Pow!

Father, sliding to the floor, his back up against the gate, which the ticket-collector, anger and disappointment writ large on her face, was trying to shut. Through the gaps in the gate I watched the train make its way out of the station and, amid the rumble of the iron wheels and the low swirling smoke from the engine, my eyes filled with tears.

    I dry my eyes with the back of my hand. A couple of teardrops stick to the skin. I'm moved by my own tale of woe, but the monk reacts with what seems to be a sardonic smile. ‘What do I have to do to get a little sympathy from you?’ I grumble. I don't know, but I'll find a way to touch your heart. Whether I become a monk or not makes no difference at this point. All I care about is using the sharp point of my story to break through the crust of ice that shrouds your heart. Outside, the sun is strong, and I can tell its location by the tree's shadow: it's off in the southeast, about two pole-lengths from the horizon, by the measuring standard we use back home. A big chunk of the water-soaked compound wall, which has blocked our field of vision, even with its cracks and holes, crumbles after being pounded by a night of rain. All it will take to topple what remains is a strong gust of wind. The two cats that hardly ever leave the comfort and protection of the tree are taking a leisurely stroll atop the teetering portion of the wall. When they head east, the female is in front; when they head west, the male takes the lead. There's also a young roan stallion, a fine animal with a satiny coat rubbing against what's left of the wall. Wanting to lie down, but unable to find a reason for doing so, this is the excuse the wall needs. Its remains are strewn across the ground, dead. Most of it has collapsed into a ditch, sending stagnant water flying ten feet in the air, only to fall back in a bright cascade. The female cat crawls out of the ditch, covered with mud; no sign of the male. Caterwauling grief spills from her mouth as she paces beside the ditch. The young colt, on the other hand, gallops away, feeling its oats. Despite the male cat's bad luck, a collapsing wall is an exciting event. And the bigger and more intimidating the occurrence, the greater the sense of excitement. Now the highway beyond the compound lies spread out before us, as does a rammed-earth stage that has been thrown up on the broad grassy field on the other side, surrounded by colourful banners stuck in the ground and a large horizontal, slogan-bearing banner in front. A generator is up and running on a yellow truck; a blue-and-white TV van is parked off to the side. A dozen little men in yellow shirts run about dragging black cables behind them. Ten motorcycles in an impressive triangular formation, the sun shining behind them, come our way at thirty miles an hour. ‘There's nothing more impressive than a motorcycle gang!’ I heard that line in a film once, and it's stayed with me ever since. When something makes me really happy or miserably sad, that's what I shout: ‘There's nothing more impressive than a motorcycle gang!’ ‘What does that mean?’ my sister once asked me. ‘It means exactly what it says,’ I replied. If that darling little girl were with me now, I'd point to the motorcycles across the way and say, ‘Jiaojiao, that's what “There's nothing more impressive than a motorcycle gang!” means’ But she's dead, so she'll never know. Ah, that makes me so sad. No one knows my sorrow!

POW! 14

    The motorcycles stay in tight formation, as if welded together with an invisible steel pipe. The bikers wear identical white helmets and uniforms, their waists cinched by wide belts from which hang black holsters. Two black sedans with red and blue flashing lights and blaring sirens are thirty yards or so behind the motorcycles, leading the way for three even blacker cars. Wise Monk, those are Audis, so the men inside them must be high-ranking cadre. The Wise Monk's eyes open a crack and send purple rays of light to the cars but just as quickly draw them back. Another pair of police cars brings up the rear; no sirens. I follow the passage of this overweening caravan with my eyes, so excited I feel like shouting. But the Wise Monk's statue-like calmness cools my ardour in a heartbeat. ‘It has to be a big shot,’ I say softly, ‘a very big shot.’ Wise Monk ignores my comment. What's a big shot like that doing on a day like this? I think to myself. Not a holiday, not a special day, just