Speaking volubly into the camera, and gesturing as he spoke, he was poised and at ease. ‘In days past,’ he explained, ‘Slaughterhouse Village families were independent operators. And despite being law-abiding citizens, they did indulge in the illegal injection of water into meat. To facilitate management and to offer fresh, choice cuts of meat that are not water-injected to city customers, we have shut down independent butcher operations and formed the United Meatpacking Plant. At the same time, we have asked our superiors to create an inspection station. Citizens in the county and provincial cities can be assured that our products have been thoroughly inspected and are of the highest quality. To guarantee this standard, we will not only subject the meat that emerges from the plant to the most stringent inspection but also subject the animals that enter the plant to the same standard. To do this we are setting up production centres for live pigs, beef cattle, sheep and dogs as well as breeding farms for less common fowl and animals, like camels, sika deer, foxes, boars, wolves, ostriches, peacocks and turkeys, to meet the gustatory demands of urban consumers. In a word, the day will come when we will be the centre of meat production in the province, providing the masses with a virtually endless supply of top-quality meat. And we won't stop there. In the near future, we will begin exporting to the world, even beyond Asia, so that people in all countries will be able to enjoy our products…’
After concluding the interview, the reporters turned to Father, who couldn't stop fidgeting and swaying from side to side, as if looking for something to lean on—a wall, a tree, something. But nothing came to his rescue, and his eyes darted this way and that, looking everywhere but into the camera. The woman holding the microphone said: ‘Manager Luo, try not to move so much.’
He froze.
Then she focused on his eyes. ‘Manager Luo, don't keep looking to the side.’
He stared straight ahead.
The answers he gave bore little relevance to the reporter's questions.
‘You have my word that we will not inject our meat with water,’ he said.
‘We are going to supply city residents with top-quality meat products,’ he said.
‘We invite you to come often to supervise our operations,’ he said.
Those few statements were repeated by him over and over, regardless of the question. Finally, the reporter let him go with a good-natured smile.
A dozen or so automobiles—some black, some blue, some white—drove up, and out stepped men in suits and ties and highly polished shoes. Officials, clearly. The leading VIP, a short, thickset, ruddy-faced man, smiled radiantly. All the others lined up behind him and made their way towards the plant gate. The reporters quick-stepped their way ahead of the approaching officials and then walked backward to film and photograph them. The video cameras were silent but the still cameras clicked with each shot. Their subjects, well used to the attention, talked and laughed and gestured, perfectly naturally, unlike my father who shrank from the cameras, unnerved by the limelight. I thought the men surrounding the leading official looked familiar. Perhaps I'd seen them on TV. They stuck close to him, leaning his way and vying to get a word in. Saccharine smiles seemed in danger of dripping off their faces.
Lao Lan trotted out through the gate, followed by my father. They'd seen the official and his entourage arrive but had waited for the right moment to step out and to be photographed and filmed, just as they'd rehearsed an hour earlier at the municipal propaganda office under the supervision of one of the secretaries.
Mr Chai, a gaunt beanpole of a man with a small head, had a vegetative appearance. But for all that, he owned a booming voice. ‘You there, Yang Yuzhen,’ he instructed Mother, and then turned to the girls who were to be hostesses. ‘You, you and you, you three girls pretend that you're members of the official contingent approaching the gate. Yang Yuzhen, Lao Luo, you wait behind the gate. When the group reaches the chalk mark, come out to receive your guests. OK? Let's give it a try.’ Secretary Chai stood by the gate. ‘Yang Yuzhen,’ he shouted, ‘lead them this way.’ The girls behind Mother giggled, holding their hands over their mouths. That made Mother laugh. ‘What's so funny?’ Chai barked. With a dry little cough, Mother managed to stop and