Lan and Lao Han were heavy smokers. Mother didn't smoke, but she made a show of lighting up and, with a cigarette dangling from her lips, expertly arranged her tiles. She looked a bit like one of those femme fatales you see in old films, and I could hardly believe how much she'd changed in a few short months. The poorly dressed and unkempt Yang Yuzhen who'd spent her days dealing in junk had ceased to exist. It was as miraculous a change as a caterpillar turning into a butterfly.
These were not your typical mah-jongg players. No, this was high-stakes gambling. Each player sat behind a stack of money, with nothing smaller than a ten-yuan note. The money fluttered when the tiles were mixed. Lao Han's pile grew as the rounds progressed, those in front of the other three shrank. He had to stop to wipe his sweaty face from time to time and frequently rolled up his sleeves to rub his hands. He had removed his hat and tossed it onto the sofa behind him. Lao Lan never stopped smiling. Father wore a detached look. Mother was the only animated one among them, muttering to herself. There was something about her unhappiness that didn't seem quite real—it was really a ploy to let Lao Han savour his winning ways.
‘No more,’ she said after a while, ‘that's it for me. I've had terrible luck.’
Lao Han straightened his pile of money and counted it. ‘How about taking some of mine?’
‘Not on your life! Lao Han! Thanks to me you've done well today. Next time I'll win it all. Even take that uniform off your back.’
‘Big talk,’ Han said. ‘Unlucky in love, lucky at the table. Since I've never had any luck in love, I'll always win at the table.’
My eyes were glued to Lao Han's hands as he counted his money. In two hours he'd won nine thousand.
Smoke rises, fires blaze and crowds buzz at the barbecue stands across the road, a scene of frenetic activity. But only Lan Laoda's bodyguards are standing, arms folded, in front of the four barbecue stands in the temple yard, while he paces at the gate. He's frowning, as if weighed down with daunting concerns. Hungry participants at the festival glance at us as they come and go but no one approaches us. The cooks keep flipping the meat on the grill, which has begun to smoke. I see they're growing annoyed, but their scowls turn to fawning smiles whenever one of the bodyguards looks their way. The cook who's grilling goslings cups a cigarette and takes a drag when no one's looking. The sound of singing from across the way comes to us on the wind. They're the songs a Taiwanese chanteuse sang some thirty years ago. They were popular when I was a little boy, travelling across China from city to town to village. Lao Lan said that his third uncle had been the singer's sole patron. Now her songs have returned and the clock has turned back. In a black dress under a white vest, she's cut her bangs just above her eyebrows; like a lovely swallow, she comes flying across the road and throws herself into Lan Laoda's arms. ‘Big Brother Lan,’ she mews coquettishly. He picks her up, twirls her round a time or two and then flings her to the floor. She falls upon a thick wool carpet on which are embroidered a male and female phoenix frolicking amid peonies—a spectacularly colourful display. The singer's now-naked body lies in the light of a crystal chandelier, her eyes glazing over. With his hands clasped behind his back, Lan Laoda takes several turns round her, like a tiger circling its prey. She gets to her knees and says, flirting: ‘Come on, Big Brother.’ He sits on the carpet and crosses his legs to scrutinize her figure. He's in suit and tie, she hasn't a stitch on, a wondrous contrast. ‘What do you plan to do, Lan Laoda?’ she pouts. ‘I had lots of women before you,’ he says, almost to himself. ‘My boss gave me fifty thousand US dollars every month for expenses, and if I couldn't spend it all he called me a stupid arse.’ I can't divulge his name to you, revered Wise Monk, and I swore to Lao Lan that if I ever told a soul I'd die with no offspring. ‘It didn't take me long to learn how to throw money about like dirt,’ he says. ‘I