Mo Yan - Pow!

As dazzling fireworks briefly light up the dark sky, I'm suddenly in the grip of fear, as if I'm straddling the line between life and death, as if I'm glancing at the realms of yin and yang, of dark and light. In one of the brief illuminated moments, I see Lan Laoda meet the ancient nun in front of the temple as she hands him a bundle in swaddling clothes. ‘Esteemed patron ,’ she says, ‘Huiming has broken the bonds of this world. You must carry on as best you can.’ The fireworks die out, throwing the world back into darkness. I hear the cry of a newborn child. At the next burst of fireworks I see the infant's tiny face, especially its wide-open mouth, as well the indifferent look on the face of Lan Laoda. I know that his emotions are cresting, for I see something glisten in his eyes.

Another burst of fireworks blossoms in the sky, and four red circles transmogrify into large green characters— —spelling out ‘peace on earth’. They disintegrate into dozens of green meteorites that then fizzle in the darkness. Another cluster quickly fills the void, illuminating the lingering smoke from the previous burst and thickens the heavy smell of gunpowder that hangs over the field and makes my throat itch. Wise Monk, I witnessed many celebrations back when I was roaming the city streets, grand parades in daylight and fireworks displays at night, but I've never seen anything to match tonight's display of pyrotechnic words and intricate patterns. Times evolve, society progresses and the skill of fireworks artisans keeps improving, as does the art of barbecuing meat. Going back ten years, Wise Monk, the best we could manage here was lamb kebabs over a charcoal fire. But now there's Korean barbecue, Japanese barbecue, Brazilian barbecue, Thai barbecue and Mongolian barbecue. There's quail teppanyaki, flint-fired lamb's tail, charcoal mutton, pebble-roasted pork liver, pine-bough roast chicken, peach-wood roast duck, pear-wood roast goose…it's hardly farfetched to say that there's nothing in the world that can't be barbecued or roasted. An announcement signals the end of the fireworks display amid whoops and shouts from the spectators. Grand feasts must end some time, good times never last long, a thought that I find especially depressing. The final, and largest, pyrotechnic burst drags a fiery thread five hundred metres into the sky. Then it bursts to form a big red —meat—from which sparks cascade earthward, like drippings from a hunk of meat as it's removed from the pot. The people's eyes—bigger, it seems, than even their mouths, which in turn are bigger than their fists—are glued to the sight, as if waiting expectantly for the in the sky to drop into their mouths. In a matter of seconds breaks up into dozens of white umbrellas that float slowly to the ground, trailing white silk streamers, before being swallowed up by the inky night. It does not take long for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, allowing me to see hundreds of barbecue stands on the open field across the street. As one, their lights snap on, each covered by a red lampshade, the red rays of light creating an air of mystery in the night. It reminds me of the ghost markets of popular legend: flickering shadows, indistinct features, pointed teeth, green fingernails, transparent ears, poorly hidden tails…The meat-peddlers are ghosts, the meat-eaters human. Or else the meat-peddlers are human, the meat-eaters ghosts. If not that, the peddlers and the eaters of meat are all human, or all ghosts. If an outsider were to wander into a night market like that, he'd be witness to all sorts of unimaginable things. When he thought about them later, they would send chills up his spine but would give him a wealth of things to boast about. Wise Monk, you have left the mortal world and the bitter seas of humanity, and so have escaped the stories of the ghost markets. I grew up in the gory confines of Slaughterhouse Village, and spent much of my childhood listening to those tales. Like the one about a man who walked into a ghost market by mistake and caught sight of a fat man roasting his own leg over a charcoal fire, slicing off edible pieces when it was done. ‘Watch out ! ’ the visitor yelled. ‘You'll turn into a cripple ! ’ With a cry of anguish, the man threw down his knife, knowing he was now a cripple, something that would not have happened if the visitor hadn't shouted out. Then there was the man who got up early to ride his bicycle into town to sell meat. But he lost his way. When he saw lamplight ahead, he discovered a thriving meat market where curling smoke welcomed him with an extraordinary aroma. Peddlers shouted their wares and sweat dotted the diners’ foreheads. Business was lively, to the great joy of the newcomer, who set up a stall, including his butcher block, and laid out an array of aromatic, freshly roasted meat. His first shout drew a crowd of people who fought to place their orders—one jin for this person, two for that—without even asking the price. He had trouble keeping up with the demand of people who were in no mood to wait. They flung the money into his rush bag, grabbed the meat with their bare hands and began to stuff their faces. And as they chewed and swallowed, their faces underwent a hideous change and green lights began to shoot from their eyes. Realizing something was seriously amiss, the man scooped up his rush bag and fled, stumbling away and not stopping till the roosters crowed the coming dawn. Then he looked round him and discovered that he was standing in a wildwood. And when he checked his rush bag all he found was ash. Wise Monk, the barbecuing night market in front of us is an important component of the Twin Cities Carnivore Festival, and should not be a ghost market. But even if it were, would that matter? People these days enjoy nothing more than making contact with ghosts. These days it's the ghosts who are frightened by the people. The meat-peddlers out there all wear chef's hats, and they look top heavy as they busily chop meat and hail customers with their exaggerated claims. Charcoal and meat create a smell that seems to come from a time long ago, from past millennia, blanketing as much as a square kilometre. Black smoke merges with white smoke to form smoky colours that rise into the air and send birds weaving crazily in the sky. Gaily dressed young men and women happily wolf down the meat. A beer in one hand and a skewer of lamb in the other, some take a bite of meat, then a drink of beer and produce a loud belch. Others stand facing one another, man to woman, in a feeding frenzy. More daring couples hold a single piece of meat in their teeth and eat their way closer, until the end of the meat signals the beginning of a kiss, to the raucous delight of people round them. I'm hungry, Wise Monk, and I have a greedy mouth. But I took a vow to abstain from eating meat. I know that what's going on out there is your way to put me to the test, and I'll resist temptation by continuing my narration—

A number of important events occurred in our family round the Spring Festival. The first was on the afternoon of the fourth day of the new year, that is, the day after Lao Lan had dinner at our house, even before we had a chance to clean the tableware and furniture we'd borrowed for the occasion. Mother and Father were having a casual conversation as they washed dishes. Actually, it was anything but ‘casual’, since the talk did not stray far from Lao Lan, returning to him every two or three sentences. Once I'd heard enough, I went outside, where I peeled back the tarp covering the mortar, took out a packet of grease, and, for the last time before it was moved into the storeroom, laid on a protective coat. Now that the family had re-established friendly relations with Lao Lan, I no longer had an enemy. But that didn't remove the need to keep my weapon in good working order, if for no other reason than to remain alert to something my parents said over and over during that talk: ‘No one stays an enemy for ever, and no friendships are eternal.’ That is to say, an enemy today could become a friend tomorrow, and today's friend could turn into tomorrow's enemy. And there's no enemy as savage and full of loathing as someone who was once a friend. That's why it was important to keep my mortar in good working order. If the need to use it ever arose, I could put it into action immediately. I'd never consider selling it to a scrap dealer.