by Mo Yan
My father was hoping that the contest would be a low-key event but Lao Lan said: ‘If we go ahead with this, then it has to be a public affair. Otherwise, it's a waste of time.’ Needless to say, I was hoping for a larger audience and not just the workers in the plant. Ideally, we'd put up posters or blare it over PA systems to attract people from the train station, from the county and township and other villages. The bigger the crowd the greater the people's emotional involvement. What I really wanted was to establish my authority at the plant and make a name for myself in the world. I wanted to win over all those people who had doubts about me, and then have them admit that Luo Xiaotong's reputation was not undeserved but earned one bite at a time. And I wanted to show my three rivals that they had thrown the gauntlet down in front of the wrong person. They had to realize that while meat is good to eat it's hard to digest. If you aren't equipped with a digestive system specially designed for it, your troubles begin with your very first swallow.
I knew they were in trouble even before the contest began, and that their punishment would be doled out not by Lao Lan, not by my parents and not by me, but by the meat they sent into their stomachs. People in Slaughterhouse Village like to say that a person has been ‘bitten’ by meat. That means not that meat can grow teeth, but that a steady diet of it is bad for your stomach and intestines. I was sure that my rivals were going to be badly ‘bitten’ soon. I know you're strutting about looking forward to a real treat. But before long you'll wish that tears were the worst you'd suffer. No doubt they feel like kings at the moment, waiting to be celebrities at the end of the contest. Even if they lose, at least they'll have a stomach full of free meat. I knew that many among the audience would have the same idea; some would even be a bit envious and kick themselves for missing out on a great opportunity. Just wait, my friends, you'll soon stop kicking and start congratulating yourselves. For you are about to see what a spectacle these three make of themselves.
My challengers were Liu Shengli (Victory Liu), Feng Tiehan (Ironman Feng) and Wan Xiaojiang (Water Rat Wan). Liu, a big swarthy man with large staring eyes, was in the habit of rolling up his sleeves when he spoke. A coarse individual, he'd started out as a pig butcher. Since he was surrounded by animal flesh all day long, you'd have thought he'd gained some insight into the nature of meat. Now, gambling on meat-eating was stupid, but that's what he wanted to do so he must have had something up his sleeve. As they say: Good tidings don't just show up, and what shows up isn't always good. I'd have to keep my eye on him. Tall, skinny Feng, with his sallow complexion and bent back, looked like a man who'd just recovered from a serious illness. People with his complexion were rumoured to possess unique and astonishing skills. I'd once heard a blind storyteller say that among the hundred and eight Ming Dynasty bravehearts were several sallow-faced ones who were blessed with extraordinary fighting skills. I'd have to keep my eye on him too. Wan, nicknamed Water Rat, was small in stature, had a pointy mouth, cheeks like a chimp and triangular eyes. A first-rate swimmer, he could catch fish underwater with his eyes open. I'd heard nothing about him or any special capacity for meat, but everyone knew he was a champion watermelon-eater, and anyone who wants to be a champion eater must gain that reputation through competitions—it was the only way. Wan Xiaojiang once put away three whole watermelons by attacking them as if he were playing a harmonica, side to side, back and forth, spitting out the black seeds as he went along. Another one to keep my eye on.
I set out for the contest site. Jiaojiao walked behind me with a teapot. Her face was set tight, her forehead beaded with sweat.
‘Don't be scared, Jiaojiao,’ I said with a laugh.
‘I'm not.’ She wiped her forehead with her sleeve. ‘I know you'll win.’
‘Yes, I will,’ I said. ‘So would you, if you took my place.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘My stomach isn't big enough yet. But some day.’
‘Jiaojiao,’ I said, taking her hand, ‘we were sent down to earth to eat meat. Each of us is slated to eat twenty tonnes of it. If we don't, Yama won't let us in the underworld door. That's what Lao Lan said.’
‘Great,’ she said. ‘But let's stick around after the twenty tonnes and then go for thirty. How much is thirty tonnes?’
‘Thirty tonnes.’ I had to think for a minute. ‘It would make a little mountain of meat.’
She burst into happy laughter at the thought.
Turning at the meat-cleansing workshop door, we spotted a crowd in front of the kitchen at the same time as the crowd spotted us: ‘Here they are…’
Jiaojiao gripped my hand tightly.
‘Don't be scared,’ I said.
‘I'm not.’
The crowd parted to let us to walk up to the contest site. Four tables had been set up, each backed by a stool. My rivals were waiting. Liu Shengli bellowed at the kitchen door: ‘Ready, Huang Biao? I can't wait any longer—I'm starved!’
Wan Xiaojiang went in and came right back out. ‘What an aroma!’ he rhapsodized. ‘Meat, ah, meat, how I pine for you! Even my mother pales beside a plate of braised beef.’
Feng Tiehan was perched on his stool, smoking a cigarette, the picture of calm, as if the contest had nothing to do with him.
I nodded a greeting to the people who were staring at my sister and me, their looks either curious or reverential. Then I went over and sat on the stool next to Feng Tiehan. Jiaojiao stood beside me. ‘I'm a little scared,’ she whispered.
‘Don't be,’ I said.
‘Want some tea?’
‘No.’
‘I have to pee.’
‘Go on. Behind the kitchen.’
The crowd was whispering back and forth, too softly for me to hear, but I could guess what they were saying.
Feng Tiehan offered me a cigarette.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Smoking affects the taste buds. Even the best meat loses its taste.’
‘I shouldn't be doing this with you,’ he said. ‘You're just a boy. I'd hate it if something happened to you.’
I just smiled.
Jiaojiao returned and said softly: ‘Lao Lan's here, but not Dieh or Niang.’
‘I know.’
Liu Shengli and Wan Xiaojiang took their places behind their tables, Liu next to me and Wan next to him.
‘We're all here,’ Lao Lan announced. ‘So we can start. Where's Huang Biao? Ready, Huang Biao?’
Huang Biao rushed out of the kitchen wiping his hands on a filthy towel. ‘Ready! Shall I bring it out?’
‘Bring it out,’ ordered Lao Lan. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are here today for the plant's first meat-eating contest. The contestants are Luo Xiaotong, Liu Shengli, Feng Tiehan and Wan Xiaojiang. This is a preview contest. The winner may well go on to represent the plant at one of the larger public contests to be held later. Since today holds great significance for the future, I want the contestants to pull out all the stops.’ Lao Lan's comments excited the crowd, which began to chatter, the sound like birds careening into the sky. Lao Lan raised his hand and gestured for silence. ‘That said, I must make something perfectly clear—each contestant takes full responsibility for himself. If there's an accident, the plant cannot be held liable. In other words, you're on your own.’ He then pointed to a man elbowing his way through the crowd. ‘Make room for the doctor.’
People turned to see the doctor, medical bag over his back, making his sweaty way to the front, where he then stood smiling, revealing two rows of yellowed teeth. ‘Am I late?’
‘No,’ Lao Lan replied. ‘We're just about to begin.’
‘I was worried I'd be late. The minute the hospital director told me what he wanted me to do, I picked up my bag and came as fast as I could.’
‘You're not late,’ Lao Lan reassured him. ‘You didn't have to rush.’ Then he turned to us. ‘Are the contestants ready?’
I glanced at my eager competitors and saw that they were all looking at me. I smiled and nodded, they nodded in return. Feng Tiehan smirked. Liu Shengli looked stern, his anger simmer
ing just below the surface, like a man ready for a bitter fight and not one participating in a meat-eating contest. A silly smile was draped across the face of Wan Xiaojiang, replete with twitches and crinkles that drew laughter from the spectators. Liu and Wan's expressions enhanced my confidence—their loss was assured, inevitable. But I had trouble reading Feng's smirk. A barking dog never bites, and I had a hunch that this sallow-faced, smirking, composed rival was the one to look out for.
‘All right, then. The doctor is here, you've all heard what I had to say, you know the rules and the meat has been prepared. We're ready to begin,’ Lao Lan announced. ‘I hereby declare the start of the inaugural Huachang United Meatpacking Plant meat-eating contest. Huang Biao, bring out the meat!’
‘On its wa-a-a-y—’ Like a server in a pre-revolution restaurant, Huang Biao drew out the call as he floated out of the kitchen holding a red plastic tub full of cooked meat. He was followed by three young women hired for the occasion. Clad in white uniforms, they moved swiftly, like a well-trained unit, smiling broadly and carrying a red tub each. Huang Biao placed his tub on the table in front of me, and the three young women did the same for my rivals.
Beef from our plant.
Chunks of fist-sized meat, cooked without recourse to condiments, not even salt.
All flank steaks.
‘How many pounds?’ Lao Lan asked.
‘Five in each tub,’ Huang Biao answered.
‘I have a question,’ Feng Tiehan said, raising his hand like a schoolboy.
‘Go ahead,’ Lao Lan said with a glare.
‘Does each tub hold exactly the same amount? And all the same quality?’
Lao Lan looked to Huang Biao.
‘All from the same cow!’ Huang Biao confirmed. ‘Cooked in the same pot, and exactly five pounds on a scale.’
Feng Tiehan shook his head.
‘Someone must have defrauded you in the past,’ Huang Biao said.
‘Bring out the scale,’ Lao Lan said.
Huang Biao grumbled as he went into the kitchen; then he came out with a small scale and banged it down on the table.
Lao Lan scowled at him. ‘Put each tub on the scale.’
‘You three act like you were tricked in some previous life,’ Huang groused as he weighed the four tubs, one at a time. ‘See—all the same, not an ounce of difference.’
‘Any more questions?’ Lao Lan asked. ‘If not, we can begin.’
‘I have one more,’ Feng said.
‘Where do all these questions come from?’ Lao Lan asked with a little laugh. ‘Well, let's hear it. I want everything on the up and up. And if the rest of you have questions, now's the time to raise them. I don't want any complaints later.’
‘I can see that all four tubs weigh the same, but what about the quality? I suggest we tag them and draw lots to see who gets which one.’
‘Good idea,’ Lao Lan said. ‘Do you have pen and paper in your kit, Doctor? You can be the referee.’
The doctor eagerly took a pen from his kit, removed his prescription book, tore off four sheets, gave each a number—one, two, three, four—and then placed one under each tub. After that he made four lots and laid them upside down on the table.
‘OK, meat warriors,’ Lao Lan said, ‘draw your lots.’
Although I viewed all this with cool detachment, I was beginning to get annoyed with Feng Tiehan. Why fuss so? Why be so picky over a tub of meat? As I seethed silently, Huang Biao and his helpers moved the tubs according to the number of their draws.
‘Any more problems?’ Lao Lan asked. ‘Think hard, Feng Tiehan, anything more you'd like? No? Good. Then I declare the start of the inaugural Huachang United Meatpacking Plant meat-eating contest!’
I made myself comfortable and then, wiping my hands on a paper napkin, took a quick look round me. Feng Tiehan, to my left, had stabbed a piece of meat with a skewer and taken an unhurried bite. I was secretly surprised at his civilized eating habits. That was not the case with Liu Shengli or Wan Xiaojiang, both to my right. Wan tried using chopsticks but had so much trouble with them that he quickly switched to a skewer. Grumbling, he stabbed a square of meat, took a savage bite and then began to chomp like a monkey. Liu Shengli stabbed his meat with the tips of both chopsticks, opened wide and bit off half, stuffing his mouth so full he could hardly chew. This barbaric lack of etiquette revealed them to be men who hadn't tasted meat in ages. That was all I needed to confirm that they'd be out of the fight in no time. They were eating like novices, like autumn locusts that can barely manage a few hops. Now I could focus my attention on the man with the sallow complexion, Feng Tiehan, who looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Definitely the man to beat.
Folding the paper napkin and laying it beside my tub, I rolled up my sleeves, sat up straight and cast a kindly glance at the crowd, like a boxer just before a fight. I was repaid with admiring looks, and I could tell by the appreciative sighs that the people approved of my bearing and youthful maturity. My legendary eating achievements were not forgotten. I saw the warm smile of Lao Lan and the enigmatic smile of Yao Qi, who kept himself largely hidden in the crowd. In fact, there were smiles on lots of familiar faces, looks of admiration too, as well as a few drooling mouths on those who would have loved to take my place. The chomp chomp sound of chewing filled my ears and disgusted me. And I heard the plaintive moans of the meat, its angry complaints, emerge from all three mouths, mouths it did not want to be in. I was like a marathon runner standing confidently at the starting line, sizing up the competition before streaking down the course. It was time to begin. The chunks of beef in my tub had nearly run out of patience. None of the spectators could hear them, but I could. And perhaps my sister too. Lightly patting me on the back, she said: ‘You should start, Elder Brother.’
‘All right,’ I replied gently, ‘I will.’ I then spoke to the darling meat: ‘I'm going to eat you now.’ ‘Me first! No, me!’ they squealed as they fought for my attention. Their soft pleas merged with their wonderful aroma and sprinkled over my face like pollen. It was intoxicating. ‘Dear meat, all you pieces of meat, slow down, there's no rush. You'll get your turn, all of you. Though I haven't eaten any of you yet, we share an emotional bond. Love at first sight. You belong to me, you're my meat, all you pieces of beef. How could I bear to abandon you?’
I used neither chopsticks nor a skewer, but my hands—I knew the meat preferred the feel of my skin. When I gently picked up the first piece, it gave out a joyful moan and trembled in my hand. I knew that wasn't fear but rapture. Only a tiny fraction of all the meat in the world would ever have the good fortune of being consumed by Luo Xiaotong, the boy who understood and loved meat. The excitement of this tubful came as no surprise. As I brought the piece to my mouth, glistening tears gushed from a pair of bright eyes staring passionately at me. I knew that it loved me because I loved it. Love all round the world was a matter of cause and effect. I am deeply moved, meat. My heart is all a-flutter. I honestly wish I didn't have to eat you, but I do.
I delivered the first piece of the darling meat into my mouth, though I could just as easily have said that the darling meat inserted itself into my mouth. Whichever it was, at that moment both of us experienced a flood of mixed emotions, like reunited lovers. ‘I hate the thought of biting into you, but I must. I wish I didn't have to swallow you, but I must. There are so many more pieces waiting to be eaten, and today is not just another day for me. Until today, our union and mutual appreciation has been something I've enjoyed, heart and soul. But now I feel a combination of performance pressure and anxiety, and my mind has begun wander. I must concentrate on the task ahead, and I can only ask your indulgence. I will eat as never before, so that you and I—we—will demonstrate the acutely serious aspect of eating meat.’ The first piece of meat slid with some regret into my stomach, where it swam like a fish in water. ‘Go on, enjoy yourself. I'm sure you're lonely, but not for long—your friends will join you soon.’ The second piece felt the same emotio
ns towards me as I did towards it, and it followed an identical course down to my stomach until it was reunited with the first. Then the third piece, the fourth, the fifth…forming a tidy queue. They sang the same song, shed the same tears, trod the same course and wound up in the same place. It was a sweet but also sad process, illustrious and filled with glory.
I was so focused on my intimate interaction with the meat that I was oblivious of the passage of time and of my stomach's growing burden. But when I looked down, I saw that only a third of my portion remained. A bit of tiredness had crept in by then, and my mouth was producing less saliva. So I slowed down, raised my head and continued to eat gracefully while I surveyed my surroundings, beginning, of course, with my closest neighbours, my competitors. It was their participation that lent this extended meal its quality of entertainment, and for that I owed them a debt of gratitude. If they hadn't thrown down the gauntlet, I'd have been denied the opportunity of displaying my special skill before such a large audience—not just my skill but also my artistry. The number of people in the world who eat is as great as the sands of the Ganges, but only one has elevated this base activity into the realm of art, into a thing of beauty—and that is me, Luo Xiaotong. If all the meat in the world that has been or will be eaten were formed into a pile, it would rise higher than the Himalayas, but only the meat being eaten by Luo Xiaotong is capable of assuming a critical role in this artistic presentation…But I've gotten carried away, resulting from the overly creative imagination of a carnivorous child. So, back to the contest, and another look at my rivals’ eating styles. Now, it's not my intention to mount a smear campaign—although I've always favoured calling a spade a spade—so I invite you to take a look for yourselves. First, to my left, Liu Shengli. Somewhere along the line, the hulking, tough fellow has tossed away his chopsticks and begun to dig in with his coarse paws. He snatches a piece of meat like he is clutching a sparrow struggling to get free, as though it will fly away to the tree beyond the wall or float into the far reaches of the atmosphere. His hand is filthy with grease, his cheeks like slimy hillocks. But enough about him. Let's take a look at his neighbour, Wan Xiaojiang, the Water Rat. He has abandoned the skewer for his hands, clearly following my lead or trying to. But you can't copy genius, and in the matter of eating meat I am a genius. They are wasting their time. Look at my hand, for instance—only the tips of three fingers are lightly coated with grease. Look at their hands—so much grease they may as well be webbed, like the feet of ducks or frogs. Even Wan's forehead is coated with grease. How that helps him eat meat is beyond me. Are they burying their faces in the meat? But the really disgusting part of it all is the growls and gurgles they emit, no less than insults to the meat they are eating. Like beautiful maidens, this meat is fated to suffer; it is a cruel but inexorable reality. Lamentations rise from the meat in their hands and mouths, while those pieces waiting to be eaten bury their heads like ostriches in an attempt to hide in the tubs. I can only watch in sympathetic solidarity. Things would have been different if they were on my plate but that is not to be. The ways of the world are immutable. I, Luo Xiaotong, have a stomach that can never be stretched to accommodate all the world's meat any more than all the women can ever wind up in the arms of the world's greatest lover. I watch, helpless. ‘All you pieces of beef lying in the tubs of my rivals have no choice in the matter. You must go where you are sent.’ By now, both the men on my right have slowed considerably, and the faces earlier marked by savage impatience now sag with a stupid lethargy. They haven't stopped eating but their chewing is now in slow motion. Their cheeks are sore, their saliva has dried up, their bellies bulge dangerously. I can see it in their eyes—they are simply stuffing the meat into their mouths, only to have it turn and tumble in their stomachs, like chunks of coal bumping against a throttle gate. They have, I know, reached the point where the pleasure of eating meat has been usurped by sheer agony. Meat has become so disgusting, so loathsome, that they want nothing more than to spit out what is in their mouths and vomit what is in their stomachs. But that would mean defeat. A look at their tubs reveals that the remaining meat has been sapped of its beauty and its redolence. Shame and humiliation has turned it ugly. Hostility for its eater makes it emit a putrid smell. About a pound of meat remains in each of the two tubs but there is no room in either stomach to accommodate it. Lacking emotional ties with its eaters, the consumed meat has lost its mental equilibrium and is now involved in a paroxysm of thrashing and biting. Hard times are upon the men, and it is obvious that they can not possibly eat what remains. My two truculent competitors are on the verge of elimination.
