Pow!

himself, ‘are made of the same stuff.’

    My parents and Lao Lan drank a great deal on that unforgettable evening. Their faces changed colour: Lao Lan's turned yellow, Father's white and Mother's red.

POW! 21

    Contingents from both East City and West City gradually disperse as night begins to fall, leaving the grassy field and the road littered with empty drink cans and torn flags, with paper flowers and used manure bags. A small army of sanitation workers in yellow vests hurriedly cleans up as foremen with bullhorns shout instructions. At the same time, walking tractors, three-wheeled flatbeds, horse-drawn carts with rubber wheels and a host of other vehicles are transporting barbeque braziers, electric grills, deep fryers and other cooking equipment onto the grounds. A Carnivore Festival night market where meats of all varieties will be available is being set up on the grounds in order to lessen the environmental impact on urban centres. The enormous generator truck remains in place to supply power. The night promises to be one for the record books. After talking up a storm during the day and witnessing all sorts of enthralling sights, I'm running out of steam. Although the several bowls of mystery porridge I'd finished off the night before have moved more slowly through my digestive system than most foods, it was, after all, soupy porridge, and as the sun begins to set, my stomach growls and the first pangs of hunger rise up inside me. I steal a look at the Wise Monk, hoping he'll notice the passage of time and lead me over to the little room in the rear to get some rest and something to eat. I might even run into that mysterious woman I met last night. Once again she may magnanimously undo her blouse and nurture my body and enrich my soul with her sweet milk. But the Wise Monk's eyes remain shut and the hairs in his ears twitch, a sure sign that he's concentrating on my tale—

    After I finished my carp soup and polished off the shark's fin dumplings on that memorable evening, Jiaojiao whined that she was sleepy. Time for Lao Lan to get up from the table and say his goodbyes. Father and Mother jumped to their feet—Father was cradling Jiaojiao in his arms and patting her bottom with practised clumsiness—to see the village's most eminent individual to the door.

    Huang Bao—his timing perfect, as always—came into the room to drape Lao Lan's overcoat over his shoulders, and then glided over to open the door for his superior's exit. But Lao Lan was in no hurry to leave. There was apparently something more that he had to say to my parents. He turned first to Father and then looked down into the face of my sister, tucked into the crook of Father's arm.

    ‘She looks like she came out of the same mould,’ he said emotionally.

    These words of praise, whose deeper meaning was unclear, immediately dampened the mood. Mother coughed drily, a sign of how ill at ease Lao Lan's comment had made her, while Father twisted his head into an awkward angle to look at his daughter's face.

    ‘Jiaojiao,’ he said, ‘thank the good man.’

    Lao Lan took a red envelope out of his overcoat pocket and tucked it between Father and Jiaojiao: ‘That's a good luck gift on our first meeting.’

    Flustered, Father reached down for it: ‘We can't accept this.’

    ‘Why not? It's for her, not you.’

    ‘That doesn't matter…’ Poor Father was reduced to mumbling.

    Then Lao Lan took out a second red envelope and handed it to me: ‘You'll give a little face to an old friend, won't you?’ he said with a sly wink.

    I took it without a second's hesitation.

    ‘Xiaotong…’ Mother's voice was full of anguish.

    ‘I know what you're thinking,’ Lao Lan said as he stuck his arms into the sleeves of his overcoat. ‘I'm telling you, money's no damned good. You aren't born with it and you can't take it with you when you die.’

    His words were as heavy as lead weights thudding to the floor. Mother and Father were dumbstruck and incomprehension filled their eyes as they struggled in vain with the mystery Lao Lan had just revealed to them.

    ‘Yang Yuzhen, there's more to life than the pursuit of money,’ Lao Lan said from the doorway. ‘The children need an education.’

    I was clutching my red envelope; Father had tucked Jiaojiao's down between them. Having accepted them we could not, under any circumstance, refuse to keep them. Complex emotions clouded our minds as we saw him to the door. Light from both the