Mo Yan - Pow!

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.

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…’