But there was an even greater danger, Sensei: the predatory punk was coming at me. By now the squid was gone, making the skewer even more deadly, and that’s when I realised that he was the son of the smaller of the two women, while her fat companion had to be his aunt. The survival instinct had me scrambling to my feet, and I knew it was time to put my asset — running — to work. After years of living in affluence, I’d forgotten what a fast runner I’d once been. It all came back to me now, when my life was threatened. The women tried to keep me from getting away, the punk was thundering his displeasure, and I began to howl like a cornered dog. With my face bloody, I bared my teeth to give them a momentary fright, since I’d seen a dazed look in the women’s eyes with my first howls; I’d always been deeply sympathetic to women who had that look in their eyes. I took advantage of the moment to slip between two parked cars and ran off.
Run, Wan Zu, Wan Xiaopao the runner — fifty-five-year-old Wan Xiaopao was running as fast as he ever had. I ran like a madman down the street, passing the smells of frying chicken, raw fish, lamb kebobs, and some I couldn’t name. My legs felt as light as grass, and every step bounced up as if the ground were a spring, which invested greater power in the next steps. I was a deer, a gazelle, a superman light as a swallow after landing on the moon. I felt like a horse, a fine Turkmenistan horse, a horse that steps on a flying swallow, powerful, unconstrained, no worries, no cares.
But in fact this powerful and unconstrained feeling was a short-lived illusion. The real situation was altogether different. I was gasping for breath, my throat was on fire, my heart was pounding like a drum, my chest had swelled up, my head felt as big as a bushel basket, my eyes pulsed black, and my veins seemed about to burst. The survival instinct was in control of my exhausted body; this was a true case of a last-ditch fight to live. Shouts of ‘beat him’ rose all around me. At first a bearded young man in a black tunic rushed me from the front, his green eyes flashing like fireflies on a mountain road late at night. At the moment his ghostly white hands reached out to grab me, my lips parted and I spewed a mouthful of dirty blood into his ghostly face, which immediately changed colour. He yelped in agony and his hands flew to his face as he crouched down. Sensei, I was filled with remorse, since I knew that he was justified in trying to block my way, that his action proved that he was highly moral and righteous, and spewing dirty blood was like a black Betta fish spewing its guts to ward off danger; I felt terrible about soiling his face and ruining his eyes. Had I been a more noble man, I’d have stopped, apologised, and asked for his forgiveness even with the tip of a knife in my back. But I didn’t. Sensei, I have dishonoured your guidance. After that, several sanctimonious gentlemen stood by the side of the road also shouting ‘beat him’, but did not step forward, surely in fear of my unique blood-spewing skill. They threw half-finished Coke bottles at me, the symbolic colour of American culture, with its golden foam, but I knocked them out of my way.
Sensei, there had to be a conclusion to this. No matter how positive or negative an affair, it must reach a conclusion at some point. This chase and escape, in which right and wrong were totally jumbled, reached its end when my strength was exhausted and I collapsed in front of the Sino-American Jiabao Women and Children’s Hospital. A shiny sapphire-blue BMW drove out of the tree-lined compound, where the fragrance of flowers hung in the air. My fallen state must have presented an awful sight to the occupants of the car — I was covered in blood, like a dead dog that’s fallen from the sky. Startled at first, they were then struck by inauspicious notions. I knew that rich people tend to be highly superstitious. The degree of superstitious beliefs parallels the degree of wealth. I knew that their fatalistic beliefs outstripped those of poor people, and that their love of life was far greater. Nothing unnatural about that. The poor treat life as worth no more than a broken vessel; the rich treat it as a priceless porcelain bowl. My crumpled appearance in the path of their BMW was no less jarring than a stallion rearing up, eyes blazing and releasing a spine-tingling whinny. I felt just terrible. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I was racked by spasms as I tried to crawl out of the way, but, like an insect whose tail is pinned with a thumbtack, I couldn’t move. This reminded me of a prank I’d played as a youngster, even as an adult: I’d pin green insects to the ground or onto a wall by their tails to watch them try to get away, observing the struggle between their instinct to flee and bodies that would not do their bidding. I had been pitiless, actually enjoyed the spectacle. I’d been so much bigger and stronger than any insect, too big and too strong even for an insect to grasp my full appearance. To them I was a mysterious force that created disaster. They probably had no conception of the hand that had brought such evil down on them; their inkling did not extend beyond the thumbtack or the thorn. Now I’d tasted the suffering I’d inflicted on those insects. Little insects, I’m sorry, I am so sorry.
The driver honked his horn gently. A cultured, patient, decent man, obviously. Not a representative of the nouveau riche. If he had been, he’d have made it sound like an air-raid siren. If he’d been one of those, he’d have stuck his head out the window and bombarded me with filthy curses. Because he was a decent man, I tried even harder to crawl out of his way, but my body failed me again.