went from woman to woman like a carousel. But since I found her, you're the first woman to take her clothes off for me. She's the line of demarcation, and since you're the first woman on this side of that line you deserve an explanation. I'll never say this to anyone again, not ever. Are you willing to be her stand-in? Are you willing to call out her name while I'm screwing you? Are you willing to pretend to be her?’ The singer mulls that over for a moment. ‘Yes, Lan Laoda,’ she says thoughtfully, ‘I am. Whatever makes you happy. I wouldn't flinch if you told me to kill myself.’ Lan Laoda takes the singer in his arms and cries out emotionally, ‘Yaoyao…’ After they roll and writhe on the carpet for an hour or so, the singer—hair askew, lipstick gone, a woman's cigarette dangling from her lips—sits on a sofa with a glass of red wine, and when two streams of white smoke emerge from her mouth the signs of age on her face cannot be erased. Wise Monk, why has this singer's youth vanished after having sex with Lan Laoda for only an hour, and why does she have the face of an old woman? Could this be a case of ‘Ten days in the mountains are a thousand years on earth’? Lao Lan has said that Shen Yaoyao was in love with his third uncle. So was the singer. Enough women to form a division have been in love with him. I know that Lao Lan was boasting, Wise Monk, so just laugh off what I‘m saying.
POW! 30
Father and Mother woke up early in the morning on the day the United Meatpacking Plant formally opened for business and got Jiaojiao and me out of bed. I knew this was a day of great importance for Slaughterhouse Village, for my parents and for Lao Lan.
When the Wise Monk purses his lips, a vapid smile forms on his face, which must mean that he has seen the same scene and heard the same words as me. Then again, that smile may have nothing to do with what I saw and heard and may simply be a reflection of his thoughts and whatever he finds funny. But one way or other, let's you and me, Wise Monk, enter a scene of greater splendour. The street beyond the gate of Lan Laoda's mansion is crowded with luxury automobiles, whose drivers are being respectfully directed to parking spots by a gatekeeper in a green uniform and spotless white gloves. The brightly lit foyer is packed with gorgeous women, high-ranking officials and wealthy men. The women are resplendent in evening dresses, like a flower garden in a riot of competing colours. The men are wearing expensive Western suits, all but one old man—supported by a pair of jewelled women—who is wearing a tailored Chinese robe. His long white goatee shimmies, the mystique of an immortal. An enormous scroll with the golden character , for longevity, hangs in the great room; an array of birthday gifts is stacked atop a long table beneath the scroll, beside a basket overflowing with pink-lipped peaches of immortality. Placed strategically about the room are vases full of camellias. Lan Laoda wears a flashy white suit and red bow tie; his thinning hair is neatly combed and his face is glowing. A group of gorgeously dressed women rushes up, like a bevy of little birds—chirping, laughing and planting kisses on his cheeks until they are covered with lipstick. Now truly red-faced, he walks up to the goateed old man and bows deeply: ‘Patron, your nominal son wishes you a long life.’ The old man taps him on the knee with his cane and enjoys a hearty laugh. ‘How old are you now, my boy?’ The old man's voice is as melodic as a brass gong. ‘Patron,’ Lan Laoda replies modestly, ‘I've managed to reach the age of fifty.’ ‘You've grown up,’ the old man says emotionally, ‘you're a man, and I don't need to worry about you any longer.’ ‘Patron, please don't say things like that,’ pleads Lan Laoda. ‘Without you to worry about me, I'd lose the pillar of my existence.’ ‘Aren't you the crafty one, young Lan!’ laughs the old man. ‘An official career is not in your future, young Lan, but riches are. And you'll be lucky in love.’ Pointing his cane at the beautiful women swarming behind Lan Laoda, he asks: ‘Are they all