Mo Yan - Pow!

Lao Lan's words of praise filled me with pride and I was, quite literally, bursting with joy. In that brief moment I had been given the rare privilege of sitting at a table with adults. So when they raised their glasses in a toast, I picked up the bowl in front of me, poured out the water in it. ‘May I have some of that, please?’ I asked as I held it out to Mother.

‘What?’ she blurted out in surprise. ‘You want what they're drinking?’

‘It's not good for children,’ Father said.

‘Why not? It's been such a long time since I've been happy, and I can see you're happy too. It's worth celebrating—with a drink!’

‘You're right, Xiaotong,’ said Lao Lan, his eyes flashing, ‘a drink is exactly what's called for! Anyone who can reason like that—adult or child—deserves a drink. Here, I'll pour.’

‘No, no, Elder Brother Lan,’ Mother objected. ‘He'll get a big head.’

‘Hand me the bottle,’ Lao Lan said. ‘I know from experience that there are two types of people in this world you mustn't offend. One is punks and hoodlums, the so-called lumpenproletariat. They're straight when they're standing and flat when they're lying down: if one eats, none goes hungry, so folks with a family and a job, with progeny to carry on the line, anyone who enjoys prestige and authority will stay clear of this type. Ugly, snot-nosed, grime-covered children, who are kicked about like mangy dogs, comprise the other. The likelihood that they will grow up to be thugs, armed robbers, high officials or senior military officers is greater than for well-behaved, nicely dressed, clean-scrubbed good boys.’ He filled my bowl. ‘Come on, Luo Xiaotong, Mr Luo, have a drink with Lao Lan!’

Boldly I held out my bowl and clinked it against his glass, which, when it produced the unusual sound of porcelain on glass, filled me with joy. He drained his glass at one go. ‘That's how I show my respect!’ he said as he banged his glass upside down on the table to show it was empty. ‘I drained mine,’ he said. ‘You can sip yours.’

The moment my lips touched the rim of the bowl I could smell the pungent aroma of strong liquor and I didn't much like it. Still, in the grip of excitement, I swallowed a big mouthful. First, my mouth was on fire, then the flames burnt their way down my throat, singeing everything they touched and then into my stomach.

‘That's enough!’ said Mother, snatching the bowl out of my hands. ‘A taste is all you need. You can have more when you grow up.’

‘No, I want more now.’ I reached out to get back my bowl.

Father gave me a worried look but offered no opinion.

Lao Lan took the bowl and poured most of the contents into his glass: ‘Esteemed nephew, any man worthy of his name knows when to give and when to take. We'll share this glass—you finish what I leave.’

For the second time, porcelain on glass rang out, and, only seconds later, bowl and glass were empty.

‘I feel great,’ I said. I really did, greater than ever. Like I was floating, and not lightly like a feather on the wind but like a melon on the water, carried along by river currents…All of a sudden my eyes were drawn to the greasy little paws of Jiaojiao—busy drinking, we'd forgotten all about my bewitching little sister. But she was a smart one, just like her brother, like me, Luo Xiaotong. While we were otherwise engaged, and loudly so, she took the ancient adage ‘Help yourself and you'll never be cold or hungry’ to heart, but without resorting to those odd instruments, chopsticks. Who needs them when you have hands? Jiaojiao had been launching sneak raids on the meat and the fish and the other delicacies in front of her, until not only her hands but her cheeks too were coated with grease. She smiled when I looked her way—so adorable, so innocent—and it nearly melted my heart. Even my feet, which suffered chilblains every winter, tingled as if they were soaking in hot water. I picked out the best-looking anchovy from the can, leaned across the circular table and dangled it in front of Jiaojiao. ‘Open wide!’ I said. She looked up, opened her mouth and swallowed the little fish, just like a kitten. ‘Eat till you burst, little sister,’ I said. ‘The world belongs to us. We've pulled ourselves out of the quagmire of misery.’

‘I'm afraid the boy's drunk,’ Mother said to Lao Lan, clearly embarrassed.

‘I'm not,’ I insisted, ‘I'm not drunk!’

‘Do you have any vinegar?’ Lao Lan asked in a slightly muffled voice. ‘Get some into him. Some carp soup would be better.’

‘Where am I supposed to get my hands on carp soup?’ replied Mother, frustrated. ‘And I've got no vinegar either. I'll just give him some cold water and send him off to bed.’

‘That's no good,’ Lao Lan said with a loud clap of his hands. Huang Bao, whom we'd forgotten, materialized in our midst, his catlike footsteps making no sound. If not for the cold bursts of wind he let in through the open door, we'd have assumed he'd dropped out of the sky or shot up from the ground. His eyes were fixed on Lao Lan's mouth as he awaited his command. ‘Go,’ Lan said, not loudly yet with authority. ‘Get us some carp soup, and quickly. While you're at it, have them prepare two jin of shark's fin dumplings. But the soup first. The dumplings can wait.’

A guttural sound of acknowledgement, and Huang Bao vanished much the same way he'd appeared; the icy chill of that third of January 1991, evening, suffused with the smell of snowbound earth and the cold rays of starlight, flooded the room in the brief moment between the door swinging open and shut. And for the first time I glimpsed the mystery, the solemnity and the authority permeating the life of an important person.

‘We can't let you do that!’ Mother was apologetic. ‘We invited you to dinner—we can't let you spend your money!’

Lao Lan laughed magnanimously: ‘Yang Yuzhen, you still don't get it, do you? I accepted your invitation to strike up a friendship with your son and your daughter. We're nearly in our forties—who knows how much longer we'll be bouncing about? No, the world is theirs, and in another ten years or so they'll have to put their abilities to good use.’

Father poured more drink from the bottle. ‘Lao Lan,’ he said sombrely, ‘Not until this moment have I been convinced that you are better than me. Now I know it to be true. I will work for you willingly from this day forward.’

‘We two, you and me,’ Lao Lan said, pointing first to Father and then to himself, ‘are made of the same stuff.’

My parents and Lao Lan drank a great deal on that unforgettable evening. Their faces changed colour: Lao Lan's turned yellow, Father's white and Mother's red.

Contingents from both East City and West City gradually disperse as night begins to fall, leaving the grassy field and the road littered with empty drink cans and torn flags, with paper flowers and used manure bags. A small army of sanitation workers in yellow vests hurriedly cleans up as foremen with bullhorns shout instructions. At the same time, walking tractors, three-wheeled flatbeds, horse-drawn carts with rubber wheels and a host of other vehicles are transporting barbeque braziers, electric grills, deep fryers and other cooking equipment onto the grounds. A Carnivore Festival night market where meats of all varieties will be available is being set up on the grounds in order to lessen the environmental impact on urban centres. The enormous generator truck remains in place to supply power. The night promises to be one for the record books. After talking up a storm during the day and witnessing all sorts of enthralling sights, I'm running out of steam. Although the several bowls of mystery porridge I'd finished off the night before have moved more slowly through my digestive system than most foods, it was, after all, soupy porridge, and as the sun begins to set, my stomach growls and the first pangs of hunger rise up inside me. I steal a look at the Wise Monk, hoping he'll notice the passage of time and lead me over to the little room in the rear to get some rest and something to eat. I might even run into that mysterious woman I met last night. Once again she may magnanimously undo her blouse and nurture my body and enrich my soul with her sweet milk. But the Wise Monk's eyes remain shut and the hairs in his ears twitch, a sure sign that he's concentrating on my tale—