Pow!

POW! 31

‘Bring it out! Bring it out so I can see it!’ A man whose forehead looks like shiny porcelain stands in the yard barking commands to his underlings. He's clearly not a happy man. His smartly dressed assistants echo his command like parrots: ‘Bring it out! Bring it out so Governor Xu can see it!’ Wise Monk, that's the provincial lieutenant governor. It's customary in official circles for his subordinates to call him Governor. The four paint-spattered labourers run out from behind a large tree and enter the temple at a crouch. They pass by us and stop in front of the idol. Without exchanging a word, not even a glance, they work together to lay the Meat God on the floor. I hear the Meat God giggle like a child being tickled. They tie yesterday's ropes under its neck and feet, slip the two shoulder poles under the ropes, crouch to lift the poles and, with a shout—four voices at once—straighten up and gently carry their load outside. The Meat God's giggles get louder as it jiggles, loud enough, I think, for the people in the yard—Lieutenant Governor Xu and his underlings—to hear. Can you hear, Wise Monk? Outside, the Meat God lies on the ground. Then the ropes are removed. ‘Stand it up, stand it up!’ shouts a Party cadre with a full head of hair from behind the lieutenant governor. That's the local mayor, Wise Monk. He and Lao Lan are thick as thieves; some people say they're sworn brothers. The four labourers try to lift the idol by the neck but all they accomplish is to slide it along the ground by its feet. It doesn't want to stand. It's clearly being naughty, the sort of thing I did as a boy. The mayor glares at the men behind him, displeased but unwilling to throw a tantrum in front of the lieutenant governor. That look is not lost on his subordinates, who rush to lend a hand. While some keep the feet from moving, the others line up behind the straining labourers and push. Far from a smooth operation, the giggling idol is nevertheless manoeuvred into an upright position. The lieutenant governor takes a few steps back and squints at it. It's impossible to decipher the enigmatic look on his face. The mayor and his entourage have their eyes on the lieutenant governor but without making it obvious. His scrutiny complete, the man steps up and pokes the Meat God in the belly, extracting shrieks of laughter. Next, he jumps up to rub the idol's head, just as a gust of wind raises havoc with his own few strands of hair. The loose comb-over slips over his ear and hangs there comically, like a little braid. Then the mayor's head of thick black hair slides off his head like a rat's nest and, landing on the ground, rolls at the mercy of the wind. The men behind him are evenly split between those who look on, mouths agape, and those who cover their mouths to stifle a laugh. A coughing spell is the concealment tactic of choice. But none of this gets past the watchful eye of the mayor's secretary, who will make a list of those who laughed and place it on his boss’ desk that evening. A quick-witted middle-aged employee runs down the mayor's fleeing hairpiece at a speed that belies his age. Its red-faced owner doesn't know what to do. At the same time, the lieutenant governor lays his errant swatch of hair back in place, eyes the mayor's patchy scalp and jokes: ‘You and I are brothers in adversity, Mayor Hu.’ The mayor rubs his scalp. ‘My wife's idea,’ he says with a little laugh. ‘Hair doesn't grow on clever heads,’ observes the lieutenant governor. The fleet-footed employee hands the hairpiece back to the mayor, who throws it away. ‘Out of my sight, damn you. I'm no movie star!’ ‘Eight out of ten movie stars and TV hosts wear toupees, you know,’ says the helpful junior. ‘Only a bald mayor truly looks the part,’ adds the mayor by way of encouragement. ‘Thank you, Governor,’ responds the now-pacified and radiant mayor. ‘Won't you please share your thoughts with me?’ ‘No, I think this is fine. Many of our comrades are too conservative. There's nothing wrong with a Meat God and a Meat God Temple. They have rich implications and lasting appeal.’ His comment is met with applause, the mayor taking the lead, continuing for a full three minutes despite attempts by the lieutenant governor to end it. ‘We must be bold,’ he continues, ‘give rein to our imagination. In my view, there should be no restrictions on things that benefit the people.’ He points to the inscribed board above the decrepit little temple entrance. ‘Take this Wutong Temple,’ he says. ‘I think it should be restored. A local gazetteer I looked at last night indicated that this little temple once thrived with many pilgrims, up until the Republican era, when a local official handed down an order that people were no longer permitted to worship here. That was the beginning of the temple's decline. Paying respects to the Wutong Spirit shows that the masses yearn for a healthy, happy sex life, and what's wrong with that? Allocate some funds and refurbish it while you're building the Meat God Temple. Here you have two bright spots that will boost the economic development of the twin cities, so don't let other provinces come in and steal your thunder.’ The mayor steps up with a glass of fifty-year-old Maotai: ‘Governor Xu,’ he says, ‘I toast you on behalf of the twin cities!’ To which the senior official replies: ‘Didn't you just do that?’ ‘No,’ replies the mayor, ‘that was on behalf of the people of the city in gratitude for approving the construction of a Meat God Temple and the refurbishing of the Wutong Temple. Now on behalf of the people of the city, I want to thank you ahead of time for personally writing the words for the board.’ ‘I wouldn't dare try,’ responds the lieutenant governor. ‘But Governor Xu, you are a famous calligrapher and the authority who has approved the Meat God Temple. If you don't inscribe the words, the temple won't be built.’ ‘Now you're driving the duck onto its perch,’ says the lieutenant governor. A local Party man rises: ‘Governor Xu, people feel that you ought to be a professional calligrapher, not a governor. If you'd chosen calligraphy for a career, you'd be a millionaire many times over.’ The mayor carries on the train of thought: ‘Now you see why we are resorting to well-meaning extortion to get you to honour us with your writing.’ The lieutenant governor blushes; he wavers. ‘For Wu Song, warrior hero of Mt Liang, the more he drank the greater his bravery. For me, the more I drink the greater my vitality. Calligraphy, ah, calligraphy, the essence of a man's vitality. Bring me brush and ink.’ The lieutenant governor takes a large-handled writing brush, dips it into a thick, inky mixture, holds his breath, and, in the wake of one magical sweep, three large, wildly haughty characters—, Meat God Temple—leap onto the paper.

Water-injected and spoilt meat—beef, pork and mutton—was stacked atop kindling in the drainage ditch that ran past the inspection station. It reeked terribly, it grumbled loudly and its mouldy little hands waved angrily. Xiao Han, in full uniform and looking quite sombre, walked out with a bucket of kerosene and splashed it over the exposed meat.

A big-character slogan banner hung between two poles in the simple meeting site that had been erected just inside the plant's front gate. The same old stuff. I didn't know the words but they knew me. I didn't have to be told that they spelt out a congratulatory message for the plant's formal opening. The gate, which was usually shut, had been thrown open, sandwiched between a pair of brick columns on which hung celebratory scrolls in red. Those words knew me as well. Several long tables with red tablecloths had been set up beneath the banner. Chairs were lined up behind the tables, colourful flower baskets were arranged in front.

Jiaojiao and I ran hand-in-hand between these two soon-to-be-bustling spots. Most of the village had turned out to stroll through the area. We spotted Yao Qi but the look on his face was hard to read. We also spotted Lao Lan's brother-in-law, Su Zhou, squatting on the riverbank and gazing at the meat in the drainage ditch.

Some vans drove down the road that separated these two spots, and out jumped people with video equipment or with cameras round their necks. Reporters, people you never want to offend. They seemed pleased with themselves as they emerged from their vans. Lao Lan strode out through the gate to greet them, Father at his heels. Lao Lan smiled and shook hands. ‘Welcome,’ he said, ‘a hearty welcome.’

Father, also smiling, shook hands. ‘Welcome,’ he echoed, ‘a hearty welcome.’

The reporters, as was their wont, went right to work. After filming and photographing the pile of spoilt meat that was to be burnt, they turned their cameras to the main gate and the outdoor meeting site.

Then they interviewed Lao Lan.

Speaking volubly into the camera, and gesturing as he spoke, he was poised and at ease. ‘In days past,’ he explained, ‘Slaughterhouse Village families were independent operators. And despite being law-abiding citizens, they did indulge in the illegal injection of water into meat. To facilitate management and to offer fresh, choice cuts of meat that are not water-injected to city customers, we have shut down independent butcher operations and formed the United Meatpacking Plant. At the same time, we have asked our superiors to create an inspection station. Citizens in the county and provincial cities can be assured that our products have been thoroughly inspected and are of the highest quality. To guarantee this standard, we will not only subject the meat that emerges from the plant to the most stringent inspection but also subject the animals that enter the plant to the same standard. To do this we are setting up production centres for live pigs, beef cattle, sheep and dogs as well as breeding farms for less common fowl and animals, like camels, sika deer, foxes, boars, wolves, ostriches, peacocks and turkeys, to meet the gustatory demands of urban consumers. In a word, the day will come when we will be the centre of meat production in the province, providing the masses with a virtually endless supply of top-quality meat. And we won't stop there. In the near future, we will begin exporting to the world, even beyond Asia, so that people in all countries will be able to enjoy our products…’

After concluding the interview, the reporters turned to Father, who couldn't stop fidgeting and swaying from side to side, as if looking for something to lean on—a wall, a tree, something. But nothing came to his rescue, and his eyes darted this way and that, looking everywhere but into the camera. The woman holding the microphone said: ‘Manager Luo, try not to move so much.’

He froze.

Then she focused on his eyes. ‘Manager Luo, don't keep looking to the side.’

He stared straight ahead.

The answers he gave bore little relevance to the reporter's questions.

‘You have my word that we will not inject our meat with water,’ he said.

‘We are going to supply city residents with top-quality meat products,’ he said.

‘We invite you to come often to supervise our operations,’ he said.

Those few statements were repeated by him over and over, regardless of the question. Finally, the reporter let him go with a good-natured smile.

A dozen or so automobiles—some black, some blue, some white—drove up, and out stepped men in suits and ties and highly polished shoes. Officials, clearly. The leading VIP, a short, thickset, ruddy-faced man, smiled radiantly. All the others lined up behind him and made their way towards the plant gate. The reporters quick-stepped their way ahead of the approaching officials and then walked backward to film and photograph them. The video cameras were silent but the still cameras clicked with each shot. Their subjects, well used to the attention, talked and laughed and gestured, perfectly naturally, unlike my father who shrank from the cameras, unnerved by the limelight. I thought the men surrounding the leading official looked familiar. Perhaps I'd seen them on TV. They stuck close to him, leaning his way and vying to get a word in. Saccharine smiles seemed in danger of dripping off their faces.

Lao Lan trotted out through the gate, followed by my father. They'd seen the official and his entourage arrive but had waited for the right moment to step out and to be photographed and filmed, just as they'd rehearsed an hour earlier at the municipal propaganda office under the supervision of one of the secretaries.

Mr Chai, a gaunt beanpole of a man with a small head, had a vegetative appearance. But for all that, he owned a booming voice. ‘You there, Yang Yuzhen,’ he instructed Mother, and then turned to the girls who were to be hostesses. ‘You, you and you, you three girls pretend that you're members of the official contingent approaching the gate. Yang Yuzhen, Lao Luo, you wait behind the gate. When the group reaches the chalk mark, come out to receive your guests. OK? Let's give it a try.’ Secretary Chai stood by the gate. ‘Yang Yuzhen,’ he shouted, ‘lead them this way.’ The girls behind Mother giggled, holding their hands over their mouths. That made Mother laugh. ‘What's so funny?’ Chai barked. With a dry little cough, Mother managed to stop and assume a stern look. ‘That's enough,’ she said to the girls. ‘No more giggles. Let's go.’ Jiaojiao and I watched as Mother, dressed in a blue blouse and skirt, with an apple-green scarf round her neck, threw out her chest and held her head high. She looked the part. ‘Not so fast,’ Chai called out, ‘slow down! Pretend you're talking. Good, that's it, now keep walking. Lao Lan, Lao Luo, get ready. OK, now! Go on, walk, Lao Lan in front, a little more natural, speed it up, shorter steps, don't run. Raise your head, Lao Luo, don't look down like you've lost something. OK, good, now keep walking.’ Taking their cues from Secretary Chai, Lao Lan and Father were all smiles as they met Mother's contingent at the chalk mark. Lao Lan shook hands with Mother. ‘Welcome,’ he said, ‘a hearty welcome.’ Secretary Chai said: ‘Now one of the staff will make the introductions. Lao Lan, you have to let go of the official's hand. Once you've shaken his hand, move to the side to let Lao Luo shake hands with Lao Yang, no, not Lao Yang, I mean the VIP. Let them shake hands.’ Lao Lan let go of Mother's hand and, laughing, moved to the side, leaving Father and Mother standing face to face, both looking quite uncomfortable. ‘Lao Luo,’ Chai said, ‘offer her your hand. She's a VIP, not your wife.’ Grumbling under his breath, Father reached out, shook Mother's hand and shouted angrily: ‘Welcome, a hearty welcome! That'll never do, Lao Luo,’ scolded Chai. ‘What kind of a welcome is that? You sound like you want to start a fight!’ ‘I won't do it like that with a real official,’ Father responded, his temper rising. ‘What the hell is this, a circus?’ Secretary Chai smiled understandingly: ‘Lao Luo, you're going to have to get used to this. Who knows, before long your wife might become an official and your boss.’ Father's response was a snort of disdain. ‘OK,’ Chai said, ‘that wasn't bad. Let's try it again.’ ‘That's all for me,’ Father complained. ‘We could do it ten more times and nothing would change.’ ‘Me, too,’ Mother said, ‘I'm done. Being an official is hard work.’ She wiped her face with her hand. ‘Look at my sweaty face,’ she said exaggeratedly. ‘We can stop here, Secretary Chai,’ Lao Lan said, ‘we know our parts. Don't worry, we'll get it right.’ ‘All right, then,’ Chai said. ‘Just be as natural as you can, and outgoing. You need to treat the VIPs with respect, but don't come across as a lackey.’

Despite the rehearsal, Father was stiff and unnatural; when the time came he was, if anything, worse. I felt deeply embarrassed. Just look at Lao Lan—standing straight, chest out, a broad smile on his face, making a wonderful impression. One look told you that he was a man of the world yet one who remained simple, honest and trustworthy. But then my father followed him, head down, shifty-eyed, evasive, like a man harbouring sinister thoughts. He stepped on Lao Lan's heel at least once as he stumbled along, and it looked as if an invisible brick in the road had tripped him. His arms were like clubs hanging from his shoulders, incapable of bending or moving. It was almost as if he was wearing a suit of armour. His expression was something between a laugh and a sob, a sorry sight to behold, and all I could think was how much better a job Mother would have done, or, me, for that matter. I'd have done better, perhaps even outdone Lao Lan.

Lao Lan grabbed the leading official's hand with both of his and shook it hard. ‘Welcome, a hearty welcome!’

A minor official introduced Lao Lan to his superior: ‘This is Lan Youli, Chairman of the Board and General Manager, Huachang Corporation.’

‘A peasant-turned-entrepreneur!’ said the man with a smile.

‘A peasant, yes,’ Lao Lan said modestly, ‘but hardly an entrepreneur.’

‘Just do a good job,’ said the official. ‘I don't see a Great Wall separating peasant and entrepreneur these days.’

‘Our leader is very wise,’ Lao Lan said. ‘We will, as you say, do a good job.’

Lao Lan shook the official's hand a second time before relinquishing his spot to Father.

‘This is Luo Tong,’ introduced the minor official, ‘the plant manager, an expert on meat. He has an unerring eye, like the legendary chef Pao Ding.’

‘Really?’ the official remarked as he shook Father's hand. ‘I guess in your eyes there's no such thing as a living cow—just an accumulation of flesh and bones.’

Father glanced down at the tips of the minor official's shoes as his face turned red and he muttered unintelligibly.

‘Pao Ding,’ official said to him, ‘it's up to you to see that no water is injected into the meat.’

Finally Father managed a few words: ‘I guarantee…’

Lao Lan led the VIP and his entourage into the plant compound. As if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, Father moved away and watched the party pass by.

His inability to perform in the limelight made me feel terrible. I'd have liked to run up, grab hold of his tie and throttle him till he snapped out of his muddle-headedness, till he stopped standing at the side of the road like some moron. All the spectators followed the VIPs through the gate but Father stayed where he was, looking lost. When I couldn't take it any longer, I went up to him; to avoid destroying the last vestige of his dignity, I did refrain from grabbing his tie. I just nudged him in the waist and said: ‘Don't stand here, Dieh. You need to stand next to Lao Lan. You have to give the guided tour.’

‘Lao Lan can handle it by himself,’ he replied, looking timid.

Pinching his leg savagely, I whispered: ‘You really disappoint me, Dieh!’

‘You're stupid, Dieh!’ Jiaojiao remarked.

‘Now go!’ I said.

‘You're just children.’ Father looked down at us. ‘You can't understand how your father feels…but all right, I'll go.’

He strode off towards the meeting site, as determined as I'd ever seen him, and I saw Yao Qi, who was standing by the gate, arms folded, reward him with a meaningful nod.

The ceremony finally got underway and, as Lao Lan loudly made the opening remarks, Father walked over to the drainage ditch in front of the inspection station. He then lit a torch, held it high and waved it for the benefit of the spectators. Reporters rushed up and aimed their cameras at the torch in his hand. He spoke, though no one asked him to: ‘I guarantee that we will not inject our meat with water.’

With that he flung the torch onto the pile of rotting, reeking kerosene-soaked meat.

Seemingly before the torch actually touched it, flames roared into the sky and shrill screeches—a mixture of excitement and agony—emerged from the conflagration, carrying with them a sweet yet disagreeable smell. The flames leapt high into the sky, and twisting columns of black smoke accompanied the sound and the smell. The flames, a deep red, looked especially dense, and my thoughts were taken back a year or so, to the fires Mother and I set to burn discarded rubber tyres and plastic waste. There was a definite resemblance with the fire in front of me now, but also a fundamental difference. The fires back then had been industrial burns—plastic, chemical, toxic—while this fire was agrarian—animal, life, nutrients. Though spoilt, it was still meat, and incinerating meat like this made me hungry. I knew that Lao Lan had told my parents to buy it at the local market and then store it inside to let it rot. It had not been purchased for consumption but to be burnt, to play the role of an inferno. Which is to say, it was edible when my parents sent someone to buy it. Which is also to say, if they hadn't sent someone to buy it, someone else would have consumed it. Had fortune smiled upon the meat or hadn't it? The most cherished fate for meat is to be eaten by someone who both understands and loves it. The least cherished fate is to be incinerated. And so, as I watched it curl up in agony, struggle, moan and shriek in the flames, solemn and tragic feelings rose up in me, creating the illusion that I was that meat, that I was sacrificing myself for Lao Lan and my parents. The sole purpose of the spectacle was to show that we, the residents of Slaughterhouse Village, would never again produce water-injected or otherwise corrupted meat. The fire was the concrete expression of that resolve. Reporters filmed and photographed it from all angles, and the flames attracted a crowd round the plant gate. Including a fellow from a neighbouring village with the unusual name of October. People said he was a mental midget but he didn't seem stupid to me. He elbowed his way up to the fire and stabbed a hunk of meat with a steel pike. Then he ran off, holding the flaming meat over his head, like a torch. Shaped like a large shoe, it dripped grease, tiny, sizzling drops of liquid fire as October shouted excitedly and ran up and down the street. A young reporter snapped his picture, although none of the video cameras turned towards him.

‘Meat for sale,’ he shouted, ‘cooked meat for sale…’

October's performance made him the centre of attention, even as the grand opening ceremony was in progress and the VIP in the middle of his speech. The reporters rushed back with their cameras, though I'd have bet that the younger ones would have preferred to film October's antics. Professional diligence, however, did not allow for impetuous actions.

‘The creation of the United Meatpacking Plant is a historic event…’ The VIP's amplified voice swirled in the air.

October twirled the skewer over his head, like a spear-wielding actor in an opera. The chunk of flaming meat popped and crackled, sending hot drops of grease flying like tiny meteors. A spectator screamed as grease spatter landed on her cheeks. ‘Damn you, October!’ she cursed.

People ignored her, preferring to watch October and reward him with the odd encouraging shout of ‘Bravo, October, bravo!’ People in the crowd jumped out of the way with a skill and a vigour to match his.

‘In line with our goal to supply the masses with worry-free meat, we have created the Huachang brand and ensure its reputation…’ Lao Lan was speaking now.

I took my eyes off October, just for a moment, to see if I could find my father. In my mind, the plant manager ought to be on the speaker's platform at this important moment, and I fervently hoped he wasn't still hanging round the fire. I was in for another disappointment, for that's exactly where he was. The attention of most of the people there had been drawn by October, all but a few old-timers hunkered down alongside the drainage ditch and close to the fire, probably trying to keep warm. Two people were standing: one was my father, the other a uniformed man who worked for Lao Han and who was poking the flaming pile with a steel pole as if it were a sacred duty. My father's unblinking eyes were fixed on the flames and the smoke as he stood almost reverently, his suit curling from the heat. From where I stood he looked like a charred lotus leaf that would crumble at the slightest touch.

All of a sudden I felt very afraid. Was there something wrong with his mind? I was suddenly afraid that he'd throw himself onto the pyre and join that meat in its martyrdom. So I grabbed Jiaojiao's hand and ran towards the burning pile as shouts of alarm erupted behind us, followed by uproarious laughter. Instinctively, we turned to see what had happened. Apparently the meat on October's pike had flown off like a leaping flame and landed on top of a parked luxury sedan. The driver shrieked in alarm, he cursed, he jumped, he tried desperately to knock the flaming meat off his car but carefully for fear of being burnt. He knew the car could go up in flames, perhaps even explode. Suddenly he took off one of his shoes and knocked the meat to the ground.

‘We are committed to putting in place a system of checks that will enable us to carry out our sacred duty, ensuring that not a single piece of nonstandard meat ever leaves this plant…’ The passionate voice of Lao Han, chief of the Inspection Station, momentarily drowned out the noises on the street.

Jiaojiao and I reached Father, then we pushed and shoved and pinched him until he reluctantly took his eyes of the pyre and gazed down at us. In a hoarse, raspy voice—as if the flames had seared his larynx—he asked: ‘What are you children doing?’

‘Dieh,’ I said, ‘you shouldn't be standing here.’

‘Where do you think I should to be standing?’ he asked, a bitter smile on his lips.

‘Over there.’ I pointed to the meeting site.

‘I'm beginning to get annoyed, children.’

‘Please, Dieh,’ I said. ‘Take a page out of Lao Lan's book.’

‘Do you really want me to turn into someone like him?’ he asked darkly.

‘Yes,’ I said, with a look at Jiaojiao. ‘But better than him.’

‘That's a tune I can't sing, children,’ he said. ‘But for your sake, I'll try.’

Mother ran up breathlessly. ‘What's the matter with you?’ she hissed. ‘You're up next. Lao Lan says to come now.’

With one last reluctant look at the fire, Father said: ‘All right, I'm coming.’

‘And you two, don't get close to that fire,’ Mother warned.

Father strode purposefully towards the meeting site. Mother walked away from the fire, and we followed her. On the way we spotted the young driver, who had put his shoe back on, kicking the flaming chunk of meat as far as he could. He then ran up to ‘madman’ October and kicked him in the shin. October yelped and staggered but didn't fall.

‘What the hell are you up to?’ the driver cursed.

Terrified by the attack, October gaped at the man for a moment before raising his pike and, with an eerie shout, swinging it at his head. The man ducked, and the pike merely glanced off his cheek. Pale with fright, he managed to grab it before uttering a stream of curses, assuring October that he'd make him pay. Spectators rushed up and held him back. ‘Forget it, comrade,’ they urged. ‘You don't want to get into a dispute with someone who's not right in the head.’

The driver let go of the pike and stormed off angrily. Then he opened the car's trunk, took out a rag and began to clean the grease off the top of the car.

October walked off, dragging his pike behind him, limping slightly.

Suddenly, we heard Father's voice over the loudspeakers: ‘I guarantee that we will not inject our meat with water.’

The people on the street looked up, trying to locate the source of his voice.

‘I guarantee that we will not inject our meat with water,’ he repeated.