Pow!

POW! 15



The sound of music out on the street, from both the east and the west, is deafening. The Carnivore Festival parade is drawing near. Thirty or more panicky jackrabbits dash out of the planted fields on both sides of the highway and come together in front of the temple entrance, where they engage in whispered conversations. One of them, with a droopy left ear that looks like a wilted vegetable leaf, and white whiskers, appears to be the leader and lets out a shockingly shrill cry. Now I know rabbits, and I can assure you that that is not the sort of noise commonly made by them. But all animals produce distinctive sounds in an emergency, to alert members of their species to danger. As I expected, the rest of the rabbits react to the command by shouting all at once and then bounding into the temple. The beauty of their leaps across the threshold is indescribable. They run straight to a spot behind the Wutong Spirit, where a breathless discussion breaks out. All of a sudden it occurs to me that there's a fox family back there—the entry of the rabbits is the equivalent of a meal delivered to their door. But there's nothing anyone can do about that, not now. It's best left to nature, since the foxes will be angry if I alert the rabbits. Ear-splitting musical notes erupt from a pair of loudspeakers on the stage across the way. It is jubilant music with a foot-tapping beat and a great melody, an open invitation to start dancing. During the decade that I roamed the country, Wise Monk, I worked for a while at a dance hall called Garden of Eden. They had me dress in a white uniform and told me to keep smiling as I attended to well-fed and liquored-up or just plain horny, red-faced customers who visited the men's room. I turned on the taps for them and, when they were finished washing their paws, handed them folded hot towels. Some accepted the towels and then, when their hands were dry, thanked me as they handed them back, often tossing a coin into the dish placed there for tips. Every once in a while, a particularly generous customer would leave a ten-yuan note, and, on more than one occasion, a hundred-yuan one. Anyone that free with his money must have been well heeled and lucky in love. For people like that, life was good. Then there were those who ignored my ministrations and used the electric hand-dryer on the wall. One glance at their impassive expressions told me that life was not so good to them. Chances are that they were expected to cough up the money for a bunch of drunken sots, most likely corrupt individuals who held some sort of power over them. No matter how much they hated them, they had to grin and bear it. Losers like that get no sympathy from me. Good people don't spend their money in degenerate places like that and, as far as I'm concerned, I wouldn't have minded getting Lao Lan's third uncle to mow them all down with his machine gun. But the cheapskates who didn't even drop a coin into my dish were the worst; just a look at their glum faces made me angry; even Lao Lan's third uncle's machine gun would not have erased the loathing I held for them. I think back to when I, Luo Xiaotong, was a real operator and lament that I'm now a phoenix that has fallen to the earth, no better than a chicken. No man of substance tries to relive past glories. You have to lower your head if you stand beneath an eave. Wise Monk, whoever made up the saying ‘Success at a young age brings bad luck to a family’ must have had me in mind. Smiling on the outside and seething on the inside, I waited on those bastards who came in to relieve themselves, all the while recalling my glorious past and my sad memories. Every time I saw one of them out the door, I cursed inwardly: You lousy bastard, I hope you slip and break your neck while walking, drown while drinking, choke to death while eating or croak while sleeping. I listened to the goings-on outside when the stalls and urinals were empty—hot, passionate music one minute and slow, romantic melodies the next. Sometimes I felt driven to do something worthwhile with my life, but there were other times when I fantasized being out in the muted dance-hall light, holding close a girl with bare shoulders and perfumed hair, dancing dreamily. If the fantasy played on, my legs began to move to the beat. But those dreamy moments were shattered by the next stream of arseholes with their dicks in their hands. Do you have any idea how much humiliation I've suffered, Wise Monk? One day I actually set a fire in the men's room. I quickly put it out with a fire extinguisher, but the dance-hall boss, Fatty Hong, dragged me over to the police station and accused me of arson. I convinced the interrogating officer that one of the drunken patrons had set the fire. Since I'd saved the day by putting it out, the owner ought to reward me. In fact, he'd agreed to that, but then had second thoughts. He was a cruel, bloodsucking slave driver, happy to chew up his employees and swallow them whole. By taking me to the authorities, he figured he could save the reward money and withhold the three months’ pay he owed me. ‘Mr Policeman,’ I said, ‘you're a wise arbiter who won't be fooled by the likes of Fatty Hong. You may not know it, but he likes to hide in the men's room and call you all sorts of names. He'll be taking a leak and saying terrible things about the police…’ Well, it worked. The police let me go. They said I'd committed no crime. Of course I hadn't. That damned Lao Lan, on the other hand, definitely had. But he was a member of the Municipal Standing Committee and no stranger to TV shows, where he made high-sounding pronouncements and never missed an opportunity to mention his third uncle. Third Uncle, he claimed, was a patriotic overseas Chinese who had brought glory to the descendants of the Yellow Emperor with his thick, powerful penis. Third uncle was returning to China to fund the building of a Wutong Temple in order to enhance the virility of local men. Lao Lan, the creep, managed to win over his audience with a line of bullshit. Ah, yes, I forgot, that man with the enormous ears we saw a short while ago—I wouldn't be surprised if Lao Lan's third uncle looked just like that as a young man—often showed up at the Garden of Eden dance hall, and once even flipped a green note into my dish. I later learnt that it was a US hundred-dollar note! It was brand new; the edges so sharp I got a paper cut while I examined it. That bled for a long time. When he wore a white suit with a red tie, he was tall and imposing, like a mighty poplar. When he wore a dark green suit with a yellow tie, he was tall and imposing, like a mighty black pine. When he wore a burgundy suit with a white tie, he was tall and imposing, like a mighty red fir. I never did see what he looked like when he was out there dancing, but I could envision him holding the prettiest girl in the dance hall, she in a white or dark green or purple strapless gown, shoulders and arms looking as if they'd been carved out of white jade, draped in fine jewellery, with big limpid eyes and a beauty spot near her mouth, the two of them gliding across the dance floor under the gaze of the other patrons. Applause, fresh flowers, fine liquor, women, all his for the taking. I dreamt of becoming someone like that one day—a lavish tipper and a big spender, surrounded by beautiful women as I swaggered down the street like a spotted leopard, secretive yet extravagant, giving bystanders the impression that a mysterious, unfathomable spectre had just passed by. Are you still listening, Wise Monk?

Round nightfall, the snowfall intensified, and before long our compound lay beneath a blanket of white. Mother picked up her broom and had barely begun to sweep the snow away when Father took it from her. His movements were strong and firm, and I was reminded of what people in the village said about him: Luo Tong is good at what he does. Too bad ‘you can't make a thoroughbred till a field’. As darkness fell, he seemed to grow larger, especially in the light reflected off the snow. A clear path opened up behind him in hardly any time. Mother walked down path and shut the gate, the metal latch making a resounding clang that shook the snowy dusk. Darkness took over, the only light a misty reflection of the snow on the ground and in the air. Mother and Father stomped their shoes beneath the eaves and shook their clothes free of snow; I think they even dusted it off each other with a towel. I was sitting in the corner no more than half a step from the pig's head, and I could smell its cold, raw aroma, but I was more interested in trying to penetrate the darkness and see their expressions. Unfortunately, I wasn't very successful, and all I could make out were their swaying shadows. I heard my sister's laboured breathing in front of me, like a little wild beast hiding in the dark. I'd gorged myself at noon; by nightfall, undigested pieces of sausage and noodles rose up my throat, only to be chewed once more and sent back down. I've heard people say that's a disgusting thing to do, but I wasn't about to throw out any food. Now that Father was home, my diet was likely to change, but exactly how and to what extent remained a puzzle. He looked so dejected, so docile and submissive, that I had an uncomfortable feeling that my hopes—of his return resulting in more meat on the table—were doomed to be dashed. But be that as it may, the event had created an opportunity to stuff myself with the sausage, which, admittedly, was long on starch filler and short on meat, although the thin casing did come from an animal. And I mustn't forget that, when the sausage was gone, I'd enjoyed two bowls of noodles. Then there was the pig's head, which rested on the chopping board, so close I could reach out and touch it. When would it find its way into my digestive system? Mother wasn't planning on selling it, I hoped.

I'd shocked Father by how much and how fast I'd eaten at lunch. Afterwards, I heard Mother say the same thing about my little sister. I hadn't noticed—I was too busy eating. But it was easy to imagine the sorrowful looks on the adults’ faces as they watched us, brother and sister, gobble our food like starving, other-worldly beasts, even stretching our necks and rolling our eyes as we tried to swallow partially chewed pieces of sausage. Our rapacious style didn't so much disgust them as cause them deep distress and self-recrimination. It's my guess that that was when they decided not to divorce after all. Time for the family to live a decent life, for them to supply their children with the food and clothing they deserved. I belched in the darkness and, as I chewed my cud, I heard a belch from my sister, something she did with practised familiarity. If I hadn't known it was her sitting across from me, I swear, on pain of death, I'd have never guessed that a four-year-old girl could have made that sound.

Without doubt, a stomach full of sausage and noodles placed a heavy burden on my intestines and diminished my desire for meat on that snowy night, but it did nothing to erase thoughts of that pig's head, whose muted light gleamed in the darkness. In my mind's eye I watched it chopped in half and dumped into a pot of boiling water, the scene so vivid I could even smell the unique aroma. And my thoughts didn't stop there—I saw a family of four sitting round a big platter from which meat-flavoured steam billowed into the air. It smelt so good that I was nearly transported to that intoxicating moment between sleep and wakefulness. I watched Mother, looking solemn and dignified, stick a red chopstick into the head and twist and turn it a few times to neatly separate the meat from the bones. ‘Eat up, children,’ she announced proudly, picking the bones out of the pot. ‘Eat until you're full. Today you can have as much as you want!’

That night, Mother did something totally out of character—she lit the room's glass-shaded oil lamp, flooding our house with light for the first time and casting enlarged shadows onto a white wall from which hung strings of leeks and peppers. Jiaojiao, who had perked up after a difficult day, brought her hands together in the beam of light to form a dog's head on the wall.

‘A dog, Daddy,’ she said excitedly, ‘it's a dog!’

Father shot a quick glance at Mother before he said somewhat forlornly: ‘Yes, it's Jiaojiao's little black puppy.’

Jiaojiao then moved her hands and fingers to form the silhouette of a rabbit, not perfect but definitely recognizable. ‘No, it's not a dog,’ she said, ‘it's a bunny, a little bunny.’

‘You're right, it's a bunny. Our Jiaojiao's a clever little girl.’ But having praised his daughter, he turned to Mother apologetically, ‘She's still a child, hasn't figured out the world yet.’

‘Do you really expect her to, at her young age?’ Mother said tolerantly and then surprised us all by putting her hands together to decorate the wall with the silhouette of a rooster, complete with cockscomb and tail, and then finished it off with a crisp cock-a-doodle-doo! What a shock! I'd become so used to her constant complaints and scolding over the years, plus the ever-present scowl and sour demeanour, that the possibility of her knowing how to do hand shadows, not to mention how to crow like a rooster, never occurred to me. I have to admit that once again I had mixed emotions. From the moment Father appeared at our gate that morning with his daughter on his shoulders, I'd experienced nothing but mixed emotions. I don't know any other way to describe what I was feeling.

Joyful laughter burst from Jiaojiao's throat, and what passed for a smile appeared on Father's face.

Mother looked tenderly at Jiaojiao, heaved a sigh, and said: ‘It's always the adults who cause these messes, never the children.’

‘That's right,’ said Father without looking up. ‘One mistake after another, and always by me.’

‘We've all made mistakes, so no more of that talk.’ Mother stood up and deftly slipped on her over-sleeves. ‘Xiaotong,’ she said, raising her voice, ‘you little rascal, I know you hate me, a stingy old bag who hasn't let you so much as taste meat over the last five years. Am I right? Well, today is going to be different. I've cooked this pig's head as a reward to the troops. You can eat till you burst!’

She placed the chopping board alongside the stove, laid the pig's head on it, then picked up her little hatchet, took the target's measure and swung.

‘We just had sausage…’ Father stood up. ‘Earning enough to get by has been hard on you two,’ he said to stop her. ‘Why not sell this pig's head? A person's stomach is like a sack you fill up no matter what you put in it, chaff and vegetables or meat and fish…’

‘Is that really you talking?’ Mother's dripped sarcasm but then quickly changed her tune: ‘I'm as human as the next person,’ she said, deadly serious, ‘with a red mouth, white teeth, flesh and blood. I know how good meat tastes. I never ate it, but back then I was foolish and ignorant. When it comes down to it, the mouth is the most important thing in life.’

Wringing his hands, Father began to say something, but stopped. Instead, he took a few steps back, then strode forward, reached out and said to Mother: ‘Here, let me.’

She hesitated briefly before laying down the hatchet and stepping away.

Father rolled up his sleeves, pushed up the tattered cuffs of his vest beneath his shirtsleeves, picked up the hatchet and raised it over his head. Without, it seemed, taking aim, he took an easy swing, then another, and the pig's head split right down the middle.

Mother was studying Father, who had stepped away from the chopping board, with a look so ambiguous that even I, a son who thought he could read her mind and anticipate her every move, had no idea what she was thinking. But here's what it boiled down to: the moment Father split that pig's head in two, Mother's mood underwent a change. She pursed her lips slightly and poured half a bucket of water into the pot on the stove, a little too forcefully, I thought, since some of it splashed over the sides onto a box of matches on the stove rack. She then tossed the bucket into the corner, where it rattled noisily and gave us a bit of a fright. Father stayed where he was, looking awkward and unsure and not a pretty sight. We all watched as Mother picked up half the head by the ear and tossed it into the pot, followed by the other half. I wished I could have reminded her that the best way to bring out the flavour of a pig's head was to season it with fennel, ginger, green onions, garlic, Chinese cinnamon and cardamom and, finally, a spoonful of Korean vinegar, but that was Aunty Wild Mule's secret recipe. In days past, I'd often sneaked over to her restaurant with Father to feast on meat dishes she'd prepared, and more than once I'd watched her cook a pig's head. I'd even seen Father split one for her—one chop, maybe two, but never more than three, and it was done. She'd gaze at him with admiring eyes. Once I heard her say: ‘Luo Tong, I say, Luo Tong, you're the best at anything you put your hand to, with no help from any teacher!’

There was something special about Aunty Wild Mule's pig's head, which had earned her a fine reputation, not only in our village but also, thanks to her greedy customers, all the way to the market town fifteen or twenty li away. Even Lao Han, who had the onerous responsibility of overseeing township officials’ dietary concerns, made the trip every three or four days. He arrived with a shout of ‘Old Wild!’ and she came out running. ‘Elder Brother Han,’ she said (that's what she called him, a term of endearment). ‘Got one in the pot? I'll take half.’ ‘I sure do. It'll be ready in a minute. Have some tea while you wait.’ She poured the tea and lit his cigarette, smiling broadly. ‘Did you say that officials from the city are here?’ ‘They're fans of your cooking. Mayor Hua says he wants to meet you. Old Wild, your future looks bright. Have you heard that his wife's on her deathbed? She won't last more than a couple of days. Once she's gone, he might just take you home. But when you're the mayor's wife, living in the lap of luxury, don't turn your back on your friends!’ Father coughed then to attract Uncle Han's attention. He turned and spotted Father, stared at him with buggy yellow eyes. ‘Luo Tong, you old son of a bitch, is that you? What the f*ck are you doing here?’ ‘Why the f*ck shouldn't I be here?’ Father replied, neither servile nor overbearing. Uncle Han's taut face relaxed as he absorbed the language of Father's reply, and then smiled, revealing a set of teeth as white as limestone. ‘Be careful,’ he said, ‘you're nothing but a bum, while Wild Mule, well, she's a piece of fruit just ripe for the picking. There are plenty of potential pickers, and if you try to keep this juicy titbit to yourself those others might gang up and relieve you of your cock.’ ‘You can both shut your traps,’ snapped Aunty Wild Mule, ‘and you can stop treating me like a toy for your entertainment, a little something for you to snack on. Get me mad, and I'll take the knife to both of you.’ ‘My, my, what a feisty thing we've got here,’ Han said. ‘After all the sweet talk, how can you turn on me like that? Aren't you afraid of offending one of your most loyal customers?’ Aunty Wild Mule pulled half a cooked pig's head out of the pot with her steel hook; it was coated with a fragrant red sauce. I couldn't take my eyes off it and was drooling before I knew it. She laid it on a chopping board, picked up a gleaming cleaver, twirled it, and—whack—chopped off a fist-sized piece. Sticking a skewer through it, she held it up to me. ‘Take it, Xiaotong, you greedy little cat, before your chin drops off!’ ‘I thought you were saving that for me, Old Wild,’ grumbled Uncle Han, clearly annoyed. ‘Mayor Hua says he wants to sample your meat!’ ‘You mean Mayor Dickhead, that piss-ant of a Party secretary? He may have power over you but do you honestly believe he can handle me?’ ‘Aren't you the fierce one! And I mean fierce! I give up, I'm no match for you. Does that let me off the hook? Now, hurry up and wrap the meat in lotus leaves so I can be on my way. But I'm not lying. Mayor Hua plans to come here.’ ‘Put your Mayor up against my boy, and there's no comparison. Mayor Hua smells like piss, doesn't he, son?’ Aunty Wild Mule asked me genially. I wasn't about to waste my time responding to such an idiotic question. ‘OK, then, like shit, how's that?’ asked Uncle Han. ‘Our Mr Mayor Hua smells like shit, and we won't dick around with him, OK? As for you, dear Aunty, won't you please give me the meat I came for?’ Han took out his pocket watch and looked at it with increasing annoyance: ‘How long have we known each other, Old Wild? I beg you, don't smash my rice bowl. My wife and children depend on me to put food on the table.’ Aunty Wild Mule expertly picked out the bones of what was left of the pig's head, singeing her hands in the process and sucking in her breath as her fingers nimbly opened up the head yet somehow retained its shape. She wrapped it in lotus leaves, tied it with braided grass and pushed it over to him. ‘Now, get out of here. Go pay your respects to your patrons!’ If Mother had thoughts of preparing a pig's head that came close to Aunty Wild Mule's, she'd have had to add a spoonful of finely ground alum, Aunty Wild Mule's secret ingredient. She never hid her secrets from me. But Mother clapped on the lid without adding anything, content to let it cook in plain water. How could anything good come of that? But it was, after all, pig's head. And me? I was, after all, a boy who loved to eat meat but who hadn't enjoyed the experience in years.

The fire in the belly of the stove was as hot as blazes. The flames lit up Mother's face. Thanks to the pine oil, the firewood burnt hot and long, making it unnecessary to add any more. Mother could have walked off to do something else but she chose not to. She sat in front of the stove with quiet serenity, hugging her knees and resting her chin in her hands as she stared at the kaleidoscopic crackling of the fire, which never strayed from its purpose. Her eyes? They radiated a luminous sparkle.

The water began to boil, making a rumbling sound, as if from far away. I was sitting in the doorway with Jiaojiao, who yawned loudly, her open mouth a scene of perfect little white teeth.

‘Put her to bed,’ Mother said to Father without turning.

Father picked Jiaojiao up and stepped out into the yard. When he returned, she was in his arms, head on his shoulder, snoring softly. He stood behind Mother, waiting for something.

‘A comforter and pillows are stacked at the head of the kang. Cover her with the one with orchids for now. I'll make you another one tomorrow.’

‘That's putting you to an lot of trouble,’ Father said.

‘Stop talking nonsense,’ Mother replied. ‘Even if she was a child you picked up off the street, I couldn't make her sleep on a pile of hay, could I?’ As Father carried Jiaojiao into the bedroom, Mother blew up at me: ‘What are you hanging round here for? Go outside and pee and then off to bed! A slow boil like this won't be ready till morning.’

My eyelids were getting heavy, my thoughts growing fuzzy. I felt as if the special aroma of one of Aunty Wild Mule's cooked heads was floating in the air, coming at me in waves. All I had to do was close my eyes for it to settle in front of me. I stood up. ‘Where am I supposed to sleep?’ I asked.

‘Where do you think?’ said Mother. ‘Where you always sleep.’

My eyelids drooped as I walked out into the yard; snowflakes fell on my face and drove away some of the sleepiness. The fire sent its light into the yard as a backdrop for the falling snow, clear and beautiful, like a dream. In the midst of this wonderful sight I saw our tractor tipped over in the yard, its load of rubbish blanketed by snow, looking like a monstrous beast. The snow had also partially covered my mortar but it had retained its shape and its metallic colour; the tube pointed into the dusky sky. I just knew it was a healthy, happy mortar and that all it needed was ammunition to move into action.

I went back inside and flopped down on the bed, hesitating a moment before stripping naked and slipping under the covers. Jiaojiao jerked away when my cold feet touched her warm skin, so I quickly pulled them back.

‘Go to sleep,’ I heard Mother say. ‘There'll be meat on the table when you wake up in the morning.’

I could tell by the tone of voice that she was in a good mood again. The lamplight was fading, leaving only the flickering light from the fire in the stove to see by. The door was open a crack to let the firelight filter in and land on the dresser. A question swirled dimly through the fog in my brain: Where are Mother and Father sleeping? They aren't going to stay up all night watching the pig's head cook, are they? The question kept me awake, and I couldn't help but hear them talk. I even covered my head with the comforter to keep out the conversation but every word made its way into my ears.

‘A heavy snowfall will guarantee a good harvest next year,’ said Father.

‘You ought to let some new thoughts into your head,’ Mother said coolly. ‘Farmers are different these days. They used to live off what they planted in the ground. It all depended on how the old master in the sky felt about things. Good winds and plenty of rain meant a bumper crop—buns in the pot and meat in their bowls. Bad winds and no rain meant soup in the pot and husks in their bowls. But things have changed. No one's fool enough to work the fields. Drenching ten acres of land with your sweat can't bring in as much as selling one pigskin…but why am I telling you this?’

‘Someone has to work the farms…’ Father mumbled under his breath. ‘That's what a farmer does.’

‘I do believe the sun is rising in the west,’ Mother said, mocking him. ‘You hardly ever went out into the field when you were home. Are you planning to become a farmer now that you're back?’

‘Farming's all I know,’ said Father, clearly embarrassed. ‘There's no more need for someone to rate cattle. Or I can go out collecting rubbish with you.’

‘I won't let you do that,’ she said. ‘You're not cut out for that kind of work. Rubbish collecting is for people with no sense of shame, no face at all. It's halfway between robbing and stealing.’

‘After the life I've led, how much face can I have left? If you can do it, so can I.’

‘I'm not a brainless woman,’ she said. ‘You're back and we've got a house, so Xiaotong and I won't go out any more. If you want to leave I won't stop you. It doesn't make sense to keep someone around who doesn't want to be there. It's better for someone like that to just leave…’

‘I said what I wanted to say earlier today, in front of the children,’ Father said. ‘I didn't do well. A poor man is short on ambition. A skinny horse has long hair. I came looking for you with a dogskin round my head, and I'm grateful you took me back. We are, after all, husband and wife. Like a bone and a tendon—if you break the bone, it's still connected to the tendon.’

‘You've accomplished something. If nothing else,’ said Mother, ‘since you've been away you've learnt how to sweet-talk a person…’

‘Yuzhen.’ Father's voice softened. ‘I owe you. From now on, I'll pay you back if I have to be your slave.’

‘We'll see who's the slave,’ Mother said. ‘How do I know you won't run off with another Wild Mule one of these days?’

‘Why must you hit me where it hurts?’

‘You think you know pain?’ Mother's anger boiled over. ‘I don't mean as much to you as one of her toes…’ She was crying now. ‘Do you know how many times I threw a rope over the rafters? If it hadn't been for Xiaotong—even if there'd been ten Yuzhens, they'd all be dead now.’

‘I know…’ The words were spoken with difficulty. ‘There's nothing worse than what I did to you. I don't deserve to live.’

He probably reached out and touched her then, because I heard her growl: ‘Don't you lay a hand on me…’ But from what she said next, I knew he didn't move his hand: ‘Go grope her. What good does it do you to grope an old hag like me?’

The strong odour of cooking meat flooded into my room through the slightly open door.