POW! 23
Several paint-spattered men are pushing a two-wheeled flatbed wagon up to the temple door. They have only a blurred view of us, since they're in the light and we're in the shadows, but I see them clearly. One, a tall, slightly stooped old man, mumbles: ‘I wonder when these people will stop eating.’ ‘With meat that cheap,’ one of the shorter fellows answers, ‘they'd be fools to stop before they have to.’ ‘The way I see it, the Carnivore Festival ought to be called the Waste Money and Manpower Festival,’ says a man with a pointy chin. ‘It gets bigger and louder every year, and more and more money is poured into it. But it's been ten years now and it's brought in neither more business nor more capital, not as far as I can see. What it does bring in are big-bellied people who eat like wolves.’ ‘Huang Shifu, where are we supposed to be taking this Meat God?’ the short fellow asks the stooped old man. All four, if I'm not mistaken, are from a sculpture village not far from Slaughterhouse Village. The residents have a long tradition of producing fine sculptures of religious idols, not only out of clay and hemp but out of wood as well. The Wutong Spirit in this temple was probably made by their forebears. But village traditions crumbled during the campaign against superstition, and the artisans were forced to take up new occupations: they became tile masons, carpenters, house painters, inside and out. These days, with all the temples being rebuilt, their skills have grown useful again. The old man takes a look round. ‘Let's leave him here in the temple for the time being,’ he says. ‘He'll have the Wutong Spirit to keep him company. One's hung like a horse, the other's a meat god, a match made in Heaven, wouldn't you say?’ He laughs at his own witticism. ‘But is that a good idea?’ Pointy Chin asks. ‘You can't have two tigers on a mountain or two horses at a trough, and I'm afraid two deities will be too much for a small temple like this.’ ‘No,’ the short man says, ‘these two aren't proper deities. The Wutong Spirit is the bane of beautiful women, and I hear that this one is really a boy from Slaughterhouse Village who loves to eat meat. After something terrible happened to his parents,’ sighs the fourth, lean-faced man, ‘he travelled the countryside with his mysterious airs, challenging people to meat-eating contests. They say he once finished off more than twenty feet of sausage, one pair of dog's legs and ten pigtails. Someone like that would have to become a god.’ All the while they're sharing opinions, the four men drag the clay idol—a good six feet in length and an arm-span in thickness—off the wagon and tie ropes round its neck and feet. Then they slide a pair of shoulder poles under the ropes and, with a shout, hoist it onto their shoulders. Bent at the waist, the four men struggle to move the idol through the narrow door and into the temple. The ropes have been left too long, so the idol's head bangs loudly against the threshold. I feel dizzy, as if it's my head and not the idol's that's been thumped against the door. But the stooped old man, who's carrying the feet, notices the problem and shouts at the others: ‘Lay it down, don't drag it like that!’ The two men at the front immediately take the poles off their shoulders and lay down the idol. ‘This prick of a god is damned heavy!’ Pointy Chin complains. ‘Clean up your talk,’ warns one of the others, ‘or—’ ‘Or what!’ asks Pointy Chin. ‘Will the Meat God stuff my mouth full of meat?’ The old man at the back shortens the rope, then gives another shout. The poles are hoisted back onto their shoulders and the four men stand up straight. The idol rises and is carried slowly into the temple, the back of its head barely brushing against the floor. In a flash, I see it nearly bang into the shaved head of the Wise Monk, but fortunately the two men at the front change direction. But then the idol's feet nearly bump into my mouth, and this time the good fortune is mine, as the men at the back change direction. I detect a mixed odour of clay, paint and wood wafting off the men's bodies. Some men and women with torches appear in the doorway, caught up in a discussion of something or other. A few words later I know what they are going on about. This year's Carnivore Festival was supposed to be celebrated along with the Foundation-Stone-Laying Ceremony for a Meat God Temple. The spot across the way, where the festive night market is still abuzz, is where the temple was to be built. But a ranking official who's come to participate in the Carnivore Festival is critical of the twin cities plan for the Meat God Temple. ‘He's much too conservative,’ a boyish woman with bobbed hair complains indignantly. ‘He accuses us of creating gods and fostering superstition. Well, so what? Aren't all gods created by human beings? And who isn't superstitious? I hear he goes to Mt Yuntai to draw tallies, and then gets down on his knees in front of the Buddha statue to kowtow.’ ‘I think that's enough from you,’ says Xiao Qiao, a middle-aged official. ‘The main reason is there wasn't enough in his red envelope,’ she grumbles, ignoring him. ‘I said, that's enough from you, Comrade,’ repeats Xiao Qiao, with a pat on her shoulder, ‘Don't let your mouth get you into trouble. But she carries on, though it's increasingly hard to hear what she's saying. Their torch beams criss-cross inside the temple, the brightest swinging past the Horse Spirit's face the Wise Monk's face my face. Don't they know it's rude to shine a light in someone's eyes? The beams swing past the faces of the four men carrying the Meat God into the temple and finally pool on the face of the idol stretched out on the floor. ‘What's going on here?’ Xiao Qiao demans angrily. ‘Why is the Meat God on the floor? Pick him up, quick!’ The carriers lay down their poles, untie the ropes and take their place round the upper half of the idol's body, where each gets a handhold and then, in unison, they shout: ‘Heave!’ Not until the six-foot Meat God is on its feet do I perceive its immense size and realize that it's been carved out of the trunk of a single tree. I've always known that idols with long histories have been carved out of fine woods like sandalwood, but in times like these, when environmental protection and forest conservation are major concerns, it's almost impossible to find such a stately old sandalwood tree, even deep in the forest. And if you did, it'd be illegal to cut it down. So what was the Meat God carved out of? The stinking new paint on it concealed both the kind of wood it was made out of as well as any chance of the wood's natural odour providing a clue. If Xiao Qiao hadn't asked the workers that very question, I'd have never known what this god, which is so closely tied to me, was made of. ‘Is this sandalwood?’ he asks. ‘Where could we possibly find sandalwood?’ the old man replies with a smirk. ‘Then what is it?’ ‘Willow.’ ‘Did you say willow? Insects love willow trees. Aren't you afraid they'll hollow the thing out in a few years?’ ‘I agree’, the old man replies, willow isn't ideal for carving statues, but trees this big are hard to find, and before the carving began we soaked the wood with insecticide.’ ‘The carving lacks proportion,’ points out a young, bespectacled official, ‘the boy's head is too big.’ ‘It's not a boy,’ the old man corrects him with another smirk, ‘it's a god, and the heads of gods and humans are different. Look at the Wutong Spirit. Have you ever seen a horse with a human head?’ A torch beam swings over to illuminate the Horse Spirit. First the face—a captivating face—then the neck—the spot where the human and horse necks ingeniously meet evokes seductive eroticism—and then lower, stopping at the unnaturally large genitals—testicles the size of papayas and a half-exposed penis that looks like a laundry paddle emerging from a red sheath. I hear masculine giggles in the dark. The female official shines her torch on the Meat God's face: ‘This boy will definitely be a god in another five hundred years,’ she says in a huff. One of her male comrades, who's shining his light on the Horse Spirit, says in a more studious tone: ‘This god reveals a historical vestige of bestiality in remote antiquity. Have the rest of you heard the story of Wu Zetian engaging in sexual congress with the Donkey Prince?’ ‘We know you're an educated man, dear fellow,’ one of his comrades responds, ‘but go home and write an article instead of showing off to us.’ Xiao Qiao turns to the four carriers. ‘It's up to you to take care of the Meat God. His temple will be built as an expression of the people's yearnings for a good life, not to promote superstition. Meat on the table every day is an important standard of a comfortable, middle-class life.’ Once again, the torch beams light up the Meat God's face. By concentrating on the boy's outsized head, I strive to find traces of myself from ten years earlier. But the longer I look, the less likely I am to find any. A round face in an oval head, slitted eyes, puffy cheeks, a dimple on each side of the mouth and big, floppy, palm-like ears is what I see. Then there's the look of joy on its face. How in the world could that be me? My memory's clear—ten years ago there was a lot more suffering, a lot more sorrow than joy or happiness. ‘Section Chief’, the old man says to the official, ‘we've delivered the Meat God to the temple—we've done what we were hired to do. If you expect us to take care of it after this, you'll have to pay.’ ‘Do you actually expect to get paid for a good deed in addition to accumulating merit?’ Xiao Qiao asks. The four men burst into complaint: ‘How are we supposed to live if we don't get paid for our work?’
On the afternoon of New Year's Eve, when I heard the sound of a motorbike, I had a premonition that this particular vehicle was bringing news to our family. I was right. It stopped in front of our gate. Jiaojiao and I ran out to open it and were greeted by the sight of Huang Bao, as nimble as the leopard he was named after, walking towards us with a bundle woven of hemp. We took our places on either side of the gate to welcome him like Golden Boy and Jade Girl, the Taoist attendants. Whatever was inside the bundle gave off a strong smell. He smiled and struck a pose that was part cordial, part cool and detached and part respectfully arrogant. He was a man who carried himself well. His blue motorbike, which resembled its rider—cordial, cool and detached, respectfully arrogant—rested by the side of the road. Mother came out of the house as Huang Bao reached the middle of the yard. Father followed a half dozen steps behind.
Mother smiled broadly. ‘Come inside, Good Brother Huang Bao.’
‘Good Sister Luo,’ he said, exuding courtesy. ‘The village head has sent me with a New Year's gift for your family.’
‘Oh, we can't accept any gifts,’ Mother said, her nervousness evident. ‘We've done nothing to deserve a gift, especially from the village head himself.’
‘I'm just following orders,’ Huang Bao said as he laid the bundle at Mother's feet. ‘Goodbye and have a wonderful Spring Festival.’
Mother reached out, as if to keep him from going, but by then he was already at the gate. ‘Honestly, we can't…’
Huang Bao turned and waved, then left as speedily as he'd come. His motorbike roared to life, just in time for us to rush to the gate and see white smoke spurt from its tailpipe. He headed west, bumping along the pitted road until he turned into Lan Clan Lane.
We stood in stunned silence for at least five minutes, until we saw the roast-pork-peddler Su Zhou bicycling our way from the train station. His beaming smile meant that business had been good that day.
‘Lao Yang,’ he shouted to Mother. ‘It's New Year's, you want some roast pork?’
Mother ignored him.
‘What are you saving your money for,’ he bellowed, ‘a burial plot?’
‘To hell with you,’ Mother shot back. ‘Burial plots are for your family.’ Having got that off her chest, she dragged us back into the yard and shut the gate behind us.
She waited till we were inside and then opened the wet wrapper of Huang Bao's bundle to reveal an assortment of red and white seafood on ice. Mother took out each item, describing it for Jiaojiao and me, since we were curious and her seafood knowledge was broad; though none of the rare items she took out had ever made an appearance in our house, she was familiar with them all, and so, by all indications, was Father, though he let her be the seafood guide, content to crouch by the stove, to light his cigarette with a piece of charcoal he picked up with the tongs and sit on his haunches, smoking.
‘There's so much…that Lao Lan…’ Mother's cries were more like a lament. ‘A guest speaks well of one's host, and a receiver of gifts respects the giver.’
‘It's here, so we'll eat it,’ Father said resolutely. ‘I'll just have to go work for him.’
Electric light flooded our house that night, now that we'd put our days of murky lamplight behind us. We celebrated the Spring Festival under blazing lights, amid Mother's mutterings of gratitude towards Lao Lan's generosity and Father's embarrassed looks. To me it was the most sumptuous Spring Festival meal in memory. For the first time ever, our New Year's Eve dinner included braised prawns—the size of rolling pins—steamed crab—the size of horse hooves—a pan fried butterfish—bigger than Father's palm—along with jellyfish and cuttlefish—sea creatures I'd never tasted.
And I learnt something that night—that there are lots of things in the world just as tasty as meat.