Mo Yan - Pow!

The changes in our lives during the six months Father had been back were monumental. Things I hadn't dared dream of in the past had now become realities. Both he and my mother were different people, and issues that had led to quarrels in the past were now brushed away as trivial. I knew that their transformation had come about because of the new relationship with Lao Lan. Honestly, a person takes on the colour of his surroundings. You learn from those nearest you. If it's a witch, then you learn the dance of a sorceress.

Though Lao Lan's wife was an invalid, she managed to retain her poise through her illness. We were never told what she suffered from, but she had a sickly, pale complexion and was extremely frail. For me, the best comparison was of potato sprouts in a dank cellar. We often heard moans coming from her bedroom, but they stopped abruptly when she heard footsteps. Jiaojiao and I called her Aunt, and she gave us the funniest looks, with hints of a mysterious smile at the corners of her mouth. We couldn't help noticing that Tiangua didn't act like a dutiful daughter round her, almost as if she wasn't her real mother. I was well aware that mysterious relationships often infect the homes of influential people, and Lao Lan was an influential man whose home gave rise to matters most people could never comprehend.

So I left that small iron gate, the thoughts galloping through my mind like wild horses and, hugging the wall, made my way to the kitchen. As the distance shrank between me and the meat being cooked inside, the aroma intensified and I could visualize great hunks of the lovely stuff stewing in a big pot. The already high wall seemed to tower over me as I stood there looking up. Not even a grown-up—let alone a child my size—could scale a wall that high, especially since it was topped by barbed wire. But, as they say, where there's a will there's a way. Just as I was about to give up, I spotted a sewage ditch for funnelling foul water out of the kitchen. Was it dirty? Of course it was—it was a sewer. I picked up a fallen branch and moved away pig bristles and feathers and created a passage. Any hole that could accommodate my head, as I knew from experience, was big enough to crawl through, since that's the only body part that can't be made smaller. By using the dead branch as a measuring stick, I determined that the hole was larger than my head, but before squeezing my way in I took off my jacket and my pants, then spread some dirt over the sewage to keep from getting wet. I looked round—there were no people on the street, and a tractor had just passed by; a horse cart was too far away to see what I was up to. I couldn't have asked for a better time to make my move. But even though it was larger than my head, squeezing through that little hole would not be easy. I flattened on my belly and stuck my head in. A complex mixture of smells rose out of the sewer, so I held my breath to keep the foul air out of my lungs. About half way in my head got stuck, and I panicked. But only for a moment. I had to stay calm, because I knew that panicky thoughts make your head grow bigger, and then I'd really be stuck. If that happened, this sewer was where I'd end my days, and the death of Luo Xiaotong would have been a terrible waste. My first reaction was to pull my head back out. It didn't work. I knew then that I was in trouble, but I stayed calm and turned my head until I felt it loosen up a bit. Next, I stretched out my neck to free my ears; once that was done I knew I'd made it past the hardest part. Now all I had to do was shift my body slightly and I could make it through to the other side. So I did, and a moment later I was standing inside Father's plant. After hooking my clothes on the other side with a piece of wire, I cleaned most of the sewer filth off my body with a handful of grass and got dressed. Then, in a crouch, I negotiated the narrow path between the brick wall and the kitchen. When I reached the first window, I was swathed in meaty aromas, almost as if I was immersed in a sticky meat broth.

With a piece of rusty metal I jimmied the two window sections until the last obstacle to a view of the inside fell open. A blast of meaty aromas hit me, as a huge pot atop a blazing stove about fifteen feet from the window caught my attention. Soup was boiling so fiercely that waves of it nearly splashed over the sides. Huang Biao, in a white apron and over-sleeves walked into the room. I frantically scurried away from the window so he wouldn't spot me. He picked up a long-handled hook and stirred the mixture in the pot, bringing into view sections of oxtails, pig's knuckles, dog's leg and sheep's leg. Pig, dog, cow and sheep, together in one pot. They danced, they sang, they greeted me. Their aromas blended into a heavy fragrance, though I could pick out the individual smells.

Huang Biao snared a pig's knuckle and examined it. What was he looking for? It was soft and fully cooked, and would be overdone if he let it stew any longer. But he threw it back in, picked out a dog's leg and then went through the same motions, although this time he sniffed it too. What are you doing, you moron? It's ready to eat, so turn down the heat before it turns to mush. Next came a sheep's leg, and once again it was examine and smell. Why don't you taste it, you fool? Finally, satisfied that it had cooked long enough, he pulled out the partially burnt kindling and stuffed the hot ends into a sand-filled metal pail, which sent a pall of white smoke into the air and injected the meaty fragrance with a charcoal-like odour. Now that the heat had diminished, the liquid was no longer roiling, although a few ripples remained in the spaces between the cuts of meat, whose song had softened as they waited to be eaten. Huang Biao brought up a sheep's leg with his hook and laid it on a metal platter behind a smaller stove next to the first one. Then he added a dog's leg, two sections of oxtail and a pig's knuckle. Free of the crowd, they cried out happily and waved me over. They had tiny hands, about the size of hedgehog paws. What happened next was, to say the least, entertaining. Huang Biao walked to the door, looked round, then came back in and shut the door behind him. I just knew the bastard was about to dig in and eat all the meat that had invited me to feast on it. Pangs of jealousy rose in me. But he did nothing of the sort—not a single bite (a bit of a relief—at first). Instead, he moved a stool up to the pot, climbed onto it, undid the buttons of his pants, took out a demonic tool and then released a stream of yellow piss into the meaty mixture.

The meat cried out shrilly and huddled up, trying to hide by crowding together. But there was no escape. The powerful stream subjected them to crippling humiliation. Their smell changed. They frowned and they wept. When he was finished, he put the now-contented object back inside his pants, climbed off the stool with a smirk and picked up a spade-like object, which he dipped in the pot to stir the meat, which whined as it tumbled in the fouled soup. After laying down the spade, Huang Biao picked up a small copper ladle, scooped up some of the liquid and held it under his nose. With a satisfied smile, he said: ‘Just right. Now you bastards can eat my piss.’

I threw open the window, intending to voice my outrage. But the shout caught in my throat. I felt sullied and was filled with uncommon loathing. Startled by the sound, Huang Biao dropped the ladle, spun round and stared at me. As his face turned purple, he grimaced and then gave a sinister little laugh. ‘Oh, it's you, Xiaotong,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’

I glared at him without answering.

‘All right, boy, come here,’ he said, waving me over. ‘I know how much you love meat. Today you can eat as much as you want.’

I sprang through the window and landed on the kitchen floor. Huang Biao solicitously moved over a campstool for me to sit on, followed by the stool he'd stood on, and then laid a platter on it. Flashing a crafty smile, he picked up his hook and dragged a sheep's leg out of the pot, broth dripping from it as he placed it before me.