on things that benefit the people.’ He points to the inscribed board above the decrepit little temple entrance. ‘Take this Wutong Temple,’ he says. ‘I think it should be restored. A local gazetteer I looked at last night indicated that this little temple once thrived with many pilgrims, up until the Republican era, when a local official handed down an order that people were no longer permitted to worship here. That was the beginning of the temple's decline. Paying respects to the Wutong Spirit shows that the masses yearn for a healthy, happy sex life, and what's wrong with that? Allocate some funds and refurbish it while you're building the Meat God Temple. Here you have two bright spots that will boost the economic development of the twin cities, so don't let other provinces come in and steal your thunder.’ The mayor steps up with a glass of fifty-year-old Maotai: ‘Governor Xu,’ he says, ‘I toast you on behalf of the twin cities!’ To which the senior official replies: ‘Didn't you just do that?’ ‘No,’ replies the mayor, ‘that was on behalf of the people of the city in gratitude for approving the construction of a Meat God Temple and the refurbishing of the Wutong Temple. Now on behalf of the people of the city, I want to thank you ahead of time for personally writing the words for the board.’ ‘I wouldn't dare try,’ responds the lieutenant governor. ‘But Governor Xu, you are a famous calligrapher and the authority who has approved the Meat God Temple. If you don't inscribe the words, the temple won't be built.’ ‘Now you're driving the duck onto its perch,’ says the lieutenant governor. A local Party man rises: ‘Governor Xu, people feel that you ought to be a professional calligrapher, not a governor. If you'd chosen calligraphy for a career, you'd be a millionaire many times over.’ The mayor carries on the train of thought: ‘Now you see why we are resorting to well-meaning extortion to get you to honour us with your writing.’ The lieutenant governor blushes; he wavers. ‘For Wu Song, warrior hero of Mt Liang, the more he drank the greater his bravery. For me, the more I drink the greater my vitality. Calligraphy, ah, calligraphy, the essence of a man's vitality. Bring me brush and ink.’ The lieutenant governor takes a large-handled writing brush, dips it into a thick, inky mixture, holds his breath, and, in the wake of one magical sweep, three large, wildly haughty characters—, Meat God Temple—leap onto the paper.
Water-injected and spoilt meat—beef, pork and mutton—was stacked atop kindling in the drainage ditch that ran past the inspection station. It reeked terribly, it grumbled loudly and its mouldy little hands waved angrily. Xiao Han, in full uniform and looking quite sombre, walked out with a bucket of kerosene and splashed it over the exposed meat.
A big-character slogan banner hung between two poles in the simple meeting site that had been erected just inside the plant's front gate. The same old stuff. I didn't know the words but they knew me. I didn't have to be told that they spelt out a congratulatory message for the plant's formal opening. The gate, which was usually shut, had been thrown open, sandwiched between a pair of brick columns on which hung celebratory scrolls in red. Those words knew me as well. Several long tables with red tablecloths had been set up beneath the banner. Chairs were lined up behind the tables, colourful flower baskets were arranged in front.
Jiaojiao and I ran hand-in-hand between these two soon-to-be-bustling spots. Most of the village had turned out to stroll through the area. We spotted Yao Qi but the look on his face was hard to read. We also spotted Lao Lan's brother-in-law, Su Zhou, squatting on the riverbank and gazing at the meat in the drainage ditch.
Some vans drove down the road that separated these two spots, and out jumped people with video equipment or with cameras round their necks. Reporters, people you never want to offend. They seemed pleased with themselves as they emerged from their vans. Lao Lan strode out through the gate to greet them, Father at his heels. Lao Lan smiled and shook hands. ‘Welcome,’ he said, ‘a hearty welcome.’
Father, also smiling, shook hands. ‘Welcome,’ he echoed, ‘a hearty welcome.’
The reporters, as was their wont, went right to work. After filming and photographing the pile of spoilt meat that was to be burnt, they turned their cameras to