Pow!

qualities of a hallucination. I rub my eyes and, like the heroes in wildwood tales who ponder their reactions to strange encounters, I bite my finger to see if I am dreaming. A pain shoots through my finger, proof that I am in the flesh and that what I observed was real. The Wise Monk—at this moment he is a faltering Wise Monk—seems to have at that moment discovered me as I crawl up to him; he reaches out, pulls me to my feet, and, in a voice dripping with compassion, says: ‘Young patron, is there something this aged monk can do for you?’ ‘Wise Monk,’ I say, a myriad feelings welling up inside me, ‘Wise Monk, I haven't finished my story from yesterday.’ The Wise Monk sighs, as if recalling events of the day before. ‘Do you want to continue?’ he asks compassionately. ‘If I keep it inside, Wise Monk, and don't let it all out, it will become an open sore, a toxic boil! He shakes his head ambiguously. ‘Come with me, young patron,’ he says. I follow him into the temple's main hall, where we stop in front of the Horse Spirit, one of the five. In this just and honourable place, we kneel on the rush mat, which looks so much more tattered than it did yesterday, dotted, as it is, with grey rain-produced mushrooms. The flies that seemed to have crawled round in his ears the day before now swarm back and cover them completely; two hang in the air for a moment before landing on his exceptionally long, twisting eyebrows which shake like branches supporting squawking birds. I kneel beside the Wise Monk, my buttocks resting on the heels of my feet, to continue my story. But I am beginning to wonder if I am still firm in my goal to become a monk. It seems to me that, in the space of one night, my relationship with the Wise Monk has undergone a significant change. The image of his young, robust body, which radiates sexual passion, keeps appearing in front of my eyes and his threadbare monk's robe turns transparent, throwing my heart into turmoil. But I still feel like talking. As my father taught me: anything with a beginning deserves to have an ending. I continue —

    Regaining her composure, Mother grabbed me by the arm and led me in the direction of the station, taking long strides.

    My right arm grasped in her left hand and the white, pink-tinged pig's head in her right, we walked faster and faster and then finally broke into a run.

    I tried to twist free of her iron grip but she held on. I was angry at her. Father came home this morning, Yang Yuzhen, and your attitude stinks! He's a good man who's down on his luck. The fact that he swallowed his pride and bowed to you may not qualify as earth-shattering but it was enough to draw tears. What more do you want, Yang Yuzhen? Why provoke him with such vile language? He gave you a way out, but instead of climbing off your high horse you cried and wailed and bawled and spewed a stream of ugly curses at a man who made a small mistake. How do you expect a respectable man to take that? Then, to make things worse, you dragged my little sister into it. Your slap sent her cap flying and exposed a white cotton knot, and then you made her cry, breaking the heart of someone who has the same father but a different mother—me. Yang Yuzhen, why can't you understand Father's feelings? Yang Yuzhen, a bystander—me—saw things more clearly than the actor—you—and you should know that you ruined everything with that slap. It destroyed any conjugal feelings he might have retained, it froze his heart. And mine. You're such a heartless mother that you've made me, Luo Xiaotong, wary of you. I was hoping he'd come back to live with us but now I think that leaving was the best thing he did. If it'd been me, I'd have left, and so would anyone with a shred of dignity. In fact, I should have gone with him, Yang Yuzhen, and left you to enjoy the good life in a five-room, tiled-roof house all by yourself!

    My mind was racing, my thoughts all over the place, as I stumbled along behind Yang Yuzhen, my mother. My struggling to get away and the weight of the pig's head slowed us down. People stared at us—some curious, others obviously puzzled. On that extraordinary morning, the sight of my mother dragging me down the road leading from the village to the train station must have struck passers-by as a scene from a strange yet lively little drama. And it wasn't just people: even the dogs first looked, then barked, at us; one even nipped at our heels.

    Though she was reeling from an