I'll stop here, Wise Monk. Talking about that upsets me. I'll wrap up my story about the reporter instead.
Father climbed the platform to smoke; Mother went back to her office. Lao Lan, Jiaojiao and I escorted the reporter to my room, a walled-off corner of the meat-cleansing workshop. I could see activity on the work floor through gaps in the plywood walls. After describing our water treatment process, we offered to cleanse his insides, if he was willing, and then deliver him to one of the kill rooms, mix his flesh with camel and dog meat and sell it in town. Bean-sized drops of sweat broke out on his forehead and we saw that his pants were wet. ‘Whoever heard of a grown man peeing in his pants?’ Jiaojiao remarked. ‘Disgusting!’ If, on the other hand, he was unwilling to be cleansed and slaughtered, we'd be happy to hire him as head of our PR department, pay him a salary of a thousand yuan a month and a two-thousand-yuan bonus each time a story about the plant made the papers, no matter the length. Well, he signed on and wrote a long feature about the plant, one that nearly filled a page. True to our word and committed to seeing things through to the end, we gave him two thousand yuan, treated him to a lavish meal and saw him off with a hundred pounds of dog meat.
The next reporters—two of them—at the plant worked for a TV station. Pan Sun and his assistant came disguised as meat-sellers. Equipped with a hidden camera, they toured the facilities. We offered them the same hospitality and then invited them to serve as consultants too.
All the while Lao Lan and I were dealing with the reporter, Father was on his platform smoking. Every fifteen or twenty minutes, another cigarette butt sailed to the ground. He was in the depths of depression. Dieh, you poor man.
POW! 38
‘If Shen Yaoyao doesn't die, I will. If she does, I'll live.’ So sobbed the film star Huang Feiyun last night as she sat on a sofa in front of Lan Laoda. ‘I can't help myself. I love you. I'll pretend I'm dead if she lives but I'll choose life if she dies. The child is your flesh and blood, so you have to marry me.’ ‘How much do you want?’ Lan asked callously. ‘Is that what you think I came to you for—money, you bastard?’ she fumed. ‘Why else would you try to palm off someone else's child on me? You of all people should remember that I haven't so much as touched you since you got married. Unless I'm mistaken, your esteemed daughter was born three years after that, and I've never heard of a gestation period that long.’ ‘I knew you'd say that,’ said Huang Feiyun, ‘but you've forgotten that your sperm samples were deposited in the Celebrity Sperm Bank.’ Lan Laoda lit a cigar with his pistol-shaped cigarette lighter and looked up at the ceiling. ‘You're right,’ he said. ‘I was tricked into making that deposit because they said I had extraordinary genes. Did you put them up to that? You've gone to great lengths, haven't you? But if that's how things stand, you can send the boy over. I'll hire the best tutor and the best nanny to educate him and take care of him and make him into a statesman, and you can concentrate on being the virtuous wife of a businessman.’ Huang Feiyun was unyielding: ‘No,’ she said. ‘Why not? Why is it so important for you to marry me?’ Tears in her eyes, she said, ‘I know it makes no sense. I know you're a big-time gangster, a monster who works both sides of the road, criminal and law-abiding, and that marrying you is like signing my death warrant. But that's what I want. I think of it every minute of every day, I'm under your spell.’ Lan Laoda laughed: ‘I was married once and she suffered because of it. Why would you want to suffer too? Listen to me when I say I'm not a man—I'm a horse, a stud horse, and stud horses belong to all the mares in a herd. After a stud horse has serviced a mare, he's done with her and she must go away. As I say, I'm not a man, and you shouldn't consider yourself a woman. And if you're a mare, then you wouldn't entertain the absurd idea of marrying me.’ Huang Feiyun pounded her chest and said in a voice choked with anguish: ‘I'm a mare, I am, a mare who dreams night after night of coupling with a stud horse that empties her out.’ Crying, she ripped open her bodice and her now ruined, expensive dress fell to the floor. She then tore off her bra and her panties. Completely naked, she began running round the living room shouting: ‘I'm a mare…I'm a mare…’ I am startled awake by an uproar outside the temple gate, though Huang Feiyun's hysterical shouts continue to echo in my ears. When I sneak a peek at the Wise Monk, the look of agony in his face has been replaced by one of serenity. Before I can continue with my tale, there is a racket outside. When I look up I see a large truck parked by the side of the road, piled high with sawed planks and thick logs. A gang of men begin heaving the lumber on which they were sitting to the ground, where a boy is nearly crushed by one of the cascading logs. ‘Hey,’ he shouts, ‘what are you doing?’ ‘Get out of the way, boy,’ a squat worker in a wicker hard hat shouts back, ‘or there'll be no one to weep over your corpse.’ ‘I want to know what you're doing,’ the boy demands. ‘Run home and tell your mother that there'll be an opera here tonight,’ the man says. ‘Oh, so you're going to build a stage! Which opera?’ he asks, barely able to control his delight. A long plank cuts loose and slides off the truck. ‘Get out of the way, boy!’ a man on the truck shrieks. ‘I can't, not till you tell me which opera.’ ‘OK, all righty, it's From Meat Boy to Meat God. Now, will you get out of the way!’ ‘Sure,’ he says, ‘now that you've told me.’ ‘What a strange little prick, one of them says as a log rolls to the ground. The boy hops out of the way but the log rolls after him, as if it has him in its sights and then finally comes to a stop at the little temple gate. The fresh, clean smell of tree sap brings news of the virgin forest and, as I breathe in the clean fragrance of pine, I am reminded of the rebirth platform at United Meatpacking Plant all those years ago. As usual it stirs up painful memories. That was where my poor father went to smoke, to meditate and to be lonely. It's where he began spending most of every day, effectively putting affairs of the plant out of his mind.
One night a month before Lao Lan's wife died, my father and mother had a conversation, one up high, the other down low.
‘Come down from there,’ Mother said.
Father tossed down a glowing cigarette butt. ‘Sorry, no.’
‘Then stay up there till you breathe your last if you dare to.’
‘I will.’
‘You're a chicken-shit bastard if you don't come down.’
‘I won't.’
Even though Lao Lan put a lid on the situation, news of Father's vow to never come off the platform leaked out and spread through the plant. Mother walked about in a daze, snapping out of it only to smash the odd dinner plate and then sit at her mirror and weep. Jiaojiao and I weren't particularly upset by this turn of events; truth be known—I must shamefully confess, Wise Monk—we even found it all terribly funny, even something to be proud about because my old man was once again displaying his unique temperament.
He swore he wouldn't come off the platform but he said nothing about fasting. Three times a day Jiaojiao and I took him food. It was a special treat the first time we climbed up but soon it became just another chore. Father would greet our arrival without any display of emotion. We'd have liked nothing more than to sit and eat with him but he always courteously insisted that we go back down. Reluctantly, we did as he asked so his food wouldn't get cold; on our way down we made sure we took back the utensils from his previous meal. The plate and bowl would be clean enough not to need a wash. He must have licked them clean, and I often imagined that sight. He had so much time on his hands up there that licking a bowl clean was sort of a job for him.
He had to relieve himself, of course, so Jiaojiao and I took up two plastic pails, which meant that, in addition to delivering his food, we also had to dispose of his waste. After watching us apprehensively as we carried the waste pails down, he suggested that we haul up his food basket and lower the pails with a rope to spare us the trouble of climbing up and down.
Lao Lan just laughed when I told him about this conversation. ‘This is your family business,’ he said when he'd finished laughing. ‘Go talk it over with your mother.’
Mother would have none of it, and it seemed that by then she was resigned to her husband living on the platform. She went to work every day. She stopped smashing plates and frequently engaged in friendly chats with Lao Lan.
‘Xiaotong,’ she'd say, ‘don't forget his cigarettes when you take his food.’
The truth is, despite Mother's opposition, a rope would have been the easiest thing in the world. We didn't do it because we didn't want to. Climbing the platform three times a day to visit our exceptional father was a special treat for Jiaojiao and me.
When we delivered his breakfast one morning three weeks before Lao Lan's wife died, he sighed and said: ‘Children, your dieh's wasted his life.’
‘No, you haven't, Dieh,’ I replied. ‘You've stuck it out here seven days already, and that's quite a feat. People are starting to call you a sage in the making, waiting to be immortalized up here on the platform.’
He shook his head and managed a bitter smile. We brought him good food every day, and the fact that his bowl was always licked clean was proof that there was nothing wrong with his appetite. But in seven days he'd lost weight. His beard had grown, long and as prickly as a hedgehog, his eyes were bloodshot, sleep filling their the corners, and he smelt foul, really foul. Just the sight of him reduced me to tears, and I blamed myself for not taking better care of him.
‘Dieh,’ I said, ‘we'll bring you a razor and a basin to wash in.’
‘Dieh,’ Jiaojiao added, ‘we'll bring you a blanket and a pillow.’
He sat there, leaning up against a pole and staring into the wilderness. ‘Xiaotong,’ he said full of sorrow, ‘Jiaojiao, you two go down there, light a fire and immolate your dieh.’
‘Dieh,’ we cried out together, ‘stop that! What would life be like for us if you weren't around? You have to stick it out, Dieh. Not giving up will be your victory.’
We laid down the food basket and picked up the plastic pails, ready to climb down, when Father stood up, rubbed his face with those big hands of his, and said, ‘I'll do it.’
He took one of the pails, swung it back and forth a couple of times and then chucked it over the wall.
He then picked up the second pail and did the same thing.
Shocked by his outburst, I had a sudden feeling of impending disaster. I rushed over wrapped my arms round his leg. ‘Don't do it, Dieh, don't jump,’ I pleaded tearfully, ‘you'll die!’
Jiaojiao rushed up and, crying, wrapped her arms round his other leg. ‘Don't do it, Dieh, you'll die!’ she echoed.
Father stroked our heads and looked at the sky. When he finally looked down again, there were tears in his eyes.
‘Why would you think such a thing, children? Why would I want to jump? Your dieh doesn't have the guts.’
So he followed us down the platform and headed for the office. Strange looks followed us as we made our way through the plant.
‘What are you looking at?’ I demanded. ‘I dare any of you to try climbing that platform. My father spent seven days up there, so keep those stinking mouths shut till you've spent eight.’
They slunk away under my withering attack.
‘You're the best, Dieh,’ I said proudly.
Not a word from my ashen-faced father. He followed us into his office, where Lao Lan and Mother met his arrival with seeming indifference. It was as if we'd just come from one of the workshops or the toilet and not off the rebirth platform.
‘Good news, Lao Luo,’ Lao Lan said. ‘The Riches for All supermarket finally paid up what they owed us. We'll keep our distance from unscrupulous concerns like that from now on.’
‘Lao Lan,’ Father said glumly, ‘I quit. I don't want to be plant manager any longer.’
‘Why?’ Lao Lan was surprised. ‘Why do you want to quit?’
Father sat on the stool, his head hung low. ‘I've failed,’ he said after a long moment.
‘You're too old to be pouting like a child,’ Lao Lan said. ‘Was it something I said or did?’
‘Don't pay any attention to him, Lao Lan,’ Mother said contemptuously. ‘He's his own worst enemy.’
On the verge of losing his temper, Father merely shook his head and kept quiet.
Lao Lan flipped open a colour edition of a newspaper. ‘Take a look at that, Lao Luo,’ he said softly. ‘My third uncle has given up his wealth, left all those women who've been in love with him, shaved his head and become a monk at the Yunmen Temple.’
Father merely glanced at the newspaper.
‘My third uncle is a man of great, if strange, substance,’ Lao Lan continued emotionally. ‘I used to think I understood him, but now I realize I'm too vulgar to comprehend a man of his calibre. I tell you, Lao Luo, life's too short to be caught up with things like women and wealth, fame and status. You're born without them and you'll leave them behind when you die. My third uncle has seen the light.’
‘You will, too, very soon,’ Mother said sarcastically.
‘My father was up on the platform for seven days,’ Jiaojiao said, ‘and he saw the light.’
Lao Lan and Mother turned to her in surprise. ‘Xiaotong,’ Mother said after a moment, ‘take your sister outside and let the grown-ups talk. You don't know what this is about.’
‘I do,’ insisted Jiaojiao.
‘Go outside!’ Father barked angrily, banging the table with his fist.
His hair was a tangled mess, his face coated with grime, he stank, and he was in a foul mood. Seven days of meditating on a tall platform will do that to a man. I took Jiaojiao's hand and fled outside.
Are you still listening, Wise Monk?
Lao Lan's wife's bier was placed in the family living room. A heavy-looking purple cinerary urn rested on a black square table and a framed black-and-white photograph of the deceased hung on the wall behind it. The head in the photograph was larger than it had been in life but what caught my attention was the trace of a wry smile at the corners of the mouth, reminding me of how nice she'd been to Jiaojiao and me when we ate at their house. How had they made it so large? I wondered. The small-town newspaper reporter who'd hired on with us was taking pictures inside and outside the house with a snap-on lens. He bent for some shots and knelt for some others. I could tell how hard he was working by the sweat stains on his white T-shirt, with the newspaper's name across the chest; it was actually sticking to his back. He'd gained so much weight since he'd joined the team that the skin on his face was taut, thanks to the added flesh underneath. His cheeks had taken on the appearance of rubber balls. I went up to him while he was putting in a new roll of film. ‘Hey, Skinny Horse,’ I said under my breath, ‘how did they make that photo on the wall so big?’
‘It's called an enlargement,’ he explained patiently. ‘If you like, I could make a picture of you as big as a camel.’
‘But I don't have a picture.’
He raised his camera, pointed it at my face, and—click. ‘Now you do. You'll have an enlargement in a couple of days, Director Luo.’
Jiaojiao ran up.
‘I want one too,’ she bawled.
He aimed his camera at her. Click.
‘Got it.’
‘I want one of the two of us,’ she said.
He aimed his camera. Click. ‘Got it.’
This made me so happy I wanted to keep chatting with him, but he was off taking more pictures. A man walked in through Lao Lan's open front door, wearing a wrinkled grey suit, a white shirt with a filthy collar, and a pink bolo tie made of fake pearls. One trouser leg was rolled up, revealing a purple sock and an orange, mud-coated leather shoe. We called him ‘Big Four’—big mouth, big eyes, big nose and big teeth. Actually, his ears were big enough for him to have been called ‘Big Five’. On his belt he wore a beeper, something we called an electric cricket at the time. Lao Lan was one of the few people within a hundred square li who owned a cellphone—the size of a brick, it was carried by Huang Biao and, although seldom used, it was quite a status symbol. While not in the same category as a cellphone, a beeper conferred status
too. Big Four, the township head's brother-in-law, was also the best-known contractor of construction labour in the area. He won contracts for virtually every township project, whether a public road or a public toilet. Given to swaggering round most people, he didn't dare try that with Lao Lan or with Mother. Tucking his briefcase under his arm, he went up to my mother, nodded and bowed.
‘Director Yang…’
My mother had been promoted to serve as Huachang Corporation's office manager and assistant to the general manager, as well as chief accountant for United Meatpacking. She had on a full-length black dress with a white paper flower pinned to the breast and a pearl necklace. Shunning make-up, she wore a solemn expression and a piercing glare, like the sharp edges of a Chinese written character, like a sober eulogy, like a stately pine tree.