Pow!

by Mo Yan

  With that in mind, I looked to see how my true rival, Feng Tiehan, was doing.

  I turned in time to see him spear a chunk of meat and take a bite. Although there was a change in his sallow complexion, he lowered his eyes and his deadpan expression gave nothing away. His hands were spotless, thanks to his exclusive use of the metal skewer. His cheeks were dry, and the only grease I could see was on his lips. He ate at a steady, unhurried pace, a study in calmness, more like a diner enjoying a solitary restaurant meal than a competitor in a public eating contest. It was disheartening, a reminder that I had a formidable opponent. The other two, with their exaggerated gestures, were all show and no substance. Like the flame-out from a chicken-feather fire. A slow, pig-head simmering flame, like that of my third rival, on the other hand, presented a challenge. He maintained his composure even under my scrutiny, so I studied him some more. He speared a new piece of meat but hesitated, then returned it to the tub and chose a smaller one. As he carried it to his mouth, his hand stopped in mid-air. His body lurched upward and he stifled a low murmur deep in his throat. I breathed a sigh of relief, now that I'd spotted my enigmatic rival's weak spot. His choice of the smaller piece of meat was evidence that his stomach had reached its limit, while the lurch upward forced back a belch that would have brought out the ingested meat. There was also about a pound of uneaten meat in his tub. He obviously possessed sufficient resolve and was determined to stay with me to the end. All along I'd hoped for a worthy opponent so as not to disappoint our audience. A mismatch would have bled the competition of its significance. Now I knew that my fears were unfounded. Thanks to Feng Tiehan's obstinacy, a brilliant victory was assured.

  Sensing my sidelong examination, Feng cast me a challenging glance. I responded with a friendly smile, picked up a piece of meat and carried it to my mouth as if to give it an affectionate kiss. I then brushed it with my lips and teeth to gauge its streaks and ridges before tearing off a piece and allowing it to enter my mouth on its own. Then I looked down at the dark red portion of meat waiting to be eaten, kissed it and told it to be patient as I began to chew its companion with passion and sensitivity so as to fully experience its flavour and fragrance, its pliant, moist texture—in other words, its entirety. I sat up straight and let my spirited eyes sweep over the faces in the crowd. I saw excitement there and I saw anxiety. It was clear who was rooting for me to win and who was not. Most, of course, were just there to enjoy the show—for them, a good fight was enough. But what was common across all those faces was the hunger for meat. They could not comprehend why Liu and Wan were having so much trouble eating. That was perfectly understandable—no bystander could relate to the anguish of someone who's eaten until the meat is backed up into his throat and who yet has to eat some more. I communicated with Lao Lan by letting my gaze linger on his face for a few seconds. His faith in me was unmistakable. Don't worry, Lao Lan, I said with my eyes. I won't let you down. I may not boast any other skills, but eating meat is my stock-in-trade. I also spotted my parents, standing on the outer edge of the crowd, staying as inconspicuous as possible, as if they wanted to avoid affecting my mood. Like parents everywhere, they were on tenterhooks, wanting me to win but worried that something might go wrong. My father, especially. This survivor of multiple eating contests, this veteran competitor, who had emerged victorious from every challenge, knew as well as anyone the risks involved and the misery that usually followed. His face was a study in concern, for he knew that the hardest part of a contest was reached when only a quarter of the food remained. It was the equivalent of a sprint to the finish line in a long-distance race. Not only a test of strength or stomach capacity, it was also a test of will. Only the contestant with the strongest will could win. When he can't swallow another bite, that's when a competitor has reached his bursting point. One more sliver of food will be the straw that breaks the proverbial camel's back. The cruel nature of this contest had finally become evident. An old hand at such contests, my father watched with mounting apprehension as the piles of meat slowly diminished. In the end, a patina of worry, like a coat of paint, seemed to blur his features. The look on my mother's face was easier to read. As I chewed one mouthful after another, her mouth moved along with mine, an unconscious attempt to help me along.

  ‘Do you want some tea?’ Jiaojiao asked softly with a poke in my back.

  I declined the offer with a wave of my hand. That was against the rules.

  Four pieces of meat remained in my tub, roughly half a pound. I made quick work of one piece, then followed it with a second. Two left, each the size of a hen's egg. Resting on the bottom of the tub, they were like friends hailing one another across a pond. I shifted my body slightly to feel the weight of my abdomen and decided that there was still room down there for the last two pieces. Even if I lost the contest I'd go out in style.

  I ate one of the pieces, leaving its dear friend alone at the bottom of the tub. It waved its little tentacle-like hands, opened the mouths in the palms of that digital forest and called to me. Again I shifted my body to free up a bit of space in my stomach. As I sized up the final piece, I felt relaxed as never before. There was more than enough room in my stomach for that piece, and I watched it tremble in anticipation. It had to be thinking—if only it could sprout wings and fly straight into my mouth, then slide down my throat and be reunited with its siblings. In a language only we understood, I urged it to calm down and wait its turn. I wanted it to realize how fortunate it was to be the last piece of meat I ate in the contest. Why? Because every eye in the crowd would be on it. There was a difference between it and all the nameless pieces that had gone before it. As the last, it effectively determined the outcome and thus was the centre of attention. It was time to take a deep breath, concentrate my energy and build up enough saliva to spiritedly, energetically, elegantly and gracefully bring an end to the contest. As I breathed in deeply, I took one last look at my rivals.

  First, Liu Shengli, the one with a face like a mobster. Bruised and battered, he was failing ignominiously. His fingers and lips were stuck together with grease. He tried shaking his hands to get them unstuck, but that grease remained unmoved. It too was meat, and it was now exacting revenge for his maltreatment. It stuck like glue to his fingers and made it impossible for him to pick up the remaining pieces. It had the same effect on his mouth—it sealed his lips, froze his tongue and palate and forced him to strain to open his mouth, as if it were filled with gooey malt sugar. From Liu Shengli we move to Wan Xiaojiang, a little man whom meat had turned into a sad sack. The best way to describe him would be as a disgusting, pathetic rat that's been dipped in a bucket of oil. He was looking shiftily at what remained in his tub. His greasy paws shook as he held them in front of his chest, and he needed only to start gnawing on them to truly live up to his nickname. He was a big rat stuffed so full he couldn't walk, and his belly bulged alarmingly. Only an overstuffed dying rat could make the kip kip noises that emerged from his mouth. There was no more fight in either competitor. All that remained was surrender.

  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 bla
ck 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!’