I knew all about weird food fads. Chinese people have so much faith in supplements: kidney tonics for men, blood tonics for women, calcium for the old folks, brain supplements for the kids. Once someone tried to persuade me to buy a brain supplement called Monkey Spirit. He showed me some soft stuff which he claimed, in all seriousness, was monkey brain. I told him it might as well be pig brain for all I knew. People went for stuff like that because they were desperate. If I had dementia and someone told me pig brain would help I’d believe them just as much, because I had no choice.
I waited in the car for my wife and daughter to get ready, starting the engine, cutting it, starting it up again. I was trying to be patient, like a good husband and father. I smacked the steering wheel. Finally they appeared, my wife straightening my daughter’s sash with one hand, and buttoning her fashionable coat with the other. She started dabbing at the mask of make-up caked on her face, anxious to eliminate the slightest flaw.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked. ‘We’re not going to an exhibition, we’re going out to eat.’ Almost shouting the word ‘eat’.
Dad at the wheel, Mum in the passenger seat, our daughter squeezed in between. That was how we did it when we went out. The child jogged my arm with her elbow — my wife tried to get her to move over a little.
We hadn’t even gone a kilometre when we had to stop so my daughter could do a pee. Then we had to stop again so my wife could buy some cough sweets. She stuffed one into my mouth. I said I didn’t want one.
‘But you always want one,’ said my wife.
‘I just don’t want one now.’
‘Suck a sweet, Daddy, suck a sweet,’ my daughter joined in.
This was all too much. How had I ever put up with them before? When I first bought it, I thought the car would make me free, but instead I had to cart around all this baggage. Water was right. He only used his car for going on trips with his girlfriends. If I called him on the phone he’d always say he was out of town in Beijing, or Shanghai, or Shenzhen, or even in the States.
‘Damn it, which girl are you with now?’ I’d ask. ‘You’re sleeping all over the place.’
He’d roar with laughter.
‘Jealous, huh. You can fuck anywhere, you know. Even inside a car.’
This wasn’t the kind of high-end, haute cuisine restaurant I normally go to. There were grotesque piles of jagged rocks all over the room. The diners were all on their feet at one table, cheering and pushing and shoving to get a better look in the dim light. It was like some primitive scene of slaughter.
‘What are they looking at?’ asked my daughter.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. I had a good idea but I didn’t want to let on straight away.
The waiter took us to a row of cages so we could choose our monkey. The victims knew what we were up to and started gibbering defiantly. Maybe this was all a necessary part of the process. One of the beasts gave a diabolical screech, so I said we’d have him. As the lad reached into the cage, all the other monkeys scrabbled away, pushing ours to the front. Our monkey turned around and tried to squeeze back into the group like a coward, sticking its bright red rump up at us. But that just made us roar with laughter. Then I spotted another monkey, a big fine fellow, right at the back in prime position, and I changed my mind.
‘Let’s have that big strong one instead,’ I said.
They took us to a luxurious side room, done out entirely in silk like a huge, soft bed. In the middle of the dining table was a hole for the monkey’s head, a sign of the bloodbath to come. I felt a throb of excitement. I heard another cheer from the dining room, and a chilling screech — more drama. Was their monkey fiercer than ours, or was it protesting because it was first for the chop?
Our monkey arrived in chains, with the top of its head shaved smooth. They’d given it a wash, but it was still scratching and covered with fleas. The waiters handed me a saw and a hammer made from silver, then shoved the monkey under the table and clamped a vice around its neck so the head stuck through the hole. Its eyes flickered over the three of us, full of fear. Monkeys are much more intelligent than other animals. It knew just what was coming — that was what made it so exciting. My wife pulled on my arm. It wasn’t like her to be so physical. She always used words if she wanted something, like asking me to tuck the quilt in around our daughter on my side of the bed.
I paid no attention. I didn’t even look at her, just brushed her off. I didn’t look at the monkey either. I wanted it to be in limbo, like a prisoner who can feel the gun jabbing into the back of his head, but has no idea when the shot will be fired. That’s real fear. I’ve felt it too.
I lifted the hammer. I brought it down hard. The monkey screeched, but the blow wasn’t hard enough to crack the skull. I tried again, but only made a small crack. My daughter shrieked in terror, as if she had finally realised what was happening. My wife put her hands in front of my daughter’s eyes. A smile spread over my face. I was trying to figure out how to split open the monkey’s skull. The skull was hard — the monkey was big and strong, which made the prospect of eating its brains all the more enticing. I picked up the silver saw, shoved it into the crack and pried the skull open. The monkey gave a blood-curdling scream. At last I could see its brain. It was smooth, with a slickness that seemed barbaric, completely at odds with our gentle, civilised world. It throbbed. My daughter shrieked in fear again. Let her. She needed to understand fear. She’d had life too easy.
‘Shriek all you like,’ I told her. ‘It can’t escape and now we’re going to eat its brain.’
The waiter came over and asked whether we wanted it raw or poached at the table in a spicy soup. Both were good for longevity, he continued. It was tasty in a soup, but if you ate it raw, it was particularly nutritious. I asked my wife which she preferred, but she sat there, shaking.
‘It’s just food,’ I said. ‘What did you think we were going to do?’
I told the waiter we’d have them raw, with a hot dressing. The oil sizzled as he poured it — the monkey gave a lurch, its face suddenly old and wizened.
‘Eat!’ I said, and dug in with a serving spoon. The brains wobbled on the spoon. Then it was between my teeth. It was struggling, struggling between my teeth. It was good, better than I had ever imagined with the monkey alive like this, struggling in pain and screeching in despair. But I felt empty. There was a cavity in a corner of the monkey’s skull. I could feel the pain of that emptiness, the same pain as having a tooth drilled, or when something hits a nerve, the pain of hunger which needs something to fill it. Maybe I should fight pain with pain. Or spoon out some more brains. That was what the animal wanted. I drew the spoon gently along the edge of the gash in its skull, imagining, deep inside me, the echo of the pain I was causing.
‘Eat!’ I yelled at my wife. She was still shaking. She took our daughter in her arms and turned away. I brandished the spoon, but I didn’t know whether to scoop out another mouthful or not. If I stopped eating I’d lose control of the situation, but if I carried on I would end the creature’s suffering and that would be no good to me.
I wanted to see its face. I bent down. The monkey bared its teeth in a grin. I hadn’t expected that either. I couldn’t figure out the connection between a smile and pain.
I felt utterly useless.
I wanted to make it bite me.
I jabbed with the spoon, jabbed and stirred. A thudding came from under the table, like the hooves of a galloping horse. I yelled at my wife again, but she still wouldn’t eat. I dug out a spoonful and held it in front of her mouth. She shook her head, her mouth tight shut.
‘What are you doing here if you don’t want to eat?’ I shouted.