's words of praise filled me with pride and I was, quite literally, bursting with joy. In that brief moment I had been given the rare privilege of sitting at a table with adults. So when they raised their glasses in a toast, I picked up the bowl in front of me, poured out the water in it. ‘May I have some of that, please?’ I asked as I held it out to Mother.
‘What?’ she blurted out in surprise. ‘You want what they're drinking?’
‘It's not good for children,’ Father said.
‘Why not? It's been such a long time since I've been happy, and I can see you're happy too. It's worth celebrating—with a drink!’
‘You're right, Xiaotong,’ said Lao Lan, his eyes flashing, ‘a drink is exactly what's called for! Anyone who can reason like that—adult or child—deserves a drink. Here, I'll pour.’
‘No, no, Elder Brother Lan,’ Mother objected. ‘He'll get a big head.’
‘Hand me the bottle,’ Lao Lan said. ‘I know from experience that there are two types of people in this world you mustn't offend. One is punks and hoodlums, the so-called lumpenproletariat. They're straight when they're standing and flat when they're lying down: if one eats, none goes hungry, so folks with a family and a job, with progeny to carry on the line, anyone who enjoys prestige and authority will stay clear of this type. Ugly, snot-nosed, grime-covered children, who are kicked about like mangy dogs, comprise the other. The likelihood that they will grow up to be thugs, armed robbers, high officials or senior military officers is greater than for well-behaved, nicely dressed, clean-scrubbed good boys.’ He filled my bowl. ‘Come on, Luo Xiaotong, Mr Luo, have a drink with Lao Lan!’
Boldly I held out my bowl and clinked it against his glass, which, when it produced the unusual sound of porcelain on glass, filled me with joy. He drained his glass at one go. ‘That's how I show my respect!’ he said as he banged his glass upside down on the table to show it was empty. ‘I drained mine,’ he said. ‘You can sip yours.’
The moment my lips touched the rim of the bowl I could smell the pungent aroma of strong liquor and I didn't much like it. Still, in the grip of excitement, I swallowed a big mouthful. First, my mouth was on fire, then the flames burnt their way down my throat, singeing everything they touched and then into my stomach.
‘That's enough!’ said Mother, snatching the bowl out of my hands. ‘A taste is all you need. You can have more when you grow up.’
‘No, I want more now.’ I reached out to get back my bowl.
Father gave me a worried look but offered no opinion.
Lao Lan took the bowl and poured most of the contents into his glass: ‘Esteemed nephew, any man worthy of his name knows when to give and when to take. We'll share this glass—you finish what I leave.’
For the second time, porcelain on glass rang out, and, only seconds later, bowl and glass were empty.
‘I feel great,’ I said. I really did, greater than ever. Like I was floating, and not lightly like a feather on the wind but like a melon on the water, carried along by river currents…All of a sudden my eyes were drawn to the greasy little paws of Jiaojiao—busy drinking, we'd forgotten all about my bewitching little sister. But she was a smart one, just like her brother, like me, Luo Xiaotong. While we were otherwise engaged, and loudly so, she took the ancient adage ‘Help yourself and you'll never be cold or hungry’ to heart, but without resorting to those odd instruments, chopsticks. Who needs them when you have hands? Jiaojiao had been launching sneak raids on the meat and the fish and the other delicacies in front of her, until not only her hands but her cheeks too were coated with grease. She smiled when I looked her way—so adorable, so innocent—and it nearly melted my heart. Even my feet, which suffered chilblains every winter, tingled as if they were soaking in hot water. I picked out the best-looking anchovy from the can, leaned across the circular table and dangled it in front of Jiaojiao. ‘Open wide!’ I said. She looked up, opened her mouth and swallowed the little fish, just like a kitten. ‘Eat till you burst, little sister,’ I said. ‘The world belongs to us. We've pulled ourselves out of the quagmire of misery.’
‘I'm afraid the boy's drunk,’ Mother said to Lao Lan, clearly embarrassed.
‘I'm not,’ I insisted, ‘I'm not drunk!’
‘Do you have any vinegar?’ Lao Lan asked in a slightly muffled voice. ‘Get some into him. Some carp soup would be better.’
‘Where am I supposed to get my hands on carp soup?’ replied Mother, frustrated. ‘And I've got no vinegar either. I'll just give him some cold water and send him off to bed.’
‘That's no good,’ Lao Lan said with a loud clap of his hands. Huang Bao, whom we'd forgotten, materialized in our midst, his catlike footsteps making no sound. If not for the cold bursts of wind he let in through the open door, we'd have assumed he'd dropped out of the sky or shot up from the ground. His eyes were fixed on Lao Lan's mouth as he awaited his command. ‘Go,’ Lan said, not loudly yet with authority. ‘Get us some carp soup, and quickly. While you're at it, have them prepare two jin of shark's fin dumplings. But the soup first. The dumplings can wait.’
A guttural sound of acknowledgement, and Huang Bao vanished much the same way he'd appeared; the icy chill of that third of January 1991, evening, suffused with the smell of snowbound earth and the cold rays of starlight, flooded the room in the brief moment between the door swinging open and shut. And for the first time I glimpsed the mystery, the solemnity and the authority permeating the life of an important person.
‘We can't let you do that!’ Mother was apologetic. ‘We invited you to dinner—we can't let you spend your money!’
Lao Lan laughed magnanimously: ‘Yang Yuzhen, you still don't get it, do you? I accepted your invitation to strike up a friendship with your son and your daughter. We're nearly in our forties—who knows how much longer we'll be bouncing about? No, the world is theirs, and in another ten years or so they'll have to put their abilities to good use.’
