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POW! 36



The enormous hulk that was Lan Laoda's son, surrounded by fresh-cut blooms, lies not so much on the bier as on a bed of flowers. Dozens of mourners—all in black—walk round it amid the soft sounds of funereal music. Lan Laoda stands, bent at the waist, looking down into the face of his son. Then he straightens up, raises his head and faces the mourners with a broad smile. ‘From the day he was born,’ he says, ‘my son lived in the lap of luxury. He knew neither suffering nor worry. His only wish in life was to eat meat, and that wish was never denied him.’ Looking down at the hillock that was his son's belly, then continues: ‘After consuming a tonne of meat, he slipped away painlessly in his sleep. His was a happy life, and I carried out all the responsibilities of a father. What I find most gratifying is that I was with him when he died and that I am now giving him the finest funeral possible. If a netherworld exists, my son will never know an unhappy moment, and now that he is gone I have no more concerns. I am hosting a banquet at the manor tonight, to which you are all invited. Please come in your finest clothes and bring lovely women with you to share the best food and drink money can buy.’ At the manor that evening, Lan Laoda raises an amber glass of VSOP brandy, immersed in the aromas of gourmet dishes, the liquor swirling in his glass, and announces grandly: ‘To my son, who knew the best that life has to offer and who then passed away peacefully!’ Grief seems not to have touched him, not at all.

An outdoor contest between the three workers and me commenced in front of the plant kitchen.

The episode occupied my reveries in the days and months that followed, and never failed to make my mind wander far from whatever I was doing or thinking at the moment. It would always be that day all over again.

The contest was set for six in the evening. It was the end of the day shift, and time for the night-shift workers to arrive. It was midsummer, the longest day of the year. The sun was still high in the sky, and the peasants had not yet come home from the fields. The wheat harvest was in and the smell lingered in the air. New wheat lay drying in the sun on the road in front of the plant gate and the occasional gust of wind carried the smell of farmland into the compound. Though we continued to live in the village and were listed as village residents, we were no longer a peasant household. We water-injected the animals in the day and slaughtered them in the night. The inspectors added their blue stamps to the meat and we sent the meat into town. Uncle Han's meat inspector showed up dutifully, ready to stamp the meat, a paragon of responsible public service. But not for long; after the first few nights he left his stamp and inkpad in the kill room for us to do it ourselves. In order to prevent the injected water from leaking out and lowering the weight and, more importantly, the quality, of the meat, we sprayed its surface with an anti-leak substance (which neither protected nor endangered the health of the consumer). Since we hadn't yet installed cold-storage rooms, the meat had to be delivered the same day the animals were slaughtered. We owned three delivery trucks that had been modified to carry fresh meat, and which were driven by ex-servicemen hired for their ace driving skills, their take-no-prisoners attitude and their alarming appearance. You wouldn't want to mess with these men. At about two every morning, a pair of ageing gatekeepers pushed open United's loudly creaking steel gate and the delivery trucks, loaded with trustworthy meat, slipped out of the compound, one after the other, made quick turns and then slid onto the highway. Their breathing adjusted, like spirited horses, they then gathered speed and their headlights lit up the road to town. I knew that the trucks carried nothing but meat injected with clean well water to guarantee its freshness and safety. But every time I watched them slip out of the compound in the pre-dawn darkness and then speed up the highway, I would be possessed of the nagging feeling that their cargo was actually contraband—not meat but explosives or drugs.

Here I must put to rest the long-standing misconception that all water-injected meat is contaminated. Admittedly, when individual families in Slaughterhouse Village illegally injected their meat with water amid unsanitary conditions and via unsanitary procedures, much of what was produced was of an inferior quality. But at United, the move from post-slaughter to pre-slaughter injection was nothing less than revolutionary, a turning point in animal-slaughter history. Lao Lan said it best: ‘One cannot overstate the significance of this revolutionary moment.’ And there was another important factor that ensured that United's water-injected meat was fresher than everything else: we could have used tap water but we didn't, since it contained additives like chlorine. Our products were what we now call organic, with no chemical additives. Which is why I insisted we treat our animals with pure, crystalline well water, water superior to both its distilled and mineral counterparts. It was like fine wine. Red, puffy eyes caused by internal heat can be cured with just one bath in our spring water. Yellow urine also caused by internal heat clears up completely after two cups of the same. Since this is what we injected in our animals before their slaughter, you can imagine the superior quality of the meat they produced. If you could not eat our meat with complete confidence, then you were a pathological worrywart. Everyone complimented us on our products, which were sold exclusively in urban supermarkets. I hope that when people hear about water-injected meat, they won't think of putrid meat produced in filthy, illegal butcher sites. Our meat was succulent, bursting with flavour and glowing with the air of youth. Too bad I can't show you any of our water-injected meat, too bad I can't recreate my sterling achievements, too bad I can only experience my, as well as United Meatpacking Plant's, glorious history by calling upon my memories.

When the rest of the workers heard about the meat-eating contest, the day-shifters stayed back and the night-shifters showed up early. A crowd of more than a hundred filled the yard outside the kitchen to see the spectacle unfold…At this point in my narrative, I need to stop and talk about something else. Back in the day of street-corner storytellers, this is what they called ‘one plant, double stems, two flowers, focusing on one first’.

During a rest period back in the commune era, when the villagers combined their labour, two individuals took part in a chilli-pepper-eating contest. The winner was to receive a pack of cigarettes, donated by the production team leader. The competitors were my father and Lao Lan. Both were fifteen or sixteen at the time—no longer boys, not yet men. The peppers chosen for the contest were no run-of-the-mill variety but of a special type known as goat horns. Each contestant was given forty long, thick, purple peppers, just one of which was capable of reducing most men to crying for their mothers. The team leader's pack of cigarettes would not be easily won. Not knowing what my father and Lao Lan looked like back then, I've had to rely on my imagination. They were friends but they were also rivals, each trying to outdo the other at activities like wrestling, usually without a clear winner or loser. It does not take much imagination to conjure up a picture of two men eating forty peppers each; on the other hand, it's a scene impossible to describe. Forty goat horn peppers create a substantial pile, tipping the scales at two pounds at least. No clear winner emerged after the first round of twenty, nor after the second. The judge, their production team leader, observing how red the combatants’ faces had grown, fearfully called it a draw and offered each a pack of cigarettes. They would have none of that. So, on to the third round, with twenty more peppers. When they were halfway through the seventeenth pepper, Lao Lan tossed it along with his last two to the ground and conceded defeat. Almost immediately he bent over, his arms wrapped round his stomach, his face covered with sweat, and spewed out a stream of green—some said purple—liquid. My father finished his eighteenth pepper but, before he could bite into the nineteenth, blood began to seep out of his nostrils. The production leader sent a member of his team to buy two packs of the most expensive cigarettes. That contest became one of the village's most significant events of the commune era, and no talk of an eating competition ever ended without its mention. A few years later, a fritter-eating contest was held at the station restaurant between one of the porters—a man so well known for his appetite that he was nicknamed Big Belly Wu—and my father, then eighteen. Father was delivering beets to the station with other members of his team. Big Belly Wu was strutting up and down the platform, patting his belly and daring one of them to take him up on his challenge. Disgusted by the man's behaviour, the team leader asked what the challenge entailed. ‘Eating!’ Wu replied. ‘I can out-eat anyone!’ ‘That's a boast I don't think you can back up,’ laughed the team leader. ‘That's Big Belly Wu!’ someone sidled up to him and whispered. ‘This is his hangout, and this is how he gets free meals. He can eat so much at one sitting that he doesn't have to eat again for three days.’ The team leader glanced at my father and gave another little laugh. ‘My friend, there's always a better man and a higher heaven.’ ‘I'm ready to find out if you are,’ grinned Wu. ‘What are you eating?’ asked the team leader, not willing to pass up a chance at some excitement. Big Belly Wu pointed to the station restaurant. ‘They've got stuffed buns,’ he said, ‘fritters, noodles with shredded pork and steamed bread. You choose. The loser pays, the winner eats free.’ The team leader looked again at my father: ‘Luo Tong, do you feel like taking him down a peg?’ ‘Fine with me,’ replied Father in a muffled voice, ‘but what if I lose? I don't have any money.’ ‘You won't lose,’ his team leader assured him, ‘but don't worry if you do. The money will come from the production team.’ ‘I'll do it then,’ my father said. ‘I haven't eaten a fritter for a very long time.’ ‘All right,’ Wu said, ‘fritters it is.’ The crowd noisily made its way over to the restaurant. Wu took my father's hand and led him in, to all appearances a friendly gesture between old friends. Truth be known, he was afraid that Father would back out. A shout of ‘Big Belly Wu's back!’ from a waitress greeted them as they entered. ‘What's on today's contest menu, Big Belly?’ ‘Who are you to call me Big Belly?’ Wu complained. ‘You should be calling me Grandpa.’ ‘Hah! And you can call me Aunty!’ The other employees rushed over to watch as soon as they heard that Big Belly Wu was putting on another eating contest. The few diners looked on wide-eyed. The assistant manager walked up, wiping his hands on his apron: ‘Wu, what'll it be this time?’ After a quick glance at my father, Wu said: ‘Fritters. We'll start with three pounds apiece. How's that, young fellow?’ ‘Fine with me,’ my father muttered. ‘I'll match you pound for pound.’ ‘That's pretty big talk from a pipsqueak like you,’ retorted Wu. ‘I've hung round this station for more than a decade and defeated at least a hundred challengers.’ ‘Well, you've met your match today,’ said the team leader. ‘This young fellow's polished off a hundred eggs at one sitting, then topped it off with a whole hen. Three pounds of fritters won't make a dent in his appetite, isn't that so, Luo Tong?’ ‘We'll see,’ my father said, keeping his head down. ‘I'm not one to brag.’ ‘Good!’ Big Belly said excitedly. ‘Bring out the fritters, girls, straight out of the oil.’ ‘Not so fast, Wu,’ said the assistant manager. ‘You'll have to pay up front.’ ‘Talk to them, said Wu, pointing at the team leader, ‘since they're going to have to come up with the money sooner or later.’ ‘Says who, Big Brother? We can afford to pay for six pounds of fritters, three each, but there's that saying: “Eating a pile of shit is no big deal, except for the taste.” How can you be so sure we're going to lose?’ Wu wiggled his thumb in the team leader's face: ‘All right, maybe I've been a little rude and have offended you. How's this: we'll each take out enough for six pounds of fritters and lay it on the counter. The winner can pick his share and walk out, the loser can walk out but leave his share behind. Does that sound fair?’ The team leader thought it over for a moment: ‘Yes, it's fair. But our villagers are pretty gruff people who don't mince their words, so don't make a scene.’ Wu fished out some greasy notes and laid them on the counter. The team leader did the same. Then a waitress covered the stacks with upside-down bowls to keep them from flying away. ‘Can we start, ladies and gentlemen?’ Wu asked. The assistant manager turned to the waitresses. ‘Go on, bring out the fritters for Master Wu and this fellow, three pounds apiece, and let the yardarm stick up a bit.’ ‘You scoundrels always shortchange your diners,’ laughed Wu, ‘but for a contest you want the yardarm to stick up a bit. I want you all to know that anyone who comes here either to throw down or to accept a challenge is no pushover. As the saying goes: “You don't swallow a sickle unless you've got a curved stomach.” If it's an eating contest, what difference does it make if the yardarm is up or down. Isn't that right, young fellow?’ My father ignored him. While Wu was holding forth, waitresses carried out a pair of enamel trays piled high with oil fritters and laid them on the table. Obviously fresh, they were big and fluffy, fragrant and steaming hot. ‘Can I start?’ my father asked the team leader politely. Before the team leader could give the OK, Wu had picked up one of the fritters and bitten off half. With bulging cheeks and moist eyes, he stared at the tray, his hunger clearly raging. My father sat down. ‘If you'll excuse me,’ he said to the team leader and the villagers, ‘then I'll start.’ With an apologetic look at the spectators, he began to eat at an easy, steady pace, taking ten bites to finish a foot-long fritter and chewing slowly before swallowing. Not Wu, who was not so much eating the things as stuffing them down a hole. The piles shrank. By the time five remained on Wu's tray and eight on my father's, each swallow took longer and caused greater distress. That they were suffering was obvious. Then there were only two left on Wu's tray, and the pace had slowed to a crawl. There were also two left on my father's tray. The end game had arrived. They ate their last fritters at the same time, after which Big Belly Wu stood up. But he sat right back down, weighed down by his body. The contest had ended in a draw. Suddenly my father said: ‘I can eat one more.’ The assistant manager turned to a waitress: ‘Hurry,’ he said excitedly, ‘this fellow says he can eat one more.’ The waitress fished one out of the oil with her chopsticks, looking jubilant. ‘Are you all right, Luo Tong?’ the team leader asked. ‘If not, just stop. We don't care about the little bit those fritters cost.’ Without a word, my father took the fritter from the waitress, tore it into little balls and put them into his mouth, one at a time. ‘I want another one, too,’ Big Belly called out. When the waitress handed it to him, he put it up to his mouth, ready to take a bite but unable to. Agony was written all over his face and tears ran from his eyes. He laid it back on the table and said feebly: ‘I lose…’ He tried to stand again, and did so for a moment before sitting down so heavily the chair groaned and squealed before collapsing under his weight.

The contest over, Big Belly Wu was sent to the hospital, where he was opened up and the half-eaten fritters labouriously removed from his stomach. My father was not sent to the hospital, but he paced the riverbank all night long, stopping to bend over and vomit every few steps, leaving behind a partial fritter each time. A pack of half-starved dogs, eyes ravenously blue, followed him, eventually joined by dogs from neighbouring villages. They fought tooth and nail over my father's regurgitated fritters, from the top of the riverbank down to the river itself and back up. I didn't witness the events, of course, but they have created a vivid scene in my imagination. It was a frightful night, and my father was lucky the dogs didn't eat him too. If they had, I wouldn't be here. He never did describe to me what it felt like to throw up all those fritters. Whenever my curiosity got the better of me and I asked about his chilli and fritter contests, his face would redden. ‘Shut up!’ he'd snap. I'd obviously be touching a nerve, a very painful one. Though he never said so, I knew he'd suffered grievously over those fifty-nine chilli peppers and the three pounds of oil fritters. Back then, people added alum and alkaline to the flour along with sodium carbonate. The unrefined cottonseed oil they used was so black it was almost green, and highly viscous, like tar. And it was loaded with chemicals like gossypol, DDVP and benzine hexachloride, pesticides that do not easily break down. My father's throat must have felt like it had been scraped raw and his stomach must have bulged like a taut drumhead. Unable to bend over, he must have taken painfully slow steps, holding his belly tenderly with both hands, as if it might explode. He must have seen the flashing eyes of the dogs behind him, green like will-o'-the-wisps. I'll bet he thought that those dogs could hardly wait to rip open his belly to get at the fritters inside, and that thought led to another, that once they'd finished off all the fritters, they'd turn on him, starting with his internal organs, then his flesh and finally his bones.

Given that history, Father frowned at my report to him and Lao Lan about the meat-eating contest between the three workers and me. ‘No,’ he said sternly. ‘Don't get involved in anything that shameless.’ ‘Shameless?’ I retorted. ‘How? Don't people tell the story of the pepper-eating contest between you and Lao Lan with admiration?’ Father banged his fist on the table. ‘We were poor,’ he said, ‘do you understand?’ ‘Poor!’ Lao Lan tried to cool the air: ‘It was more than that. You took the challenge to eat fritters because you loved the things, but the chilli-eating contest between you and me was for more than just a crummy pack of smokes.’ Lao Lan's words took the edge off of Father's anger. ‘There's nothing wrong with contests,’ he said, ‘except for eating contests. A person's stomach can only hold so much but the supply of good food is limitless. Even if you win, you're gambling with your health. However much you eat is how much you have to throw back up.’ That made Lao Lan laugh. ‘Lao Luo,’ he said, ‘don't get carried away. If Xiaotong thinks he's up to it, I don't see anything wrong in organizing a preview for the meat-eating contests.’ My father calmly stood his ground. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I can't allow it. You have no idea how it felt.’ My mother's anxieties arose out of a different concern: ‘Xiaotong,’ she said, ‘you're a growing boy, and your stomach is no match for those young men. It wouldn't be a fair fight.’ ‘Well, since your parents don't want you to do it,’ Lao Lan said, ‘then forget it. I couldn't bear it if something happened.’ But I refused to back down. ‘You don't understand me, none of you. I have a special relationship with meat and a special ability to process it in my digestive system.’ ‘I agree,’ Lao Lan said, ‘you're a meat-boy but it's too risky. You need to realize that you're our hope for the future. We're counting on you to implement many innovations for United.’ ‘Dieh, Niang, Uncle Lan,’ I said, ‘I know what I'm doing, you don't have to worry. First, take my word for it, they can't win. Second, I'm not about to gamble with my health. Actually, I'm worried about them and suggest that we get them to sign waivers so we're not responsible for any consequences.’ ‘That's something we can do if you insist on going through with this contest,’ Lao Lan said, ‘but I want a guarantee that you'll be in no danger.’ ‘I can't say this about everything,’ I said reassuringly, ‘but I have absolute confidence in my digestive system. Do you have any idea how much meat I put away every morning in the plant kitchen? Go ask Huang Biao.’ Lao Lan turned to my parents: ‘Lao Luo, Yang Yuzhen, why don't we let him go ahead? My worthy nephew's capacity for meat is the stuff of legend, and we know that his reputation is based on eating and not boasting. We can take the precaution of having a doctor sent over from the hospital to deal with any emergency.’ ‘Not for my sake,’ I said, ‘but it's a good idea to have one on hand for the safety of my rivals.’ ‘Xiaotong,’ my father said sternly, ‘in the eyes of your mother and me you're no longer a child, so you're responsible for your actions.’ ‘Dieh,’ I said with a laugh, ‘what are you so worried about? What are we talking about here?—a meal. I eat every day—I'll just eat a little more for the contest. And I may not even have to. If they throw in the towel early, it's possible I'll end up eating less than usual.’

My father was hoping that the contest would be a low-key event but Lao Lan said: ‘If we go ahead with this, then it has to be a public affair. Otherwise, it's a waste of time.’ Needless to say, I was hoping for a larger audience and not just the workers in the plant. Ideally, we'd put up posters or blare it over PA systems to attract people from the train station, from the county and township and other villages. The bigger the crowd the greater the people's emotional involvement. What I really wanted was to establish my authority at the plant and make a name for myself in the world. I wanted to win over all those people who had doubts about me, and then have them admit that Luo Xiaotong's reputation was not undeserved but earned one bite at a time. And I wanted to show my three rivals that they had thrown the gauntlet down in front of the wrong person. They had to realize that while meat is good to eat it's hard to digest. If you aren't equipped with a digestive system specially designed for it, your troubles begin with your very first swallow.

I knew they were in trouble even before the contest began, and that their punishment would be doled out not by Lao Lan, not by my parents and not by me, but by the meat they sent into their stomachs. People in Slaughterhouse Village like to say that a person has been ‘bitten’ by meat. That means not that meat can grow teeth, but that a steady diet of it is bad for your stomach and intestines. I was sure that my rivals were going to be badly ‘bitten’ soon. I know you're strutting about looking forward to a real treat. But before long you'll wish that tears were the worst you'd suffer. No doubt they feel like kings at the moment, waiting to be celebrities at the end of the contest. Even if they lose, at least they'll have a stomach full of free meat. I knew that many among the audience would have the same idea; some would even be a bit envious and kick themselves for missing out on a great opportunity. Just wait, my friends, you'll soon stop kicking and start congratulating yourselves. For you are about to see what a spectacle these three make of themselves.

My challengers were Liu Shengli (Victory Liu), Feng Tiehan (Ironman Feng) and Wan Xiaojiang (Water Rat Wan). Liu, a big swarthy man with large staring eyes, was in the habit of rolling up his sleeves when he spoke. A coarse individual, he'd started out as a pig butcher. Since he was surrounded by animal flesh all day long, you'd have thought he'd gained some insight into the nature of meat. Now, gambling on meat-eating was stupid, but that's what he wanted to do so he must have had something up his sleeve. As they say: Good tidings don't just show up, and what shows up isn't always good. I'd have to keep my eye on him. Tall, skinny Feng, with his sallow complexion and bent back, looked like a man who'd just recovered from a serious illness. People with his complexion were rumoured to possess unique and astonishing skills. I'd once heard a blind storyteller say that among the hundred and eight Ming Dynasty bravehearts were several sallow-faced ones who were blessed with extraordinary fighting skills. I'd have to keep my eye on him too. Wan, nicknamed Water Rat, was small in stature, had a pointy mouth, cheeks like a chimp and triangular eyes. A first-rate swimmer, he could catch fish underwater with his eyes open. I'd heard nothing about him or any special capacity for meat, but everyone knew he was a champion watermelon-eater, and anyone who wants to be a champion eater must gain that reputation through competitions—it was the only way. Wan Xiaojiang once put away three whole watermelons by attacking them as if he were playing a harmonica, side to side, back and forth, spitting out the black seeds as he went along. Another one to keep my eye on.

I set out for the contest site. Jiaojiao walked behind me with a teapot. Her face was set tight, her forehead beaded with sweat.

‘Don't be scared, Jiaojiao,’ I said with a laugh.

‘I'm not.’ She wiped her forehead with her sleeve. ‘I know you'll win.’

‘Yes, I will,’ I said. ‘So would you, if you took my place.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘My stomach isn't big enough yet. But some day.’

‘Jiaojiao,’ I said, taking her hand, ‘we were sent down to earth to eat meat. Each of us is slated to eat twenty tonnes of it. If we don't, Yama won't let us in the underworld door. That's what Lao Lan said.’

‘Great,’ she said. ‘But let's stick around after the twenty tonnes and then go for thirty. How much is thirty tonnes?’

‘Thirty tonnes.’ I had to think for a minute. ‘It would make a little mountain of meat.’

She burst into happy laughter at the thought.

Turning at the meat-cleansing workshop door, we spotted a crowd in front of the kitchen at the same time as the crowd spotted us: ‘Here they are…’

Jiaojiao gripped my hand tightly.

‘Don't be scared,’ I said.

‘I'm not.’

The crowd parted to let us to walk up to the contest site. Four tables had been set up, each backed by a stool. My rivals were waiting. Liu Shengli bellowed at the kitchen door: ‘Ready, Huang Biao? I can't wait any longer—I'm starved!’

Wan Xiaojiang went in and came right back out. ‘What an aroma!’ he rhapsodized. ‘Meat, ah, meat, how I pine for you! Even my mother pales beside a plate of braised beef.’

Feng Tiehan was perched on his stool, smoking a cigarette, the picture of calm, as if the contest had nothing to do with him.

I nodded a greeting to the people who were staring at my sister and me, their looks either curious or reverential. Then I went over and sat on the stool next to Feng Tiehan. Jiaojiao stood beside me. ‘I'm a little scared,’ she whispered.

‘Don't be,’ I said.

‘Want some tea?’

‘No.’

‘I have to pee.’

‘Go on. Behind the kitchen.’

The crowd was whispering back and forth, too softly for me to hear, but I could guess what they were saying.

Feng Tiehan offered me a cigarette.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Smoking affects the taste buds. Even the best meat loses its taste.’

‘I shouldn't be doing this with you,’ he said. ‘You're just a boy. I'd hate it if something happened to you.’

I just smiled.

Jiaojiao returned and said softly: ‘Lao Lan's here, but not Dieh or Niang.’

‘I know.’

Liu Shengli and Wan Xiaojiang took their places behind their tables, Liu next to me and Wan next to him.

‘We're all here,’ Lao Lan announced. ‘So we can start. Where's Huang Biao? Ready, Huang Biao?’

Huang Biao rushed out of the kitchen wiping his hands on a filthy towel. ‘Ready! Shall I bring it out?’

‘Bring it out,’ ordered Lao Lan. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are here today for the plant's first meat-eating contest. The contestants are Luo Xiaotong, Liu Shengli, Feng Tiehan and Wan Xiaojiang. This is a preview contest. The winner may well go on to represent the plant at one of the larger public contests to be held later. Since today holds great significance for the future, I want the contestants to pull out all the stops.’ Lao Lan's comments excited the crowd, which began to chatter, the sound like birds careening into the sky. Lao Lan raised his hand and gestured for silence. ‘That said, I must make something perfectly clear—each contestant takes full responsibility for himself. If there's an accident, the plant cannot be held liable. In other words, you're on your own.’ He then pointed to a man elbowing his way through the crowd. ‘Make room for the doctor.’

People turned to see the doctor, medical bag over his back, making his sweaty way to the front, where he then stood smiling, revealing two rows of yellowed teeth. ‘Am I late?’

‘No,’ Lao Lan replied. ‘We're just about to begin.’

‘I was worried I'd be late. The minute the hospital director told me what he wanted me to do, I picked up my bag and came as fast as I could.’

‘You're not late,’ Lao Lan reassured him. ‘You didn't have to rush.’ Then he turned to us. ‘Are the contestants ready?’

I glanced at my eager competitors and saw that they were all looking at me. I smiled and nodded, they nodded in return. Feng Tiehan smirked. Liu Shengli looked stern, his anger simmering just below the surface, like a man ready for a bitter fight and not one participating in a meat-eating contest. A silly smile was draped across the face of Wan Xiaojiang, replete with twitches and crinkles that drew laughter from the spectators. Liu and Wan's expressions enhanced my confidence—their loss was assured, inevitable. But I had trouble reading Feng's smirk. A barking dog never bites, and I had a hunch that this sallow-faced, smirking, composed rival was the one to look out for.

‘All right, then. The doctor is here, you've all heard what I had to say, you know the rules and the meat has been prepared. We're ready to begin,’ Lao Lan announced. ‘I hereby declare the start of the inaugural Huachang United Meatpacking Plant meat-eating contest. Huang Biao, bring out the meat!’

‘On its wa-a-a-y—’ Like a server in a pre-revolution restaurant, Huang Biao drew out the call as he floated out of the kitchen holding a red plastic tub full of cooked meat. He was followed by three young women hired for the occasion. Clad in white uniforms, they moved swiftly, like a well-trained unit, smiling broadly and carrying a red tub each. Huang Biao placed his tub on the table in front of me, and the three young women did the same for my rivals.

Beef from our plant.

Chunks of fist-sized meat, cooked without recourse to condiments, not even salt.

All flank steaks.

‘How many pounds?’ Lao Lan asked.

‘Five in each tub,’ Huang Biao answered.

‘I have a question,’ Feng Tiehan said, raising his hand like a schoolboy.

‘Go ahead,’ Lao Lan said with a glare.

‘Does each tub hold exactly the same amount? And all the same quality?’

Lao Lan looked to Huang Biao.

‘All from the same cow!’ Huang Biao confirmed. ‘Cooked in the same pot, and exactly five pounds on a scale.’

Feng Tiehan shook his head.

‘Someone must have defrauded you in the past,’ Huang Biao said.

‘Bring out the scale,’ Lao Lan said.

Huang Biao grumbled as he went into the kitchen; then he came out with a small scale and banged it down on the table.

Lao Lan scowled at him. ‘Put each tub on the scale.’

‘You three act like you were tricked in some previous life,’ Huang groused as he weighed the four tubs, one at a time. ‘See—all the same, not an ounce of difference.’

‘Any more questions?’ Lao Lan asked. ‘If not, we can begin.’

‘I have one more,’ Feng said.

‘Where do all these questions come from?’ Lao Lan asked with a little laugh. ‘Well, let's hear it. I want everything on the up and up. And if the rest of you have questions, now's the time to raise them. I don't want any complaints later.’

‘I can see that all four tubs weigh the same, but what about the quality? I suggest we tag them and draw lots to see who gets which one.’

‘Good idea,’ Lao Lan said. ‘Do you have pen and paper in your kit, Doctor? You can be the referee.’

The doctor eagerly took a pen from his kit, removed his prescription book, tore off four sheets, gave each a number—one, two, three, four—and then placed one under each tub. After that he made four lots and laid them upside down on the table.

‘OK, meat warriors,’ Lao Lan said, ‘draw your lots.’

Although I viewed all this with cool detachment, I was beginning to get annoyed with Feng Tiehan. Why fuss so? Why be so picky over a tub of meat? As I seethed silently, Huang Biao and his helpers moved the tubs according to the number of their draws.

‘Any more problems?’ Lao Lan asked. ‘Think hard, Feng Tiehan, anything more you'd like? No? Good. Then I declare the start of the inaugural Huachang United Meatpacking Plant meat-eating contest!’

I made myself comfortable and then, wiping my hands on a paper napkin, took a quick look round me. Feng Tiehan, to my left, had stabbed a piece of meat with a skewer and taken an unhurried bite. I was secretly surprised at his civilized eating habits. That was not the case with Liu Shengli or Wan Xiaojiang, both to my right. Wan tried using chopsticks but had so much trouble with them that he quickly switched to a skewer. Grumbling, he stabbed a square of meat, took a savage bite and then began to chomp like a monkey. Liu Shengli stabbed his meat with the tips of both chopsticks, opened wide and bit off half, stuffing his mouth so full he could hardly chew. This barbaric lack of etiquette revealed them to be men who hadn't tasted meat in ages. That was all I needed to confirm that they'd be out of the fight in no time. They were eating like novices, like autumn locusts that can barely manage a few hops. Now I could focus my attention on the man with the sallow complexion, Feng Tiehan, who looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Definitely the man to beat.

Folding the paper napkin and laying it beside my tub, I rolled up my sleeves, sat up straight and cast a kindly glance at the crowd, like a boxer just before a fight. I was repaid with admiring looks, and I could tell by the appreciative sighs that the people approved of my bearing and youthful maturity. My legendary eating achievements were not forgotten. I saw the warm smile of Lao Lan and the enigmatic smile of Yao Qi, who kept himself largely hidden in the crowd. In fact, there were smiles on lots of familiar faces, looks of admiration too, as well as a few drooling mouths on those who would have loved to take my place. The chomp chomp sound of chewing filled my ears and disgusted me. And I heard the plaintive moans of the meat, its angry complaints, emerge from all three mouths, mouths it did not want to be in. I was like a marathon runner standing confidently at the starting line, sizing up the competition before streaking down the course. It was time to begin. The chunks of beef in my tub had nearly run out of patience. None of the spectators could hear them, but I could. And perhaps my sister too. Lightly patting me on the back, she said: ‘You should start, Elder Brother.’

‘All right,’ I replied gently, ‘I will.’ I then spoke to the darling meat: ‘I'm going to eat you now.’ ‘Me first! No, me!’ they squealed as they fought for my attention. Their soft pleas merged with their wonderful aroma and sprinkled over my face like pollen. It was intoxicating. ‘Dear meat, all you pieces of meat, slow down, there's no rush. You'll get your turn, all of you. Though I haven't eaten any of you yet, we share an emotional bond. Love at first sight. You belong to me, you're my meat, all you pieces of beef. How could I bear to abandon you?’

I used neither chopsticks nor a skewer, but my hands—I knew the meat preferred the feel of my skin. When I gently picked up the first piece, it gave out a joyful moan and trembled in my hand. I knew that wasn't fear but rapture. Only a tiny fraction of all the meat in the world would ever have the good fortune of being consumed by Luo Xiaotong, the boy who understood and loved meat. The excitement of this tubful came as no surprise. As I brought the piece to my mouth, glistening tears gushed from a pair of bright eyes staring passionately at me. I knew that it loved me because I loved it. Love all round the world was a matter of cause and effect. I am deeply moved, meat. My heart is all a-flutter. I honestly wish I didn't have to eat you, but I do.

I delivered the first piece of the darling meat into my mouth, though I could just as easily have said that the darling meat inserted itself into my mouth. Whichever it was, at that moment both of us experienced a flood of mixed emotions, like reunited lovers. ‘I hate the thought of biting into you, but I must. I wish I didn't have to swallow you, but I must. There are so many more pieces waiting to be eaten, and today is not just another day for me. Until today, our union and mutual appreciation has been something I've enjoyed, heart and soul. But now I feel a combination of performance pressure and anxiety, and my mind has begun wander. I must concentrate on the task ahead, and I can only ask your indulgence. I will eat as never before, so that you and I—we—will demonstrate the acutely serious aspect of eating meat.’ The first piece of meat slid with some regret into my stomach, where it swam like a fish in water. ‘Go on, enjoy yourself. I'm sure you're lonely, but not for long—your friends will join you soon.’ The second piece felt the same emotions towards me as I did towards it, and it followed an identical course down to my stomach until it was reunited with the first. Then the third piece, the fourth, the fifth…forming a tidy queue. They sang the same song, shed the same tears, trod the same course and wound up in the same place. It was a sweet but also sad process, illustrious and filled with glory.

I was so focused on my intimate interaction with the meat that I was oblivious of the passage of time and of my stomach's growing burden. But when I looked down, I saw that only a third of my portion remained. A bit of tiredness had crept in by then, and my mouth was producing less saliva. So I slowed down, raised my head and continued to eat gracefully while I surveyed my surroundings, beginning, of course, with my closest neighbours, my competitors. It was their participation that lent this extended meal its quality of entertainment, and for that I owed them a debt of gratitude. If they hadn't thrown down the gauntlet, I'd have been denied the opportunity of displaying my special skill before such a large audience—not just my skill but also my artistry. The number of people in the world who eat is as great as the sands of the Ganges, but only one has elevated this base activity into the realm of art, into a thing of beauty—and that is me, Luo Xiaotong. If all the meat in the world that has been or will be eaten were formed into a pile, it would rise higher than the Himalayas, but only the meat being eaten by Luo Xiaotong is capable of assuming a critical role in this artistic presentation…But I've gotten carried away, resulting from the overly creative imagination of a carnivorous child. So, back to the contest, and another look at my rivals’ eating styles. Now, it's not my intention to mount a smear campaign—although I've always favoured calling a spade a spade—so I invite you to take a look for yourselves. First, to my left, Liu Shengli. Somewhere along the line, the hulking, tough fellow has tossed away his chopsticks and begun to dig in with his coarse paws. He snatches a piece of meat like he is clutching a sparrow struggling to get free, as though it will fly away to the tree beyond the wall or float into the far reaches of the atmosphere. His hand is filthy with grease, his cheeks like slimy hillocks. But enough about him. Let's take a look at his neighbour, Wan Xiaojiang, the Water Rat. He has abandoned the skewer for his hands, clearly following my lead or trying to. But you can't copy genius, and in the matter of eating meat I am a genius. They are wasting their time. Look at my hand, for instance—only the tips of three fingers are lightly coated with grease. Look at their hands—so much grease they may as well be webbed, like the feet of ducks or frogs. Even Wan's forehead is coated with grease. How that helps him eat meat is beyond me. Are they burying their faces in the meat? But the really disgusting part of it all is the growls and gurgles they emit, no less than insults to the meat they are eating. Like beautiful maidens, this meat is fated to suffer; it is a cruel but inexorable reality. Lamentations rise from the meat in their hands and mouths, while those pieces waiting to be eaten bury their heads like ostriches in an attempt to hide in the tubs. I can only watch in sympathetic solidarity. Things would have been different if they were on my plate but that is not to be. The ways of the world are immutable. I, Luo Xiaotong, have a stomach that can never be stretched to accommodate all the world's meat any more than all the women can ever wind up in the arms of the world's greatest lover. I watch, helpless. ‘All you pieces of beef lying in the tubs of my rivals have no choice in the matter. You must go where you are sent.’ By now, both the men on my right have slowed considerably, and the faces earlier marked by savage impatience now sag with a stupid lethargy. They haven't stopped eating but their chewing is now in slow motion. Their cheeks are sore, their saliva has dried up, their bellies bulge dangerously. I can see it in their eyes—they are simply stuffing the meat into their mouths, only to have it turn and tumble in their stomachs, like chunks of coal bumping against a throttle gate. They have, I know, reached the point where the pleasure of eating meat has been usurped by sheer agony. Meat has become so disgusting, so loathsome, that they want nothing more than to spit out what is in their mouths and vomit what is in their stomachs. But that would mean defeat. A look at their tubs reveals that the remaining meat has been sapped of its beauty and its redolence. Shame and humiliation has turned it ugly. Hostility for its eater makes it emit a putrid smell. About a pound of meat remains in each of the two tubs but there is no room in either stomach to accommodate it. Lacking emotional ties with its eaters, the consumed meat has lost its mental equilibrium and is now involved in a paroxysm of thrashing and biting. Hard times are upon the men, and it is obvious that they can not possibly eat what remains. My two truculent competitors are on the verge of elimination.

With that in mind, I looked to see how my true rival, Feng Tiehan, was doing.

I turned in time to see him spear a chunk of meat and take a bite. Although there was a change in his sallow complexion, he lowered his eyes and his deadpan expression gave nothing away. His hands were spotless, thanks to his exclusive use of the metal skewer. His cheeks were dry, and the only grease I could see was on his lips. He ate at a steady, unhurried pace, a study in calmness, more like a diner enjoying a solitary restaurant meal than a competitor in a public eating contest. It was disheartening, a reminder that I had a formidable opponent. The other two, with their exaggerated gestures, were all show and no substance. Like the flame-out from a chicken-feather fire. A slow, pig-head simmering flame, like that of my third rival, on the other hand, presented a challenge. He maintained his composure even under my scrutiny, so I studied him some more. He speared a new piece of meat but hesitated, then returned it to the tub and chose a smaller one. As he carried it to his mouth, his hand stopped in mid-air. His body lurched upward and he stifled a low murmur deep in his throat. I breathed a sigh of relief, now that I'd spotted my enigmatic rival's weak spot. His choice of the smaller piece of meat was evidence that his stomach had reached its limit, while the lurch upward forced back a belch that would have brought out the ingested meat. There was also about a pound of uneaten meat in his tub. He obviously possessed sufficient resolve and was determined to stay with me to the end. All along I'd hoped for a worthy opponent so as not to disappoint our audience. A mismatch would have bled the competition of its significance. Now I knew that my fears were unfounded. Thanks to Feng Tiehan's obstinacy, a brilliant victory was assured.

Sensing my sidelong examination, Feng cast me a challenging glance. I responded with a friendly smile, picked up a piece of meat and carried it to my mouth as if to give it an affectionate kiss. I then brushed it with my lips and teeth to gauge its streaks and ridges before tearing off a piece and allowing it to enter my mouth on its own. Then I looked down at the dark red portion of meat waiting to be eaten, kissed it and told it to be patient as I began to chew its companion with passion and sensitivity so as to fully experience its flavour and fragrance, its pliant, moist texture—in other words, its entirety. I sat up straight and let my spirited eyes sweep over the faces in the crowd. I saw excitement there and I saw anxiety. It was clear who was rooting for me to win and who was not. Most, of course, were just there to enjoy the show—for them, a good fight was enough. But what was common across all those faces was the hunger for meat. They could not comprehend why Liu and Wan were having so much trouble eating. That was perfectly understandable—no bystander could relate to the anguish of someone who's eaten until the meat is backed up into his throat and who yet has to eat some more. I communicated with Lao Lan by letting my gaze linger on his face for a few seconds. His faith in me was unmistakable. Don't worry, Lao Lan, I said with my eyes. I won't let you down. I may not boast any other skills, but eating meat is my stock-in-trade. I also spotted my parents, standing on the outer edge of the crowd, staying as inconspicuous as possible, as if they wanted to avoid affecting my mood. Like parents everywhere, they were on tenterhooks, wanting me to win but worried that something might go wrong. My father, especially. This survivor of multiple eating contests, this veteran competitor, who had emerged victorious from every challenge, knew as well as anyone the risks involved and the misery that usually followed. His face was a study in concern, for he knew that the hardest part of a contest was reached when only a quarter of the food remained. It was the equivalent of a sprint to the finish line in a long-distance race. Not only a test of strength or stomach capacity, it was also a test of will. Only the contestant with the strongest will could win. When he can't swallow another bite, that's when a competitor has reached his bursting point. One more sliver of food will be the straw that breaks the proverbial camel's back. The cruel nature of this contest had finally become evident. An old hand at such contests, my father watched with mounting apprehension as the piles of meat slowly diminished. In the end, a patina of worry, like a coat of paint, seemed to blur his features. The look on my mother's face was easier to read. As I chewed one mouthful after another, her mouth moved along with mine, an unconscious attempt to help me along.

‘Do you want some tea?’ Jiaojiao asked softly with a poke in my back.

I declined the offer with a wave of my hand. That was against the rules.

Four pieces of meat remained in my tub, roughly half a pound. I made quick work of one piece, then followed it with a second. Two left, each the size of a hen's egg. Resting on the bottom of the tub, they were like friends hailing one another across a pond. I shifted my body slightly to feel the weight of my abdomen and decided that there was still room down there for the last two pieces. Even if I lost the contest I'd go out in style.

I ate one of the pieces, leaving its dear friend alone at the bottom of the tub. It waved its little tentacle-like hands, opened the mouths in the palms of that digital forest and called to me. Again I shifted my body to free up a bit of space in my stomach. As I sized up the final piece, I felt relaxed as never before. There was more than enough room in my stomach for that piece, and I watched it tremble in anticipation. It had to be thinking—if only it could sprout wings and fly straight into my mouth, then slide down my throat and be reunited with its siblings. In a language only we understood, I urged it to calm down and wait its turn. I wanted it to realize how fortunate it was to be the last piece of meat I ate in the contest. Why? Because every eye in the crowd would be on it. There was a difference between it and all the nameless pieces that had gone before it. As the last, it effectively determined the outcome and thus was the centre of attention. It was time to take a deep breath, concentrate my energy and build up enough saliva to spiritedly, energetically, elegantly and gracefully bring an end to the contest. As I breathed in deeply, I took one last look at my rivals.

First, Liu Shengli, the one with a face like a mobster. Bruised and battered, he was failing ignominiously. His fingers and lips were stuck together with grease. He tried shaking his hands to get them unstuck, but that grease remained unmoved. It too was meat, and it was now exacting revenge for his maltreatment. It stuck like glue to his fingers and made it impossible for him to pick up the remaining pieces. It had the same effect on his mouth—it sealed his lips, froze his tongue and palate and forced him to strain to open his mouth, as if it were filled with gooey malt sugar. From Liu Shengli we move to Wan Xiaojiang, a little man whom meat had turned into a sad sack. The best way to describe him would be as a disgusting, pathetic rat that's been dipped in a bucket of oil. He was looking shiftily at what remained in his tub. His greasy paws shook as he held them in front of his chest, and he needed only to start gnawing on them to truly live up to his nickname. He was a big rat stuffed so full he couldn't walk, and his belly bulged alarmingly. Only an overstuffed dying rat could make the kip kip noises that emerged from his mouth. There was no more fight in either competitor. All that remained was surrender.

That brings us to Feng Tiehan, my true rival. He maintained his poise even at this late stage. His hands were clean, his mouth lively and his posture erect. But his eyes lacked focus. No longer was he able to stare me down with a ruthless gaze. I thought he looked like a clay statue whose base is steeping in water but which somehow preserves its dignity in the face of imminent collapse. I knew that his eyes had glazed over because his stomach was failing him, that it had fallen victim to pounds of uncooperative meat and now swelled painfully. The meat in his stomach was acting like a nest of irritable frogs anxiously searching to be free. The slightest hint of capitulation from him and he'd be helpless to prevent their escape. The bitter struggle to maintain control over his body was reflected in the alarming look of distress on his face. It may not have been distress, but that's what it looked like to me. Three pieces of meat remained in his tub.

Liu Shengli's tub held five pieces, Wang Xiaogang's held six.

A huge black fly with white spots flew up from some distant place, circled the air above us and attacked Wan's tub of meat like a hawk swooping down on its prey. Wan tried to shoo it away with a few weak waves of his hand, but then gave up. A swarm of much smaller flies converged from all sides and set up a loud buzz as they circled above us. The spectators began to panic and turned their eyes to the sky in fear—in the slanting rays of the sun, the flies looked like golden specks of starlight. But this was terrible news. The flies had come from one of the world's filthiest places, and their wings and feet carried all sorts of germs and bacteria. Even if we were able to resist the noxious effects, the mere thought of where the carriers had been would make us sick. I knew that only seconds remained before they'd land like divebombers on our meat, and that we'd be defenceless to stop them. I grabbed the last piece in my tub and crammed it into my mouth just as the attack commenced.

In the proverbial blink of an eye, the meat in the other tubs, even the rims of the tubs themselves, were covered with flies, with their skittering feet and shimmering wings, and they began to eat their fill. Lao Lan, the doctor and some of the spectators rushed up to shoo them away but all they did was send the angry insects up in the air and then down into the people's faces to kill or be killed. Many in the swarm did die in the melee but others quickly filled their ranks. The defenders soon tired, physically and emotionally, and gave up the fight.

Following my example, Feng Tiehan snatched up one of his three pieces and crammed it into his mouth, then grabbed a second before the flies overwhelmed the last.

A great many flies settled on Liu and Wan's tubs, all but turning them invisible. ‘The contest doesn't count,’ shouted Wan, jumping to his feet, ‘it doesn't count…’

He had barely opened his mouth when a bite-sized chunk of meat came flying out with a loud retch, but whether the sound came from the meat or from Wan was unclear. It fell to the ground, quivered like a newborn rabbit and was swiftly covered by flies. Defeated, Wan covered his mouth and ran to the wall; then leaned against it, lowered his head, and, like an inchworm, rocked up and down as he vomited out his guts.

Liu Shengli straightened up with difficulty. ‘I could have finished mine,’ he said to Lao Lan, trying to look nonchalant. ‘My stomach was only half full. But those damned flies fouled my meat. I'm telling you, Xiaotong, you won nothing. I didn't lose—’

The words were barely out of his mouth when he catapulted to his feet as if on springs. I knew it was the meat in his stomach, not springs, that propelled him upward. In its attempt to escape from his stomach, it was exerting an explosive force beyond his control. The moment he got to his feet, the skin on his face yellowed, his eyes froze and his face grew stiff. Panicked, he ran to join Wan, knocking over his chair and bumping smack into Huang Biao, who was running out of the kitchen with a flyswatter. Only the first word of what must have been a curse managed to leave Huang Biao's mouth before Liu Shengli opened his and, with a yelp, spewed out a mouthful of sticky, half-eaten meat all over Huang Biao. Huang Biao screeched, as if bitten by a wild animal, and then the curses really began to fly. He threw down his flyswatter, wiped his face and ran after the fleeing Liu, trying but failing to kick him before turning and heading back to the kitchen to wash his face.

It was great fun watching Liu stagger away on his weak, spindly legs, slightly bowed at the knees, feet turned out, his heavy buttocks swinging from side to side like a duck running at full speed. He lined up beside Wan, hands and head against the wall, and erupted in a frenzy of vomiting, bending over and straightening up, bending over and straightening up…

Feng Tiehan had a piece of meat in his mouth and another in his hand. His eyes were dull, as if he were in deep, meditative thought. Now the centre of attention, it was left to him to wage a solitary struggle. But he had suffered defeat as well. Even if he swallowed the piece in his mouth and ate the one in his hand, followed by the fly-encrusted piece in his tub, time alone made him a loser. But the spectators waited, wanting to see what he'd do. As in a marathon, after the winner has crossed the finish line, the spectators spur on the other racers, encouraging them to give it their all. I was hoping he'd dig in and finish his meat, because I had enough space for one more. Then I would gain the unalloyed admiration of the crowd. But Feng sounded the retreat. He stretched his neck, stared wide-eyed and managed to swallow the piece in his mouth to applause from the crowd. But when he brought the second piece up to his mouth, he wavered briefly and then tossed it back into his tub, startling the flies into the air with a noisy buzz, like sparks from a blazing fire. ‘I lose,’ Feng announced, his head down. Then, after a moment, he raised his head, turned to me and said: ‘You win.’

I was moved by his words. ‘You may have lost,’ I said to him, ‘but you did so with style.’

‘The contest is over,’ Lao Lan announced. ‘Luo Xiaotong is the winner. Compliments also to Feng Tiehan, who performed well. As for Liu Shengli and Wan Xiaojiang,’ he cast a contemptuous look at their backs, ‘their spirit was willing but their flesh was weak. Today's was the plant's first such contest. United Meatpacking Plant workers must be accomplished consumers of meat. And as for you, Luo Xiaotong, don't get cocky. You beat your opponents this time but that doesn't mean you won't meet your match some day. Participation in the next contest will not be limited to plant workers. We want to make this a broad-based social activity that furthers the plant's good name. We will provide trophies and monetary rewards for the winners. If one chooses, he can take his winnings out in meat—for a year!’

‘I want to compete,’ shouted Jiaojiao.

The crowd heard her words, and all eyes swung in her direction. You couldn't have asked for a more delightful sight at that moment than my pig-tailed, limpid-eyed, plump little sister.

‘That's the spirit,’ Lao Lan called out. ‘There we have a case of “Heroes come from the ranks of youth, and every trade has its master practitioner.” What has the country's reform and opening-up policy achieved? I'll tell you: individual talent can no longer be suppressed. Even eating meat can bring fame and glory to an individual. All right, then, that ends the contest. If your shift is over, go on home. For the rest, it's time to go to work.’

The crowd broke up amid scattered comments. ‘Dr Fang,’ Lao Lan said, pointing to Liu Shengli and Wan Xiaojiang, who were still throwing up near the wall, ‘do they need an injection of something?’

‘For what? They'll be fine once they've emptied their stomachs.’ He turned and pointed to me with his chin. ‘He's the one I'm worried about,’ he said. ‘He ate the most.’

Lao Lan patted the doctor on the shoulder. ‘My friend,’ he said with a laugh, ‘your concerns are wasted on that youngster. He's special, a sort of meat god. He's been sent down to earth for the sole purpose of eating meat. His stomach is built differently from ours. Isn't that right, Luo Xiaotong? Do you feel stuffed? Want the doctor to have a look?’

‘I'm fine, thank you,’ I said to the doctor. ‘In fact I've never felt better.’