skittering feet and shimmering wings, and they began to eat their fill. Lao Lan, the doctor and some of the spectators rushed up to shoo them away but all they did was send the angry insects up in the air and then down into the people's faces to kill or be killed. Many in the swarm did die in the melee but others quickly filled their ranks. The defenders soon tired, physically and emotionally, and gave up the fight.
Following my example, Feng Tiehan snatched up one of his three pieces and crammed it into his mouth, then grabbed a second before the flies overwhelmed the last.
A great many flies settled on Liu and Wan's tubs, all but turning them invisible. ‘The contest doesn't count,’ shouted Wan, jumping to his feet, ‘it doesn't count…’
He had barely opened his mouth when a bite-sized chunk of meat came flying out with a loud retch, but whether the sound came from the meat or from Wan was unclear. It fell to the ground, quivered like a newborn rabbit and was swiftly covered by flies. Defeated, Wan covered his mouth and ran to the wall; then leaned against it, lowered his head, and, like an inchworm, rocked up and down as he vomited out his guts.
Liu Shengli straightened up with difficulty. ‘I could have finished mine,’ he said to Lao Lan, trying to look nonchalant. ‘My stomach was only half full. But those damned flies fouled my meat. I'm telling you, Xiaotong, you won nothing. I didn't lose—’
The words were barely out of his mouth when he catapulted to his feet as if on springs. I knew it was the meat in his stomach, not springs, that propelled him upward. In its attempt to escape from his stomach, it was exerting an explosive force beyond his control. The moment he got to his feet, the skin on his face yellowed, his eyes froze and his face grew stiff. Panicked, he ran to join Wan, knocking over his chair and bumping smack into Huang Biao, who was running out of the kitchen with a flyswatter. Only the first word of what must have been a curse managed to leave Huang Biao's mouth before Liu Shengli opened his and, with a yelp, spewed out a mouthful of sticky, half-eaten meat all over Huang Biao. Huang Biao screeched, as if bitten by a wild animal, and then the curses really began to fly. He threw down his flyswatter, wiped his face and ran after the fleeing Liu, trying but failing to kick him before turning and heading back to the kitchen to wash his face.
It was great fun watching Liu stagger away on his weak, spindly legs, slightly bowed at the knees, feet turned out, his heavy buttocks swinging from side to side like a duck running at full speed. He lined up beside Wan, hands and head against the wall, and erupted in a frenzy of vomiting, bending over and straightening up, bending over and straightening up…
Feng Tiehan had a piece of meat in his mouth and another in his hand. His eyes were dull, as if he were in deep, meditative thought. Now the centre of attention, it was left to him to wage a solitary struggle. But he had suffered defeat as well. Even if he swallowed the piece in his mouth and ate the one in his hand, followed by the fly-encrusted piece in his tub, time alone made him a loser. But the spectators waited, wanting to see what he'd do. As in a marathon, after the winner has crossed the finish line, the spectators spur on the other racers, encouraging them to give it their all. I was hoping he'd dig in and finish his meat, because I had enough space for one more. Then I would gain the unalloyed admiration of the crowd. But Feng sounded the retreat. He stretched his neck, stared wide-eyed and managed to swallow the piece in his mouth to applause from the crowd. But when he brought the second piece up to his mouth, he wavered briefly and then tossed it back into his tub, startling the flies into the air with a noisy buzz, like sparks from a blazing fire. ‘I lose,’ Feng announced, his head down. Then, after a moment, he raised his head, turned to me and said: ‘You win.’
I was moved by his words. ‘You may have lost,’ I said to him, ‘but you did so with style.’