Pow!

you have to light a lantern to see, even in the middle of the day. The room is furnished with a wobbly bed covered by a blue quilt made of coarse cotton. The bundle of rolled wheat straw that serves as a pillow and the quilt are greasy. Hordes of fleas lie in wait, ready to jump excitedly and noisily onto anyone who enters with exposed skin, as do the bedbugs resting on the walls: ‘Meat, here comes meat!’ they seem to squeak in excitement. People eat the flesh of pigs, dogs, cows and sheep; fleas and bedbugs eat the flesh of humans. This is known as the subjugation of one species by another or, simply, tit for tat. The woman, whether or not she's Aunty Wild Mule, I want to tell her: ‘Come out here! Don't let those evil creatures spoil your sumptuous skin and flesh. And you surely don't want to pat the horse's rump. My heart aches for you and I wish you'd come out and pat me on the rump.’ I say that, even though I'm aware that, if she is my Aunty Wild Mule, then my thoughts are sinful. But I can't control my desires. If this woman will take me away with her, I'll give up my plan to join your order, Wise Monk. I can't tell any more of my story right now. I'm confused. The Wise Monk seems to be able to read my mind, since I didn't say any of this but merely thought it. But he knows. His sardonic laugh brings an end to my lustful thoughts. All right, I'll go on—

POW! 6

    Father carried me on his shoulder over to the threshing ground early one summer day. After our village was turned into a huge slaughterhouse, the fields, for all intents and purposes, were left fallow, since only a fool would till a field and not take up butchering, thanks to the advent of injecting water into the meat. Then, once the fields lay fallow, the threshing ground was converted into the place where cattle were bought and sold. The township officials had wanted to use the government square, so they could collect a management fee, but the people would have none of it. When they came to the cattle exchange with soldiers, to force the people to stop doing business there, they ran up against men armed with butcher knives. Fights broke out and people nearly died. Four butchers were arrested. Their wives organized a protest and went to the county seat to stage a sit-in demonstration, some with cowhides over their shoulders, some with pigskins, some with sheepskins. They raved and ranted, vowing that if their demands were not met then they'd take them to the provincial capital, and if that didn't work then they'd board a train to Beijing. The very prospect—women draped in the hides of slaughtered animals showing up on Changan Avenue in the capital—was too frightening to contemplate. No one knew what to do with them, but the county chief was sure to lose his job if the protest continued. So in the end the women won. Their husbands were freed, the township officials’ dream of great wealth was shattered and the village threshing ground once again teemed with animals, everything from cattle to dogs. There was even talk that the township chief received an earful from the county chief.

    Seven or eight cattle merchants were sitting on their haunches at the edge of the threshing ground, smoking cigarettes as they waited for the butchers to show up. Their cattle stood off to the side, absent-mindedly chewing their cud, oblivious to their impending doom. The merchants, most of them from West County, spoke with funny accents, like actors on the radio. They showed up every ten days or so, each bringing two heads of cattle, maybe three. For the most part, they came on a slow, mixed freight-and-passenger train, man and beast in one car, arriving around sunset. They didn't reach our village till after midnight, even though the little station where they got off was no more than ten li away. A stroll that should have taken no more than a couple of hours took these merchants and their cattle a good eight. First, the cattle, made dizzy by the swaying of the train, had to be forced up to the exit, where the ticket-collectors, in blue uniforms and billed caps, checked to see that every passenger had a ticket, animals included, before being allowed to get on the road. Passing through the turnstile was the signal for the cows to leave a foul, watery mess on the ground and on the ticket-collectors’ trouser legs, as if teasing or mocking them, perhaps getting even. In the spring came the chicken and duck merchants, also from West County, carrying their