Pow!

by Mo Yan

  POW! 10

  The captivating smell of millet gruel fills the room. The woman takes the lid off the pot, and I'm amazed to see how much gruel there is, easily enough for three people. She fetches three black bowls from the corner and fills them with a wooden spoon that's discoloured from searing. One spoonful, a second and a third; one spoonful, a second and a third; one spoonful, a second and a third. All three bowls are filled to the brim, and there's plenty more in the pot. I'm puzzled, surprised, flabbergasted. Has all that gruel really come from those few dozen kernels of grain? That woman, just who, or what, is she? A demon? A genie? The two foxes that have taken refuge in the temple during the downpour saunter into the room, lured by the smell of the gruel, female in front, male at the back and the three furry little kits stumbling in between. They're as cute as can be, especially the silly way they walk. They say that animals tend to have their offspring when there's thunder and lightning and the sky opens up. There's truth in that saying. The adult foxes sit in front of the pot, looking up at the woman, their eyes pleading one moment and staring greedily at the pot the next. Their stomachs growl, the sound of hunger. The kits scurry under their mother's belly in search of her teats. The male's eyes are moist, its lively expression seems to indicate that it's about to say something. I know exactly what it will say if it opens its mouth and speech emerges. The woman glances at the Wise Monk, who sighs and pushes his bowl of gruel over to the female fox. Following his lead, she pushes her bowl over to the male. Both animals nod to the Wise Monk and the woman to show their appreciation, then begin to eat, carefully, since the gruel is hot, their eyes filling with tears. Imagine my embarrassment as I look down at my bowl, not knowing if I should eat. ‘Go ahead, eat,’ the Wise Monk says. I know I'd never have a chance to eat gruel this good again, so I join the foxes and we each polish off three bowls. When they finish, they belch in satisfaction and, trailed by the kits, amble out of the room. At that moment I realize that the pot is empty, that not a kernel remains. I am contrite, but the Wise Monk is already seated on the kang fingering his beads, seeming half asleep. And the woman? She is sitting in front of the briquette stove playing with an iron poker. A dying fire casts its weak light onto her face, which is as lively and expressive as ever. A smile hints at the recollection of fond memories, but perhaps also at the absence of thought altogether. I rub my slightly bulging belly as the sound of newborn foxes sucking their mother's teats drifts in from outside. The sound of kittens nursing in the tree trunk is beyond my range of hearing, but I think I actually see them suckle. Which gives rise to a powerful urge to suckle. But where is there a tit for me? I'm not sleepy, but I need to overcome the urge to suckle, so I say, ‘Wise Monk, I'll go on with my story—’

  Mother was overcome with excitement, chattering like a sparrow, once she had the building permit in hand. ‘Xiaotong,’ she said, ‘Lao Lan isn't so bad after all. I thought he had something else in mind but he handed me the permit without a word.’ For the second time, she unrolled the document, with its red seal, for me to see. Then she sat me down to talk about the difficult road that we—mother and son—had walked since Father ran off. Her narration was tinged with sadness but not enough to diminish her sense of joy and pride. I was so sleepy I could barely keep my eyes open; my head drooped and I fell asleep. When I woke up, she was sitting on the floor in the dark, leaning against the wall, a jacket thrown over her shoulders, still talking. If I hadn't been endowed with steel nerves from the day I was born, I tell you, she'd have scared the life out of me. Her long-winded narration was only a dress rehearsal; the real performance began six months later, on the night our big house, with its tiled roof, was completed. It was our last night in the tent we'd set up in the yard, and light from an early winter moon lit up our new house beautifully, the mosaic tiles embedded in the walls absolutely radiant. We nearly froze from the wind blowing into the tent from all four sides; Mother's narration raced out into the night, reminding me of the pig's guts flung round by the butchers. ‘Luo Tong,’ Mother said, ‘Luo Tong, you heartless bastard, you thought your son and I couldn't survive without you, didn't you? Well, we not only survived, we even built a big house! Lao Lan's house is fifteen feet high, ours is a foot higher! Lao Lan's walls are made of concrete, ours are decorated with mosaic tiles!’ Her incorrigible vanity repelled me. Lao Lan's walls may have been made of concrete but the house had suspended ceilings decorated with fancy ceramic tiles, and a marble floor. Our outer walls had mosaic tiles but they were whitewashed on the inside, the posts exposed, and a layer of stove cinders covered the pitted floor. Here is what you can say about Lao Lan's house: ‘The meat in buns doesn't show in the creases’ while ours was more a case of ‘Donkey droppings are shiny on the outside.’ A moonbeam lit up Mother's mouth, much like a film close-up. Her lips never stopped moving; saliva bubbled at the corners. I pulled the damp blanket up over my head and fell asleep to the drone of her voice.

  POW! 11

  ‘Don't say any more, child. It's the first time the woman has spoken. The cadence of her voice brings to mind filigrees of honey and gives the impression that there is little in life that she hasn't experienced. She smiles, hinting at deep mysteries, then takes a few steps back and sits on a rosewood chair that magically appeared when I wasn't looking (but perhaps it's been there all along). She waves to me and speaks for the second time: ‘Don't say anything, child. I know what you're thinking! I can't take my eyes off her. I watch as she slowly, dramatically, undoes the brass buttons of her robe, then snaps her arms out to the sides like an ostrich spreading its wings, giving an unobstructed view of the gorgeous flesh hidden by that plain, threadbare robe. My heart is intoxicated, my soul possessed; I've taken leave of my senses. A buzzing erupts in my ears; my body is chilled; my heart is pounding; my teeth are chattering; I feel like I'm standing naked on ice. Beams of light emerge from her eyes and her teeth as she sits illuminated by flames from the stove and the candle. Her breasts, like ripe mangoes, sag slightly in the centre to form fluid arcs, the nipples rising gracefully, like the captivating mouths of hedgehogs. They summon me intimately but my feet feel as if they have taken root. I sneak a glance at the Wise Monk, who is sitting with his hands pressed together, looking more dead than alive. ‘Wise Monk,’ I say softly, painfully, as if wanting to take strength from him to save myself but also seeking his approval to act upon my desire. But he doesn't stir; he might as well be carved from ice. ‘Child! The woman speaks again, but the words do not appear to have come from her mouth; they seem to have emerged from somewhere above her head or low in her belly. Sure, I've heard stories about ventriloquists who can speak without opening their mouths but those people are either martial- arts masters, buxom women or circus clowns, not ordinary people. They're strange, mysterious individuals one associates with black magic and infanticide. ‘Come here, child. There's that voice again. ‘Don't deny what you feel in your heart. Do what it tells you to do. You're a slave to your heart, not its master.’ But I keep up the struggle, knowing that if I take a step forward I won't be able to go back, not ever. ‘What's the matter? Haven't I been on your mind all along? When the meat touches your lips, why won't you eat it?’ I'd sworn off meat after my little sister died, and remained true to that vow. Now, just looking at meat turns my stomach, makes me feel guilty somehow and reminds me of all the trouble it's caused in my life. Thoughts of meat restore my self-control—some of it, at least. She snickers, and the sound is like a blast of cold air from deep down in a cave. Then she says—this time I'm sure the words come from her mouth, which opens and closes contemptuously, ‘Do you really think you can lessen your sins by not eating meat? Do you really think that not sucking on my breasts will be proof of your virtue? You may not have eaten meat for years but it has never been far from your mind. Even though you pass up the opportunity to suck on my breasts today, they will not be far from your mind for the rest of your life. I know exactly what you're like. Don't forget, I've watched you grow up and I know you as well as I know myself.’
Tears gush from my eyes. ‘Are you Aunty Wild Mule? You're still alive? You didn't die, after all?’ It feels as if an affectionate wind were trying to blow me over to her; but her mocking grin stops me. ‘What business is it of yours if I am or am not Wild Mule?’ she sneers. ‘And what business is it of yours if I'm alive or dead? If you want to suck on my breasts, come here. If you don't, then stop thinking about it. If sucking on my breasts is a sin, then not sucking on them, though you want to, is a greater one! Her piercing mockery makes me want to crawl into a hole, makes me want to cover my head with a dog pelt. ‘Even if you could cover your head with a dog pelt,’ she says, ‘what good would that do you? Sooner or later you'd have to take it off. And even if you vowed to never take it off, it would slowly rot away and fall apart to expose that ugly potato head of yours! ‘So what should I do?’ I stammer, beseechingly. She covers herself with her robe, crosses her left leg over her right and says (commands): ‘Tell your tale—’

  The tractor's frozen engine crackled and popped from the blaze of burning rubber. Mother turned the crank. The engine sputtered and black smoke rolled out of the exhaust. Excitedly, I jumped to my feet, even though I really didn't want her to start up the engine; it died as quickly as it had come to life. She replaced the spark plug and turned the crank again. Finally, the engine caught and set up a mad howl. Mother squeezed the gas lever and the flywheel whirred. Though it hardly seemed possible, the shuddering of the engine and the black smoke from the exhaust told me that this time she'd succeeded. On that morning, as water turned to ice, we were going to have to go to the county seat, travel down icy roads into a bone-chilling wind. Mother went into the house and came out wearing a sheepskin coat, a leather belt, a black dogskin cap and carrying a grey cotton blanket. The blanket, of course, was something we'd picked up, as were the coat, the belt and the cap. She tossed the blanket on top of the tractor, my protection against the wind, then took her seat up front and told me to open the gate, the fanciest gate in the village. No gate like it had ever been seen in our century-long history. It was double-panelled, made of thick angle iron, impenetrable even by a machine gun. Painted black, it sported a pair of brass animal-head knockers. The villagers held our gate in awe and reverence; beggars stayed away. After removing Mother's brass lock, I strained to push the panels open as the icy wind streamed into the yard from the street. I was freezing. But I quickly realized I couldn't let that bother me, for I spotted a tall man slowly walking our way from the direction in which the cattle merchants entered the village; he was holding the hand of a four- or five-year-old little girl. My heart nearly stopped. Then it began to pound. Even before I could make out his face I knew it was Father, that he had come home.

  Morning, noon and night for the five years that he'd been gone, I'd imagined Father's homecoming as a spectacular occasion. The actual event was remarkably commonplace. He wasn't wearing a cap, and pieces of straw stuck to his greasy, uncombed hair; more straw was stuck in the little girl's hair, as if they'd just climbed out of a haystack. Father's face was puffy, there were chilblains on his ears and salt-and-pepper whiskers covered his chin. A bulging, khaki-coloured canvas knapsack, with a ceramic mug tied to the strap, was slung over his right shoulder. He was wearing a greasy, old-fashioned army greatcoat; two buttons were missing—their threads hung loose and their outlines were still visible. His pants were of an indistinguishable colour and his almost-new knee-high cowhide boots were mud-spattered although their tops shone like patent leather. The sight of those boots reminded me of Father's long-lost days of glory; if not for those boots, he'd have presented a truly dismal sight that morning. The girl wore a red wool cap with a little pompom that bounced as she struggled to keep pace with Father. She was wearing an oversized red down parka that went down nearly to her feet and made her look like an inflated rubber ball rolling down the road. She had dark skin, big eyes, long lashes and thick brows that nearly met to form a black line over her nose and that seemed out of place on a girl so young. Her eyes reminded me immediately of Father's lover, Mother's bitter enemy—Aunty Wild Mule. I didn't hate the woman, in truth I sort of liked her, and before she and Father ran off I used to love going over to her little wine shop, where I could feast on meat. That was one of the reasons I liked her, but not the only one. She was good to me; and once I discovered that she and Father were having an affair, I felt closer to her than ever.

  I didn't call out nor did I do what I'd imagined I'd do, which was to rush madly into his arms and tell him about all the terrible things that had happened to me since he left. I also didn't report his arrival to Mother. All I did was scamper out of the way and stand absolutely still, like a bemused sentry. When she saw that the gate was open, Mother grabbed the handlebars and began to move the massive beast. She reached the gate at the same moment as Father with the little girl in tow.

  ‘Xiaotong?’ he said, in a voice filled with uncertainty.

  I didn't say a word but stared at Mother's face, which had turned ashen, and at her eyes, which had frozen in their sockets. The tractor lurched like a blind horse towards the gate and Mother slid out of the cab as if she'd been shot.

  Father froze, agape. Then he closed his mouth. Then opened it, then he closed it again. He looked at me guiltily, as if hoping I'd come to his rescue. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him lay his knapsack on the ground and let go of the little girl's hand before taking a few hesitant steps towards Mother. He turned back to look at me one more time, and I looked away. When he reached her—finally—he picked her up in his arms. Her eyes remained frozen in their sockets as she stared blankly at his face, as if sizing up a stranger. He opened his mouth—the yellow teeth again—then closed it—and the teeth disappeared. Only a few guttural sounds emerged. Without warning, Mother reached out and scratched his face. Then she fought her way out of his arms and ran to the house on legs that wobbled so much they looked as limp as noodles. She zigged and she zagged, a slipshod trajectory, but somehow managed to get inside our big house with its tiled roof. She slammed the door shut behind her, so hard that a pane of glass came loose, crashed to the ground and shattered into a million pieces. Deathly silence. Then an unswerving howl, followed by wails that swerved and spun.

  Father stood in the yard like a rotting tree, embarrassment writ large across his face; as before, his mouth opened and closed, closed and opened. I saw three gashes on his cheek. Ghostly white at first, they soon filled with blood. The little girl looked up at him and began to bawl. ‘Daddy, you're bleeding,’ she cried out shrilly, in a lilting out-of-town accent. ‘Daddy, you're bleeding…’

  Father picked her up. She wrapped her arms round his neck and said through her sobs: ‘Let's go away, Daddy.’

  The tractor was still roaring, like a wounded animal. I went over and turned it off.

  With the engine stilled, the crying sounds from Mother and the little girl thudded against my eardrums. Some early risers on their way to fetch water walked over to see what was wrong. Furious, I slammed the gate shut.

  Father stood up with the girl in his arms and walked over to me. ‘Don't you know who I am, Xiaotong?’ he asked, his voice heavy with apology. ‘I'm your dieh…’

  My nose ached, my throat closed up.

  He ruffled my hair with his big hand. ‘Look how much you've grown since I last saw you,’ he said.

  Tears spilt from my eyes.

  He wiped them dry. ‘Be a good boy,’ he said. ‘Don't cry. You and your mother have done well. It does my heart good to see how well you're getting along.’

  Finally I managed to squeeze the word Dieh out of my throat.

  He set the girl on the ground and said: ‘Jiaojiao, say hello to your brother.’

  The girl tried to hide behind his legs while she eyed me timidly.