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 virtues 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.’
Father poured more drink from the bottle. ‘Lao Lan,’ he said sombrely, ‘Not until this moment have I been convinced that you are better than me. Now I know it to be true. I will work for you willingly from this day forward.’
‘We two, you and me,’ Lao Lan said, pointing first to Father and then to himself, ‘are made of the same stuff.’
My parents and Lao Lan drank a great deal on that unforgettable evening. Their faces changed colour: Lao Lan's turned yellow, Father's white and Mother's red.