‘You're right,’ he said. ‘I was tricked into making that deposit because they said I had extraordinary genes. Did you put them up to that? You've gone to great lengths, haven't you? But if that's how things stand, you can send the boy over. I'll hire the best tutor and the best nanny to educate him and take care of him and make him into a statesman, and you can concentrate on being the virtuous wife of a businessman.’ Huang Feiyun was unyielding: ‘No,’ she said. ‘Why not? Why is it so important for you to marry me?’ Tears in her eyes, she said, ‘I know it makes no sense. I know you're a big-time gangster, a monster who works both sides of the road, criminal and law-abiding, and that marrying you is like signing my death warrant. But that's what I want. I think of it every minute of every day, I'm under your spell.’ Lan Laoda laughed: ‘I was married once and she suffered because of it. Why would you want to suffer too? Listen to me when I say I'm not a man—I'm a horse, a stud horse, and stud horses belong to all the mares in a herd. After a stud horse has serviced a mare, he's done with her and she must go away. As I say, I'm not a man, and you shouldn't consider yourself a woman. And if you're a mare, then you wouldn't entertain the absurd idea of marrying me.’ Huang Feiyun pounded her chest and said in a voice choked with anguish: ‘I'm a mare, I am, a mare who dreams night after night of coupling with a stud horse that empties her out.’ Crying, she ripped open her bodice and her now ruined, expensive dress fell to the floor. She then tore off her bra and her panties. Completely naked, she began running round the living room shouting: ‘I'm a mare…I'm a mare…’ I am startled awake by an uproar outside the temple gate, though Huang Feiyun's hysterical shouts continue to echo in my ears. When I sneak a peek at the Wise Monk, the look of agony in his face has been replaced by one of serenity. Before I can continue with my tale, there is a racket outside. When I look up I see a large truck parked by the side of the road, piled high with sawed planks and thick logs. A gang of men begin heaving the lumber on which they were sitting to the ground, where a boy is nearly crushed by one of the cascading logs. ‘Hey,’ he shouts, ‘what are you doing?’ ‘Get out of the way, boy,’ a squat worker in a wicker hard hat shouts back, ‘or there'll be no one to weep over your corpse.’ ‘I want to know what you're doing,’ the boy demands. ‘Run home and tell your mother that there'll be an opera here tonight,’ the man says. ‘Oh, so you're going to build a stage! Which opera?’ he asks, barely able to control his delight. A long plank cuts loose and slides off the truck. ‘Get out of the way, boy!’ a man on the truck shrieks. ‘I can't, not till you tell me which opera.’ ‘OK, all righty, it's From Meat Boy to Meat God. Now, will you get out of the way!’ ‘Sure,’ he says, ‘now that you've told me.’ ‘What a strange little prick, one of them says as a log rolls to the ground. The boy hops out of the way but the log rolls after him, as if it has him in its sights and then finally comes to a stop at the little temple gate. The fresh, clean smell of tree sap brings news of the virgin forest and, as I breathe in the clean fragrance of pine, I am reminded of the rebirth platform at United Meatpacking Plant all those years ago. As usual it stirs up painful memories. That was where my poor father went to smoke, to meditate and to be lonely. It's where he began spending most of every day, effectively putting affairs of the plant out of his mind.
One night a month before Lao Lan's wife died, my father and mother had a conversation, one up high, the other down low.
‘Come down from there,’ Mother said.
Father tossed down a glowing cigarette butt. ‘Sorry, no.’
‘Then stay up there till you breathe your last if you dare to.’
‘I will.’
‘You're a chicken-shit bastard if you don't come down.’