Pow!

most people would fight for an opportunity like this.’

    Father kept his head down and said nothing.

    ‘That's just what he's like—bullheaded,’ Mother said. ‘He'll pick a fight with me over just about anything, and I'm stuck. That's the story of my life.’

    ‘You'll leave one of these days,’ Father said unemotionally.

    ‘That's ridiculous,’ Mother said unkindly and then turned to me. ‘Xiaotong, go see Huang Biao's wife and get her to help you change. I don't want you goofing off when the reporters show up. Aunty Lan treated you like a son, so repay her by acting like one.’

    ‘I want to go change too,’ Jiaojiao whined.

    ‘Jiaojiao!’ Father growled as he glared at her.

    Jiaojiao's mouth trembled as though she were about to burst out crying. The unyielding look on Father's face put a stop to that, although a few tears seeped from her eyes.

POW! 39

    Dusk has just settled in and work on the opera stage is done ; the four workmen are carrying the freshly painted Meat God to one side of the tall stage. Its face comes alive in the moist rays of the setting July sun ; its feet are nailed to a wooden base to keep it from tipping over. My heart tightens with every thud as they pound in those long, thick nails and my feet twitch in pain. I didn't realize I'd fainted till I came to. The wet stains on the front of my pants are proof, as is the taste of blood from a bitten tongue and the pain in the pinched spot between my nose and mouth. A young woman, a medical-school badge pinned to her blouse, straightens up and says to a male student with dyed blond hair : ‘ Probably an epileptic seizure .’ He leans over and asks : ‘ Is there a family history of epilepsy ?’ Confused, I shake my head, which is pretty much empty . ‘ How is he supposed to understand that kind of question ?’ she says as she glares at him . ‘ Has anyone in your family ever had a seizure ?’ I think really hard but I'm so weak I can hardly lift my arms. A seizure ? Well, Fan Zhaoxia's father frequently passed out on the street, foaming at the mouth and suffering from violent spasms, and I heard people say those were seizures. But no one in my family had them, not even when my mother was furious with my father or me. I shake my head and struggle to prop myself into a seated position with arms as weak as limp noodles . ‘ It could have been a symptomatic seizure caused by emotional trauma ,’ the woman says to the man . ‘ What kind of traumatic experience can someone with a simple intellectual life have ?’ He is not convinced. Fuck you ! I fume inwardly. What do you know about my so-called simple intellectual life ? My life is complex as hell. The woman raises her voice . ‘ Avoid heights, don't go in the water, do not drive a car or a motorbike and no riding horses ’ I understand every word but I doubt that the look on my face shows it . ‘ Let's go, Tiangua ’ the man says . ‘ The opera is about to begin ’ Tiangua ? My heart lurches as an avalanche of memories thuds into my head. Is it even remotely possible that the slim-waisted, long-legged university student with shoulder-length hair, finely formed features and kind heart is Lao Lan's daughter, the girl with the dull, colourless hair, Tiangua ? She has developed into quite a young woman. There's really no telling what a girl will look like when she grows up. Tiangua ! It could have been me calling out or it could have been the crumbling Horse God. I hope it was me, because they say that if the Horse God calls out to a pretty girl and she makes the mistake of responding — she'll have a hard time escaping from a debilitating fate. This time she turns to see who called her name. I mean absolutely nothing to her, so she can't possibly have expected to see the swaggering Luo Xiaotong of her childhood, not in the current state, a barely conscious beggar — I'm not a beggar but I'm sure that's what she and her boyfriend think — lying on the floor of a broken-down temple recovering from some kind of seizure. She stands there, her belly up against the face of the Wise Monk, who doesn't flinch. She doesn't seem to think anything of it as she leans forward, reaches out and strokes the Horse Spirit's neck . ‘ Have you read the Wutong story in Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio?’ she asks her friend without turning to look at him. ‘ No ,’ he says with evident embarrassment. ‘ We only studied our textbooks so we could get into college. The