by Mo Yan
Cheng Tianle led a big black local animal—it had a sagging belly that swayed from side to side, like a sack of ammonia. It was long past its working age, and either its owner or a merchant who specialized in old animals had fattened it up with hormone-laced feed. No good meat with high nutritional value could come from that. But the taste buds of the city-dwellers had deteriorated to such a point that they could no longer distinguish good meat from bad. There was no sense in giving them high-quality meat—it was wasted on their inferior palates. They were easy marks too. If we told them that the meat of a chemically fattened animal came from one raised on grazing land, with an abundance of spring water, they'd smack their lips and say how good it tasted. I had to agree with Lao Lan, who had nothing good to say about the city-dwellers; he said they were evil and stupid, and that gave us the right to feed them as full of lies as we wanted. We weren't happy about that; but they didn't want to hear the truth and were prepared to take us to court if we so much as tried.
The second animal Cheng Tianle led up was a milch cow with a spotted belly, also well up in years. Since it was too old to produce milk, the dairy owner had sold it as a beef cow. Beef from a milch cow is as poor as pork from a breeding sow—tasteless and pulpy. The sight of those loose, dried-up teats saddened me. An old milch cow and an old draft cow, two animals that had served man and served him well. They should have been put out to pasture to live out their lives and then been properly buried, with a marker if possible, perhaps even a headstone.
There's no need for me to describe all the animals that followed. During my tenure, thousands of cows made their death march through the meat-cleansing building, and I remember each of them, body and face. As if a set of drawers in my head contains each of their photographs. They are drawers I don't like to open.
The men knew the drill. So after leading the animals into the enclosures, they barricaded them in, with steel rods in the rear, to keep them from backing out during the treatment. If we'd set up a trough in front of the cages, our meat-cleansing station would have looked like a bright, spacious feed building. But there were no troughs in front of these animals, and they were not there to feed. I doubt that many of them knew what lay in store—most were blithely ignorant of their imminent death (which is why they stopped to graze before entering a slaughterhouse). It was time to inject the water, so I reminded the men to keep at their jobs. To dispel any misgivings, I reminded them that we were cleaning the animals’ inner organs—not pumping them full of water.
The workers began by inserting rubber hoses up the animals’ noses, down through their throats and into their stomachs. The animals could shake and twist their heads as much as they wanted but the hoses stayed in place. The job required two men, one to raise the animal's head and the second to insert the hose. Some of the animals reacted violently to the invasion, others remained docile. But all resistance ceased once the hose was in—perhaps they finally realized it was too late. Hoses inserted, the men stood in front of the cows and awaited my order.
‘Start the water,’ I said, unemotionally.
The taps were turned on. Two hundred and fifty, give or take ten, gallons over twelve hours.
The system still had a few defects, as we discovered that first day. Some of the cows collapsed after taking in water for hours, others had coughing fits and vomited. But, whatever the problem, I always found a solution. To keep the animals from collapsing, I had the men insert a frame of steel rods under their bellies. And to keep them from vomiting, I had the men cover their eyes with a black cloth.
The cows released a watery mess from their rear ends during the entire process. ‘Look!’ I said proudly to the men, ‘That's what this is all about. Our water is cleaning the filth inside them. Every cell in their bodies is being washed. Now you see why I said that we're not filling them with water—we're cleansing their internal organs. Filling them with water ruins the meat but what we're doing improves it. Even meat from sick and ageing cows will be tender and nutritious after such a thorough cleansing.’
Finally, they were happy. I'd won them over. I'd taken the first major step in establishing my authority.
The animals were to be taken to the kill room once the cleansing was complete. But the long hours spent standing in the cages caused their legs to buckle after only a few steps and then they collapsed like bulldozed walls. There was no way in which they were going to be able to get back on their feet. The first time that happened, I asked four men to lift the animal off the floor. They struggled until they were gasping for breath and sweating profusely but the animal hadn't budged an inch. It just lay there, panting, its eyes rolled back in its head and water shooting out of its mouth and nose. I called over four more men, then stood behind them and shouted: ‘One, two, three—lift!’ They bent, arses raised and lifted with all their might. The cow was finally upright. It took a few unsteady steps and promptly fell down again.
I was embarrassed—this was not something I had anticipated. The workers began to smirk again. But Father came to my rescue. He told the men to go into the kill room and bring back some of the logs. Once they were laid out on the floor, he sent a man to get some rope, which was then tied round the animal's horns and legs. One lot of men were ordered to pull while two of the strongest were ordered to use a level on the animal's rump and push with all their might. As the animal moved forward, those who were fast on their feet picked up the logs that had been passed over and then placed them up at the front. And so, with this primitive method, we rolled the cow straight into the kill room.
I fell into a funk.
‘Don't let it get to you, youngster,’ Lao Lan said, trying to make me feel better. ‘You did fine. What happened after the water-injection—no, I mean, the meat-cleansing—wasn't supposed to be your responsibility. So let's figure this out together. We need to come up with a simple, convenient means of transporting water-treated cows into the kill room.’
‘Lao Lan,’ I said, ‘give me half a day.’
He glanced at my parents. ‘Xiaotong's afraid we'll steal his thunder.’
I shook my head. ‘I'm not worried about who steals who's thunder. I need to prove myself.’
‘All right,’ Lao Lan said, ‘I trust you. Come up with a bold idea, and don't worry about the expense.’
POW! 34
Accompanied by his staff, the lieutenant governor walks to the street and climbs into his Audi A6. With a police car leading the way and a caravan of a dozen or so Red Flags and VW Santanas, he speeds away to attend a banquet filled with imagination. As they leave the temple grounds, the worker suffering from toothache runs over to the outer wall. Retrieving Mayor Hu's hairpiece, he claps it onto his head. The change is startling. ‘I'll never be a mayor,’ he says, ‘but this makes me look like one.’ ‘More like a hapless fool, if you ask me,’ his short co-worker mocks. ‘The more hapless the official,’ the first fellow says confidently, ‘the better off the people. Now, is getting hold of a stinking rug any cause to be so pleased with yourself?’ With that, the short one reaches under his jacket and—presto change-o—brings out a fine black satchel. ‘Look what I've got!’ he says, waving it proudly. He unzips it and then empties it of its contents, one object at a time. First out are a little red notebook and a brand-name gold pen. Next, a cellphone, and then a white vial. Finally, two expensive condoms. The worker unstops the vial and shakes out some light blue, diamond-shaped pills. ‘What's this?’ he wonders aloud. The fellow who's stayed out of the conversation thus far, a young man with the look of a rural schoolteacher, sneers. ‘Those are one of the two magic items all venal officials never leave home without. They're called Viagra.’ ‘What's Viagra?’ The young fellow smiles. ‘Selling Viagra in front of the Wutong Temple is as foolish as reading the Three Character Classic in front of a Confucius Temple.’ ‘Big Brother Lan,’ a bald fellow says conspiratorially as he hands a small white vial to Lan Laoda, ‘this is something I brought back from the US as a humble gift for you.’ Lan Laoda takes the vial. ‘What is
it?’ ‘It's more effective than any Indian Magic Oil or Thai Invigorates,’ the bald fellow replies. ‘A golden spear never tips over, they say.’ ‘What am I supposed to do with something like this?’ Lan Laoda says as he throws the vial to the ground. ‘I can go non-stop for two hours,’ he boasts. ‘Go home and ask that sister-in-law of yours how many times she came. I can make a stone maiden go wet.’ ‘Big Brother Lan is an immortal,’ pipes up a red-faced man, ‘who does as he pleases, comes and goes at will, the last man who needs something like that.’ The bald fellow picks up the vial and tucks it away. ‘If you really don't want it, Big Brother,’ he says, ‘I'll put it to good use.’ ‘Take it easy, Baldy,’ warns the red-faced man. ‘Too much of that can make you nearsighted.’ Baldy doesn't miss a beat. ‘Nearsighted? I don't care if they made me blind.’ A desk clock in the corner chimes two, and a pale-faced woman comes into the main room followed by a trio of tall young women. ‘They're here, Mr Lan,’ she says softly. The young women, faces devoid of expression, follow their leader into the bedroom. ‘Showtime,’ announces Lan Laoda. ‘Anyone want to watch?’ ‘Who wouldn't want to watch the finest show in town?’ laughs Baldy. ‘You're all welcome,’ says Lao Lan, also laughing, ‘no tickets necessary.’ Then he steps into the bedroom and, in a matter of minutes, come the sound of flesh pounding flesh and a woman's moans. Baldy tiptoes to the bedroom door and peeks inside. ‘That isn't a man in there,’ he says to the red-faced fellow, ‘that's the legendary Wutong Spirit!’
I snuck into the kitchen and sat on my low stool. Huang Biao, attentive as always, set the taller stool in front of me. ‘What would you like, Director Luo?’ he asked, fawning.
‘What do you have today?’
‘Pork rump, beef tenderloin, sheep leg, dog cheek.’
‘I need to keep my wits about me today, so none of those.’ I twitched my nose. ‘Got any donkey? Donkey always gives me a clear head.’
‘But…’
‘But what?’ That did not please me. ‘You can pull the wool over my eyes but you can't pull it over my nose. I smelt donkey the minute I walked in.’
‘There's no putting anything over you,’ Huang Biao said. ‘I do have donkey, but it's for Boss Lan. He's entertaining some VIPs from the municipal government tonight.’
‘Donkey? For the VIPs? Is it that little black donkey over from South Mountain?’
‘Yes. Meat so good I could eat half a pound of it myself—raw.’
‘And you plan to give it to those men? What a waste!’ I was beside myself. ‘Cook up a couple of chunks of camel. Their mouths and tongues will be so numb from liquor and cigarettes that they won't be able to tell the difference.’
‘But Boss Lan will…’
‘Take him aside and tell him you fed the donkey to Xiaotong. He won't mind.’ I was not interested in making things easy for Huang Biao.
‘I'm not happy about feeding this meat to those louts either. I'd rather feed it to that dog in the doorway.’
‘Is that snide comment meant for me?’
‘Oh, no,’ Huang Biao rushed to his own defence. ‘You could give me two more gonads and I still wouldn't have the balls to do that. Besides, we've been friends for a long time. And the only reason I've been able to keep my job here is because I've got you, a gourmand, to back me up. My cooking skills have not gone to waste if they've managed to make you happy. Just watching you eat meat—I'm not just saying this—is a true pleasure, more satisfying than embracing my wife in bed—’
‘Enough sweet talk,’ I said impatiently. ‘Bring out the donkey meat.’ I loved being flattered but I didn't want to show it. I couldn't let any of those petty individuals see what made me so special. No, I had to remain a mystery to them, full of complexities. I had to make them forget my age and remember my authority.
Huang Biao went over to a cupboard behind the stove and brought out the portion of donkey meat, lovingly wrapped in a fresh lotus leaf, and placed it on the stool in front of me. What I need to make clear here is that, given my special status and position, I could have had him deliver the meat to me in my office. But I've always been particular about my surroundings when I eat, like the big cats that take their kill back to their lairs and then eat it an unhurried pace. A tiger takes its kill to its den, a panther to the crotch of its favourite tree. An unhurried meal in a safe and familiar spot is the height of enjoyment. Ever since the day I first stole into the plant's kitchen through the sewage ditch, and was rewarded by a truly satisfying meal, I'd developed a fondness for this spot, like a conditioned reflex. Other comforts included sitting on the same low stool, having the same tall stool in front of me and eating out of the same bowl while keeping an eye on the same pot. I must admit that my motivation for wanting to work at United, and then for working as hard as I did, was so that I could sit in the kitchen and enjoy a proper meal of our meat products whenever I wanted. So that I never had to steal in through the sewage ditch like a dog, sneak a bowlful of meat and then sneak out the same way. Imagine wallowing in the sewer after finishing off a bowlful of meat—now you know why I set my sights on the job.
Huang Biao started to peel away the lotus leaf but I stopped him. He was too stupid to realize that peeling away the meat's wrapping gave as much pleasure to me as disrobing a woman did to Lan Laoda.
‘I've never disrobed one of my women myself,’ Lan Laoda says unemotionally. ‘They take off their own clothes. That's how it has to be,’ he says behind me. ‘After the age of forty, I no longer touched their breasts nor kissed them nor took them in the missionary position. Doing so would have stirred my emotions and that would have made my world collapse.’
A cloud of white steam rose from the meat as I peeled away the lotus leaf, scorched black by the heat. Donkey, ah, donkey, dear, dear donkey. The aroma brought tears to my eyes. I tore off a piece but, before I could put it in my mouth, Jiaojiao stuck her head in the doorway. As greedy and as knowledgeable, if not as well informed, a meat-eater as I, her tender age meant that she had a much deeper appreciation for meat than most people. Usually we ate together, but that day I had to mull something over and didn't want her sitting across from me and interfering with my train of thought. I waved her in, tore off a hunk of meat twice the size of my fist and offered it to her: ‘There's something I need to think over, so take this and enjoy it.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘There's something I need to think over too.’
She left. I turned to Huang Biao: ‘You can go too. Leave me alone for the next hour.’
With a nod, he walked out.
I looked down at the beautiful meat and listened to its contented whispers. Squinting, I could envision the way this piece had been taken off of the lovely, clever little black donkey. Like a butterfly that had flown off its body and fluttered into the pot, from there to the cupboard and finally, here, to me. The whispered words that came through most clearly were: ‘I've been waiting for you…’
‘Eat me now, don't waste a minute,’ it then gushed softly. ‘I'll grow cold if you don't hurry, and stringy…’
Whenever I hear meat passionately urging me to eat it, my heart soars and my eyes begins to water. If I'm not careful I may even burst into tears. I've made a fool of myself more than once in the past—sitting in a crowd, eating meat and crying like a baby. But that's ancient history. The weepy carnivore Luo Xiaotong was grown up now. Enjoying a meal of emotional, sensitive donkey meat, he was busy trying to figure out how to transport live, water-treated animals from the meat-cleansing workshop to the kill rooms, a technological problem with momentous impact on United's meat production.
My first brainstorm was about a series of conveyor belts from the injection station to the various kill rooms. But I rejected that. Even though Lao Lan had said not to worry about the cost, I knew that the plant's finances were tight and I didn't want to add to my parents’ money worries. I was also aware that the plant had inherited its electrical system from the canvas factory and that its old, frayed wires and transformers were already overloaded. T
he system would collapse it it had to power conveyor belts carrying tonnes of cows. Next, I considered sending the animals into the kill rooms on the hoof, that is, perform the treatment there and then slaughter. But that would put the newly created meat-cleansing building out of commission even before it was up and running. And I'd be out of a job. Even more important was the fact that the animals receiving the water treatment continuously emptied their bowels and their bladders. Slaughtering them amid all that filth would affect the quality of the meat. Every animal sent out from the meat-cleansing workshop was supposed to be clean, inside and out; that was what separated United from independent butchers and all other meatpacking plants.
