and began all over again. Then they took me to a place where there were dozens of owners of lost cats: white-haired old men and women, richly jewelled housewives and teary-eyed children. As soon as they heard who I was, they pounced on me, hurling tearful accusations and beating me in rage. The men kicked me in the shins and in the balls, the most painful spots, oh, Mother, how it hurt! The women and the girls were worse—they pinched my ears, gouged my eyes and twisted my nose. An old woman with shaking hands elbowed her way up to me and scratched my face. Not entirely satisfied, she then took a bite out of my scalp. Somewhere along the way I fainted. When I woke up I found myself buried under a pile of garbage. I clawed my way out frantically, stuck my head into the open air and took some deep breaths. And there I was, sitting on a pile of garbage, looking down on the bustling city streets in the distance, sore, hungry and feeling like I was at death's door. That's when I thought about my mother and my father, about my sister, even about Lao Lan, thought about how I'd been free to eat all the meat I wanted when I was a slaughterhouse workshop director, about when I could drink as much liquor as I wanted, about when everyone respected me, and the tears fell like pearls from a broken string. I was spent, resigned to dying on top of a garbage heap. Just then, my hand brushed against something soft, and I detected a familiar smell—a packet of donkey meat, a treat from the past. As soon as I tore open the wrapping and feasted my eyes on its lovely countenance, it poured out its woes to me: ‘Luo Xiaotong, you be the judge. They said I'd gone past my best-eaten-by date and threw me out. But there's nothing wrong with me, I'm as nutritious as ever and I smell fine. Eat me, Luo Xiaotong, and you'll bring joy to an otherwise joyless existence.’ I reached down impulsively, my mouth opened automatically and my teeth chattered excitedly. But when the meat touched my lips, Wise Monk, I remembered my vow. The day my sister died from poisoned meat, I raised a vow to the moon that I'd never eat meat on pain of an excruciating death. So I returned the donkey meat to the garbage heap. But I was famished, on the verge of starving. I picked it up again, only to be reminded of Jiaojiao's ghostly pale face in the moonlight. Just then that piece of donkey meat let out a cold laugh: ‘Luo Xiaotong, you take your vows seriously. I was put here to test you. A starving man who can hold true to a vow in the face of a fragrant cut of meat is a praiseworthy individual. Based on this alone, I predict a glorious future for you. Under the right circumstances, you could even become a god and go down in history. The truth is, I'm not a cut of donkey meat, I'm imitation meat sent down by the Moon God to put you to the test. My primary ingredients are soya and egg whites, with additives and starch. So go ahead, put your mind at ease and eat me. I may not be meat, but to be eaten by a meat god is my great good fortune.’ With the imitation meat's words still ringing in my ears, a new avalanche of tears poured forth. Heaven wanted me to survive! As I ate the imitation meat, whose taste was identical to the real thing, I pondered several things. When the time was right I'd cast myself out of this world of pervasive desire. If I was to become a Buddha, so be it, but if not that, then a Taoist immortal, and if not that, then a demon.
To this day I cannot forget the night when I went with Father and Mother to convey our New Year's greetings to Lao Lan. Even though nearly ten years have passed, and I'm now an adult, and even though I've tried hard to put that night out of my mind, the finer details will not let me, almost as if they were shrapnel embedded in the marrow of my bones—resisting all attempts at extrication and proving their existence with pain.
It was after Yao Qi's visit, on the second night of the