Mo Yan - Pow!

Despite the rehearsal, Father was stiff and unnatural; when the time came he was, if anything, worse. I felt deeply embarrassed. Just look at Lao Lan—standing straight, chest out, a broad smile on his face, making a wonderful impression. One look told you that he was a man of the world yet one who remained simple, honest and trustworthy. But then my father followed him, head down, shifty-eyed, evasive, like a man harbouring sinister thoughts. He stepped on Lao Lan's heel at least once as he stumbled along, and it looked as if an invisible brick in the road had tripped him. His arms were like clubs hanging from his shoulders, incapable of bending or moving. It was almost as if he was wearing a suit of armour. His expression was something between a laugh and a sob, a sorry sight to behold, and all I could think was how much better a job Mother would have done, or, me, for that matter. I'd have done better, perhaps even outdone Lao Lan.

Lao Lan grabbed the leading official's hand with both of his and shook it hard. ‘Welcome, a hearty welcome!’

A minor official introduced Lao Lan to his superior: ‘This is Lan Youli, Chairman of the Board and General Manager, Huachang Corporation.’

‘A peasant-turned-entrepreneur!’ said the man with a smile.

‘A peasant, yes,’ Lao Lan said modestly, ‘but hardly an entrepreneur.’

‘Just do a good job,’ said the official. ‘I don't see a Great Wall separating peasant and entrepreneur these days.’

‘Our leader is very wise,’ Lao Lan said. ‘We will, as you say, do a good job.’

Lao Lan shook the official's hand a second time before relinquishing his spot to Father.

‘This is Luo Tong,’ introduced the minor official, ‘the plant manager, an expert on meat. He has an unerring eye, like the legendary chef Pao Ding.’

‘Really?’ the official remarked as he shook Father's hand. ‘I guess in your eyes there's no such thing as a living cow—just an accumulation of flesh and bones.’

Father glanced down at the tips of the minor official's shoes as his face turned red and he muttered unintelligibly.

‘Pao Ding,’ official said to him, ‘it's up to you to see that no water is injected into the meat.’

Finally Father managed a few words: ‘I guarantee…’

Lao Lan led the VIP and his entourage into the plant compound. As if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, Father moved away and watched the party pass by.

His inability to perform in the limelight made me feel terrible. I'd have liked to run up, grab hold of his tie and throttle him till he snapped out of his muddle-headedness, till he stopped standing at the side of the road like some moron. All the spectators followed the VIPs through the gate but Father stayed where he was, looking lost. When I couldn't take it any longer, I went up to him; to avoid destroying the last vestige of his dignity, I did refrain from grabbing his tie. I just nudged him in the waist and said: ‘Don't stand here, Dieh. You need to stand next to Lao Lan. You have to give the guided tour.’

‘Lao Lan can handle it by himself,’ he replied, looking timid.

Pinching his leg savagely, I whispered: ‘You really disappoint me, Dieh!’

‘You're stupid, Dieh!’ Jiaojiao remarked.

‘Now go!’ I said.

‘You're just children.’ Father looked down at us. ‘You can't understand how your father feels…but all right, I'll go.’

He strode off towards the meeting site, as determined as I'd ever seen him, and I saw Yao Qi, who was standing by the gate, arms folded, reward him with a meaningful nod.

The ceremony finally got underway and, as Lao Lan loudly made the opening remarks, Father walked over to the drainage ditch in front of the inspection station. He then lit a torch, held it high and waved it for the benefit of the spectators. Reporters rushed up and aimed their cameras at the torch in his hand. He spoke, though no one asked him to: ‘I guarantee that we will not inject our meat with water.’

With that he flung the torch onto the pile of rotting, reeking kerosene-soaked meat.

Seemingly before the torch actually touched it, flames roared into the sky and shrill screeches—a mixture of excitement and agony—emerged from the conflagration, carrying with them a sweet yet disagreeable smell. The flames leapt high into the sky, and twisting columns of black smoke accompanied the sound and the smell. The flames, a deep red, looked especially dense, and my thoughts were taken back a year or so, to the fires Mother and I set to burn discarded rubber tyres and plastic waste. There was a definite resemblance with the fire in front of me now, but also a fundamental difference. The fires back then had been industrial burns—plastic, chemical, toxic—while this fire was agrarian—animal, life, nutrients. Though spoilt, it was still meat, and incinerating meat like this made me hungry. I knew that Lao Lan had told my parents to buy it at the local market and then store it inside to let it rot. It had not been purchased for consumption but to be burnt, to play the role of an inferno. Which is to say, it was edible when my parents sent someone to buy it. Which is also to say, if they hadn't sent someone to buy it, someone else would have consumed it. Had fortune smiled upon the meat or hadn't it? The most cherished fate for meat is to be eaten by someone who both understands and loves it. The least cherished fate is to be incinerated. And so, as I watched it curl up in agony, struggle, moan and shriek in the flames, solemn and tragic feelings rose up in me, creating the illusion that I was that meat, that I was sacrificing myself for Lao Lan and my parents. The sole purpose of the spectacle was to show that we, the residents of Slaughterhouse Village, would never again produce water-injected or otherwise corrupted meat. The fire was the concrete expression of that resolve. Reporters filmed and photographed it from all angles, and the flames attracted a crowd round the plant gate. Including a fellow from a neighbouring village with the unusual name of October. People said he was a mental midget but he didn't seem stupid to me. He elbowed his way up to the fire and stabbed a hunk of meat with a steel pike. Then he ran off, holding the flaming meat over his head, like a torch. Shaped like a large shoe, it dripped grease, tiny, sizzling drops of liquid fire as October shouted excitedly and ran up and down the street. A young reporter snapped his picture, although none of the video cameras turned towards him.

‘Meat for sale,’ he shouted, ‘cooked meat for sale…’

October's performance made him the centre of attention, even as the grand opening ceremony was in progress and the VIP in the middle of his speech. The reporters rushed back with their cameras, though I'd have bet that the younger ones would have preferred to film October's antics. Professional diligence, however, did not allow for impetuous actions.

‘The creation of the United Meatpacking Plant is a historic event…’ The VIP's amplified voice swirled in the air.

October twirled the skewer over his head, like a spear-wielding actor in an opera. The chunk of flaming meat popped and crackled, sending hot drops of grease flying like tiny meteors. A spectator screamed as grease spatter landed on her cheeks. ‘Damn you, October!’ she cursed.

People ignored her, preferring to watch October and reward him with the odd encouraging shout of ‘Bravo, October, bravo!’ People in the crowd jumped out of the way with a skill and a vigour to match his.

‘In line with our goal to supply the masses with worry-free meat, we have created the Huachang brand and ensure its reputation…’ Lao Lan was speaking now.

I took my eyes off October, just for a moment, to see if I could find my father. In my mind, the plant manager ought to be on the speaker's platform at this important moment, and I fervently hoped he wasn't still hanging round the fire. I was in for another disappointment, for that's exactly where he was. The attention of most of the people there had been drawn by October, all but a few old-timers hunkered down alongside the drainage ditch and close to the fire, probably trying to keep warm. Two people were standing: one was my father, the other a uniformed man who worked for Lao Han and who was poking the flaming pile with a steel pole as if it were a sacred duty. My father's unblinking eyes were fixed on the flames and the smoke as he stood almost reverently, his suit curling from the heat. From where I stood he looked like a charred lotus leaf that would crumble at the slightest touch.