Mo Yan - Pow!

‘Is that snide comment meant for me?’

‘Oh, no,’ Huang Biao rushed to his own defence. ‘You could give me two more gonads and I still wouldn't have the balls to do that. Besides, we've been friends for a long time. And the only reason I've been able to keep my job here is because I've got you, a gourmand, to back me up. My cooking skills have not gone to waste if they've managed to make you happy. Just watching you eat meat—I'm not just saying this—is a true pleasure, more satisfying than embracing my wife in bed—’

‘Enough sweet talk,’ I said impatiently. ‘Bring out the donkey meat.’ I loved being flattered but I didn't want to show it. I couldn't let any of those petty individuals see what made me so special. No, I had to remain a mystery to them, full of complexities. I had to make them forget my age and remember my authority.

Huang Biao went over to a cupboard behind the stove and brought out the portion of donkey meat, lovingly wrapped in a fresh lotus leaf, and placed it on the stool in front of me. What I need to make clear here is that, given my special status and position, I could have had him deliver the meat to me in my office. But I've always been particular about my surroundings when I eat, like the big cats that take their kill back to their lairs and then eat it an unhurried pace. A tiger takes its kill to its den, a panther to the crotch of its favourite tree. An unhurried meal in a safe and familiar spot is the height of enjoyment. Ever since the day I first stole into the plant's kitchen through the sewage ditch, and was rewarded by a truly satisfying meal, I'd developed a fondness for this spot, like a conditioned reflex. Other comforts included sitting on the same low stool, having the same tall stool in front of me and eating out of the same bowl while keeping an eye on the same pot. I must admit that my motivation for wanting to work at United, and then for working as hard as I did, was so that I could sit in the kitchen and enjoy a proper meal of our meat products whenever I wanted. So that I never had to steal in through the sewage ditch like a dog, sneak a bowlful of meat and then sneak out the same way. Imagine wallowing in the sewer after finishing off a bowlful of meat—now you know why I set my sights on the job.

Huang Biao started to peel away the lotus leaf but I stopped him. He was too stupid to realize that peeling away the meat's wrapping gave as much pleasure to me as disrobing a woman did to Lan Laoda.

‘ I've never disrobed one of my women myself,’ Lan Laoda says unemotionally. ‘They take off their own clothes. That's how it has to be,’ he says behind me. ‘After the age of forty, I no longer touched their breasts nor kissed them nor took them in the missionary position. Doing so would have stirred my emotions and that would have made my world collapse. ’

A cloud of white steam rose from the meat as I peeled away the lotus leaf, scorched black by the heat. Donkey, ah, donkey, dear, dear donkey. The aroma brought tears to my eyes. I tore off a piece but, before I could put it in my mouth, Jiaojiao stuck her head in the doorway. As greedy and as knowledgeable, if not as well informed, a meat-eater as I, her tender age meant that she had a much deeper appreciation for meat than most people. Usually we ate together, but that day I had to mull something over and didn't want her sitting across from me and interfering with my train of thought. I waved her in, tore off a hunk of meat twice the size of my fist and offered it to her: ‘There's something I need to think over, so take this and enjoy it.’

‘All right,’ she said. ‘There's something I need to think over too.’

She left. I turned to Huang Biao: ‘You can go too. Leave me alone for the next hour.’

With a nod, he walked out.

I looked down at the beautiful meat and listened to its contented whispers. Squinting, I could envision the way this piece had been taken off of the lovely, clever little black donkey. Like a butterfly that had flown off its body and fluttered into the pot, from there to the cupboard and finally, here, to me. The whispered words that came through most clearly were: ‘I've been waiting for you…’

‘Eat me now, don't waste a minute,’ it then gushed softly. ‘I'll grow cold if you don't hurry, and stringy…’

Whenever I hear meat passionately urging me to eat it, my heart soars and my eyes begins to water. If I'm not careful I may even burst into tears. I've made a fool of myself more than once in the past—sitting in a crowd, eating meat and crying like a baby. But that's ancient history. The weepy carnivore Luo Xiaotong was grown up now. Enjoying a meal of emotional, sensitive donkey meat, he was busy trying to figure out how to transport live, water-treated animals from the meat-cleansing workshop to the kill rooms, a technological problem with momentous impact on United's meat production.

My first brainstorm was about a series of conveyor belts from the injection station to the various kill rooms. But I rejected that. Even though Lao Lan had said not to worry about the cost, I knew that the plant's finances were tight and I didn't want to add to my parents’ money worries. I was also aware that the plant had inherited its electrical system from the canvas factory and that its old, frayed wires and transformers were already overloaded. The system would collapse it it had to power conveyor belts carrying tonnes of cows. Next, I considered sending the animals into the kill rooms on the hoof, that is, perform the treatment there and then slaughter. But that would put the newly created meat-cleansing building out of commission even before it was up and running. And I'd be out of a job. Even more important was the fact that the animals receiving the water treatment continuously emptied their bowels and their bladders. Slaughtering them amid all that filth would affect the quality of the meat. Every animal sent out from the meat-cleansing workshop was supposed to be clean, inside and out; that was what separated United from independent butchers and all other meatpacking plants.

The donkey meat sang in my mouth as my brain went into high gear, each discarded idea quickly replaced by a new one. In the end, I came up with a solution that both suited local conditions and was simple and cheap. Lao Lan's eyes flashed in excitement when I explained it to him: ‘You really are something, youngster!’ he said with a pat on the shoulder. ‘I approve. Put it into operation.’

‘I guess that's what we'll have to do,’ said Father.

At the workshop's exit, I had a team of workers build a rack with five thick fir posts. Then a hoist atop the rack with a block and tackle, christened the ‘lifting gourd’. Another team joined two flatbeds to make a moveable platform. With that device, when the workers led or dragged a water-treated cow or some other large animal to the exit—standing if possible, lying if not—a rope was placed under its belly to hoist it up onto the platform, which was then pushed and pulled—two men on each end—rumbling straight into one of the kill rooms.

What happened to it there was not our concern.

Water-injected large livestock no longer presented a problem. As for pigs, sheep, dogs and other domestic animals—well, they're not even worth a mention.

My narrative is cut short by the wail of ambulance sirens, one from West City and another from East City. Then two more out from each, making it a total of six. When they meet on the highway, two turn onto the grass field, leaving the remaining four in the middle of the road. Their flashing red and green lights heighten the tension and terror in the air. EMTs in white smocks, white caps and blue masks, some carrying medical bags, others lugging simple stretchers, rush out of the ambulances in the direction of the meat-vendors, where people have formed a dozen or more tight circles. The medics push people out of their way to get to the stricken—some lying unconscious, some rolling on the ground, some others bent over, vomiting. People pat the backs of their retching friends, and family members kneel beside the unconscious and anxiously call out their names. The medics first examine and tend the unconscious and those rolling on the ground. Then up onto the stretchers they go, to be carried off to the ambulances. There are not enough stretchers so an EMT asks for help to carry or help poison victims to the ambulances. The medical vehicles halt traffic from both directions and, in no time, more than forty cars are stopped, bumper to bumper. They do not suffer in silence, however, and announce their displeasure with a barrage of blaring horns. It's the worst noise in the world. If I were king of the world, Wise Monk, I'd destroy every single horn and horn-blower. Now come the police cars and the police. A policeman drags a truck-driver out of his cab because he refuses to stop honking. The driver resists, and his surly manner so angers the policeman that he grabs the man by the throat and throws him into a ditch. The driver crawls out, soaked, and screams in a heavy accent: ‘I'll sue, damn it! All you cops are thugs!’ The policeman takes a step in his direction and the driver jumps back into the ditch. With the police directing traffic, the ambulances bearing the poison victims drive onto the temple grounds, then turn and speed off to their respective hospitals through the slender spaces between the lines of cars. The police cars lead the way. A policeman sticks his head out the window and orders the drivers to clear a path. Another group of poison victims has collected on the grassy field, the sound of their retching and moaning merging with the shouts of the police directing traffic. The police have commandeered several private vans to take the sick into town, ignoring the drivers’ complaints. ‘Who told those people to eat so much?’ grouses a low-ranking Party official. His comment draws a glare from a large, swarthy policeman. Thus silenced, he stands by the road and lights a cigarette. Now van-less drivers begin to congregate in our compound. Some poke their heads inside the temple, others gape at the Meat God lying out in the sun. One of them, delighted at the calamity that has struck the enviable Carnivore Festival, says: ‘Well, folks, I think we're witnessing the end of the Carnivore Festival.’ ‘The whole thing's ridiculous,’ another agrees. ‘Baldy Hu was looking to make a big splash. It was a terrible idea but his superiors think the world of him and let him go ahead. He's in big trouble now, and he'll be lucky if no one dies. If lots of people die—’ A woman with piercing eyes steps out from behind a tree and interrupts in a severe tone of voice: ‘If lots of people die, Chairman Wu, what good will that do you?’ ‘I was just thinking aloud,’ the man replies, obviously embarrassed, ‘and I apologize. We were about to phone the hospital to send help for you.’ The woman, a cadre herself, shouts into her cellphone: ‘It's beyond urgent! To hell with the cost! Mobilize everything you've got, personnel, money, everything. Punish anyone who stands in the way!’ A small fleet of Audi A6s drives up with a police escort, and Mayor Hu steps out of the car. On-site cadres rush to report. The mayor's face grows grave at the enormity of the situation and he walks towards some of the stricken individuals.