Pow!

ingeniously meet evokes seductive eroticism—and then lower, stopping at the unnaturally large genitals—testicles the size of papayas and a half-exposed penis that looks like a laundry paddle emerging from a red sheath. I hear masculine giggles in the dark. The female official shines her torch on the Meat God's face: ‘This boy will definitely be a god in another five hundred years,’ she says in a huff. One of her male comrades, who's shining his light on the Horse Spirit, says in a more studious tone: ‘This god reveals a historical vestige of bestiality in remote antiquity. Have the rest of you heard the story of Wu Zetian engaging in sexual congress with the Donkey Prince?’ ‘We know you're an educated man, dear fellow ,’ one of his comrades responds, ‘but go home and write an article instead of showing off to us.’ Xiao Qiao turns to the four carriers. ‘It's up to you to take care of the Meat God. His temple will be built as an expression of the people's yearnings for a good life, not to promote superstition. Meat on the table every day is an important standard of a comfortable, middle-class life.’ Once again, the torch beams light up the Meat God's face. By concentrating on the boy's outsized head, I strive to find traces of myself from ten years earlier. But the longer I look, the less likely I am to find any. A round face in an oval head, slitted eyes, puffy cheeks, a dimple on each side of the mouth and big, floppy, palm-like ears is what I see. Then there's the look of joy on its face. How in the world could that be me? My memory's clear—ten years ago there was a lot more suffering, a lot more sorrow than joy or happiness. ‘Section Chief’, the old man says to the official , ‘ we've delivered the Meat God to the temple—we've done what we were hired to do. If you expect us to take care of it after this, you'll have to pay.’ ‘Do you actually expect to get paid for a good deed in addition to accumulating merit?’ Xiao Qiao asks. The four men burst into complaint: ‘How are we supposed to live if we don't get paid for our work?’

    On the afternoon of New Year's Eve, when I heard the sound of a motorbike, I had a premonition that this particular vehicle was bringing news to our family. I was right. It stopped in front of our gate. Jiaojiao and I ran out to open it and were greeted by the sight of Huang Bao, as nimble as the leopard he was named after, walking towards us with a bundle woven of hemp. We took our places on either side of the gate to welcome him like Golden Boy and Jade Girl, the Taoist attendants. Whatever was inside the bundle gave off a strong smell. He smiled and struck a pose that was part cordial, part cool and detached and part respectfully arrogant. He was a man who carried himself well. His blue motorbike, which resembled its rider—cordial, cool and detached, respectfully arrogant—rested by the side of the road. Mother came out of the house as Huang Bao reached the middle of the yard. Father followed a half dozen steps behind.

    Mother smiled broadly. ‘Come inside, Good Brother Huang Bao.’

    ‘Good Sister Luo,’ he said, exuding courtesy. ‘The village head has sent me with a New Year's gift for your family.’

    ‘Oh, we can't accept any gifts,’ Mother said, her nervousness evident. ‘We've done nothing to deserve a gift, especially from the village head himself.’

    ‘I'm just following orders,’ Huang Bao said as he laid the bundle at Mother's feet. ‘Goodbye and have a wonderful Spring Festival.’

    Mother reached out, as if to keep him from going, but by then he was already at the gate. ‘Honestly, we can't…’

    Huang Bao turned and waved, then left as speedily as he'd come. His motorbike roared to life, just in time for us to rush to the gate and see white smoke spurt from its tailpipe. He headed west, bumping along the pitted road until he turned into Lan Clan Lane.

    We stood in stunned silence for at least five minutes, until we saw the roast-pork-peddler Su Zhou bicycling our way from the train station. His beaming smile meant that business had been good that day.

    ‘Lao Yang,’ he shouted to Mother. ‘It's New Year's, you want some roast pork?’

    Mother ignored him.

    ‘What are you saving your money for,’ he bellowed, ‘a burial plot?’

    ‘To hell with you,’ Mother shot back. ‘Burial plots are for your family.’ Having got that off her chest, she dragged us back into the yard and shut the gate behind