Pow!

Hua smells like shit, and we won't dick around with him, OK? As for you, dear Aunty, won't you please give me the meat I came for?’ Han took out his pocket watch and looked at it with increasing annoyance: ‘How long have we known each other, Old Wild? I beg you, don't smash my rice bowl. My wife and children depend on me to put food on the table.’ Aunty Wild Mule expertly picked out the bones of what was left of the pig's head, singeing her hands in the process and sucking in her breath as her fingers nimbly opened up the head yet somehow retained its shape. She wrapped it in lotus leaves, tied it with braided grass and pushed it over to him. ‘Now, get out of here. Go pay your respects to your patrons!’ If Mother had thoughts of preparing a pig's head that came close to Aunty Wild Mule's, she'd have had to add a spoonful of finely ground alum, Aunty Wild Mule's secret ingredient. She never hid her secrets from me. But Mother clapped on the lid without adding anything, content to let it cook in plain water. How could anything good come of that? But it was, after all, pig's head. And me? I was, after all, a boy who loved to eat meat but who hadn't enjoyed the experience in years.

    The fire in the belly of the stove was as hot as blazes. The flames lit up Mother's face. Thanks to the pine oil, the firewood burnt hot and long, making it unnecessary to add any more. Mother could have walked off to do something else but she chose not to. She sat in front of the stove with quiet serenity, hugging her knees and resting her chin in her hands as she stared at the kaleidoscopic crackling of the fire, which never strayed from its purpose. Her eyes? They radiated a luminous sparkle.

    The water began to boil, making a rumbling sound, as if from far away. I was sitting in the doorway with Jiaojiao, who yawned loudly, her open mouth a scene of perfect little white teeth.

    ‘Put her to bed,’ Mother said to Father without turning.

    Father picked Jiaojiao up and stepped out into the yard. When he returned, she was in his arms, head on his shoulder, snoring softly. He stood behind Mother, waiting for something.

    ‘A comforter and pillows are stacked at the head of the kang. Cover her with the one with orchids for now. I'll make you another one tomorrow.’

    ‘That's putting you to an lot of trouble,’ Father said.

    ‘Stop talking nonsense,’ Mother replied. ‘Even if she was a child you picked up off the street, I couldn't make her sleep on a pile of hay, could I?’ As Father carried Jiaojiao into the bedroom, Mother blew up at me: ‘What are you hanging round here for? Go outside and pee and then off to bed! A slow boil like this won't be ready till morning.’

    My eyelids were getting heavy, my thoughts growing fuzzy. I felt as if the special aroma of one of Aunty Wild Mule's cooked heads was floating in the air, coming at me in waves. All I had to do was close my eyes for it to settle in front of me. I stood up. ‘Where am I supposed to sleep?’ I asked.

    ‘Where do you think?’ said Mother. ‘Where you always sleep.’

    My eyelids drooped as I walked out into the yard; snowflakes fell on my face and drove away some of the sleepiness. The fire sent its light into the yard as a backdrop for the falling snow, clear and beautiful, like a dream. In the midst of this wonderful sight I saw our tractor tipped over in the yard, its load of rubbish blanketed by snow, looking like a monstrous beast. The snow had also partially covered my mortar but it had retained its shape and its metallic colour; the tube pointed into the dusky sky. I just knew it was a healthy, happy mortar and that all it needed was ammunition to move into action.

    I went back inside and flopped down on the bed, hesitating a moment before stripping naked and slipping under the covers. Jiaojiao jerked away when my cold feet touched her warm skin, so I quickly pulled them back.

    ‘Go to sleep,’ I heard Mother say. ‘There'll be meat on the table when you wake up in the morning.’

    I could tell by the tone of voice that she was in a good mood again. The lamplight was fading, leaving only the flickering light from the fire in the stove to see by. The door was open a crack to let the firelight filter in and land on the dresser. A question swirled dimly through the fog in my brain: Where are Mother and Father sleeping? They aren't going to stay up all night watching the pig's head cook, are they? The question kept me awake, and I