We were too late for the ceremony, evidence of which — the shattered shells of firecrackers — was strewn across the ground. Baskets of flowers had been arranged at the gate, spread out like the wings of a phoenix. A pair of enormous balloons floated about the grounds, tied to an advertising banner. The building, a blue and white crescent-shaped structure, was intended to resemble a pair of embracing arms outstretched in silent elegance, a far cry from the flashy, ornamental Fertility Goddess Temple to the west.
We spotted Gugu at the same time as we caught sight of my cousin, in his suit and shiny leather shoes. People were picking flowers from the baskets and floral wreaths. Gugu was in the midst of that crowd, her hands filled with the stems of white, red, and yellow roses on the verge of blooming. We recognised her from the back. We’d have known her if she’d been in a crowd of thousands, all wearing identical clothing.
We saw a teenage boy hand her a package wrapped in white paper. As soon as she took it, he turned and ran off. When she peeled away the paper wrapping, she jumped in disbelief and cried out in fear. She reeled back and forth a time or two, then fell backward.
It was a big, black frog, which hopped away from her.
2
A phoney-looking security guard at the gate to the bullfrog farm gave my cousin a half-assed salute as the electric gate slid slowly open to allow his Passat entrance. Yuan Sai, the one-time fortune-teller and quack doctor, now CEO of the bullfrog farm, was waiting for us in front of a big, black sculpture.
It was supposed to be a bullfrog.
From a distance it looked like an armoured military transport truck.
The following words were carved into the marble plaque at the base: Bullfrog (Rana Catesbeiana), Amphibian, Order Anura, Family Ranidae, Genus Rana, Derives its name from its bull-like croak.
A picture, take a picture, Yuan Sai greeted us. After that you can take a tour and then eat.
I studied the enormous bullfrog and was properly in awe. A jet-black back, jade-green mouth and golden eye sockets, it had algae-like wrinkled skin covered with warts; the gloomy gaze from its bulging eyes seemed to carry a message from the ancient past.
Xiao Bi, my cousin shouted, bring a camera! A willowy girl with red glasses wearing a long, striped skirt came running up with a heavy camera.
Xiao Bi, formerly an honours student from Qidong University’s Art Department, is our office manager, my cousin informed us.
She’s more than just beautiful, Yuan Sai said, she’s exceptional in many ways. She can sing and dance and is a photographer and sculptor, among other talents. And, I might add, she can drink along with the best.
Mr Yuan likes to flatter people, Xiao Bi said as she blushed.
This classmate of mine is also a very special person, Yuan Sai introduced me to Xiao Bi. He was quite a runner in his youth, and we assumed he’d grow up to be a champion athlete, never expecting him to become a playwright. His name is Wan Zu, but everyone calls him Xiaopao. Now he goes by Tadpole.
Tadpole’s my pen-name, I explained.
And this is Tadpole’s wife, Little Lion. A specialist in obstetrics.
Little Lion, cradling her doll, nodded absent-mindedly.
I’ve often heard Yuan and Jin speak of you, Xiao Bi said.
The world’s number one frog! Yuan Sai said.
It’s Xiao Bi’s creation, my cousin added.
I breathed an exaggerated sigh of admiration.
I’d be honoured if the respected Tadpole would tell me what he thinks of it.
We walked around the sculpture, and no matter where I stood I could feel its eyes on me.
After the pictures were taken, Yuan Sai, my cousin, and Xiao Bi accompanied us on a tour of the breeding pond, the tadpole pond, the metamorphose pond, the young frog pond, the feed preparation station, and the frog products workshop.
From that day forward, the image of the bullfrog-breeding pond has often invaded my dreams. Mate-seeking bull-like bellows from the inflated white throats of male bullfrogs spout from the murky surface of the pond, which is some four hundred square feet in size and three feet or so deep, drawing females slowly to them, their extended limbs afloat. Coupled frogs can be seen all over, moving across the surface, males on the females’ backs, front legs holding on, rear legs constantly thumping her on the sides. The females eject transparent eggs to be fertilised by sperm ejaculated by the males. Frog fertilisation occurs outside the body — someone, either my cousin or Yuan Sai, said — with as many as ten thousand eggs laid by each female — they’re so much more advanced than humans — and croaks fill the air above the pond, which is warmed by the April sun and gives off a nauseating stench. An arena for mating, it is also an arena for producing the next generation — we add stuff to the feed to increase the production of eggs — wa wa wa — frog croaks — wah wah wah — babies’ cries…
With the croaking of frogs ringing in our ears, and visions of bullfrogs crammed into our heads, we were taken into a luxurious restaurant.
A pair of girls clad in pink would serve us.
Everything on today’s menu comes from frogs, Yuan Sai said.
I picked up the menu and read the list of entrees: salt and pepper frogs’ legs, fried frog skin, frog meat with green peppers, sliced frog with bamboo shoots, tadpoles in vinegar sauce, tapioca and frog’s egg soup…
I’m sorry, I said, but I don’t eat frogs.
Me either, Little Lion said.
Why? A surprised Yuan Sai asked. They’re delicious. Why don’t you eat them?
I tried to put the sight of those bulging eyes, sticky skin, and the cold, putrid smell out of my mind, but couldn’t. I shook my head as I suffered.
Not long ago a Korean researcher succeeded in extracting a valuable peptide from the skin of frogs that is an effective antioxidant that eliminates free radicals, a natural anti-ageing compound, my cousin, Jin Xiu, said with a meaningful look. Naturally, it has a number of other fascinating effects, including drastically raising the odds of a woman giving birth to twins and more.
How about a small taste? Yuan Sai offered. Don’t be a coward. You have no trouble with scorpions, leeches, worms or venomous snakes, so why not a bullfrog?
You haven’t forgotten that my pen-name is Tadpole, have you?
Oh, that’s right, Yuan Sai said to the serving girls. Clear the table and tell the chef to cook up a new meal — no frogs!
The new meal was served, the three rounds of toasts were completed.
How did someone like you come up with the idea of raising bullfrogs? I asked Yuan Sai.
The only way to make big money is to come up with new ideas, he said proudly as he blew a smoke ring.
How talented you are, I said, imitating the tone of a sitcom actor, with a sarcastic edge. You’ve been different ever since you were a child. Raising bullfrogs is fine, but doesn’t it bother you to have to give up your arcane skills of removing nails from cows’ stomachs and telling fortunes in the marketplace?
Tadpole, you stinker. Don’t hit a man in the face in a fight and don’t expose his shortcomings during a reprimand.
Not to mention using steel tongs to remove women’s IUDs, Little Lion chimed in coldly.
Aiya, dear Sister-in-law, why bring that up? My awareness was at an all-time low then, and I was too soft-hearted, no match for women who caught me in their crazed demand to have children. A third reason? I was broke.