quite a bit, but I see at first glance that it's Fan Zhaoxia, the woman who screwed Lao Lan with a razor in her hand. While I was on the run, rumour had it that she and Lao Lan had got married, and the scene in front of me proves that the rumour was true. As soon as her feet are on the ground, she spreads her arms and runs to the children sitting on the pile of rubble. The girl who'd fought with her ostrich until she pinned it to the ground runs to Fan Zhaoxia. She enfolds the girl in her arms, covering her face with kisses like chickens pecking at rice and fills her ears with ‘my dear this’ and ‘my little darling that’. I look at the pretty little girl's face with mixed feelings. What a surprise that Lao Lan, that bastard, could sire such a nice offspring, a girl who reminds me of my deceased stepsister Jiaojiao, who would have now been a girl of fourteen. Lao Lan lets fly with a string of curses at his staff, who are lined up in front of him, arms at their sides. One tries to explain matters and is rewarded with a faceful of spit. Lan's ostrich team was to put on a dance performance at the Carnivore Festival opening ceremony—a true spectacle that would leave a lasting impression on visiting businessmen and, more importantly, on all the leading officials. Words of praise and order forms would follow in large numbers. But before the show has begun it has fallen apart, thanks to these idiots. The hour for the opening ceremony is nearly upon them and Lao Lan's forehead is bathed in sweat. ‘Get those ostriches in here this minute or I'll turn every one of you into ostrich feed!’ They need no more prodding to take after the birds. And the uncooperative birds that they are, they miss no opportunity to race away on powerful feet like the shod hooves of crazed horses. Lao Lan rolls up his sleeves to join the fray but his first step lands in a pile of loose ostrich shit and he winds up flat on his back. His employees, who rush to help him to his feet, have to scrunch up their faces to keep from laughing. ‘Think that's funny, do you?’ Lao Lan is caustic in his comments. ‘Go ahead, laugh, why don't you?’ The youngest-looking among them cannot hold back—he bursts out laughing, immediately affecting the others, who join in, and that includes Lao Lan himself. But only for a moment. ‘You think it's so goddamn funny?’ he roars. ‘I'll fire the next one of you who so much as giggles!’ Somehow, they manage to stop. ‘Go get my rifle. I'm going to put a bullet into every one of those damned birds!’
Three nights after New Year's, my family of four sat round a fold-up table waiting for Lao Lan. The man who had a third uncle whose prodigious member had gained for him considerable fame; the man who was my father's mortal enemy; the man who had broken one of my father's fingers only to have my father bite off half his ear; the man who had invented the high-pressure injection method, the sulphur-smoke treatment, the hydrogen-peroxide bleach method and the formaldehyde-immersion system; the man who had earned the nickname of ‘Hanlin butcher’ and who, as our village head, had led the villagers onto the path of prosperity; the man whose word was law and who enjoyed unrivalled authority—Lao Lan. Lao Lan, who had taught my mother how to drive a tractor; Lao Lan, who had screwed the barber Fan Zhaoxia in her barber-chair; Lao Lan, who'd sworn he'd put a bullet into every last ostrich; Lao Lan, the mention of whose name upsets the hell out of me!
The table groaned under platters of chicken, duck, fish and red meat but we couldn't eat it, even though the heat and the aroma were quickly dissipating. That must be the most painful, most annoying, most disgusting, most aggravating thing in the world. I tell you, I once vowed that if I had the power I'd rid the world of every last eater of pork. But that was an angry outburst after I'd stuffed myself with so much pork that I nearly died of an intestinal disorder. Man is quick to adapt to changing circumstances and to bend his words to the situation—no one disputes that. It's the way