Pow!

but her face was marred by purple lumps and her breath carried the heated odour of horse feed. I knew that she and Lao Lan had a special relationship and that she was the one who kept his head neatly shaved. According to what I heard, she also trimmed his beard, a process that took upwards of an hour, while he slept. There was even talk that she shaved him while sitting in his lap. I wanted to tell Dieh all about Lao Lan and Fan Zhaoxia, but he kept his head down and refused to look at me.

    ‘About time, Zhaoxia?’ Pidou's niang put down her book and shot a gaze at the other woman's mottled face. Fan Zhaoxia tossed an indifferent glance at the golden-yellow watch on her wrist.

    ‘Another twenty minutes,’ she said.

    Fan Zhaoxia painted the nails of her long, slender fingers a seductive red. As far as Mother was concerned, any woman who used lipstick or painted her nails was a flirt, and whenever she saw one she muttered curses through clenched teeth, as if venting pent-up loathing. My one-time disapproval of women who did things like that came from my mother, but then all that changed. I'm ashamed to admit it, but now when I see a woman with red lips and painted nails my heart races and I can't take my eyes off her. Fan Zhaoxia picked up the smock from the back of the chair, shook it open and snapped it in the air a couple of times.

    ‘Who's first?’ she asked, still in that indifferent tone.

    ‘You first, Xiaotong,’ Father said.

    ‘No,’ I said, ‘you first.’

    ‘Hurry up,’ fussed Fan Zhaoxia.

    With a look my way, Father stood up, crossed his arms, walked up to the chair and cautiously sat down; the springs creaked beneath his weight.

    Fan Zhaoxia first tucked in Father's collar and then tied the smock round his neck. I saw her face in the mirror. She was frowning, a mean look. His face was next to hers, twisted and ugly in the rippled mercury.

    ‘How do you want it?’ she asked, still frowning.

    ‘Shaved,’ he said in a muted voice.

    ‘Aiya!’ Pidou's niang blurted out in astonishment, apparently recognizing Father at that very moment. ‘Aren't you—’

    Father grunted a response, neither answering her unfinished question nor turning his head.

    Fan Zhaoxia took a pair of electric clippers from a peg on the wall and turned it on, producing a low hum. Pressing down Father's head, she pressed the clippers into his tangle of hair. A pale swath of skin opened up down the middle as clots of hair, dense as felt, rained down on the floor.

    As I recall the scene of Father's cascading hair, what plays out in front of my eyes is actually something different: the handsome fellow named Lan—we'll call him Lao Lan's third uncle ( that's because the image that follows matches exactly what Lao Lan said)—is marrying that lovely woman with the beauty spot at the corner of her mouth—that's right, Shen Yaoyao—in a Western-style ceremony in a towering church room that glitters like gold. He is wearing a dark Western suit, a white shirt and a black bow tie, with a purple boutonnière tucked into his breast pocket. His bride is in white, with a long train held off the floor by a pair of angelic little boys. She has a face like a peach blossom, eyes like twinkling stars; the milk of happiness flows down her face. Candles, music, fresh flowers and fine wine create a romantic aura. But no more than ten minutes have passed since a white-haired old man on his way to the church was shot in the chest in his sedan, and the smell of gunpowder has already invaded the church's vestibule. Is this another of your tricks, Wise Monk? Then I see the girl sprawled across her father's body, shattering the silence with her wails, mascara-laden tears coursing down her face, as the handsome young man stands silently and impassively to one side. The next image—in a fancy room—is of the young woman, cutting off her beautiful hair. I can see her bloodless face in the mirror on the wall, her wrinkled mouth turned down at the corners. I see her recollections as she shears through the strands of hair. At some hazy place that beautiful young woman and the handsome young man are making love in strange positions. Her passion-filled face rushes towards me, then crashes into the mirror and shatters into a million pieces. Then I see her in dark blue clothes, her head covered by a blue and white scarf as she kneels before an old Buddhist nun. Wise Monk, just the way I kneel in front of you. The old nun takes her in, Wise