POW! 22
Another burst of fireworks blossoms in the sky, and four red circles transmogrify into large green characters——spelling out ‘peace on earth’. They disintegrate into dozens of green meteorites that then fizzle in the darkness. Another cluster quickly fills the void, illuminating the lingering smoke from the previous burst and thickens the heavy smell of gunpowder that hangs over the field and makes my throat itch. Wise Monk, I witnessed many celebrations back when I was roaming the city streets, grand parades in daylight and fireworks displays at night, but I've never seen anything to match tonight's display of pyrotechnic words and intricate patterns. Times evolve, society progresses and the skill of fireworks artisans keeps improving, as does the art of barbecuing meat. Going back ten years, Wise Monk, the best we could manage here was lamb kebabs over a charcoal fire. But now there's Korean barbecue, Japanese barbecue, Brazilian barbecue, Thai barbecue and Mongolian barbecue. There's quail teppanyaki, flint-fired lamb's tail, charcoal mutton, pebble-roasted pork liver, pine-bough roast chicken, peach-wood roast duck, pear-wood roast goose…it's hardly farfetched to say that there's nothing in the world that can't be barbecued or roasted. An announcement signals the end of the fireworks display amid whoops and shouts from the spectators. Grand feasts must end some time, good times never last long, a thought that I find especially depressing. The final, and largest, pyrotechnic burst drags a fiery thread five hundred metres into the sky. Then it bursts to form a big red —meat—from which sparks cascade earthward, like drippings from a hunk of meat as it's removed from the pot. The people's eyes—bigger, it seems, than even their mouths, which in turn are bigger than their fists—are glued to the sight, as if waiting expectantly for the in the sky to drop into their mouths. In a matter of seconds breaks up into dozens of white umbrellas that float slowly to the ground, trailing white silk streamers, before being swallowed up by the inky night. It does not take long for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, allowing me to see hundreds of barbecue stands on the open field across the street. As one, their lights snap on, each covered by a red lampshade, the red rays of light creating an air of mystery in the night. It reminds me of the ghost markets of popular legend: flickering shadows, indistinct features, pointed teeth, green fingernails, transparent ears, poorly hidden tails…The meat-peddlers are ghosts, the meat-eaters human. Or else the meat-peddlers are human, the meat-eaters ghosts. If not that, the peddlers and the eaters of meat are all human, or all ghosts. If an outsider were to wander into a night market like that, he'd be witness to all sorts of unimaginable things. When he thought about them later, they would send chills up his spine but would give him a wealth of things to boast about. Wise Monk, you have left the mortal world and the bitter seas of humanity, and so have escaped the stories of the ghost markets. I grew up in the gory confines of Slaughterhouse Village, and spent much of my childhood listening to those tales. Like the one about a man who walked into a ghost market by mistake and caught sight of a fat man roasting his own leg over a charcoal fire, slicing off edible pieces when it was done. ‘Watch out!’ the visitor yelled. ‘You'll turn into a cripple!’ With a cry of anguish, the man threw down his knife, knowing he was now a cripple, something that would not have happened if the visitor hadn't shouted out. Then there was the man who got up early to ride his bicycle into town to sell meat. But he lost his way. When he saw lamplight ahead, he discovered a thriving meat market where curling smoke welcomed him with an extraordinary aroma. Peddlers shouted their wares and sweat dotted the diners’ foreheads. Business was lively, to the great joy of the newcomer, who set up a stall, including his butcher block, and laid out an array of aromatic, freshly roasted meat. His first shout drew a crowd of people who fought to place their orders—one jin for this person, two for that—without even asking the price. He had trouble keeping up with the demand of people who were in no mood to wait. They flung the money into his rush bag, grabbed the meat with their bare hands and began to stuff their faces. And as they chewed and swallowed, their faces underwent a hideous change and green lights began to shoot from their eyes. Realizing something was seriously amiss, the man scooped up his rush bag and fled, stumbling away and not stopping till the roosters crowed the coming dawn. Then he looked round him and discovered that he was standing in a wildwood. And when he checked his rush bag all he found was ash. Wise Monk, the barbecuing night market in front of us is an important component of the Twin Cities Carnivore Festival, and should not be a ghost market. But even if it were, would that matter? People these days enjoy nothing more than making contact with ghosts. These days it's the ghosts who are frightened by the people. The meat-peddlers out there all wear chef's hats, and they look top heavy as they busily chop meat and hail customers with their exaggerated claims. Charcoal and meat create a smell that seems to come from a time long ago, from past millennia, blanketing as much as a square kilometre. Black smoke merges with white smoke to form smoky colours that rise into the air and send birds weaving crazily in the sky. Gaily dressed young men and women happily wolf down the meat. A beer in one hand and a skewer of lamb in the other, some take a bite of meat, then a drink of beer and produce a loud belch. Others stand facing one another, man to woman, in a feeding frenzy. More daring couples hold a single piece of meat in their teeth and eat their way closer, until the end of the meat signals the beginning of a kiss, to the raucous delight of people round them. I'm hungry, Wise Monk, and I have a greedy mouth. But I took a vow to abstain from eating meat. I know that what's going on out there is your way to put me to the test, and I'll resist temptation by continuing my narration—
A number of important events occurred in our family round the Spring Festival. The first was on the afternoon of the fourth day of the new year, that is, the day after Lao Lan had dinner at our house, even before we had a chance to clean the tableware and furniture we'd borrowed for the occasion. Mother and Father were having a casual conversation as they washed dishes. Actually, it was anything but ‘casual’, since the talk did not stray far from Lao Lan, returning to him every two or three sentences. Once I'd heard enough, I went outside, where I peeled back the tarp covering the mortar, took out a packet of grease, and, for the last time before it was moved into the storeroom, laid on a protective coat. Now that the family had re-established friendly relations with Lao Lan, I no longer had an enemy. But that didn't remove the need to keep my weapon in good working order, if for no other reason than to remain alert to something my parents said over and over during that talk: ‘No one stays an enemy for ever, and no friendships are eternal.’ That is to say, an enemy today could become a friend tomorrow, and today's friend could turn into tomorrow's enemy. And there's no enemy as savage and full of loathing as someone who was once a friend. That's why it was important to keep my mortar in good working order. If the need to use it ever arose, I could put it into action immediately. I'd never consider selling it to a scrap dealer.
I began by wiping off the old coat of dust-covered grease with cotton yarn. Starting on the tube and moving down to the bipod, then from there to the gun sight and, finally, to the base plate, I cleaned it with painstaking care, reaching into every nook and cranny, including the tube, for which I used a stick wrapped in cotton yarn, back and forth hundreds of times, since my arm would not fit inside. The now-greaseless mortar had a dull, gunmetal-grey finish, and the spots eaten away by rust over the years lay exposed. Too bad, really too bad, but there was nothing I could do about that. I'd tried sanding the rusty spots with a brick and sandpaper but was afraid that I'd scrape off so much metal it would no longer be safe to fire. After removing the old grease, I spread on a new coat with my fingers, smooth and even. Every nook and cranny, of course. I'd bought this packet of grease at a little village near the airport. The villagers there, who'd steal anything, with the possible exception of an aeroplane, told me it was aeroplane-engine grease, and I believed them. A protective coat of that grease made it a very lucky mortar indeed.
My sister watched me while I tended to it. I didn't have to look to know that she was following my every move, wide-eyed. Every now and then she'd come up with a question: ‘What is that thing?’ ‘What's a mortar used for?’ ‘When will you fire it?’ and so on. I answered all of them because I was so fond of her. It also gave me pleasure to play the role of teacher.
I finished applying the grease but just as I was thinking of putting back the tarp, a pair of electricians from the village strolled into the compound. With startled faces and flashing eyes, they warily approached the mortar. Though they were in their twenties, their childlike expressions made them look like awkward little boys. They asked the same sorts of questions as Jiaojiao, but they were far less sophisticated. In fact, they were ignorant, ill-informed dopes, at least as far as weapons were concerned. Which is why they didn't receive the patient responses I'd given Jiaojiao. I either ignored them or teased them. ‘How far can this mortar reach?’ ‘Not far—about as far as your house. Don't believe me? No? Let's give it a try. I'll bet I can flatten your house with one shell.’ My teasing didn't get the rise out of them I'd hoped for. Instead, they bent over, cocked their heads and squinted down the tube, as if it contained a mysterious secret. So I smacked the tube with my hand and shouted: ‘Ready—aim—fire!’ They nearly fell all over themselves as they scuttled away, like frightened rabbits. ‘Scaredy cats!’ I shouted. ‘Scaredy cats!’ echoed Jiaojiao. They laughed sheepishly in response.
My parents came into the yard and rolled up their sleeves, exposing pale arms for Mother and dark for Father; if not for his swarthy skin as a contrast, I'd never have realized how pale Mother's were. Their hands were red from steeping in cold water. Unable to remember the men's names, Father hemmed and hawed but Mother knew who they were. ‘Tongguang, Tonghui,’ she greeted them with a smile, ‘it's been a long time.’ Turning to Father, she explained: ‘They're the sons of the Peng family, both electricians. I thought you knew them.’
The Peng brothers bowed respectfully to Mother. ‘Aunty, the village head sent us to instal electricity in your house.’
‘But we haven't asked for electricity!’ Mother exclaimed.
‘We're just following orders,’ Tongguang replied.
‘Will it cost a lot?’ Father asked.
‘We don't know,’ Tonghui said. ‘We just do the installing.’
‘Since the village head sent you,’ Mother said after a moment's hesitation, ‘go ahead.’
‘That's what we like, Aunty, someone who makes up her mind!’ exclaimed Tongguang. ‘Since we're doing this on the village head's orders, at most there'll be a modest fee for the material.’
‘Maybe not even that,’ Tonghui said. ‘It's the village head, after all.’
‘We'll pay whatever it costs,’ Mother assured them. ‘We're not the kind to abuse the public trust.’
‘Aunty Luo is a generous person, everyone knows that,’ said Tongguang with a smile. ‘People say she brings home bones found in scrap heaps and boils them to feed Xiaotong.’
‘Go to hell!’ snapped Mother. ‘Do what you came to do or get out of my yard!’
The Peng brothers giggled their way out onto the street and began moving a folding ladder, electric wiring, electric sockets, meters and other equipment into the yard. They were an impressive sight with their wide brown leather belts from which hung grips, shears and screwdrivers in a variety of colours. Mother and I once found a set of tools like that in a lane behind the city's fertilizer plant, but she took it to one of the hardware outlets behind the department store and sold it for thirteen yuan. That made her so happy she rewarded me with a meat-filled flatbread. The Peng brothers, tools at their waist, dragged the electric wire up over the eaves before going inside. Mother followed. Father squatted down to inspect the mortar.
‘It's an 82 mm mortar,’ he said. ‘Japanese. During the War of Resistance, the most outstanding service you could perform was to get your hands on one of these.’
‘You surprise me, Dieh,’ I exclaimed. ‘I never thought you knew stuff like that. What do the shells look like? Have you ever seen one?’
‘I served in the militia and trained in town,’ he said. ‘They had four just like this for our use. I was the second man on a team. My job was to feed ammo to the man firing the mortar.’
‘Tell me more!’ I said excitedly. ‘Tell me what the shells looked like.’
‘They were like…like…’ He picked up a stick and drew a picture of a shell with a bulging middle and a pointed tip in the sand. And tiny wings at one end. ‘Like this.’
‘Did you ever fire one?’
‘I'd have to say yes. As Number Two, my job was to hand the shells to my comrade, who took them, and…’ He bent, spread his legs and pretended to hold a shell. ‘Then dropped them in like this, and, with a pop, they were on their way.’