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dogs spent most of their time eating and sleeping, which put plenty of meat on their bones. The supply of those dogs always fell short of the demand—customers lined up to buy them as soon as they were born. Blossom Hamlet, about five or six li from our village, was home to families of Korean descent for whom dog meat was the number-one delicacy. This meant they were skilled dog-meat chefs who opened restaurants in the county seat, in the big cities, even in the provincial capital. Blossom Hamlet dog meat gained its fame thanks mainly to the supply of animals from Huang Biao. His meat smelt like dog when it was cooked but gave off a beefy aroma. Why? Because he weaned the pups days after they were born in order to speed up the bitches’ reproductive cycle and fed them milk that came, unsurprisingly, from his old cow. When they saw how rich the sale of dogs made Huang Biao, some mean-spirited people in the village attacked him cruelly: ‘Huang Biao, you think you're a dutiful son by treating an old milk cow like your mother, but you're really a shameless hypocrite. If that old cow is your mother, then you shouldn't squeeze her teats to feed a bunch of puppies. If you do, you've turned your mother into a bitch. And if she's a bitch, then you're a son of a bitch. And if you're a son of a bitch, that makes you a dog, doesn't it?’ Incensed by this hounding, he showed the whites of his eyes. Instead of trying to figure out why they kept taunting him, he picked up his trusty butcher's knife and went after them and the murder in his eyes made them run for their lives. But one day Huang Biao's lovely new wife set the dogs loose, the stupid ones following the smarter mongrels, on her husband's tormentors, and in a matter of moments human shrieks and canine growls filled the village's twisting streets and byways. As she laughed gloriously, her skin as white as ivory, he stood there with a silly smile, scratching the coal-black skin of his neck. Before taking a wife, Huang Biao had been a frequent visitor to a spot beneath Wild Mule's window, where he sang to her in the middle of the night. ‘Go home, little brother,’ she'd say to him. ‘I've got my man. But don't worry, I'll find you a wife.’ And she did—a girl who worked in a roadside shop.

    Negotiations began as soon as the butchers arrived. As they circled the animals, a casual observer may have thought they were having trouble deciding which ones to buy. But if one of them reached out and grabbed a halter, within three seconds the others would do the same, and, lightning quick, all the cows would be chosen. No one could recall seeing two butchers fight over the same animal, but if that had happened, the dispute would have been quickly resolved. Competitors are rivals in most occupations but the butchers in our village, thanks to the prestige and organizational skills of Lao Lan, were united in friendship, prepared to confront any and all militant opponents as a brotherhood. Once they adopted Lao Lan's water-injection method, they were bound together by their windfall profits and their illegal activity. When each of them had a halter in his hand, the peddlers approached languidly and the bargaining began. Now that my father had cemented his authority, these negotiations took on little importance, became pro forma, a mere custom, for it was left to him—he had the last word. The men would jockey back and forth for a while, then walk up to my father, cow in tow, like applicants for a marriage licence at the town office. But something special occurred on this particular day: instead of heading straight for the cows, the butchers chose instead to pace at the edge of the square, their meaningful smiles making the observers uncomfortable. And when they passed in front of my father, something unpleasant seemed to lurk behind those fake smiles, as if a conspiracy were afoot, one that could erupt at any moment. I cast a timid glance at Father—he sat there woodenly smoking one of his cheap cigarettes, just like every other day. The better cigarettes tossed his way by the peddlers lay on the ground, untouched. That was his custom: once the deals were struck, the butchers would come over, gather up the cigarettes and smoke them. And as they smoked, they would praise my father for his incorruptibility. ‘Lao Luo,’ one would say, half in jest, ‘if all Chinese were like you, Communism would have been realized decades ago.’ He'd smile but say nothing. And that would