Pow!

monks sat down and returned to their tea. The crowd now turned its attention to the musicians in anticipation of something new. The monks’ performance would be a hard act to follow, but we would have been disappointed with the musicians for not surpassing it.

    Without a moment's hesitation, the musicians stood up and began as an ensemble, opening with the tune ‘Boldly Move Forward, Little Sister’, followed by ‘When Will You Return’ and then the brisk ‘The Little Shepherd’. When they laid down their instruments, they turned their eyes to their shifu, who peeled off his jacket, revealing a frame so slight you could count his ribs. He shut his eyes, raised his head and then began to play a funereal tune on his suona, his Adam's apple sliding up and down rhythmically. I didn't know the tune but its sad effect on me was unmistakable. As he played, the suona moved from his mouth up into one of his nostrils, which muted the notes while retaining the instrument's mournfully melodic tone. His eyes still shut, he reached out his hand and into it a disciple placed a second suona. The reed of this one too he inserted into a nostril, and now two suonas created a tune of surpassing sorrow. His face grew bright red, his temples throbbed and his audience was so moved it forget to cheer. Yao Qi had not exaggerated when he said he'd engaged a suona master of great renown. When the tune ended, he extracted the instruments from his nostrils, handed them to his disciples and fell into a chair. Disciples rushed up to pour him tea and hand him a cigarette, which he lit and immediately blew two streams of thick smoke from his nose, like dragons’ whiskers. And then blood slithered, worm-like, out of both nostrils.

    ‘Your reward for wonderful performances—’ Yao Qi bellowed.

    Xiao Han, the meat inspector, ran out from the eastern wing with a pair of identical red envelopes and laid one on each table. The old monk and head musician immediately began a man-to-man competition, and it was hard to tell who won. But I doubt that you're interested in hearing about such things, Wise Monk, so I'll skip this part and move on to what unfolded next.

    Back in the eastern wing Yao Qi was boasting of the great service he'd rendered my father, Xiao Han and several of the men who had helped out, telling them how he had travelled five hundred li to engage the services of the two troupes, ‘wearing out the soles of my shoes in the process'. He lifted his foot as proof. Xiao Han, known for his caustic tongue, couldn't resist a barb: ‘I hear you used to think of Lao Lan as your mortal enemy. You must have changed your mind when you decided to be his chief lackey.’

    Father's lip curled and, though he held his tongue, his face spoke volumes.

    ‘We're all lackeys,’ Yao Qi remarked nonchalantly. ‘But at least I sell myself. Some people sell their wives and children.’

    Father's face darkened. ‘Who are you talking about?’ he demanded, gnashing his teeth.

    ‘Only myself, Lao Luo, why so angry?’ Yao Qi replied slyly. ‘I hear you're going to be married soon.’

    Father picked up his ink box and flung it at Yao Qi and then stood up.

    A brief look of anger on Yao Qi's face was supplanted by a sinister grin. ‘What a temper, Old Brother, you have to “out with the old” before you can “in with the new”. For a big-time plant manager like you, nothing could be easier than getting your paws on a young maiden. Just leave it to me. I may not have what it takes to be an official, but as a matchmaker I'm peerless. How about your young sister, Xiao Han?’

    ‘Fuck you, Yao Qi!’ I cursed.

    ‘Director Luo, no, it should be Director Lan,’ Yao Qi said, ‘you're the crown prince of the village!’

    Xiao Han rushed at the man before Father could, grabbed him by the arms and spun him so hard that his head drooped. Then he pushed him towards the door, jammed his knee into his buttocks and gave him a shove that sent him out the door as if he'd been shot from a cannon. He lay sprawled on the ground for a long while after.

    At five that evening, it was time for the formal funeral ceremony to begin. Mother grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and dragged me back to the coffin, where she pushed me down into the dutiful son's spot. A pair of white candles as thick as turnips burnt on the table behind the coffin, their flickering light heavy with the rancid odour of sheep's tallow. Light from the bean-oil lantern showed up about