Pow!

water dripping from the eaves. When Lao Lan finished pissing, he zipped up his pants and walked over to the cattle. I heard long sighs from the butchers and peddlers, but couldn't tell if they were sorry nothing more had happened or happy that it hadn't. The butchers then walked in among the cattle and in no time made their selections. Then the peddlers walked up and the bargaining commenced. I could tell their hearts weren't in it, that something other than the best bargain was on their minds. Though they weren't looking at my father, I was sure they were thinking about him. And what was he doing? He'd brought his knees up and hidden his face behind them, like a hawk sleeping in the crotch of a tree. Since I couldn't see his face, I had no way of knowing what he looked like at that moment. But I was unhappy with what I saw as weakness. I may have only been a boy but I knew how badly Lao Lan had humiliated my father, and I also knew that any man worth his salt would not take that without a fight; I'd proved that by my curses. But Father remained silent, as if he were stone dead. That day's negotiations were brought to a close without his intervention. Yet when they were over, all the parties walked up as usual and tossed some notes at his feet. The first to do this was none other than Lao Lan himself. That mongrel bastard, apparently not content to piss in my father's face, took out two brand-new ten-yuan notes and snapped them between his fingers to get my father's attention. It didn't work—Father kept his face hidden behind his knees. This seemed to disappoint Lao Lan, who took a quick glance round him, then flung the two notes at my father's feet, one of them landing in the middle of the still-steaming puddle of piss and lying nestled against the soggy, disintegrating cigarettes. At that moment my father might as well have been dead. He'd lost face for himself and his ancestors. He was less than a man, no better than the bloated cigarettes swimming in his adversary's piss. After Lao Lan tossed down his money, the peddlers and butchers followed his lead, sympathetic looks on their faces, as if we were father-and-son beggars who deserved their pity. They tossed down double the usual amount, which might have been a reward for not resisting or an attempt to copy Lao Lan's generosity. As I stared at those notes, fallen at our feet like so many dead leaves, I began to cry, and at long last Father looked up. There was no sign of anger on his face, nor of sadness, nothing but the lustre of a dried-out piece of wood. As he gazed at me coldly, a look of perplexity began to show in his eyes, as if he had no idea why I was crying. I reached out and clawed at his neck. ‘Dieh,’ I said, ‘you're no longer my father. I'll call Lao Lan Dieh before I ever call you that again!’ Momentarily stunned by my shouts, the men burst out laughing. Lao Lan gave me a thumbs-up. ‘Xiaotong’,’ he said, ‘you're really something, just what I need, a son. From now on, you're welcome at my house any time. If it's pork you want, that's what you'll get, and if it's beef, you'll have that too. And if you bring your mamma along, I'll welcome you both with open arms.’ That was too great an insult to ignore and I rushed at him angrily. He swiftly sidestepped my charge and I wound up face down on the ground with a cut and bleeding lip. ‘You little prick,’ he said, guffawing loudly, ‘attacking me after calling me Dieh! Who in his right mind would want a son like you?’ Since no one offered to help me up, I had to get to my feet on my own. I walked over to my father and kicked him in the shin to vent my disappointment. Not only did that not make him angry, he wasn't even aware of what I'd done. He just rubbed his face with his large, soft hands, stretched his arms, yawned like a lazy tomcat, looked down at the ground and then, slowly, conscientiously, carefully picked up the notes steeping in Lao Lan's piss, holding each one up to the light, as if to make sure it wasn't counterfeit. Finally, he picked up the new note from Lao Lan that had been splashed with piss and dried it on his pants. Now that the money was stacked neatly on his knees, he picked it up with the middle two fingers of his left hand, spat on the thumb and forefinger of his right and began to count it. I ran up to grab it, wanting to tear the notes to shreds and fling the pieces into the air (of course I'd fling them in Lao Lan's face), to avenge our humiliation. But