have to lower their head when they're beneath an eave?’
Father nodded, with no indication of whether or not he agreed.
I revisited the furniture-borrowing episode in my mind, from beginning to end, as a means of passing an excruciatingly long time. An inch or more of kerosene had burnt off in the lamp, and a long ash had formed on the wick of the candle left over from New Year's, but there was still no sign of Lao Lan. Father turned to look at Mother.
‘Maybe we should snuff out the candle?’ he said cautiously.
‘Let it burn,’ she said as she flicked the wick with her finger and sent the ash flying. The candle flared, brightening the room and adding to the sheen of the meat on the table, especially the captivating red skin of the barbecued chicken.
Jiaojiao and I ran to the cutting board, our eyes glued to Mother's hands as she sliced up the chicken; we were fascinated by how deftly she separated the meat from the bones. One drumstick was placed on the platter, and then the second.
‘Mother,’ I asked, ‘is there such a thing as a three-legged chicken?’
‘There might be,’ she smiled, ‘but what I'd really like to see is a four-legged one. That way, you could each have one to satisfy those hungry worms in your bellies.’
It was a bird from the Dong Family shop. They prepared only local, free-range chickens—not those stupid caged birds raised on chemical feed, with meat like cotton filling and bones like rotten wood. No, their chickens are smart—they live on weeds and seeds and insects, and grow up with nice. Firm meat and solid bones. First-rate nutrition and a wonderful taste.
‘But I heard Ping Shanchuan's son, Ping Du, say that even though the Dongs raise wild chickens, they fill them with hormones when they're alive and add formaldehyde when they're dead.’
‘So?’ asked Mother as she picked off a pinch of loose meat and put it into Jiaojiao's mouth. ‘Farmers have iron stomachs.’
Jiaojiao was her lively self again, and her relationship with Mother was improving all the time. As she opened her mouth for the meat, she kept her eyes on Mother's hand. Next, Mother picked a larger piece off the back and stuffed it into my mouth, skin and all. I swallowed it without chewing, so fast it seemed to slide down my throat of its own accord. Jiaojiao licked her lips with her bright red tongue just as Mother picked off another piece of chicken and put it into her mouth.
‘Be good, patient children for just a little longer,’ she said. ‘After our guest has finished, you can have what's left.’
Jiaojiao was still staring at Mother's hand.
‘That's enough,’ Father said. ‘Don't spoil her. Children need their manners, it's no good to spoil them.’
He went out and paced the yard for a moment.
‘It doesn't look like he's coming,’ he said when he returned. ‘I must have offended him terribly.’
‘I don't think so,’ Mother said. ‘He said he'll be here, and he will. Lao Lan means what he says.’ She turned to me. ‘What did he say to you, Xiaotong?’
‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ I complained. ‘“All right,” he said. “I'll be there, for your sake. You can count on it.”’
‘Should we send Xiaotong to remind him?’ Father asked. ‘Perhaps he's forgotten.’
‘No,’ Mother insisted. ‘He won't forget.’
‘But everything's getting cold,’ I said, growing more and more annoyed. ‘He's only the head of a little village.’
Father and Mother looked at me at the same time and smiled.
The son of a bitch is more than the head of a little village. I hear that the municipal government has designated Slaughterhouse Village as a new economic development zone in order to attract foreign investment. Factories and high-rise buildings are popping up out of the ground; a vast man-made lake has appeared out of nowhere and quickly become home to tourist skiffs shaped like swans and ducks. All round the lake fancy new villas are springing up, creating a sort of fairyland. The men who live in them drive fancy cars—Mercedes, BMW, Buick, Lexus or, at the very least, Red Flag. The women parade their purebreds—Pekingese, poodles, shar peis, papillons, some that look like sheep but aren't, even one that looks more like a tiger than a dog. A pair of mastiffs once dragged a fair-skinned woman with soft, white hands and a charmingly delicate appearance down to the lakeshore. The lovely ‘vacation wife’ was on her back, like she was doing