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ask that you accept this contribution to that end.’ The nun clasps her hands in front of her. ‘Boundless virtues will accrue to the esteemed patron for his generous gift. May the Buddha protect and bestow upon him a long, happy and healthy life !’ Lan Laoda hands the cheque to one of the younger nuns, who accepts it with a smile and then her brows shoot up in amazement at the figure written on it. I have a clear view of this young nun, with her almond eyes and cheeks like peaches, her red lips and white teeth ; her scalp glistens with a green tint and exudes an aura of youth. The other young nun, who also stands behind their ancient superior, has full lips, pitch-black eyebrows and skin with the sheen of fine jade. What a shame that such lovely young women have chosen a cloistered life. I know, Wise Monk, that such thoughts are vulgar, but I mustn't hide what is in my heart, for that would be an even greater sin. Is that not right? The Wise Monk nods ambiguously. The fifth stage of the celebration is now underway and the ear-throbbing loudspeaker announces a display of mass calisthenics: ‘Exercise Number One: The Phoenix descends, a hundred wild beasts dance.’ A roar from the edge of the field gradually dies out and is replaced by primitive music from the loudspeaker, the sort that evokes pleasant feelings of the remote past. Meanwhile, Lan Laoda seems almost obsessed by the backs of the ancient nun and her two attendants. The grey habits, white collars and green-tinged shaved scalps look so unsullied, so clean and refreshing. A pair of bright-coloured phoenixes dancing in the air creates an atmosphere of elegant mystery on the Festival grounds below. This is the Tenth Annual Carnivore Festival, as I well know, and thus grander than those before it. Just witness the splendid performances at the opening ceremony. The long-tailed phoenixes, crafted by the finest kite artisans, put on one of those splendid performances. As for the dancing beasts, I would not be surprised to see a performance with real and man-made beasts together. The twin cities are home to every animal imaginable, all but unicorns, just as it is home to all birds imaginable, except phoenixes. I know that Lao Lan's Huachang Camel Dancing Troupe will distinguish itself during this stage of the Festival. What a shame that his Ostrich Dancing Troupe has been put out of commission.

    Lao Lan's words of praise filled me with pride and I was, quite literally, bursting with joy. In that brief moment I had been given the rare privilege of sitting at a table with adults. So when they raised their glasses in a toast, I picked up the bowl in front of me, poured out the water in it. ‘May I have some of that, please?’ I asked as I held it out to Mother.

    ‘What?’ she blurted out in surprise. ‘You want what they're drinking?’

    ‘It's not good for children,’ Father said.

    ‘Why not? It's been such a long time since I've been happy, and I can see you're happy too. It's worth celebrating—with a drink!’

    ‘You're right, Xiaotong,’ said Lao Lan, his eyes flashing, ‘a drink is exactly what's called for! Anyone who can reason like that—adult or child—deserves a drink. Here, I'll pour.’

    ‘No, no, Elder Brother Lan,’ Mother objected. ‘He'll get a big head.’

    ‘Hand me the bottle,’ Lao Lan said. ‘I know from experience that there are two types of people in this world you mustn't offend. One is punks and hoodlums, the so-called lumpenproletariat. They're straight when they're standing and flat when they're lying down: if one eats, none goes hungry, so folks with a family and a job, with progeny to carry on the line, anyone who enjoys prestige and authority will stay clear of this type. Ugly, snot-nosed, grime-covered children, who are kicked about like mangy dogs, comprise the other. The likelihood that they will grow up to be thugs, armed robbers, high officials or senior military officers is greater than for well-behaved, nicely dressed, clean-scrubbed good boys.’ He filled my bowl. ‘Come on, Luo Xiaotong, Mr Luo, have a drink with Lao Lan!’

    Boldly I held out my bowl and clinked it against his glass, which, when it produced the unusual sound of porcelain on glass, filled me with joy. He drained his glass at one go. ‘That's how I show my respect!’ he said as he banged his glass upside down on the table to show it was empty. ‘I drained mine,’ he said. ‘You can sip yours.’

    The moment my lips