Lao Lan put me in charge of the meat-cleansing workshop after consulting the calendar to select my first day on the job.
My initial managerial recommendation was to combine the dog and sheep kill rooms to free up one for a meat-cleansing station. All the animals would have to pass through the station on their way to the kill rooms. Lao Lan considered my suggestion for only a minute before agreeing, his eyes sparkling golden with excitement.
‘I like it!’ I said and on a sheet of paper, using a red-and-blue pencil, I quickly sketched out my plan. Finding nothing to criticize or change, Lao Lan gave it an appreciative look. ‘Do it!’ he announced.
Father, on the other hand, had a number of objections. Although he claimed it to be a terrible idea, I did note a look of admiration in his eyes. There's an old saying that goes: ‘No one knows a boy like his father.’ But you could also say, ‘No one knows a man like his son.’ I could read my father like a book. When he saw me announce to the one-time independent butchers, now employees of the plant, the new procedures, his misgivings were also tinged with pride. A man can be jealous of anyone but his own son. His unease stemmed not from any sense that I'd upstaged him but that I had the mind of an adult in a child's body. The villagers believed that precocious youngsters were fated to die before their time. My quick wits and my intelligence filled him with pride and his father's hope for his son soared high. But, according to local superstition, those same qualities enhanced my chances of dying young. Hence his emotional predicament.
As I think back, it seems almost miraculous that, as a twelve-year-old boy, I was able to devise a method for injecting water into living animals, to redesign a workshop, to be in charge of a few dozen workers and to successfuly increase the plant's production. When I recall those times I can't help thinking that I was quite a remarkable fellow back then!
Wise Monk, now I'm going to tell you exactly how remarkable I was. I'll describe for you the layout of the meat-cleansing station and what I did, and you'll see that I'm not exaggerating.
Security at the plant was tight in order to protect it from the prying eyes of competitors and sneaky reporters. We maintained our secrecy with the claim that we were trying to prevent outsiders from contaminating our products. Though my innovation turned the water-injection process into ‘meat-cleansing’, if the reporters—who thrive on misrepresentation—got wind of it, there's no telling what they'd feed their readers. (My handling of the reporters, which I'll describe later, is one of the highlights of my recollections.)
On my first day on the job, Lao Lan announced that I was in charge. That done, I addressed the workers: ‘If you think I'm just a child, you are sadly mistaken. I may be a head shorter and several years younger, but I know more than any of you. I'll be watching you and taking note of your performance. I'll report everything to Lao Lan. I may not scare you but Lao Lan's a different story.’
‘You needn't be scared of me either,’ Lan Lan spoke to them next. ‘You are working for yourselves, not for me, not for Luo Tong and not for Luo Xiaotong. We have given him heavy responsibilities because he has room in his head for new and original ideas that can bring vitality to our plant. Now that may not mean much to you but you know the meaning of money, and that is what vitality equals—money. When the plant makes a profit, the money winds up in your pockets and that equals good food and fine liquor, new houses, improved prospects for your sons’ brides and richer dowries for your daughters. In a word, it's what will make you stand straight and tall. You all know that operating as an independent butcher has been outlawed. I wouldn't have created this plant otherwise. If you decide to do some private butchering on the side and get caught, at the very least your family will suffer from a heavy fine. At the very worst, you'll serve jail time. This plant was created for all of us, since the one thing our village knows is how to slaughter livestock. You are all pros at butchering and amateurs at everything else. Even if some of you decide to breed livestock or work with processed meat, at the end of the day you're still involved with slaughter. There can be only one conclusion—if the plant does well, we all do well, and if it doesn't then we all go hungry. How do we see that it does well? By working as a team. The flames rise higher when everyone feeds the fire. United, we can move mountains. The Eight Immortals crossed the sea by calling on everyone's talents. Hard work will be rewarded. In the eyes of most, Xiaotong is just a boy. But in my eyes he's a talented resource, one we must make use of. I'm not talking iron rice bowl here. He'll stay on as long as he performs well. If he doesn't, he'll be out. Director Xiaotong, give the order.’
I'm no longer young, and public speaking makes me nervous. But back then I was almost fanatical in my desire to put on a show—the bigger my audience the better. Well, I put those plant employees through their paces like a fearless cowherd tending a field full of dumb animals. My first task for them was to build a structure in the workshop. In accordance with my design, they were to erect two tall towers—metal posts held together with steel struts, one on each side of the workshop and fitted on top with a galvanized steel water vat. Iron pipes leading from the vats’ bases stretched along the width of the workshop with a water tap connected to a rubber hose every six feet. That, in all its simplicity, was the meat-cleansing station. Complicated designs are ineffective, effective designs are uncomplicated. Some of the men made faces as they worked, some sniggered. ‘What the hell are we doing?’ one of them muttered under his breath, ‘Making cricket cages?’
‘Right,’ I said loudly, without caring whose feelings I hurt. ‘I plan to put cows into cricket cages!’
I knew that these workers—not long ago the village's most unruly residents and most of them illegal butchers—had no interest in carrying out my orders. Putting me in charge of a workshop was, in their view, a stupid mistake by Lao Lan and one further compounded by my drawings and my instructions. I'd have wasted my time trying to explain things to them, so I thought I'd let the results speak for themselves. ‘Just do as I say,’ I ordered. ‘And think whatever you want.’
Once the structure was complete, the workers backed off to smoke or woolgather while I gave Father and Lao Lan a guided tour. After pointing out the features and their uses, I turned to the smoking workers. ‘If you light up in this building tomorrow, I'll fine you two-weeks’ pay.’
Their eyes blazed with fury at my threat but they did stub out their cigarettes.
Early the next morning, six men filled the two overhead reservoirs. I could have had them hook up a hose to an electric pump but that would have been expensive and, as I saw it, unexciting and dull. I preferred the view of six men labouring to and from the well, time after time.
When the reservoirs were full, the six men walked over to the entrance and laid down their shoulder poles for a rest. ‘Once the process begins,’ I said, ‘it's your job to see that there's always water in the reservoirs. There can be no interruptions.’ ‘No sweat, Director,’ they said as they thumped their chests, apparently in high spirits. I knew why. I'd known from the very beginning that only four men were needed to keep the reservoirs full, but I'd added two more just to spice things up.
Before the formal work day began, my father and mother, along with Lao Lan, showed up for the guided tour. As I spiritedly explained the technical aspects, I really looked the part of a water-station manager, at least I thought so. Over the past few days Jiaojiao had followed me everywhere, carrying my army canteen—another item Mother and I had found scavenging—filled with sugar water. Every time I'd hand out an order, she'd raise her thumb and say, ‘My brother's great!’ Then she'd unscrew the cap and hand me the canteen: ‘Here, drink.’
After the guided tour, it was time to start work. I stood on a chair by the entrance so I could see everything in the building.
‘Is everyone ready?’ I shouted.
They stared blankly for a moment, but then quickly responded in unison, the way we'd practiced: ‘Ready! We await the director's instructions!’
Their false show of enth
usiasm turned what was ceremoniously serious into something akin to farce, and I saw the smirks on the faces of the less sincere workers. But I let it go. I'd worked things out carefully and I knew my plan was all right.
Time to give the order: ‘Bring the first beef cows in from the cattle pens.’
The men picked up their halters and ropes: ‘Got it!’
‘Go!’ I made a chopping motion, the way I'd seen film toughs give commands.
The men's faces froze. I knew that if Lao Lan and my parents hadn't been there then they'd have burst out laughing. Instead, they ran to the door, bumping into one another on their way out. Since we'd rehearsed the drill, they knew what to do and so ran straight to the cow pen in the plant's southeast corner. A hundred head of recently purchased cattle had been herded into a circular pen. Local peasants had brought some to us, others had been driven over by cattle merchants, there were even some that the cattle thieves had delivered in the middle of the night. Mixed with the cattle were ten donkeys, five ageing mules and seven old nags, plus some camels with patchy hides, like old men with padded jackets draped over their shoulders in early summer. We happily accepted any and all livestock that could be turned into meat. We'd also built a sty nearby for, in addition to pigs, a quantity of sheep and goats, including milch goats. And dogs. Fed an enhanced diet, our dogs looked like young hippos, their movements slowed by bloated bodies. No longer agile and intelligent, they had lost all their canine traits and become dull, stupid animals who were useless as watchdogs—they'd wag their tails in welcome at thieves and snarl at their owners. All these animals, without exception, were scheduled to pass through our meat-cleansing station. But let's start with the cows, since they were our main concern. We were the official suppliers to farmers’ markets and restaurants in town. Urbanites tend to be faddish diners and their tastes change like the wind. At the time, the newspapers were reporting on the nutritional value of beef being higher than that of other meats. Hence, a beef craze. Hence, cows were what we slaughtered. Some time later the newspapers would report that the nutritive value of pork was higher. Hence, the pork craze. Hence, pigs were what we slaughtered. Lao Lan was the first peasant-turned-entrepreneur to realize the importance of the media. ‘When profits from plant operations are high enough,’ he said one day, ‘we'll start our own newspaper, Meat Digest, and advertise our own products every day.’ But, back to our workers. Each led in a pair of cows from the pen. Some obediently trotted behind the men who held their halters, some others were less well behaved and veered this way and that and slowed things down. A black bull broke loose, raised its tail and ran, hoofs flying, to the gate, which was now shut. ‘Stop it!’ someone yelled. ‘Stop that bull!’ Now who would be that foolish? Anyone who got in the way of those horns would be tossed into the air and land with a thud, a mangled mess. Though I was apprehensive, I was still in control. ‘Out of the way!’ I shouted. The raging bull ran headlong into the steel gate and we were deafened by the sound of the collision. Its neck twisted as it bounced into the air and then landed hard on the ground. ‘All right!’ I shouted. ‘Now tie it up.’ The man with the empty halter walked over tentatively and bent down, legs slightly bowed, ready to flee at a moment's notice. But the bull let itself be haltered, then obediently got to its feet and dutifully followed the man up to the workshop door. Its head was bleeding and it wore a sheepish look, like a schoolboy caught misbehaving. Though only a minor episode, it livened up the atmosphere—a good thing, nothing wrong with that. In a matter of minutes, men and beasts were in position at the door and the cows eager to get in, perhaps because they smelt the fresh water in the reservoirs. The six water-carriers standing by the door lazily observing the goings-on were nudged aside; their buckets clattered loudly against each other. ‘What's the hurry?’ I shouted. ‘This isn't a race to mourn your dead fathers! Bring them in slowly, one at a time.’ I had to remind the men to treat these beasts with a little kindness during their last minutes on earth. They needed to be cajoled, tricked even, so they'd remain calm and contented. An animal's mood has a direct effect on the quality of its meat. One that's terrified just before it's slaughtered produces sour meat; only an animal that dies peacefully produces fragrant meat. I told them to treat the beef cattle with special care, since they were in the minority; most of the animals had contributed to humanity by working in the fields. We may have been different from Huang Biao, who treated an old cow as the reincarnation of his mother, but we still needed to show them a degree of respect. In today's words: we wanted to let them die with dignity.
The workers lined up their charges in two rows at the door, an impressive column of forty head of cattle. I've never been someone to shout his successes from the rooftops but watching my vision being transformed into a reality was a proud moment indeed. The first man up was Yao Qi, which only made me prouder, as I recalled how he'd brought my father that bottle of fake Maotai, which Mother had then given to Lao Lan. He'd also said filthy things about Aunty Wild Mule, including that he'd like to take her to bed. A perfect example of ‘Ugly toad wanting to eat swan meat’. I had no reason to treat a bum like him with kid gloves. I was hostile to anyone who slandered Aunty Wild Mule. Joining as an ordinary worker at the meatpacking plant—was it a sign of a wise Yao Qi toeing the line? Or was it more a case of enduring hardships in order to seek revenge? This could be a problem, I thought to myself. But not Lao Lan, who stood in front of me. He nodded to Yao Qi and smiled. Yao Qi smiled back. The nods and smiles hinted at a unique relationship between the two men. Lao Lan was a broad-minded man, and someone like that cannot be taken lightly. Yao Qi was a man who could demean himself in front of others. Someone like that cannot be taken lightly either.
Yao Qi was holding the leads of two brown Luxi cows, the best-looking animals in the pens. I'd been present when they were sold to us. Father's eyes had lit up as he circled them, examining them carefully, and I could imagine how the legendary Bo-le must have felt when he discovered a fine steed…‘Too bad,’ Father sighed, ‘what a pity.’ ‘Lao Luo, you can stop the phony dramatics,’ the cattle merchant snickered. ‘Do you want them or don't you? If not, I'll take them back with me.’ ‘No one's stopping you,’ replied Father. ‘Go ahead, take them.’ The cattle merchant gave an embarrassed little laugh: ‘We're old friends. If the goods die at the wharf, that's where they stay. You and I will be doing more business in the future…’
Yao Qi wore a pompous smile as he stood at the head of the line with the two handsome cows and I must say I was impressed. To be at the head of the queue he must have raced to the cow pens, forced halters onto the two most powerful animals and then walked them over, no easy task for someone that fat. That he had beat all those younger and stronger men to the first spot was testimony to the power of a man's will. The Luxi cows’ eyes were clear and bright and their muscles rippled beneath their satiny hides. They were in their prime, at an age when they could pull a plough with speed and power—a glance at their shoulders was proof enough. The West County cattle merchants were cattle thieves, part of an organized gang that stole cattle for others to sell. They had a special arrangement with the train station that promised a worry-free delivery of stolen cattle to our village. But things had begun to change. The cattle we bought from West County for the plant came not in cattle cars but in trucks, long semis covered with green tarps, gigantic, intimidating vehicles that could have been transporting anything, even military hardware. The animals emerged from the trucks on such unsteady legs you'd think they were drunk. The merchants were pretty unsteady too, and they were most certainly drunk.
Yao Qi entered the station with his Luxi cows, followed by Cheng Tianle, a one-time independent, conservative pig butcher. In the 1960s, butchers in our village began to skin the pigs they slaughtered because the hides were worth more, pound for pound, than the pork—they could be turned into fine leather. Cheng Tianle was the only one who refused to do so. He kept an oversized cook pot in his kill room, covered by a thick plank; the sides of the pot and th
e plank were covered with pig bristles removed the old-fashioned way. He'd cut a hole in one of the rear legs and open several passages with a metal rod, then put his mouth up to the hole and blow, puffing the carcass up like a balloon and creating a space between the hide and the flesh. Then he'd pour hot water over the skin causing the bristles to simply fall off. This method produced the best-looking meat; it was sold still enclosed in its shiny skin and looked so much more appealing than stripped pork. Blessed with powerful lungs, Cheng Tianle could inflate a whole pig with a single breath. His meat was popular with those who enjoyed the crunchy texture and appreciated the high nutritional value. But now, here he was, a man uniquely skilled to produce fine, crunchy meat by blowing air under the hide, looking as mournful as can be, leading two head of cattle into the building. It was as sad as putting a master shoemaker on a shoe assembly line. I'd always had a soft spot for him, a good and decent man who remained true to his ways. Unlike so many craftsmen who liked to show off in front of the young, Cheng Tianle, a modest man, treated me with kindness; he greeted me warmly whenever I dropped by in the old days and sometimes even asked if there was news of my father. ‘Xiaotong,’ he'd say, ‘your father is an upright man.’ And when I went to buy his bristles (I resold them to make brushes), he'd say: ‘You don't have to pay for those, just take them.’ Once he even gave me a cigarette. He never treated me like a child but always with respect. And I intended to repay his kindness within the limits of my authority.