Pow!

had mosaic tiles but they were whitewashed on the inside, the posts exposed, and a layer of stove cinders covered the pitted floor. Here is what you can say about Lao Lan's house: ‘The meat in buns doesn't show in the creases’ while ours was more a case of ‘Donkey droppings are shiny on the outside.’ A moonbeam lit up Mother's mouth, much like a film close-up. Her lips never stopped moving; saliva bubbled at the corners. I pulled the damp blanket up over my head and fell asleep to the drone of her voice.

POW! 11

    ‘Don't say any more, child. It's the first time the woman has spoken. The cadence of her voice brings to mind filigrees of honey and gives the impression that there is little in life that she hasn't experienced. She smiles, hinting at deep mysteries, then takes a few steps back and sits on a rosewood chair that magically appeared when I wasn't looking (but perhaps it's been there all along). She waves to me and speaks for the second time: ‘Don't say anything, child. I know what you're thinking! I can't take my eyes off her. I watch as she slowly, dramatically, undoes the brass buttons of her robe, then snaps her arms out to the sides like an ostrich spreading its wings, giving an unobstructed view of the gorgeous flesh hidden by that plain, threadbare robe. My heart is intoxicated, my soul possessed; I've taken leave of my senses. A buzzing erupts in my ears; my body is chilled; my heart is pounding; my teeth are chattering; I feel like I'm standing naked on ice. Beams of light emerge from her eyes and her teeth as she sits illuminated by flames from the stove and the candle. Her breasts, like ripe mangoes, sag slightly in the centre to form fluid arcs, the nipples rising gracefully, like the captivating mouths of hedgehogs. They summon me intimately but my feet feel as if they have taken root. I sneak a glance at the Wise Monk, who is sitting with his hands pressed together, looking more dead than alive. ‘Wise Monk,’ I say softly, painfully, as if wanting to take strength from him to save myself but also seeking his approval to act upon my desire. But he doesn't stir; he might as well be carved from ice. ‘Child! The woman speaks again, but the words do not appear to have come from her mouth; they seem to have emerged from somewhere above her head or low in her belly. Sure, I've heard stories about ventriloquists who can speak without opening their mouths but those people are either martial- arts masters, buxom women or circus clowns, not ordinary people. They're strange, mysterious individuals one associates with black magic and infanticide. ‘Come here, child. There's that voice again. ‘Don't deny what you feel in your heart. Do what it tells you to do. You're a slave to your heart, not its master.’ But I keep up the struggle, knowing that if I take a step forward I won't be able to go back, not ever. ‘What's the matter? Haven't I been on your mind all along? When the meat touches your lips, why won't you eat it?’ I'd sworn off meat after my little sister died, and remained true to that vow. Now, just looking at meat turns my stomach, makes me feel guilty somehow and reminds me of all the trouble it's caused in my life. Thoughts of meat restore my self-control—some of it, at least. She snickers, and the sound is like a blast of cold air from deep down in a cave. Then she says—this time I'm sure the words come from her mouth, which opens and closes contemptuously, ‘Do you really think you can lessen your sins by not eating meat? Do you really think that not sucking on my breasts will be proof of your virtue? You may not have eaten meat for years but it has never been far from your mind. Even though you pass up the opportunity to suck on my breasts today, they will not be far from your mind for the rest of your life. I know exactly what you're like. Don't forget, I've watched you grow up and I know you as well as I know myself.’ Tears gush from my eyes. ‘Are you Aunty Wild Mule? You're still alive? You didn't die, after all?’ It feels as if an affectionate wind were trying to blow me over to her; but her mocking grin stops me. ‘What business is it of yours if I am or am not Wild Mule?’ she sneers. ‘And what business is it of yours if I'm alive or dead? If you want to suck on my breasts, come here. If you don't, then stop thinking about it. If sucking on my breasts is a sin, then not sucking on them, though you want to, is a greater one! Her piercing mockery