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to earn porter's wages by the sweat of his brow, like some of the coarser village men. Father made his living by his wits. In ancient times, there was a famous chef named Pao Ding who was an expert at carving up cows. In modern times, there was a man who was an expert at sizing them up—my father. In Pao Ding's eyes, cows were nothing but bones and edible flesh. That's what they were in my father's eyes too. Pao Ding's vision was as sharp as a knife, my father's was as sharp as a knife and as accurate as a scale. What I mean to say is: if you were to lead a live cow to my father, he'd take two turns round it, three at the most, occasionally sticking his hand under the animal's foreleg—just for show—and confidently report its gross weight and the quantity of meat on its bones, always within a kilo of the digital scale used in England's largest slaughterhouse. At first, people thought he was a windbag but after testing him several times they turned into believers. In dealings between cattlemen and slaughterhouses, his presence took blind luck out of the equation and established a basis of fairness. Once his authority and status were in place, both the cattlemen and the butchers courted his favour, hoping to gain an edge. But as a man of vision, he'd never jeopardize his reputation for petty profits, since by doing so he'd smash his rice bowl. If a cattleman came to our house with wine and cigarettes, my father tossed them into the street, then climbed onto our garden wall and cursed loudly. If a butcher came with the gift of a pig's head, my father flung it into the street, then climbed onto our garden wall and cursed loudly. Both the cattlemen and the butchers said that Luo Tong was an idiot but also the fairest man they knew. Once his reputation for being upright and incorruptible was established, people trusted him implicitly. If a transaction reached a stalemate, the parties would look at him to acknowledge that they wanted things settled. ‘Let's quit arguing and hear what Luo Tong has to say!’ ‘All right. Luo Tong, you be the judge!’ With a cocky air, my father would walk round the animal twice, looking neither at the buyer nor at the seller, then glance up at the sky and announce the gross weight and amount of meat on the bone, followed by a price. He'd then walk off to smoke a cigarette. Buyer and seller would reach out and smack hands. ‘It's a deal!’ Once the transaction was completed, buyer and seller would come up to my father, each hand him a ten-yuan note and thank him for his labours. The old-style brokers were dark, gaunt, wretched old men, some with queues hanging down their backs. They were proficient in the art of haggling via finger-signs made from deep within their wide overlapping sleeves, thus lending the profession an air of mystery. My father's appearance took the confusion out of buying and selling cattle and brought an end to the darker aspects of the process. He effectively drove the shifty-eyed brokers off the stage of history. This remarkable advance in the buying and selling of cattle on the hoof could, with only a bit of exaggeration, be called revolutionary. Displays of my father's keen eye were not limited to cattle but worked with pigs and sheep as well. Like a master carpenter who can build a table but can also build a chair, and, if he's especially talented, a coffin, my father had no trouble sizing up even camels.

    When I reach this point, I seem to hear the barely audible sound of sobbing from behind the Wutong Spirit. Can it really be Aunty Wild Mule? If it is, why hasn't her face changed in more than a decade? No, that's impossible, it can't be. But if she isn't, why can't I tear myself away from her? Perhaps she's Aunty Wild Mule's ghost. Legend has it that ghosts don't cast a shadow. Too bad I didn't think to see if she cast a shadow when she came in. But it's a rainy day, dark and gloomy, and no one casts a shadow when there's no sun. So it wouldn't have done me any good if I'd thought to look. What's she doing there behind the idol? Rubbing the rump of the human-headed Horse Spirit? A decade ago I heard someone say that there are women who will kneel before this idol and burn incense to plead for the restoration of their impotent husbands’ manhood, then go round to the rear and pat the rump of the handsome, powerful, magnificent young stallion. I know there's a wall behind the statue, and a little door that opens onto a tiny windowless room that's so dark