Pow!

  ‘What?’ Father turned and remarked calmly.

  ‘Is it really you?’

  ‘Who else would it be?’

  ‘Aren't you something—the prodigal son returns! What about Wild Mule?’

  Father shook his head. ‘Don't ask.’ Then he opened the door and took us inside the salon.

  ‘I say, you really are something,’ Yao Qi's voice followed us in. ‘A wife, a mistress, a son and a daughter. Of all the men in Slaughterhouse Village, you're the best!’

  Father shut the door in Yao Qi's face. Yao Qi pushed it back open and, one foot in, carried on: ‘I've missed seeing you about all these years.’

  Father ignored him and, with a wry smile, pulled my sister and me over to a dusty bench strewn with dog-eared magazines that had been flipped through and pawed over more times than I could imagine. The bench was a replica of the one in the station's waiting room, so it was either made by the same carpenter or stolen by the salon owner. A swivelling barber-chair with a footrest and a leather seat—so cracked it looked like it had been slashed—awaited us. The mirror on the wall in front of the chair had rippled and faded, creating only blurred reflections. A narrow shelf under the mirror was crowded with shampoos, hair gels and mousse (that's right, it's called mousse). A pair of electric clippers hung from a rusty nail on the wall alongside a dozen coloured illustrations of fashionable hairstyles worn by young models—men and women; some still stuck fast to the wall while others had begun to peel away. The red brick floor had undergone a change in colour thanks to all the black, white and grey hair that had lain atop it, that and the mud tracked in by customers. A strange and pungent smell—not quite fragrant but far from offensive—in the air inside made me sneeze—three times in a row. It must have been contagious because Jiaojiao did the same thing, three times in a row. She looked funny yet adorable with her face scrunched up with every sneeze.

  ‘Who's thinking of me, Daddy?’ She blinked. ‘Is it my mother?’

  ‘Yes,’ Father said, ‘it must be.’

  A sombre expression creased Yao Qi's face as he remained standing at the door, one foot in, one foot out, neither this nor that, a sort of androgynous stance.

  ‘Lao Luo,’ he said heavily, ‘I'm glad you're back. I'll come by to see you in a couple of days. There's something important I want to talk to you about.’

  With that he was gone; the door slid shut, keeping the clean, snow-injected air outside and thickening the foul air inside. Our sneezing contest over, Jiaojiao and I were more or less acclimated to the smell of the shop. The barber wasn't there at the moment but I knew she'd just left, because the minute I walked in the door I spotted something in the corner that looked like one of those public telephone booths I'd seen in town. A woman in a purple coat was sitting under a semi-circular canopy, her neck stiff and her head covered with brightly coloured curlers. She looked a bit like an astronaut, a bit like a rice-sprout girl at a New Year's celebration and a bit like Pidou's niang. Actually, that's who she was. Pidou's dieh was the butcher Big Ear, which made Pidou's niang Big Ear's wife. There was just one thing that kept her from looking exactly like Pidou's niang: I hadn't seen her for a long time and now she was sort of puffy, as if she had a meatball tucked in each cheek. I remembered her as having full eyebrows that swept across her forehead, the Goddess of Bad Luck. But she'd plucked them bare and replaced them with thin pencilled lines of green and red like caterpillars that dine on sesame leaves. She sat there holding a picture book in her hands, held as far out as her arms could reach—she was obviously farsighted. She hadn't looked up once since we entered, in the affected manner of a noblewoman who ignores a beggar. Shit! What are you but a self-satisfied, stinking old hag! No matter what you do—you could pull out every hair on your head, you could peel the skin from your face and you could colour your lips redder than pig's blood—you'd still be Pidou's niang and a butcher's old lady! Go ahead, ignore us—we can do the same to you! I sneaked a look at Father, who sat there remote and indifferent, quite aloof, actually, as distant as the sky on a cloudless day, as unapproachable as the head monk in a Shaolin Temple, as detached as a red-capped crane in a flock of chickens, as standoffish as a camel in a herd of sheep…The barber-chair was unoccupied, a soiled white smock covered with fine hairs draped over its back. The sight of all that hair made the back of my neck itch; and, when it occurred to me that it might be from Pidou's niang, the itch grew downright painful.

  I'd been obsessively protective of my head since childhood, something my father knew all too well. That was because every time I had a haircut I had hairs all over my body that itched worse than lice. I can count the haircuts I've submitted to in my life so far. After Father left, we had not only a pair of clippers in the house but also a pair of barber's shears and a Double Arrow straight razor. Admittedly, every item in this nearly complete set came from our scavenger days and, after Father left, Mother put these rusty instruments to use in the battle of the scalp—my scalp—to save money without having to rely upon favours from anyone. Fourth Brother Kui, a neighbour of ours, gave professional-quality haircuts but Mother was unwilling to seek his help. My screams usually proved which of us was losing the battle.

  Wise Monk, let me tell you about my worst haircut experience—and I'm only slightly exaggerating. When no amount of threats or inducements had any effect on me, Mother tied me to a chair to give me a New Year's haircut. She'd added plenty of muscle since Father left, and acquired a powerful grip. I tried anchoring myself to the floor, I tried rolling round like a donkey and I tried burying my head between my legs, like a dog, but nothing worked, and in the end I was strapped to the chair. I think I probably bit her on the wrist during our struggle, since my mouth was filled with the taste of burnt rubber. I was right, as I found out once I was strapped in and she examined her left wrist—it bled from two punctures and a dozen little purple tooth marks. A look of weary sadness spread across her face. I began to feel a bit of regret plus a bit of apprehension, but most of all a sense of satisfaction about what I'd done to her. Little guttural moans were followed by two lines of discoloured tears running down her cheeks. I was screaming at the top of my lungs and pretending I knew nothing about her injured hand or the look of sadness on her face; I wasn't sure what would happen next, but deep down I knew there was no escape. Sure enough, the tears stopped and the sad look went away. ‘You bastard,’ she smirked, ‘now you've done it, you little bastard. How dare you bite your mother! Merciful heavens,’ she said as she looked skyward, ‘open your eyes and look at the sorry excuse for a son I've raised! Not a son—a wolf, a contemptuous wolf! I've slaved to raise him, putting up with every shitty mess he made, and for what? So he can sink his teeth into me? I've endured back-breaking work, sweat by the bucketful and every imaginable indignity. They say the goldthread plant is bitter. Well, it's not as bitter as my life. They say vinegar is sour. Well, it's downright sweet compared to my life. After all that, this is what I ended up with! You haven't got all your teeth yet and your wings aren't hard enough to fly away, and still you sink your fangs into me? In a few years, when your teeth are grown and your wings are strong, you'll be ready to chew me up and spit me out! Well, you little bastard, I'll kill you with my own hands before I let that happen!’ Mother was still cursing when she picked up a turnip as long as my arm, one she'd brought up from the cellar that morning, and broke it over my head. I felt as if my head had exploded and I saw half a turnip fly off somewhere just as the other half pounded my head, over and over and over. It hurt, but not unbearably. For a worthless child like me, that sort of pain is like the powerful Zhang Fei snacking on bean sprouts, easy as one, two, three. But I made it look like she'd knocked me senseless and let my head sag to the side. She grabbed my ear and pulled my head up straight. ‘If you think you can fool me into thinking I've killed you, you're very much mistaken. You can roll your eyes, you can foam at the mouth, you can have a fainting spell. You're very much alive, but even if you're not I'm going to shave that scabby head of yours!
If I, Yang Yuzhen, can't do that, then I've got no business being your mother!’ She put a basin on top of the stool in front of me and pushed my head down into the hot water. It was really hot—hot enough to debristle a hog—and I could no longer hold back. Glug glug glug…‘Yang Yuzhen, you stinking old woman, Yang Yuzhen, I'm going to have my dieh finish you off with that donkey dick of his!’ That filthy, disgusting curse really hit home, for I heard her screech just before a hailstorm of fists descended on my head. I screamed for all I was worth—it was my only chance for a miracle. Hoping some demon or ghost or the gods of heaven and earth would hurry up and put an end to the torture, I'd have gladly banged my head in three—no, make that six, or nine—loud kowtows to anyone who came to my rescue. Hell, I'd have called him Daddy, Dear Daddy. But it was Mother—no, not Mother, Yang Yuzhen, that bloodthirsty old woman, the hag my dieh had abandoned, who walked up, a yellow plastic apron round her waist, sleeves rolled up, a straight razor in her hand, creases in her forehead. Shave my head? She was going to cut it off! ‘Help!’ I shouted. ‘Help…murder…Yang Yuzhen is going to murder me…’ I guess my shouts weren't as effective as I thought, because her rage was abruptly replaced by snorts of laughter. ‘You little swine, is that the best you can come up with?’ I turned to see a bunch of more fortunate children—those lucky fellows—at our gate craning their necks to see what was going on inside—Yao Qi's son Fengshou, Chen Gan's son Pingdu, Big Ears’ son Pidou, and Song Gujia's daughter Feng'e…I'd stopped hanging out with that crowd since my dieh ran off, not willingly, Dieh, but because I didn't have the time. Yang Yuzhen yanked me out of school and, at my young age, turned me into a coolie labourer, working me ten times harder than a poor cowherd in the old society. She got me wondering if she was really my mother. Tell me, Dieh, was I some cast-off baby born out of wedlock that you brought home from that run-down kiln where they made earthen crockpots? No real mother could bear to treat her child as mercilessly as she treats me. I guess I've lived long enough, so go ahead, Yang Yuzhen, kill me in front of those children. I felt the cold steel of her razor on my scalp. The moment of danger had arrived! I scrunched down my neck, like a threatened turtle. Emboldened by the sight, the children, like rats that had licked the cat's arse, moved in, through the gate and into our yard, drawing closer and closer to the house until they were standing just beyond the door, giggling and watching the comedy play out in front of them. ‘Aren't you ashamed to be crying like that? Especially in front of your friends. Fengshou, Pingdu, Pidou, do you cry when you're getting your heads shaved?’ ‘No,’ chorused Pingdu and Pidou. ‘Why should we? It feels good.’ ‘You hear that?’ She waved the clippers in front of me. ‘A tiger doesn't eat her young. What makes you think your mother would do anything to hurt you?’ While I was dredging up all those bad memories of the shaved-head incident, Fan Zhaoxia, owner of Beauty Hair Salon, walked in from one of the inner rooms, wearing a white smock, her hands in her pockets and looking like a woman's doctor. Tall and slim, she had a full head of black hair and fair skin 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 Monk, but you still haven't taken me in. I'd like to ask if that handsome young man hired someone to kill the beautiful young woman's father. I also want to ask what they wanted. I know you'll never answer my question, but now that I've shared my suspicions with you I can put them out of my mind. If I don't, they'll overload my brain and drive me crazy. There's something I want to tell you, Wise Monk. One summer day around noon, more than a decade ago, when everyone in Slaughterhouse Village was asleep, I walked the streets aimlessly like a bored dog, sniffing here and there. When I reached the Beauty Hair Salon entrance, I put my face up against the glass to see what was going on inside. What I saw was an electric fan hanging on the wall, turning from side to side, and the barber, Fan Zhaoxia, in her white smock, seated in Lao Lan
's lap with a straight razor in her hand. For a moment I thought she was going to cut his throat, but then I could tell that they were doing you-know-what. She held the razor high over her head in order to keep it away from his face. Her legs were spread and hooked over the arms of the barber-chair. A look of rapture twisted her face out of shape. But she held on to that razor, as if to prove to anyone sneaking a look inside that they were working, not having sex. I wanted to tell someone about these strange goings-on but there was no one to tell, only a black dog sprawled beneath a plane tree, panting away, its tongue lolling to the side. I backed up several paces, picked up a brick and flung it with all my might, then turned to run as fast as I could. I heard the sound of shattering glass behind me. Wise Monk, I'm ashamed to reveal that I was capable of something so despicable, but I think that if I don't tell you it will be an act of disloyalty. I know people call me a Powboy, but that was then. Now, every word I tell you is the unvarnished truth.

  POW! 17

  The East City and West City processions continue to make their way to the grassy field. The pig float, the sheep float, the donkey float, the rabbit float…all the floats—dedicated to a host of animals whose bodies are offered for the consumption of humans—head to their assigned spots, surrounded by people of every imaginable shape and size who arrange them in square formations to await the arrival of the reviewing VIPs. All but Lao Lan's ostriches, which are running about in our yard. Two of them are fighting over a muddy article of clothing—orange in colour—as if it were a tasty titbit. I recall the woman who'd showed up the day before in a torrential rainstorm, and that scene saddens me. Every few minutes an ostrich sticks its head through the temple door, curiosity flashing in its tiny round eyes. The aura of lassitude emanating from the boys and girls sitting on the rubble of the collapsed wall is in stark contrast to the ostriches’ frenetic action. Employees of Lao Lan's company jabber nonstop into mobile phones. Another ostrich pokes its head inside, but this time it opens it big mouth and pecks the top of the Wise Monk's head. Instinctively, I throw one of my shoes at it but the Wise Monk casually raises his hand and deflects the flying missile. He opens his eyes and presents a smiling countenance—the look of a kindly grandfather watching his grandson take his first steps—to the bird. A black Buick, horn blaring, screams down the road from the west, speeds past the floats and comes to a screeching halt in front of the temple. A man with an expansive belly steps out of the car. He is wearing a grey double-breasted suit with a wide red-checked tie; the label still on his sleeve is that of a famous and expensive brand. But no matter what fancy names he wraps himself in, those big yellow eyes tell me he's my mortal enemy Lao Lan. Several years ago, Wise Monk, I fired off forty-one mortar shells, and the last of them sliced Lao Lan in two. As a result, I took off for destinations unknown to lie low. I later heard that he hadn't died after all; in fact, his business ventures thrived and he was in better health than ever. Out of the car also emerges a fat woman in a purple dress and dark red high heels. She's dyed a section of her permed hair a bright red, like a cockscomb. She has on six rings, three gold and three platinum, a gold necklace and a string of pearls. She's fleshed out quite a bit, but I see at first glance that it's Fan Zhaoxia, the woman who screwed Lao Lan with a razor in her hand. While I was on the run, rumour had it that she and Lao Lan had got married, and the scene in front of me proves that the rumour was true. As soon as her feet are on the ground, she spreads her arms and runs to the children sitting on the pile of rubble. The girl who'd fought with her ostrich until she pinned it to the ground runs to Fan Zhaoxia. She enfolds the girl in her arms, covering her face with kisses like chickens pecking at rice and fills her ears with ‘my dear this’ and ‘my little darling that’. I look at the pretty little girl's face with mixed feelings. What a surprise that Lao Lan, that bastard, could sire such a nice offspring, a girl who reminds me of my deceased stepsister Jiaojiao, who would have now been a girl of fourteen. Lao Lan lets fly with a string of curses at his staff, who are lined up in front of him, arms at their sides. One tries to explain matters and is rewarded with a faceful of spit. Lan's ostrich team was to put on a dance performance at the Carnivore Festival opening ceremony—a true spectacle that would leave a lasting impression on visiting businessmen and, more importantly, on all the leading officials. Words of praise and order forms would follow in large numbers. But before the show has begun it has fallen apart, thanks to these idiots. The hour for the opening ceremony is nearly upon them and Lao Lan's forehead is bathed in sweat. ‘Get those ostriches in here this minute or I'll turn every one of you into ostrich feed!’ They need no more prodding to take after the birds. And the uncooperative birds that they are, they miss no opportunity to race away on powerful feet like the shod hooves of crazed horses. Lao Lan rolls up his sleeves to join the fray but his first step lands in a pile of loose ostrich shit and he winds up flat on his back. His employees, who rush to help him to his feet, have to scrunch up their faces to keep from laughing. ‘Think that's funny, do you?’ Lao Lan is caustic in his comments. ‘Go ahead, laugh, why don't you?’ The youngest-looking among them cannot hold back—he bursts out laughing, immediately affecting the others, who join in, and that includes Lao Lan himself. But only for a moment. ‘You think it's so goddamn funny?’ he roars. ‘I'll fire the next one of you who so much as giggles!’ Somehow, they manage to stop. ‘Go get my rifle. I'm going to put a bullet into every one of those damned birds!’