by Mo Yan
On the afternoon of New Year's Eve, when I heard the sound of a motorbike, I had a premonition that this particular vehicle was bringing news to our family. I was right. It stopped in front of our gate. Jiaojiao and I ran out to open it and were greeted by the sight of Huang Bao, as nimble as the leopard he was named after, walking towards us with a bundle woven of hemp. We took our places on either side of the gate to welcome him like Golden Boy and Jade Girl, the Taoist attendants. Whatever was inside the bundle gave off a strong smell. He smiled and struck a pose that was part cordial, part cool and detached and part respectfully arrogant. He was a man who carried himself well. His blue motorbike, which resembled its rider—cordial, cool and detached, respectfully arrogant—rested by the side of the road. Mother came out of the house as Huang Bao reached the middle of the yard. Father followed a half dozen steps behind.
Mother smiled broadly. ‘Come inside, Good Brother Huang Bao.’
‘Good Sister Luo,’ he said, exuding courtesy. ‘The village head has sent me with a New Year's gift for your family.’
‘Oh, we can't accept any gifts,’ Mother said, her nervousness evident. ‘We've done nothing to deserve a gift, especially from the village head himself.’
‘I'm just following orders,’ Huang Bao said as he laid the bundle at Mother's feet. ‘Goodbye and have a wonderful Spring Festival.’
Mother reached out, as if to keep him from going, but by then he was already at the gate. ‘Honestly, we can't…’
Huang Bao turned and waved, then left as speedily as he'd come. His motorbike roared to life, just in time for us to rush to the gate and see white smoke spurt from its tailpipe. He headed west, bumping along the pitted road until he turned into Lan Clan Lane.
We stood in stunned silence for at least five minutes, until we saw the roast-pork-peddler Su Zhou bicycling our way from the train station. His beaming smile meant that business had been good that day.
‘Lao Yang,’ he shouted to Mother. ‘It's New Year's, you want some roast pork?’
Mother ignored him.
‘What are you saving your money for,’ he bellowed, ‘a burial plot?’
‘To hell with you,’ Mother shot back. ‘Burial plots are for your family.’ Having got that off her chest, she dragged us back into the yard and shut the gate behind us.
She waited till we were inside and then opened the wet wrapper of Huang Bao's bundle to reveal an assortment of red and white seafood on ice. Mother took out each item, describing it for Jiaojiao and me, since we were curious and her seafood knowledge was broad; though none of the rare items she took out had ever made an appearance in our house, she was familiar with them all, and so, by all indications, was Father, though he let her be the seafood guide, content to crouch by the stove, to light his cigarette with a piece of charcoal he picked up with the tongs and sit on his haunches, smoking.
‘There's so much…that Lao Lan…’ Mother's cries were more like a lament. ‘A guest speaks well of one's host, and a receiver of gifts respects the giver.’
‘It's here, so we'll eat it,’ Father said resolutely. ‘I'll just have to go work for him.’
Electric light flooded our house that night, now that we'd put our days of murky lamplight behind us. We celebrated the Spring Festival under blazing lights, amid Mother's mutterings of gratitude towards Lao Lan's generosity and Father's embarrassed looks. To me it was the most sumptuous Spring Festival meal in memory. For the first time ever, our New Year's Eve dinner included braised prawns—the size of rolling pins—steamed crab—the size of horse hooves—a pan fried butterfish—bigger than Father's palm—along with jellyfish and cuttlefish—sea creatures I'd never tasted.
And I learnt something that night—that there are lots of things in the world just as tasty as meat.
POW! 24
The four carriers stand round the flatbed truck, drinking and feasting on meat, the truck bed serving as a dining table. I can't see any of the meat, but I can smell it, and I know they're eating two varieties: charcoal-fired lamb kebabs, heavy on the cumin, and Mongolian barbecue with cheese. The night market across the street hasn't yet closed for the day, and the first wave of diners are replaced by a second. Pointy Chin suddenly claps his hand against his cheek and lets out a howl. ‘What's wrong?’ the others ask. ‘Toothache!’ The old man sneers at him. ‘I told you to watch what you were saying,’ says his short comrade, ‘but you wouldn't listen. Do you believe me now? The Meat God is giving you a taste of his power, and a little taste at that. Just wait!’ Meanwhile, Pointy Chin can't stop moaning, holding his mouth and calling for his mother. ‘It's killing me!’ The old man puffs on his cigarette until the tip glows red and highlights the whiskers round his mouth. ‘Shifu,’ cries the suffering youngster, ‘do something, please!’ ‘Don't you ever forget,’ says the old man unsympathetically, ‘that no matter what kind of wood you use, once you carve it into an idol, it's no longer just a piece of wood.’ ‘It hurts, Shifu’ ‘Then why are you out here complaining? Get your butt into the temple, get down on your knees in front of the god and start slapping your face until it stops.’ So the man hobbles into the temple, holding his hand to his face and falls to his knees in front of the Meat God. ‘Meat God,’ he sobs, ‘I'll never do that again. Revered God, be kind and forgive me…’ Reaching up, he gives himself a resounding slap.
Shen Gang, who'd been studiously avoiding us, showed up at our door on the afternoon of the first day of the new year. As soon as we let him in he knelt in front of our ancestral tablets, as custom dictated, and kowtowed and only then came into the living room.
‘Why, it's Shen Gang!’ Mother blurted out, wondering why he'd come.
Most of the time, when the shameless Shen Gang saw us, his face took on the ‘a dead pig isn't afraid of boiling water’ look, but now he wore a meek expression as he took a thick envelope out of his pocket and said, clearly embarrassed: ‘Good Sister-in-law, I failed as a businessman and never got round to repaying the money you lent me. But last year I managed to save up a bit, and I have to repay you before anything else. There's three thousand in there. Count it, won't you?’
Shen Gang laid the envelope on the table in front of Mother and stepped back. Taking a seat on our bench, he fished out a pack of cigarettes, took out two, and, with a little bow, handed one to Father, who was sitting on the edge of the kang. After Father accepted it, Shen offered the second one to Mother; she declined. Her red turtleneck sweater matched her ruddy cheeks and gave her a youthful look. Charcoal briquettes burned brightly in the belly of the stove and kept the room toasty. Father's return had meant the return of the good times to our house as well as of Mother's good mood. No more scowls; even the timbre of her voice had changed.
‘Shen Gang,’ she said cordially, ‘I know you suffered losses, which was why the loan dragged on so long. The reason I was willing to lend you this hard-earned money was because I figured you to be an upright man. In all honesty, you've caught me by surprise. I never thought I'd see the day that you'd come on your own. I'm touched, really touched. I said some things that weren't very kind. Ignore all that. We're old friends, fellow villagers, and now that the boy's father has returned we won't be strangers any longer. If there's anything we can do for you, don't hesitate to ask. After what you've done today, I'm convinced that you're a dependable person…’
‘I'd feel better if you counted the money,’ Shen said.
‘All right,’ Mother said. ‘Bang the gong face to face, beat the drum the same, as the saying goes. Make a loan and repay a loan. I won't mind if there's too little here, but just in case you've given me too much…’
She removed the notes from the envelope, wet her fingers with saliva and counted them. Then she handed them to Father. ‘Now you,’ she said.
Father counted the notes and laid them in front of Mother. ‘Three thousand exactly.’
Shen Gang stood up, looking slightly uncomfortable: ‘Good Sister-in-law, could I trouble you to return the IOU?’
‘It's a
good thing you mentioned it or I'd have forgotten all about it. Now where did I put it? Do you remember, Xiaotong?’
‘No.’
She jumped off the kang and searched everywhere until she found it.
Shen Gang read the IOU several times, until he was convinced it was the right one. Then he tucked it carefully into his pocket and left.
All the while the worker is slapping his face I continue with my narrative to the Wise Monk. At first I'd thought the four carriers would find my story fascinating, but their interest in the meat outstrips anything I might say. I'd thought of revealing that the Meat God was modelled after me, but I swallowed the words. I didn't think the Wise Monk would approve. Besides, even if I told them, they wouldn't believe me.
On the second night of the new year, Yao Qi, who had a very high opinion of himself and who had long dreamt of picking a fight with Lao Lan, dropped by with a bottle of Maotai liquor. We were sitting round a newly acquired dining table when this unexpected visitor arrived. Yao Qi had never stepped foot in our house, and Mother gave me a look because I hadn't obeyed her instructions to shut the gate before we began our meal. An open gate was an open invitation. Yao Qi stuck his head in through the door. Seeing us at dinner he said, ‘Ah, a real feast!’ but in a tone of voice that immediately annoyed me.
Father's lips parted as if he was about to say something, but he didn't.
Mother did, however: ‘We're no match for you and your family, with our coarse tea and bland rice. We just eat to survive.’
‘No longer,’ Yao Qi remarked.
‘These are leftovers from last night,’ I chimed in. ‘We had prawns, crab, cuttlefish…’
‘Xiaotong!’ Mother cut me off and glared at me. ‘Isn't food enough to stop that mouth of yours?’
‘We had prawns,’ Jiaojiao said, throwing out her arms. ‘And they were this big…’
‘If you want the truth,’ Yao Qi said, ‘listen to a child. Youngsters, things have got a lot better since Luo Tong returned, haven't they?’
‘They're the same as they've always been,’ Mother said. ‘But you didn't come here to quarrel with us while you're digesting your last meal, did you?’
‘No, I have important business to discuss with Luo Tong.’
Father laid down his chopsticks. ‘Let's go inside.’
‘Worried that someone might overhear you if you stay here?’ Mother glared at Father. ‘You'd have to turn on the light in there, and electricity costs money.’ She looked up at the overhead light.
‘That comment alone shows your mettle, good Sister-in-law,’ Yao Qi said sarcastically. Then he turned to Father. ‘I don't care,’ he said. ‘I'll go outside and announce it to the whole village with a megaphone.’ He put down the bottle of Maotai by the stove, took out a rolled-up piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Father. ‘This is my accusation against Lao Lan,’ he said. ‘Sign it and we can bring him down together. We can't let that tyrannical landlord's offspring ride roughshod over us.’
Instead of taking the paper, Father looked at Mother; she gazed down at her plate and carried on removing fish bones. ‘Yao Qi,’ said Father, a few moments later, ‘after what I've been through this time, and how disheartened it's made me, all I want now is to live a decent life. Get someone else to sign. Not me, I won't do it.’
‘I know that Lao Lan hooked your place up with electricity,’ smirked Lao Yao, ‘and I know he sent Huang Bao with a parcel of smelly fish and rotten shrimp. But you're Luo Tong—I don't believe he can buy you with so little.’
‘Yao Qi,’ Mother said as she placed a piece of fish into my sister's bowl, ‘stop trying to drag Luo Tong into your hell. He teamed up with you against Lao Lan that other time, and how did that turn out? You stayed in the background with your bad advice and left him to hang from a tree like a dead cat. You want to knock Lao Lan down so you can take over as village head, isn't it?’
‘I'm not doing this for myself, good Sister-in-law, I'm doing it for everyone. For that man, giving you electricity and a little seafood is nothing—one hair from nine cowhides, as they say. It's not even his money, it's the people's. Over the past few years he's secretly sold village property to an unscrupulous couple who promised to build a tech park and plant a grove of American red firs, but when no one was looking, they sold the two hundred acres to the Datun Ceramic Factory. Go see for yourself—the area's been levelled down three feet for the foundation. That was fertile farmland. How much do you think he made in that deal?’