Pow! (20 page)

‘About time, Zhaoxia?’ Pidou's niang put down her book and shot a gaze at the other woman's mottled face. Fan Zhaoxia tossed an indifferent glance at the golden-yellow watch on her wrist.

‘Another twenty minutes,’ she said.

Fan Zhaoxia painted the nails of her long, slender fingers a seductive red. As far as Mother was concerned, any woman who used lipstick or painted her nails was a flirt, and whenever she saw one she muttered curses through clenched teeth, as if venting pent-up loathing. My one-time disapproval of women who did things like that came from my mother, but then all that changed. I'm ashamed to admit it, but now when I see a woman with red lips and painted nails my heart races and I can't take my eyes off her. Fan Zhaoxia picked up the smock from the back of the chair, shook it open and snapped it in the air a couple of times.

‘Who's first?’ she asked, still in that indifferent tone.

‘You first, Xiaotong,’ Father said.

‘No,’ I said, ‘you first.’

‘Hurry up,’ fussed Fan Zhaoxia.

With a look my way, Father stood up, crossed his arms, walked up to the chair and cautiously sat down; the springs creaked beneath his weight.

Fan Zhaoxia first tucked in Father's collar and then tied the smock round his neck. I saw her face in the mirror. She was frowning, a mean look. His face was next to hers, twisted and ugly in the rippled mercury.

‘How do you want it?’ she asked, still frowning.

‘Shaved,’ he said in a muted voice.

‘Aiya!’ Pidou's niang blurted out in astonishment, apparently recognizing Father at that very moment. ‘Aren't you—’

Father grunted a response, neither answering her unfinished question nor turning his head.

Fan Zhaoxia took a pair of electric clippers from a peg on the wall and turned it on, producing a low hum. Pressing down Father's head, she pressed the clippers into his tangle of hair. A pale swath of skin opened up down the middle as clots of hair, dense as felt, rained down on the floor.

As I recall the scene of Father's cascading hair, what plays out in front of my eyes is actually something different: the handsome fellow named Lan—we'll call him Lao Lan's third uncle
(
that's because the image that follows matches exactly what Lao Lan said)—is marrying that lovely woman with the beauty spot at the corner of her mouth—that's right, Shen Yaoyao—in a Western-style ceremony in a towering church room that glitters like gold. He is wearing a dark Western suit, a white shirt and a black bow tie, with a purple boutonnière tucked into his breast pocket. His bride is in white, with a long train held off the floor by a pair of angelic little boys. She has a face like a peach blossom, eyes like twinkling stars; the milk of happiness flows down her face. Candles, music, fresh flowers and fine wine create a romantic aura. But no more than ten minutes have passed since a white-haired old man on his way to the church was shot in the chest in his sedan, and the smell of gunpowder has already invaded the church's vestibule. Is this another of your tricks, Wise Monk? Then I see the girl sprawled across her father's body, shattering the silence with her wails, mascara-laden tears coursing down her face, as the handsome young man stands silently and impassively to one side. The
next image—in a fancy room—is of the young woman, cutting off her beautiful hair. I can see her bloodless face in the mirror on the wall, her wrinkled mouth turned down at the corners. I see her recollections as she shears through the strands of hair. At some hazy place that beautiful young woman and the handsome young man are making love in strange positions. Her passion-filled face rushes towards me, then crashes into the mirror and shatters into a million pieces. Then I see her in dark blue clothes, her head covered by a blue and white scarf as she kneels before an old Buddhist nun. Wise Monk, just the way I kneel in front of you. The old nun takes her in, Wise Monk, but you still haven't taken me in. I'd like to ask if that handsome young man hired someone to kill the beautiful young woman's father. I also want to ask what they wanted. I know you'll never answer my question, but now that I've shared my suspicions with you I can put them out of my mind. If I don't, they'll overload my brain and drive me crazy. There's something I want to tell you, Wise Monk. One summer day around noon, more than a decade ago, when everyone in Slaughterhouse Village was asleep, I walked the streets aimlessly like a bored dog, sniffing here and there. When I reached the Beauty Hair Salon entrance, I put my face up against the glass to see what was going on inside. What I saw was an electric fan hanging on the wall, turning from side to side, and the barber, Fan Zhaoxia, in her white smock, seated in Lao Lan's lap with a straight razor in her hand. For a moment I thought she was going to cut his throat, but then I could tell that they were doing you-know-what. She held the razor high over her head in order to keep it away from his face. Her legs were spread and hooked over the arms of the barber-chair. A look of rapture twisted her face out of shape. But she held on to that razor, as if to prove to anyone sneaking a look inside that they were working, not having sex. I wanted to tell someone about these strange goings-on but there was no one to tell, only a black dog sprawled beneath a plane tree, panting away, its tongue lolling to the side. I backed up several paces, picked up a brick and flung it with all my might, then turned to run as fast as I could. I heard the sound of shattering glass behind me. Wise Monk, I'm ashamed to reveal that I was capable of something so despicable, but I think that if I don't tell you it will be an act of disloyalty. I know people call me a Powboy, but that was then. Now, every word I tell you is the unvarnished truth.

The East City and West City processions continue to make their way to the grassy field. The pig float, the sheep float, the donkey float, the rabbit float…all the floats—dedicated to a host of animals whose bodies are offered for the consumption of humans—head to their assigned spots, surrounded by people of every imaginable shape and size who arrange them in square formations to await the arrival of the reviewing VIPs. All but Lao Lan's ostriches, which are running about in our yard. Two of them are fighting over a muddy article of clothing—orange in colour—as if it were a tasty titbit. I recall the woman who'd showed up the day before in a torrential rainstorm, and that scene saddens me. Every few minutes an ostrich sticks its head through the temple door, curiosity flashing in its tiny round eyes. The aura of lassitude emanating from the boys and girls sitting on the rubble of the collapsed wall is in stark contrast to the ostriches’ frenetic action. Employees of Lao Lan's company jabber nonstop into mobile phones. Another ostrich pokes its head inside, but this time it opens it big mouth and pecks the top of the Wise Monk's head. Instinctively, I throw one of my shoes at it but the Wise Monk casually raises his hand and deflects the flying missile. He opens his eyes and presents a smiling countenance—the look of a kindly grandfather watching his grandson take his first steps—to the bird. A black Buick, horn blaring, screams down the road from the west, speeds past the floats and comes to a screeching halt in front of the temple. A man with an expansive belly steps out of the car. He is wearing a grey double-breasted suit with a wide red-checked tie; the label still on his sleeve is that of a famous and expensive brand. But no matter what fancy names he wraps himself in, those big yellow eyes tell me he's my mortal enemy Lao Lan. Several years ago, Wise Monk, I fired off forty-one mortar shells, and the last of them sliced Lao Lan in two. As a result, I took off for destinations unknown to lie low. I later heard that he hadn't died after all; in fact, his business ventures thrived and he was in better health than ever. Out of the car also emerges a fat woman in a purple dress and
dark red high heels. She's dyed a section of her permed hair a bright red, like a cockscomb. She has on six rings, three gold and three platinum, a gold necklace and a string of pearls. She's fleshed out quite a bit, but I see at first glance that it's Fan Zhaoxia, the woman who screwed Lao Lan with a razor in her hand. While I was on the run, rumour had it that she and Lao Lan had got married, and the scene in front of me proves that the rumour was true. As soon as her feet are on the ground, she spreads her arms and runs to the children sitting on the pile of rubble. The girl who'd fought with her ostrich until she pinned it to the ground runs to Fan Zhaoxia. She enfolds the girl in her arms, covering her face with kisses like chickens pecking at rice and fills her ears with ‘my dear this’ and ‘my little darling that’. I look at the pretty little girl's face with mixed feelings. What a surprise that Lao Lan, that bastard, could sire such a nice offspring, a girl who reminds me of my deceased stepsister Jiaojiao, who would have now been a girl of fourteen. Lao Lan lets fly with a string of curses at his staff, who are lined up in front of him, arms at their sides. One tries to explain matters and is rewarded with a faceful of spit. Lan's ostrich team was to put on a dance performance at the Carnivore Festival opening ceremony—a true spectacle that would leave a lasting impression on visiting businessmen and, more importantly, on all the leading officials. Words of praise and order forms would follow in large numbers. But before the show has begun it has fallen apart, thanks to these idiots. The hour for the opening ceremony is nearly upon them and Lao Lan's forehead is bathed in sweat. ‘Get those ostriches in here this minute or I'll turn every one of you into ostrich feed
!’
They need no more prodding to take after the birds. And the uncooperative birds that they are, they miss no opportunity to race away on powerful feet like the shod hooves of crazed horses. Lao Lan rolls up his sleeves to join the fray but his first step lands in a pile of loose ostrich shit and he winds up flat on his back. His employees, who rush to help him to his feet, have to scrunch up their faces to keep from laughing. ‘Think that's funny, do you?’ Lao Lan is caustic in his comments. ‘Go ahead, laugh, why don't you?’ The youngest-looking among them cannot hold back—he bursts out laughing, immediately affecting the others, who join in, and that includes Lao Lan himself. But only for a moment. ‘You think it's so goddamn funny?’ he roars. ‘I'll fire the next one of you who so much as giggles
!’
Somehow, they manage to stop. ‘Go get my rifle. I'm going to put a bullet into every one of those damned birds
!’

Three nights after New Year's, my family of four sat round a fold-up table waiting for Lao Lan. The man who had a third uncle whose prodigious member had gained for him considerable fame; the man who was my father's mortal enemy; the man who had broken one of my father's fingers only to have my father bite off half his ear; the man who had invented the high-pressure injection method, the sulphur-smoke treatment, the hydrogen-peroxide bleach method and the formaldehyde-immersion system; the man who had earned the nickname of ‘Hanlin butcher’ and who, as our village head, had led the villagers onto the path of prosperity; the man whose word was law and who enjoyed unrivalled authority—Lao Lan. Lao Lan, who had taught my mother how to drive a tractor; Lao Lan, who had screwed the barber Fan Zhaoxia in her barber-chair; Lao Lan, who'd sworn he'd put a bullet into every last ostrich; Lao Lan, the mention of whose name upsets the hell out of me!

The table groaned under platters of chicken, duck, fish and red meat but we couldn't eat it, even though the heat and the aroma were quickly dissipating. That must be the most painful, most annoying, most disgusting, most aggravating thing in the world. I tell you, I once vowed that if I had the power I'd rid the world of every last eater of pork. But that was an angry outburst after I'd stuffed myself with so much pork that I nearly died of an intestinal disorder. Man is quick to adapt to changing circumstances and to bend his words to the situation—no one disputes that. It's the way we are. On that occasion, the mere thought of pork made me nauseous and gave me a bellyache, so why shouldn't I have shot off my mouth? I was, after all, a boy of ten. You can't expect a boy of that age to sound like the Emperor, whose golden mouth and jade teeth utter words that cannot be changed, can you? When I got home from Beauty Hair Salon that day, Mother brought out some leftover pork from that morning.

Enduring the pain in my gut as best as I could, I said, ‘No more for me. If I ever eat another bite of the stuff, I'll turn into a pig.’

‘Really?’ she said sarcastically. ‘My son's had his head shaved and has sworn off eating pork. Is he leaving home to become a monk?’

‘Just you wait and see,’ I said. ‘The next time I eat pork will definitely be the day I become a monk.’

A week later, my vow to Mother still rang in my ears but I was hungry for pork once more. And not just pork—I was hungry for beef too. And chicken and donkey and the flesh of any edible animal that walked the earth. Mother and Father got busy as soon as lunch was over. She sliced the stewed beef, braised pork liver and ham sausage she'd bought and laid them out on fine Jingde platters borrowed from Sun Changsheng, while Father scrubbed the table, also borrowed from Sun Changsheng, with a wet rag.

Everything we needed for this spur-of-the-moment meal for our guest we were able to borrow from Sun Changsheng, whose wife was my mother's cousin. The look on his face let us know us how he felt about the loan but he said nothing. Mother's cousin, on the other hand, frowned as she watched my parents walk out with their possessions, not at all happy with her relatives. Not quite forty, this woman already had thinning hair, which, with no sense of embarrassment, she wove into short braids that stuck up on the sides of her head like dried beans. The sight put my teeth on edge.