Mo Yan - Pow!

One night a month before Lao Lan's wife died, my father and mother had a conversation, one up high, the other down low.

‘Come down from there,’ Mother said.

Father tossed down a glowing cigarette butt. ‘Sorry, no.’

‘Then stay up there till you breathe your last if you dare to.’

‘I will.’

‘You're a chicken-shit bastard if you don't come down.’

‘I won't.’

Even though Lao Lan put a lid on the situation, news of Father's vow to never come off the platform leaked out and spread through the plant. Mother walked about in a daze, snapping out of it only to smash the odd dinner plate and then sit at her mirror and weep. Jiaojiao and I weren't particularly upset by this turn of events; truth be known— I must shamefully confess, Wise Monk —we even found it all terribly funny, even something to be proud about because my old man was once again displaying his unique temperament.

He swore he wouldn't come off the platform but he said nothing about fasting. Three times a day Jiaojiao and I took him food. It was a special treat the first time we climbed up but soon it became just another chore. Father would greet our arrival without any display of emotion. We'd have liked nothing more than to sit and eat with him but he always courteously insisted that we go back down. Reluctantly, we did as he asked so his food wouldn't get cold; on our way down we made sure we took back the utensils from his previous meal. The plate and bowl would be clean enough not to need a wash. He must have licked them clean, and I often imagined that sight. He had so much time on his hands up there that licking a bowl clean was sort of a job for him.

He had to relieve himself, of course, so Jiaojiao and I took up two plastic pails, which meant that, in addition to delivering his food, we also had to dispose of his waste. After watching us apprehensively as we carried the waste pails down, he suggested that we haul up his food basket and lower the pails with a rope to spare us the trouble of climbing up and down.

Lao Lan just laughed when I told him about this conversation. ‘This is your family business,’ he said when he'd finished laughing. ‘Go talk it over with your mother.’

Mother would have none of it, and it seemed that by then she was resigned to her husband living on the platform. She went to work every day. She stopped smashing plates and frequently engaged in friendly chats with Lao Lan.

‘Xiaotong,’ she'd say, ‘don't forget his cigarettes when you take his food.’

The truth is, despite Mother's opposition, a rope would have been the easiest thing in the world. We didn't do it because we didn't want to. Climbing the platform three times a day to visit our exceptional father was a special treat for Jiaojiao and me.

When we delivered his breakfast one morning three weeks before Lao Lan's wife died, he sighed and said: ‘Children, your dieh's wasted his life.’

‘No, you haven't, Dieh,’ I replied. ‘You've stuck it out here seven days already, and that's quite a feat. People are starting to call you a sage in the making, waiting to be immortalized up here on the platform.’

He shook his head and managed a bitter smile. We brought him good food every day, and the fact that his bowl was always licked clean was proof that there was nothing wrong with his appetite. But in seven days he'd lost weight. His beard had grown, long and as prickly as a hedgehog, his eyes were bloodshot, sleep filling their the corners, and he smelt foul, really foul. Just the sight of him reduced me to tears, and I blamed myself for not taking better care of him.

‘Dieh,’ I said, ‘we'll bring you a razor and a basin to wash in.’

‘Dieh,’ Jiaojiao added, ‘we'll bring you a blanket and a pillow.’

He sat there, leaning up against a pole and staring into the wilderness. ‘Xiaotong,’ he said full of sorrow, ‘Jiaojiao, you two go down there, light a fire and immolate your dieh.’

‘Dieh,’ we cried out together, ‘stop that! What would life be like for us if you weren't around? You have to stick it out, Dieh. Not giving up will be your victory.’

We laid down the food basket and picked up the plastic pails, ready to climb down, when Father stood up, rubbed his face with those big hands of his, and said, ‘I'll do it.’

He took one of the pails, swung it back and forth a couple of times and then chucked it over the wall.

He then picked up the second pail and did the same thing.

Shocked by his outburst, I had a sudden feeling of impending disaster. I rushed over wrapped my arms round his leg. ‘Don't do it, Dieh, don't jump,’ I pleaded tearfully, ‘you'll die!’

Jiaojiao rushed up and, crying, wrapped her arms round his other leg. ‘Don't do it, Dieh, you'll die!’ she echoed.

Father stroked our heads and looked at the sky. When he finally looked down again, there were tears in his eyes.

‘Why would you think such a thing, children? Why would I want to jump? Your dieh doesn't have the guts.’

So he followed us down the platform and headed for the office. Strange looks followed us as we made our way through the plant.

‘What are you looking at?’ I demanded. ‘I dare any of you to try climbing that platform. My father spent seven days up there, so keep those stinking mouths shut till you've spent eight.’

They slunk away under my withering attack.

‘You're the best, Dieh,’ I said proudly.

Not a word from my ashen-faced father. He followed us into his office, where Lao Lan and Mother met his arrival with seeming indifference. It was as if we'd just come from one of the workshops or the toilet and not off the rebirth platform.

‘Good news, Lao Luo,’ Lao Lan said. ‘The Riches for All supermarket finally paid up what they owed us. We'll keep our distance from unscrupulous concerns like that from now on.’

‘Lao Lan,’ Father said glumly, ‘I quit. I don't want to be plant manager any longer.’

‘Why?’ Lao Lan was surprised. ‘Why do you want to quit?’

Father sat on the stool, his head hung low. ‘I've failed,’ he said after a long moment.

‘You're too old to be pouting like a child,’ Lao Lan said. ‘Was it something I said or did?’

‘Don't pay any attention to him, Lao Lan,’ Mother said contemptuously. ‘He's his own worst enemy.’

On the verge of losing his temper, Father merely shook his head and kept quiet.

Lao Lan flipped open a colour edition of a newspaper. ‘Take a look at that, Lao Luo,’ he said softly. ‘My third uncle has given up his wealth, left all those women who've been in love with him, shaved his head and become a monk at the Yunmen Temple.’

Father merely glanced at the newspaper.

‘My third uncle is a man of great, if strange, substance,’ Lao Lan continued emotionally. ‘I used to think I understood him, but now I realize I'm too vulgar to comprehend a man of his calibre. I tell you, Lao Luo, life's too short to be caught up with things like women and wealth, fame and status. You're born without them and you'll leave them behind when you die. My third uncle has seen the light.’

‘You will, too, very soon,’ Mother said sarcastically.

‘My father was up on the platform for seven days,’ Jiaojiao said, ‘and he saw the light.’

Lao Lan and Mother turned to her in surprise. ‘Xiaotong,’ Mother said after a moment, ‘take your sister outside and let the grown-ups talk. You don't know what this is about.’

‘I do,’ insisted Jiaojiao.

‘Go outside!’ Father barked angrily, banging the table with his fist.

His hair was a tangled mess, his face coated with grime, he stank, and he was in a foul mood. Seven days of meditating on a tall platform will do that to a man. I took Jiaojiao's hand and fled outside.