Pow! (45 page)

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.’

A nightlong torrential downpour has washed away the vomit of the poison victims. The street looks newly scrubbed and the leaves on the trees oily green. Thanks to the rain, a hole in the temple roof is now as big as a millstone, and through it sunlight pours in. Dozens of rats, flushed out by the water, crouch atop the crumbling remains of clay idols. The woman from last night, the spitting image of Aunty Wild Mule, hasn't shown up and, since I'm hungry, I go ahead and eat the mushrooms growing round the Wise Monk's straw mat. That energizes me, puts a sparkle in my eyes and clears my head. Scenes from my past float up from the recesses of my brain
:
at a gravesite backed against the mountains and facing the sea
—
the ideal feng shui
—
a woman in black sits in front of a marble tombstone. The headstone likeness shows that it is the grave of Lan Daguan's son, and the mole near the woman's mouth tells me that she is the Buddhist nun Shen Yaoyao. There are no tears on her face and no signs of mourning. A subtle fragrance emanates from the bouquet of calla lilies in front of the headstone. A woman walks up lightly behind Lan Daguan, whose eyes are shut and who seems deep in thought. ‘Mr Lan,’ she says softly, ‘Master Huiming passed away last night.’ Lan sighs as if shedding a great burden. ‘Now,’ he says to himself, ‘I am truly worry-free’. He gulps down a glassful of liquor and then says
:
‘Have Xiao Qin send for a couple of women.’ ‘Mr
—
’ the woman exclaims. ‘Mr what
?
I'm going to commemorate his passing with frenzied, unbridled sex
!
’ As he cavorts with wild abandon with two long-legged, slope-shouldered women, the four craftsmen who had built the idol stagger into the yard in front of the Wutong Temple and cry out in alarm when they see the marred face of the rain-ravaged Meat God. The master craftsman rebukes the three younger men for not covering its face with plastic or dressing it in rain cloak and bamboo hat. They hang their heads and accept the tongue-lashing without a word of protest. The two long-legged women kneel on the carpet and plead coquettishly
:
‘Be good to us, Patron. Our breasts are Yaoyao's breasts, our legs are Yaoyao's legs, we are Yaoyao's stand-ins, so treat us with
tenderness.’ ‘Do you know who Yaoyao was
?’
Lan asks unemotionally. ‘No,’ they reply. ‘All we know is that we can please Patron by pretending to be her. And when Patron is happy, he treats us fondly.’ Lan Daguan reacts with a belly laugh as tears spill from his eyes. Two of the young craftsmen walk up with buckets of clean water while the third has discovered a wire brush. With the foreman in charge, they scrub the paint off the idol. It howls a complaint, and my skin turns itchy and painful. Once the paint has been cleaned off, I see the original colour and grain of the willow tree. ‘We'll paint it again after it dries’ the foreman tells them. ‘Xiaobao, go see Director Yan for the funds. Tell him we'll take the Meat God back and chop it up for kindling if he doesn't come up with the money’ ‘Be careful you don't wind up with a toothache’ warns Shifu, the worker who suffered the night before. ‘The Meat God knows what I'm doing, the foreman says unemotionally. The young man takes off running, hips churning. The foreman walks into the temple to inspect the crumbling Wutong Spirit. His bookish apprentice follows him in as the foreman pats the Horse Spirit on the rump
—
a piece of clay falls off. ‘This is our meal ticket’ he says. ‘These five spirits will keep us busy for quite some time.’ ‘What worries me, Shifu,’ his disciple says, ‘is that things will change.’ ‘Change how
?’
the foreman asks with a glare. ‘After what happened last night, Shifu, with more than a hundred poisoned, what are the chances that the Carnivore Festival will continue
?
If they cancel the festival, there'll be no Meat God Temple and they won't want to refurbish this Wutong Temple. Didn't you hear the lieutenant governor last night when he talked about the Meat God and the Wutong Temples in the same breath
?
’ ‘You've got a point, the foreman says, ‘but, young fellow, there are things in this world you don't understand. If nothing had happened last night, the festival might well have been cancelled next year. But, because it did, there's no chance it won't be held next year. And bigger than ever.’ The apprentice can only shake his head. ‘You're right, I don't understand’ ‘That won't kill you, boy,’ the foreman says. ‘There are things you young people don't need to understand. Just keep doing your job and you'll understand when you reach a certain age.’ ‘That I understand, Shifu,’ the youngster answers. With his chin the foreman points to the two men out in the yard with the Meat God. ‘Those two are fine with manual labour, but I'm going to count on you for what needs to be done with the Wutong Spirit.’ ‘I'll do my best, Shifu, but what if my best isn't good enough and I don't live up to your expectations
?
’ ‘Don't sell yourself short. I'm
an excellent judge of people. Four of the five spirits are pretty much ruined, and it's not going to be easy putting them back the way they were. But I've got an old edition of
Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio,
which describes what the five spirits are supposed to look like, though we'll have to make some improvements to keep up with the times. We can't just imitate the old style. Take this Horse Spirit. It looks more equine than human, the foreman says as his hands move around the idol. We need to make it look more human so it won't scare all the women away. But won't other teams also want the job, Shifu
?
the concerned young worker asks. Only Nie Liu and Lao Han's gangs, and they're lucky if they can throw together a local earth god. These five spirits are way above their ability.’ ‘Don't underestimate them, Shifu,’ the youngster says. ‘I hear that Nie Liu sent his son to a fine-arts school to study sculpting. When he comes back to take over from his father, we won't be in his league.’ ‘Are you talking about his blockhead son
?
A fine-arts school, you say
?
He'd be no good even if he'd gone to an art academy. The first requirement for working on religious idols is to have the spirit in you. Without it, no matter how talented you are, you'll never create anything but lumps of clay. But you're right, we must be careful and alert. The world is full of talented people, and who's to say that a master sculptor won't show up some day
?
Keep that in mind.’ ‘Thanks, Shifu,’ the youngster says. ‘Now,’ the foreman says, ‘find a way to strike up a friendship with Lao Lan, the Slaughterhouse Village head, since it was his ancestors who built the Wutong Temple. He'll put up most of the money for the refurbishment, especially since word has it that he's recently received something like ten million from overseas. Whoever he wants to repair the idols has the best chance of getting the job.’ ‘Don't you worry, Shifu,’ the youngster says confidently. ‘My sister-in-law is the cousin of his wife, Fan Zhaoxia. I checked
—
people say that Lao Lan does what his wife tells him.’ The foreman nods appreciatively. Lan Daguan flings his glass to the floor and gets up unsteadily. The two servants rush up and catch him under his arms. ‘You've had too much to drink, sir,’ one of them says. ‘Me
?
Too much to drink
?
Maybe. You—‘he shrugs his arms to free them from the women's grip and glares at them, ‘go get two women to come sober me up.’ Shall I keep talking, Wise Monk
?