her hand, as if afraid of it sprouting wings and flying away. Then she dragged me to an out-of-the-way spot and shoved it into my hands: ‘Here, you greedy little thing. Eat! But when you're finished I expect you to work hard.’
POW! 9
The woman straddles the threshold, one foot in and one foot out, leans against the doorframe, purses her lips and stares at me, as if listening to my tale. Her eyebrows, which nearly touch in the middle, arch up and down, as if she were recalling a distant memory. I find it hard to continue my tale under the scrutiny of her dark eyes, whose pull I reluctantly force myself to resist. The penetrating power of her gaze is so intimidating that my mouth seems frozen shut. I badly want to talk to her, to ask her name or where she's from. But I lack the courage. And yet I want desperately to be friends. I gaze hungrily at her legs, at her knees. There are bruises on her legs and a bright scar on one of her knees. We're so close that I can smell the roasted-meat fragrance that warms the air round her; it goes straight to my heart and invigorates my soul. What strong yearnings! The palms of my hands itch, my mouth drools and it's all I can do to keep from rushing into her arms to fondle her and let her caress my powerful desire. I want to suck her breasts, want her to suckle me; I want to be a man but am far more willing to become a child, to be that five-or six-year-old little boy again. Images of the past float into my mind, beginning with the time I went with Father to Aunty Wild Mule's house for a meaty meal. I think about how he nibbled her neck while I was busy feasting on all that meat, and how she stopped chopping and bumped her arse against him as she said in a soft, hoarse voice: ‘Don't let the boy see you, you horny mutt’ ‘So what if he sees?’ I heard Father reply, ‘My son and I are best friends’. I recall how steam rose from the pot and filled the air with a captivating aroma…the sky darkens during all that, the red shirt draped across the cast-iron incense burner is now deep purple. The bats fly low, the gingko tree casts broad shadows on the ground and two stars twinkle in the black canopy of the heavens. Mosquitoes buzz round the temple as the Wise Monk places his hands on the floor, rises to his feet and walks over behind the idol. I see that the woman is now inside and is following the Wise Monk, so I fall in behind her. The Wise Monk touches the flame of a cigarette lighter to the wick of a thick white candle, which he then sticks into a wax-filled candleholder. One look at the shiny lighter tells me it's an expensive one. The woman is calm and composed, perfectly at ease with her surroundings, as if this were her home. She picks up the candleholder and carries it into the room where the Wise Monk and I sleep. A black pot rests on the briquette stove on which we cook; water is boiling. She sets down the candleholder on a purple stool and looks over at the Wise Monk without saying anything. He points to the rafters with his chin. I look up to see two grain stalks, waving like weasel tails in the flickering candlelight. She climbs onto the stool, takes down three spikes, then jumps to the floor and rubs them between her hands to break up the chaff. Finally, she blows on her open hands and tosses several dozen golden kernels of grain into the pot, then puts back the lid and sits down without a sound. The Wise Monk sits on the edge of the kang, wooden, wordless. The flies no longer swarm in and round his ears, which are now fully exposed—thin, virtually transparent and eerily insubstantial. Perhaps the flies have sucked out all the blood. Or so I think. The mosquitoes, on the other hand, continue to buzz overhead, and fleas spring onto my face. When I open my mouth, a couple of them wind up in my throat. I sweep my hand through the air and manage to catch a handful of both insects. Grown up in a village of butchers, I'm