with cowhides over their shoulders, some with pigskins, some with sheepskins. They raved and ranted, vowing that if their demands were not met then they'd take them to the provincial capital, and if that didn't work then they'd board a train to Beijing. The very prospect—women draped in the hides of slaughtered animals showing up on Changan Avenue in the capital—was too frightening to contemplate. No one knew what to do with them, but the county chief was sure to lose his job if the protest continued. So in the end the women won. Their husbands were freed, the township officials’ dream of great wealth was shattered and the village threshing ground once again teemed with animals, everything from cattle to dogs. There was even talk that the township chief received an earful from the county chief.
Seven or eight cattle merchants were sitting on their haunches at the edge of the threshing ground, smoking cigarettes as they waited for the butchers to show up. Their cattle stood off to the side, absent-mindedly chewing their cud, oblivious to their impending doom. The merchants, most of them from West County, spoke with funny accents, like actors on the radio. They showed up every ten days or so, each bringing two heads of cattle, maybe three. For the most part, they came on a slow, mixed freight-and-passenger train, man and beast in one car, arriving around sunset. They didn't reach our village till after midnight, even though the little station where they got off was no more than ten li away. A stroll that should have taken no more than a couple of hours took these merchants and their cattle a good eight. First, the cattle, made dizzy by the swaying of the train, had to be forced up to the exit, where the ticket-collectors, in blue uniforms and billed caps, checked to see that every passenger had a ticket, animals included, before being allowed to get on the road. Passing through the turnstile was the signal for the cows to leave a foul, watery mess on the ground and on the ticket-collectors’ trouser legs, as if teasing or mocking them, perhaps getting even. In the spring came the chicken and duck merchants, also from West County, carrying their loads in baskets woven out of bamboo or reed strips, balanced on each end of a wide, sleek, springy shoulder pole that weighed them down as they left the station and then flew down the road, leaving the cattle merchants in their dust. They wore wide straw hats and draped blue capes over their shoulders as they sprinted along, an impressively carefree sight in contrast to the sloppy, manure-covered and dejected cattle merchants who shaved their heads, left their shirts unbuttoned and wore faddish mirrored sunglasses. Their feet splayed in a V as they headed into the red setting sun, rocking from side to side, like sailors when they step ashore, walking to our village on the dirt road. When they reached the historic Grand Canal, they led their cattle up to the water to let them drink their fill. Weather permitting—that is, if it wasn't unbearably cold—they washed their cattle, thus improving the animals’ spirits as well as their appearances until they gleamed like new brides. Once the cows were clean, it was the merchants’ turn and they lay on the fine sand of the riverbank and let the cold water wash over them. If young women happened to pass by, the men would howl like dogs baying at females in heat. Then, once they'd spent enough time horsing round, they'd climb up onto the bank and turn the cattle loose to feed on night grass while they sat in a circle to fill their stomachs with meat and baked flat bread, washing it all down with liquor. They'd carry on until the stars lit up the sky; then they'd retrieve the animals and stumble drunkenly down the road to our village. Why did they prefer to reach our village in the middle of the night? That was their secret. When I was young, I asked my parents and some of the village greybeards that very question. But they just gave me stony looks, as if I'd asked them the meaning of life or a question whose answer everyone knew. Leading the cattle into the village was a signal for the village dogs to set up a chorus of barks, which woke up everyone—man, woman, young and old—and informed them that the cattle