Mother was overcome with excitement, chattering like a sparrow, once she had the building permit in hand. ‘Xiaotong,’ she said, ‘Lao Lan isn't so bad after all. I thought he had something else in mind but he handed me the permit without a word.’ For the second time, she unrolled the document, with its red seal, for me to see. Then she sat me down to talk about the difficult road that we—mother and son—had walked since Father ran off. Her narration was tinged with sadness but not enough to diminish her sense of joy and pride. I was so sleepy I could barely keep my eyes open; my head drooped and I fell asleep. When I woke up, she was sitting on the floor in the dark, leaning against the wall, a jacket thrown over her shoulders, still talking. If I hadn't been endowed with steel nerves from the day I was born, I tell you, she'd have scared the life out of me. Her long-winded narration was only a dress rehearsal; the real performance began six months later, on the night our big house, with its tiled roof, was completed. It was our last night in the tent we'd set up in the yard, and light from an early winter moon lit up our new house beautifully, the mosaic tiles embedded in the walls absolutely radiant. We nearly froze from the wind blowing into the tent from all four sides; Mother's narration raced out into the night, reminding me of the pig's guts flung round by the butchers. ‘Luo Tong,’ Mother said, ‘Luo Tong, you heartless bastard, you thought your son and I couldn't survive without you, didn't you? Well, we not only survived, we even built a big house! Lao Lan's house is fifteen feet high, ours is a foot higher! Lao Lan's walls are made of concrete, ours are decorated with mosaic tiles!’ Her incorrigible vanity repelled me. Lao Lan's walls may have been made of concrete but the house had suspended ceilings decorated with fancy ceramic tiles, and a marble floor. Our outer walls had mosaic tiles but they were whitewashed on the inside, the posts exposed, and a layer of stove cinders covered the pitted floor. Here is what you can say about Lao Lan's house: ‘The meat in buns doesn't show in the creases’ while ours was more a case of ‘Donkey droppings are shiny on the outside.’ A moonbeam lit up Mother's mouth, much like a film close-up. Her lips never stopped moving; saliva bubbled at the corners. I pulled the damp blanket up over my head and fell asleep to the drone of her voice.
POW! 11
‘Don't say any more, child. It's the first time the woman has spoken. The cadence of her voice brings to mind filigrees of honey and gives the impression that there is little in life that she hasn't experienced. She smiles, hinting at deep mysteries, then takes a few steps back and sits on a rosewood chair that magically appeared when I wasn't looking (but perhaps it's been there all along). She waves to me and speaks for the second time: ‘Don't say anything, child. I know what you're thinking! I can't take my eyes off her. I watch as she slowly, dramatically, undoes the brass buttons of her robe, then snaps her arms out to the sides like an ostrich spreading its wings, giving an unobstructed view of the gorgeous flesh hidden by that plain, threadbare robe. My heart is intoxicated, my soul possessed; I've taken leave of my senses. A buzzing erupts in my ears; my body is chilled; my heart is pounding; my teeth are chattering; I feel like I'm standing naked on ice. Beams of light emerge from her eyes and her teeth as she sits illuminated by flames from the stove and the candle. Her breasts, like ripe mangoes, sag slightly in the centre to form fluid arcs, the nipples rising gracefully, like the captivating mouths of hedgehogs. They summon me intimately but my feet feel as if they have taken root. I sneak a glance at the Wise Monk, who is sitting with his hands pressed together, looking more dead than alive. ‘Wise Monk,’ I say softly, painfully, as if wanting to take strength from him to save myself but also seeking his approval to act upon my desire. But he doesn't stir; he might as well be carved from ice. ‘Child! The woman speaks again, but the words do not appear to have come from her mouth; they seem to have emerged from somewhere above her head or low in her belly. Sure, I've heard stories about ventriloquists who can speak without opening their mouths but those people are either martial- arts masters, buxom women or circus clowns, not ordinary people. They're strange, mysterious individuals one associates with black magic and infanticide. ‘Come here, child. There's that voice again. ‘Don't deny what you feel in your heart. Do what it tells you to do. You're a slave to your heart, not its master.’ But I keep up the struggle, knowing that if I take a step forward I won't be able to go back, not ever. ‘What's the matter? Haven't I been on your mind all along? When the meat touches your lips, why won't you eat it?’ I'd sworn off meat after my little sister died, and remained true to that vow. Now, just looking at meat turns my stomach, makes me feel guilty somehow and reminds me of all the trouble it's caused in my life. Thoughts of meat restore my self-control—some of it, at least. She snickers, and the sound is like a blast of cold air from deep down in a cave. Then she says—this time I'm sure the words come from her mouth, which opens and closes contemptuously, ‘Do you really think you can lessen your sins by not eating meat? Do you really think that not sucking on my breasts will be proof of your virtue? You may not have eaten meat for years but it has never been far from your mind. Even though you pass up the opportunity to suck on my breasts today, they will not be far from your mind for the rest of your life. I know exactly what you're like. Don't forget, I've watched you grow up and I know you as well as I know myself.’ Tears gush from my eyes. ‘Are you Aunty Wild Mule? You're still alive? You didn't die, after all?’ It feels as if an affectionate wind were trying to blow me over to her; but her mocking grin stops me. ‘What business is it of yours if I am or am not Wild Mule?’ she sneers. ‘And what business is it of yours if I'm alive or dead? If you want to suck on my breasts, come here. If you don't, then stop thinking about it. If sucking on my breasts is a sin, then not sucking on them, though you want to, is a greater one! Her piercing mockery makes me want to crawl into a hole, makes me want to cover my head with a dog pelt. ‘Even if you could cover your head with a dog pelt,’ she says, ‘what good would that do you? Sooner or later you'd have to take it off. And even if you vowed to never take it off, it would slowly rot away and fall apart to expose that ugly potato head of yours! ‘So what should I do?’ I stammer, beseechingly. She covers herself with her robe, crosses her left leg over her right and says (commands): ‘Tell your tale—’