Pow! (2 page)

I don't know if it was the smell of meat or Aunty Wild Mule's screams that drew, out of the darkness, hordes of small children—they crowded round the yurt or sprawled up against the doorway of the forest cabin, their little bottoms sticking up in the air as they peeped through the cracks in the logs. Then, in my mind, wolves—a whole pack, not just one—came, drawn by the smell of meat. The children ran off, their clumsy, stumpy bodies leaving marks on the snow as they stumbled away. But the wolves remained, squatting
outside the yurt, the teeth grinding in their greedy mouths. I was afraid they'd rip open the yurt or tear down the log cabin, pounce on my father and his woman and have them for dinner. But no, they merely formed a circle round the yurt and then sat on their haunches, waiting, like loyal hunting dogs—

A broad road in front of the dilapidated temple wall connects us to the bustling world beyond. Beyond the weather-beaten bricks of the wall and the breaches caused by casual wall-climbers, beyond the woman in the breach in the wall—she is combing her lush hair, having laid the red flower on the wall beside her. She cocks her head, sending hair cascading over her bosom, and runs a red comb through it, over and over. Each of those jerky movements tugs at my heart. I pity all those strands of hair, I feel sad, I feel an ache in my nose and tears in my eyes. If she'd let me comb her hair, I'm thinking, I'd be gentle, infinitely patient, and not damage a single strand, even if there were tiny insects or spiders between them, even if birds had made their nests to raise fledglings. I think I detect a look of annoyance on her face, an expression common to women who have to deal with a full head of hair. Perhaps smugness is more appropriate. The subdued aroma at the roots of her hair carves its way into my nose and makes me light-headed, as if I am drunk on strong, aged spirits—I see traffic out on the highway. The metal arm of a brick-red truck-mounted crane swings past my field of vision, like a huge oil painting on the move. Twenty-four raised mortars, a ghostly white light glinting off their tubes, their shapes remarkably similar to tortoise-like tanks, pass through my field of vision, like a comic strip. A blue trailer-truck that could be used either for passengers or for freight careens past; a shrill loudspeaker is mounted on the roof, a ring of colourful banners circles the cab, each painted with a woman's fair face that flaps in and out of view, showing off curved brows and bright red lips. A dozen or more people are standing on the trailer bed, dressed in blue T-shirts and baseball caps. They are shouting a slogan in chorus: ‘People's Representative Wang Dehou, all work, no play and no show.’ But they grow quiet as they pass the temple, the garish trailer now like a glittery coffin on the move. They pass through my line of vision. Off beyond the wall, on one side of the highway, on a lawn directly opposite this crumbling Wutong Temple, an enormous bulldozer chugs along. My gaze passes over the wall; I can see the vehicle's orange canopy, and, every once in a while, its metal arm and hideous scoop.

Wise Monk, I'm telling you everything, holding back nothing. Back then I was a child whose only thought was to eat as much meat as possible. Anyone who gave me a fragrant leg of fatty lamb or a delicious bowl of fatty pork, I didn't care who it was but I'd call him Daddy or go down on my knees and kowtow. Or both. Even today, after all this time, if you visit my hometown and mention my name—it's Luo Xiaotong—you'll see their eyes flash, a strange light, as if you'd mentioned Lao Lan's third uncle Lan Daguan. Why? Because anything associated with me and with meat will scroll through their heads like a comic strip. And that's because of all the tales associated with the third young master of the Lan clan, who was sent overseas after sleeping with more women than you can count, a man of wide experience—those tales will also scroll through their heads like a comic strip. They wouldn't say it but deep down they'd sigh: ‘That loveable, pitiful, hateful, respectable, vile…but extraordinary meat boy…That mysterious, impenetrable Third Young Master…that evil son of a bitch…’

If I'd been born somewhere else I may not have developed such a strong craving for meat; but fated to be born in Slaughterhouse Village, where everywhere you looked there was meat on the hoof and meat on the slab, bloody hunks of meat and washed-clean chunks of meat, meat that'd been smoked and meat that hadn't, meat that'd been injected with water and meat that hadn't, meat that'd been soaked in formaldehyde and meat that hadn't, pork beef mutton dog donkey horse camel…The wild dogs in our village were so fat from eating spoilt meat that grease oozed from their pores, while I was as skinny as a rail because I couldn't have any. For five years I ate no meat, not because we couldn't afford it but because Mother refused to spend. Before Father ran off, there was always a thick layer of grease along the edge of our wok and bones piled up in the corners. Father loved meat, especially pig's head. Every few days he'd bring home a white-cheeked, fatty pig's head with red-tipped ears. He and Mother always argued over it, and eventually the fights turned physical. She was a middle peasant's daughter, brought up to be a hard-working, frugal housewife, to never live beyond her means and to use her money to build a house and own land. After the land-reform period, my obstinate maternal grandfather dug up the family's life savings and bought five acres of land from Sun Gui, a rehabilitated farm labourer. That waste of money unleashed decades of humiliation upon Mother's family. His
attempt to swim against the tide of history made my idiot grandfather a village laughing-stock. My father, on the other hand, was born into a lumpenproletariat family. He spent his youth with my good-for-nothing grandfather and grew up into a lazy glutton. His philosophy of life was: eat well today and don't worry about tomorrow. Take it easy and enjoy life. The lessons of history coupled with my grandfather's teachings made him the kind of man who would never spend only ninety-nine cents if he had a dollar in his pocket. Unspent money always cost him a night's sleep. He often counselled my mother that life was an illusion, everything but the food you put in your belly. ‘If you spend your money on clothes,’ he'd say, ‘people can rip them off your back. If you use it to build a house, decades later you're the target of a struggle.’ The Lan clan had plenty of houses but now they're a school. The Lan Clan Shrine was a splendid building that had been taken over by the production team to turn sweet potatoes into noodles. ‘Buy gold and silver with your money and you could lose your life. But spend your money on meat and you'll always have a full belly. You can't go wrong.’ ‘People who live to eat don't enter Heaven’ Mother would reply. ‘If there's food in your belly,’ Father'd say with a laugh, ‘even a pigsty is Heaven. If there's no meat in Heaven, I'm not going there even if the Jade Emperor comes down to escort me.’ I was too young to care about their words. I'd eat meat while they argued, then sit in the corner and purr, like that tailless cat that lived such a luxurious life out in the yard. After Father left, in order to build our five-room house, Mother turned into a skinflint; food seldom touched her lips. Once the house was built, I'd hoped she'd change her views on eating and let meat return to our table after its long absence. Imagine my shock when her scrimping grew worse. A grand plan was taking shape in her mind—to buy a truck, like the one that belonged to the Lan clan, the richest in the village. A Liberation truck, manufactured at Changchun No. 1 Automobile Plant, green, with six large tyres, a square cab and a bed as solid as a tank. I'd have preferred living in our old, three-room country shack with the thatched roof if that would have put meat back on the table. I'd have preferred travelling down bumpy rural roads on a walking tractor that nearly shook my bones apart if that would have put meat back on the table. To hell with her big house and its tiled roof, to hell with her Liberation truck and to hell with that frugal life which forbade even the smallest spot of grease! The more I grew to resent Mother, the more I longed
for the happy days when Father was home. For a boy with a greedy mouth—like me—a happy life was defined by an unending supply of meat. If I had meat, what difference did it make if Mother and Father fought, verbally or physically, day in and day out? No fewer than two hundred rumours concerning Father and Aunty Wild Mule reached my ears over a five-year period. But what instilled a recurring longing in me were those three I mentioned, since meat figured in all of them. And every time the image of them eating meat blossomed in my head, as real as if they were right there with me, my nostrils would flare with its aroma, my stomach would growl, my mouth would fill with drool. And my eyes would fill with tears. The villagers often saw me sitting alone and weeping beneath the stately willow tree at the head of the village. ‘The poor boy! they'd sigh. I knew they'd misread the reason for my tears but was I incapable of setting them straight. Even if I'd told them it was the craving for meat that caused the tears, they wouldn't have believed me. The idea that a boy could yearn for the taste of meat until his tears flowed would never have occurred to them—

Thunder rolls in the distance, like cavalry bearing down on us. Some feathers fly into the dark temple, carrying the stink of blood, like frightened children, bobbing in the air and then sticking to the Wutong Spirit. The feathers remind me of the recent slaughter in the tree outside, and announce that the wind is up. It is, and it carries with it the stench of muddy soil and vegetation. The stuffy temple cools down, and more cinders fall out of the air over our heads, gathering on the Wise Monk's shiny pate and on his fly-covered ears. The flies remain unmoved. Studying them closely for a few seconds, I see them rub their shiny eyes with their spindly legs. In spite of their bad name, they're a talented species. I don't think any other creature can rub its eyes with its legs and be so graceful about it. Out in the yard, the immobile gingko tree whistles in the wind which has grown stronger. As have the smells it carries, which now include the fetid stench of decaying animals and the filth at the bottom of a nearby pond. Rain can't be far off. It's the seventh day of the seventh lunar month, the day when the legendary herd-boy and the weaving maid—Altair and Vega—separated for the rest of the year by the Milky Way, get to meet. A loving couple, in the prime of their youth, forced to gaze at each other across a starry river, permitted to meet only once a year for three days—how tortured they must be! The passion of newlyweds cannot compare to that
of the long separated, who want only to embrace for three days—as a boy, I often heard the village women say things like that. Lots of tears are shed over those three days, which are fated to be full of rain. Even after three years of drought, the seventh day of the seventh lunar month cannot be forgotten! A streak of lightning illuminates every detail of the temple interior. The lecherous grin on the face of the Horse Spirit, one of the five Wutong Spirit idols, makes my heart shudder. A man's head on a horse's body, a bit like the label of that famous French liquor. A row of sleeping bats hangs upside down from the beam above its head as the dull rumble of thunder rolls towards us from far away, like millstones turning in unison. Then more streaks of lightning, and deafening thunderclaps. A scorched smell pounds into the temple from the yard. Startled, I nearly jump out of my skin. But the Wise Monk sits there, placid as ever. The thunder grows louder, more violent, an unbroken string of crashes, and a downpour begins, the raindrops slanting in on us. What look like oily green fireballs roll about in the yard. Something like a gigantic claw with razor-sharp tips reaches down from the heavens and waits, suspended above the doorway, eager to force its way inside and grab hold of me—me, naturally—and then hang my corpse from the big tree outside, the tadpole characters etched on my back announcing my crimes to all who can read the cryptic words. As if by instinct, I move behind the Wise Monk, who shields me, and I am reminded of the beautiful woman who lay sprawled in the breach in the wall, combing her hair. Now there is no trace of her. The breach has turned into a cascade, and I think I see strands of hair in the cascading water, infusing a subtle osmanthus fragrance into the torrent…Then I hear the Wise Monk say: ‘Go on—’

My teeth were chattering. So cold! I buried my head under the covers and curled into a ball. Heat from the dead fire under the
kang
had long since disappeared, and the bedding was too thin to protect me from the icy concrete floor. Not daring to move, I wished I could turn into a cocooned bug. Through the bedding I heard the muffled sounds of Mother lighting the fire in the next room, the cracks of splitting firewood (that's how she vented her ire towards Father and Aunty Wild Mule). Why didn't she hurry and get the fire roaring?—that was the only way to drive the damp chill out of the room. At the same time I didn't want her to hurry because as soon as she had the fire going she'd try and get me out of bed. Her first shout would be relatively gentle; her second louder and higher and more annoyed. The third would be a bestial roar. A fourth had never been necessary, for if I hadn't rocketed out from under the covers on the third shout, she'd flick the covers off and whack my bottom with her broom. When it got that far, I knew I was doomed. For if, after the first painful whack, I jumped out of bed and onto the windowsill or scuttled out of range on the far side of the
kang
, she'd jump up without even taking off her muddy shoes, grab me by the hair or the scruff of my neck, press me down against the
kang
and really pound me with that broom. If I didn't try to get away or to resist, which she always took as a sign of contempt, her anger would boil over and she'd beat me even harder. However things progressed, if I was not on my feet by the third shout, my bottom and the poor broom were both bound to suffer. The beatings were accompanied by heavy breathing and guttural sounds—the growls of a wild animal, filled with emotion but devoid of identifiable words. But after the broom had hit me thirty times or so, the strength in her arms began to flag and the edge in her voice grew dull. The shouting would grow softer and softer and then the curses would begin—‘little mongrel’, ‘bastard turtle’, ‘rabbit runt’—followed by a verbal assault on my father. Actually, she didn't have to waste time on
him, since she more or less repeated what she'd said to me, with few inventions. It was never a particularly spirited effort and even I could tell it lacked punch. When you went into the city from our village, you had to pass the little train station. When Mother finished cursing me, she made a quick pass through Father on her way to Aunty Wild Mule, her true destination. Spitting on Father's reputation, she'd move down the narrow tracks to Aunty Wild Mule. Her voice would grow louder once again, and the tears that had come to her eyes while she was cursing Father and me would be seared dry by fury. I would have invited anyone who did not subscribe to the saying ‘When enemies come face to face, their eyes blaze with loathing’ to look at my mother's eyes while she cursed Aunty Wild Mule. With my father, it was always the same few epithets, over and over, but when it was Aunty Wild Mule's turn the richness of the Chinese language was plumbed as never before. ‘My man is a stud horse reduced to fucking a jackass!’ ‘My man is an elephant humping the life out of a little bitch!’ And so on. Mother's classic curses were of her own creation but, even with their many variations, they never strayed far from the central theme. My father, truth be known, had become Mother's principal weapon in exacting revenge. Only by imagining him as a large, powerful beast, and only by depicting Aunty Wild Mule as a little frail animal victimized by his power, was she able to release the loathing that filled her heart. As she described the humiliating effect of Father's genitals on Aunty Wild Mule, the tempo of the broom-beating slowed and the force of each whack lessened until she forgot all about me. At that point, I silently got up, dressed and stood off to one side to listen, fascinated, as she continued to curse brilliantly, and a rash of concerns flooded my mind. First, I was disappointed by the curses hurled at me. If I was a ‘mongrel’, then which illicit canine affair produced me? If I was a ‘bastard turtle’, then where did I come from? And if I was a ‘rabbit runt’, who was the mamma bunny? She thought she was cursing me but she was cursing herself. When she thought she was cursing my father, she was also cursing herself. Even the curses she poured on Aunty Wild Mule, when you think about it, were pointless. My father couldn't turn into an elephant or a stud horse in a million years and, even if he did, how was he supposed to mate with a bitch? A domesticated stud horse might mate with a wild mule, but that would only happen if the mule was willing. Of course I'd have never revealed any of this to Mother—I
can't imagine what that would have led to. Nothing to my advantage, that's for sure, and I wasn't stupid enough to go looking for trouble. After she'd tired herself cursing, Mother would cry, buckets of tears. Then, after she'd cried herself out, she'd dry her eyes with her sleeve and walk out into the yard, dragging me along, to begin earning the day's wages. As if to make up for the time wasted beating, cursing and crying, she'd double her speed of activity. At the same time, she'd keep closer watch on me than usual. All this illustrates why a
kang
that was never warm enough held little attraction for me, and all it took to wake me up was the crackling sounds of the stove, whether or not Mother shouted at me. I'd clamber into clothes that were as cold as a suit of armour, roll up the bedding, scurry off to the toilet to pee and then stand in the doorway, hands at my sides, waiting for Mother to tell me what to do. As I've said, she was more than frugal, she was downright mean and not given to casually lighting a fire. But the cold, dank rooms once made us both as sick as dogs: our knees swelled up bright red, our legs grew numb and we had to spend quite a bit on medicines before either of us was back on our feet again. The doctor warned us: If we planned to go on living, we had to warm up the house to burn the chill off the walls. ‘Coal is cheaper than medicine,’ he said. Mother had no choice but to set up a stove. So she went to the train station and bought a tonne of coal to heat our new house. How I wished the doctor had said: ‘Unless you're in a hurry to die, you have to start eating meat.’ But he never did; in fact, the quack told us not to eat greasy food, to follow a bland, and if possible vegetarian, diet. It would not only keep us healthy but also help us live longer. Arsehole! He should have known that after Father ran off we were reduced to eating plain food every day, as plain as a funeral procession, as plain as snow on a mountain peak. Five long years and I'll bet the strongest soap in the world couldn't scrape a drop of grease off my intestines.