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out the windows and then began to sharpen the knife with which we were going to kill Lao Lan.

    My sister and I seemed to have become honoured guests at homes throughout the village during that time and were fed nothing but the best food. We ate camel's hump (a lump of fat), sheep's tail (pure lard), fox brain (a plate full of cunning). I can't list every item we ate, but I have to tell you that at Cheng Tianle's, besides bone soup, we were treated to a bowl of a green, bitter liquor. He didn't tell us what it was but I guessed its origin—liquor in which had been steeped the gallbladder of a leopard. I assumed that the bones in the pot were those of that same leopard. So Jiaojiao and I ate leopard gallbladder—the so-called seat of courage—which converted us from timid, mouse-like creatures into youngsters whose courage knew no bounds.

    By plying us with the best food they had, my fellow villagers instilled us with enviable strength and courage. And though no one breathed a word about it, we had no doubts about what lay behind all this nurturing. Usually, after we'd been treated to a fine meal, we'd thank our hosts with vague expressions of appreciation: ‘Elder Master and Mistress, Elder Uncle and Aunt, Elder Brother and Sister, please be patient. My sister and I are people who know their history and are committed to the cause of righteousness. We will avenge every slight and repay every kindness.’

    Every time I uttered this little monologue, a sense of solemnity flooded my mind and hot blood raced through my veins. Those who heard our little piece were invariably moved; their eyes would light up and heartfelt sighs escape their mouths.

    The day of reckoning drew nearer.

    And then it arrived.

    A meeting was held that day in the plant's conference room to discuss a major structural change—the shift from a collective ownership to a stockholder system. Jiaojiao and I were stockholders, with twenty shares each. I won't waste time talking about that foolish meeting; the only reason it became the talk of the town, so to speak, was because of our attempt to wreak vengeance. I drew the dagger from my belt. ‘Lao Lan,’ I shouted, ‘give me back my parents!’

    My sister pulled a pair of rusty scissors from her sleeve—before we set out I'd asked her to sharpen them but she'd said that rusted scissors would give him tetanus. ‘Lao Lan,’ she shouted, ‘give me back my parents!’

    We raised our weapons and ran at Lao Lan behind the podium.

    Jiaojiao tripped on the stairs, fell flat on her face and began to bawl.

    Lao Lan stopped talking, walked over and picked her up.

    He turned up her lip with a finger, and I saw a cut—there was blood on her teeth.

    My plans too fell flat. Like a punctured tyre, I felt my anger dissipate. But then how would I face my fellow villagers or fulfil my debt to my parents if I just gave up? So, holding my breath, I raised my dagger once more and, as I moved towards Lao Lan, I had a vision of my father moving towards the same man with his hatchet held high.

    Lao Lan dried Jiaojiao's tears with his hand. ‘That's a good girl,’ he said, ‘don't cry, don't cry…’ There were tears in his eyes as he handed my sister to the barber Fan Zhaoxia in the front row. ‘Take her to the clinic and have something put on this,’ he said.

    Fan took her in her arms. Lao Lan bent to pick up the scissors and tossed them onto the podium. Then he picked up a chair, carried it up to me, set it down and sat in it.

    ‘Right here, worthy Nephew,’ he said as he patted his chest.

    Then he closed his eyes.

    I looked first at his pitted, freshly shaved scalp, then at his newly shaved chin and the ear my father had taken a bite out of and finally at the trails of tears on his twitching face. Sorrow washed over me along with the shameful desire to throw myself into the son of a bitch's arms. At that moment I realized why Father had buried the hatchet in Mother's skull. But there was no one close to Lao Lan, and I had no argument with anyone in the seats before us—so who was I supposed to stab? I was stuck. But, as they say, heaven doesn't shut all the doors at once. Lao Lan's bodyguard, Huang Biao, burst into the room. That tiger-feeding bastard—killing him would be like cutting off Lao Lan's right arm. So I raised my dagger and charged at him, a war cry on my lips, my mind a blank. I've already told you about Huang Biao. Who was I, a young weakling, to take on a man with his