Mo Yan - Pow!

‘I don't care,’ he insisted, ‘I want you to stick it out for a few years.’

‘Dieh, I have strong feelings for meat. And I can help you with lots of things at the plant. I can hear the meat speak to me. Did you know that it's a living organism? I can see it wave to me with all its little hands.’

Father stared at me, as if he'd been strung up by his tie. Then he and Mother exchanged looks. I knew they thought I must be losing my mind. I'd assumed that Father, if not Mother, would understand my feelings. He, at least, had a vivid imagination. But, no. His imagination, it seemed, had dried up.

Mother walked up and rubbed my head, both to show her concern and to to see if I had fever. If I did, then she knew that what she'd heard was wild talk, delirium. But I wasn't running a fever, I was absolutely all right. There was nothing wrong with me or my mind, not a thing.

‘Xiaotong,’ she said, ‘don't be silly. You have to go to school. I was so obsessed with money all this while that I never stopped to think about your education. But now I understand that the world offers many things more valuable than money. So do as we say and go to school. You may not want to listen to your father and me, but you'll listen to Lao Lan, won't you? It was he who made us realize that you and your sister belong in school.’

‘I don't want to go either,’ protested Jiaojiao. ‘The meat speaks to me too, and waves to me with all its little hands. And sings, and has feet. Its hands and feet are like kittens’ paws, clawing and moving…’ She gestured in the air as she tried to demonstrate how the meat moved before.

I was impressed by her vivid imagination. Only four, and from a different mother, but our hearts beat in unison. I'd never mentioned that meat spoke to me or that it had hands, but she knew what I meant and gave me the support I needed.

Frightened by our strange talk of meat, our parents could only stare at us blankly. If the phone hadn't rung at that moment they'd have stood there all day, still staring. Oh, yes, I forgot to mention that we'd had a telephone installed, though it was for internal use only and controlled by a switchboard at the village headquarters. Still, it was a telephone, one that connected our house with Lao Lan's and the houses of several local cadres. Mother moved to answer it.

I knew it was Lao Lan.

‘Lao Lan wants us to go to the plant right away,’ she said to Father after hanging up. ‘People from the county propaganda office are bringing along representatives from the provincial TV station and some newspaper reporters. We're to entertain them till he gets there.’

Father adjusted the knot in his tie, then swivelled his neck up and down and from side to side. ‘Xiaotong,’ he said hoarsely, ‘and Jiaojiao, we'll talk more tonight. But you're both going to school. Xiaotong, I want you to set a good example for your sister.’

‘Not today,’ I said, ‘no one's going to school today. It's too big a day, a day of celebration, and we'd be the biggest fools if we spent it in school.’

‘I expect big things from you two,’ Mother said as she touched up her hair in the mirror.

‘And that's what you'll get,’ I said. ‘But going to school is not one of them.’

‘Not one of them,’ echoed Jiaojiao.

‘Bring it out! Bring it out so I can see it!’ A man whose forehead looks like shiny porcelain stands in the yard barking commands to his underlings. He's clearly not a happy man. His smartly dressed assistants echo his command like parrots: ‘Bring it out! Bring it out so Governor Xu can see it!’ Wise Monk, that's the provincial lieutenant governor. It's customary in official circles for his subordinates to call him Governor. The four paint-spattered labourers run out from behind a large tree and enter the temple at a crouch. They pass by us and stop in front of the idol. Without exchanging a word, not even a glance, they work together to lay the Meat God on the floor. I hear the Meat God giggle like a child being tickled. They tie yesterday's ropes under its neck and feet, slip the two shoulder poles under the ropes, crouch to lift the poles and, with a shout—four voices at once—straighten up and gently carry their load outside. The Meat God's giggles get louder as it jiggles, loud enough, I think, for the people in the yard—Lieutenant Governor Xu and his underlings—to hear. Can you hear, Wise Monk? Outside, the Meat God lies on the ground. Then the ropes are removed. ‘Stand it up, stand it up!’ shouts a Party cadre with a full head of hair from behind the lieutenant governor. That's the local mayor, Wise Monk. He and Lao Lan are thick as thieves; some people say they're sworn brothers. The four labourers try to lift the idol by the neck but all they accomplish is to slide it along the ground by its feet. It doesn't want to stand. It's clearly being naughty, the sort of thing I did as a boy. The mayor glares at the men behind him, displeased but unwilling to throw a tantrum in front of the lieutenant governor. That look is not lost on his subordinates, who rush to lend a hand. While some keep the feet from moving, the others line up behind the straining labourers and push. Far from a smooth operation, the giggling idol is nevertheless manoeuvred into an upright position. The lieutenant governor takes a few steps back and squints at it. It's impossible to decipher the enigmatic look on his face. The mayor and his entourage have their eyes on the lieutenant governor but without making it obvious. His scrutiny complete, the man steps up and pokes the Meat God in the belly, extracting shrieks of laughter. Next, he jumps up to rub the idol's head, just as a gust of wind raises havoc with his own few strands of hair. The loose comb-over slips over his ear and hangs there comically, like a little braid. Then the mayor's head of thick black hair slides off his head like a rat's nest and, landing on the ground, rolls at the mercy of the wind. The men behind him are evenly split between those who look on, mouths agape, and those who cover their mouths to stifle a laugh. A coughing spell is the concealment tactic of choice. But none of this gets past the watchful eye of the mayor's secretary, who will make a list of those who laughed and place it on his boss’ desk that evening. A quick-witted middle-aged employee runs down the mayor's fleeing hairpiece at a speed that belies his age. Its red-faced owner doesn't know what to do. At the same time, the lieutenant governor lays his errant swatch of hair back in place, eyes the mayor's patchy scalp and jokes: ‘You and I are brothers in adversity, Mayor Hu.’ The mayor rubs his scalp. ‘My wife's idea,’ he says with a little laugh. ‘Hair doesn't grow on clever heads,’ observes the lieutenant governor. The fleet-footed employee hands the hairpiece back to the mayor, who throws it away. ‘Out of my sight, damn you. I'm no movie star!’ ‘Eight out of ten movie stars and TV hosts wear toupees, you know,’ says the helpful junior. ‘Only a bald mayor truly looks the part,’ adds the mayor by way of encouragement. ‘Thank you, Governor,’ responds the now-pacified and radiant mayor. ‘Won't you please share your thoughts with me?’ ‘No, I think this is fine. Many of our comrades are too conservative. There's nothing wrong with a Meat God and a Meat God Temple. They have rich implications and lasting appeal.’ His comment is met with applause, the mayor taking the lead, continuing for a full three minutes despite attempts by the lieutenant governor to end it. ‘We must be bold,’ he continues, ‘give rein to our imagination. In my view, there should be no restrictions on things that benefit the people.’ He points to the inscribed board above the decrepit little temple entrance. ‘Take this Wutong Temple,’ he says. ‘I think it should be restored. A local gazetteer I looked at last night indicated that this little temple once thrived with many pilgrims, up until the Republican era, when a local official handed down an order that people were no longer permitted to worship here. That was the beginning of the temple's decline. Paying respects to the Wutong Spirit shows that the masses yearn for a healthy, happy sex life, and what's wrong with that? Allocate some funds and refurbish it while you're building the Meat God Temple. Here you have two bright spots that will boost the economic development of the twin cities, so don't let other provinces come in and steal your thunder.’ The mayor steps up with a glass of fifty-year-old Maotai: ‘Governor Xu,’ he says, ‘I toast you on behalf of the twin cities!’ To which the senior official replies: ‘Didn't you just do that?’ ‘No,’ replies the mayor, ‘that was on behalf of the people of the city in gratitude for approving the construction of a Meat God Temple and the refurbishing of the Wutong Temple. Now on behalf of the people of the city, I want to thank you ahead of time for personally writing the words for the board.’ ‘I wouldn't dare try,’ responds the lieutenant governor. ‘But Governor Xu, you are a famous calligrapher and the authority who has approved the Meat God Temple. If you don't inscribe the words, the temple won't be built.’ ‘Now you're driving the duck onto its perch,’ says the lieutenant governor. A local Party man rises: ‘Governor Xu, people feel that you ought to be a professional calligrapher, not a governor. If you'd chosen calligraphy for a career, you'd be a millionaire many times over.’ The mayor carries on the train of thought: ‘Now you see why we are resorting to well-meaning extortion to get you to honour us with your writing.’ The lieutenant governor blushes; he wavers. ‘For Wu Song, warrior hero of Mt Liang, the more he drank the greater his bravery. For me, the more I drink the greater my vitality. Calligraphy, ah, calligraphy, the essence of a man's vitality. Bring me brush and ink.’ The lieutenant governor takes a large-handled writing brush, dips it into a thick, inky mixture, holds his breath, and, in the wake of one magical sweep, three large, wildly haughty characters— , Meat God Temple—leap onto the paper.