Pow!

round one of their necks and to leap onto its back. But Lao Lan had already nimbly mounted one, with the help of Huang Bao, who then somersaulted onto the back of the other. They then carried their extraordinary riders out onto Hanlin Avenue, which ran through the centre of the village, trotting at first but then quickly breaking into a gallop that took them down the road like fiery meteors. They shot out of view and left our ears ringing with the tattoo of hooves pounding the earth.

    Spectacular, truly spectacular! It was a magical evening, the most memorable evening in all my days on this earth. The significance of that evening to my family and to me in particular would become clearer over time. At that moment we could only stand there, gazing blankly through the gateway at the image of the trees frozen in a splendid golden autumn.

    A breeze from the north swept across my face and cooled the alcohol's heat just below the skin. Were my parents enjoying the same sensation? I didn't know then; I'd know later. I'd know that my mother belonged to a type of drinker known as hot-and-dry. In the winter she'd drink herself into a heavy sweat and then begin to disrobe: off first was her overcoat, followed by her sweater and then her blouse. Then she'd stop. I'd know that my father belonged to a type of drinker who couldn't stand the cold—the more he drank the deeper he shrank into himself and the paler his face grew, until it resembled window paper or a whitewashed wall. Little bumps would break out over his face, like chicken skin, and his teeth would begin to chatter. When he'd had too much to drink, he shivered like a man struck with malaria; my mother, on the other hand, would break out in a sweat even on the coldest days of winter. For Father, if he was drinking, it could be the dog days of summer and he'd still have the cold shakes, like the death throes of a cicada clinging to the tip of a leafless willow after ‘Frost's Descent’. And so, I assume, while we were seeing Lao Lan and Huang Bao out to the street in the wake of an evening that held such great significance for my family, that breeze comfortably caressed my mother's face whereas my father suffered under its touch, no less painful to him than the slice of a knife or the lash from a whip soaked in salt water. I don't know how it affected Jiaojiao because she'd had nothing to drink.

    The sun has slipped unnoticed below the horizon, bringing darkness to the earth. Except for the field across the way, which blazes with lamplight. Fancy cars stream onto the field, flickering headlamps lighting the way, horns announcing their arrival—a scene of wealth and prosperity. The cars disgorge their loads of fashionable ladies and respectable gentlemen. Most are casually dressed, giving an initial impression of men and women of the people when, in fact, designer labels abound. While I narrate events of the past, my eyes miss nothing outside. A fireworks display lights up the inside of the temple. A gilded sheen covers the Wise Monk's face; he looks like he's been transformed into a gilded mummy. The fireworks continue, each explosion rolling my way. Every burst draws oohs and ahs from the upturned faces of observers. Just like the fireworks, Wise Monk—

    Moments of enchantment are inevitably brief while those of suffering endure without respite. But that's only one way of looking at things; another is that moments of enchantment last for long periods, since they remain in the memory of the once enchanted, to be revisited at will and, over time, enhanced and improved, gaining in richness, fullness and complexity until, finally, they are transformed into labyrinths that are easy to enter but difficult to exit. Moments of suffering are, by definition, agonizing, so the sufferer avoids them like, as they say, the plague. That's true even if one suffers by accident. If avoidance is impossible, the next best thing is to soften the impact or simplify the effect or, insofar as possible, put it out of one's mind, blurring the edges until it is a puff of smoke easily blown away.

    That's how I found a basis for my narrative of a night so fascinating I was loath to tear myself away from it. I could not bring myself to move forward, to relinquish the star-filled sky, the breezy winds from the north and Hanlin Avenue reflecting the light of the stars but, most of all, the wonderful smell left in the air by the two magnificent horses. My body was standing in front of our gate