Pow! (38 page)

‘Makes sense,’ Lao Lan said. ‘Go on, my young friend.’

‘I watched a doctor administer an IV once, and that gave me an idea. We'll do the same with the animals before they're slaughtered.’

‘But that's so slow,’ said Mother.

‘It doesn't have to be an IV,’ Lao Lan volunteered. ‘There are other ways. It's a great idea, no matter how you look at it. Injecting water into a living animal and into a dead one are radically different concepts.’

‘Adding water to a dead animal is injection,’ I said. ‘But adding it to a living animal is something different. It's cleansing their organs and their circulatory system. If you ask me, this meets both your output goals and your standard for high-quality meat.’

‘Worthy Nephew Xiaotong, I'm impressed,’ Lao Lan said. His fingers shook as he took a cigarette out of his case, lit it and took a drag. ‘Were you listening, Lao Luo? Your son puts us old-timers to shame. Our brains are
stuck in a rut. He's right, we wouldn't be injecting meat with water—we'd be cleansing our cows of toxins and improving the quality of their meat. We can call it meat-cleansing.’

‘Does this mean I can work in the plant?’ I asked.

‘In theory you don't have to go to school, since you could cause Teacher Cai to die of apoplexy. But your future is at stake, and you're better off listening to your parents.’

‘I don't want to listen to them—I want to listen to you.’

‘I'm neutral on this,’ he said evasively. ‘If you were my son, I wouldn't force you to go to school. But you're not my son.’

‘So you're in favour of my working in the plant?’

‘What do you say, Lao Luo?’ Lao Lan asked.

‘No.’ Father was adamant. ‘Your mother and I both work there, and that's enough for one family.’

‘This plant will never succeed without me,’ I said. ‘None of you has an emotional attachment to meat, so you can't produce a top-quality product. Try me out for a month? If I don't do a good job, you can fire me and I'll go back to school. But if I do a good job, I'll stay on for a year. After that, I'll either return to school or go out on my own and see what the world has in store for me.’

A gourmet spread of a dozen delectable dishes has been laid out on a table three feet in diameter in a private room at the Huaiyang Chun restaurant on the third floor of a luxury hotel. Directly opposite the door, on the red velvet wall, hangs a ‘good fortune’ tapestry with a dragon and phoenix. Twelve chairs are arranged round the table, only one of which is occupied—by Lan Laoda. His chin rests in his hands and he has a melancholic air. Threads of steam waft from some of the delicacies on the table in front of him but the rest have grown cold. A waiter in white, led into the room by a young woman in a red suit, is carrying a gold-plated tray on which rests a small plate of food dripping with golden-yellow gorgon oil and emitting a strange aroma. The woman takes the plate from the tray and places it in front of Lan Laoda. ‘Mr Lan,’ she whispers, ‘this is the nasal septum from one of Heilongjiang's rare Kaluga sturgeons, known popularly as a dragon bone. In feudal times, the dish was reserved for the enjoyment of the emperor. Its preparation is very complicated. Steeped for three days in white vinegar, it is then stewed for a day and a night in a pheasant broth. The owner personally prepared this for you. Enjoy it while it's hot.’ ‘Divide it into two portions,’ Lan Laoda says indifferently, ‘and wrap them to go. Then send them to the Feiyun Villa on Phoenix Mountain—one for Napoleon and one for Vivian Leigh.’ The woman's long, thin brows arch in astonishment but she dares not say a word. Lan Laoda stands up: ‘And send a bowl of plain noodles to my room
.’

Lao Lan put me in charge of the meat-cleansing workshop after consulting the calendar to select my first day on the job.

My initial managerial recommendation was to combine the dog and sheep kill rooms to free up one for a meat-cleansing station. All the animals would have to pass through the station on their way to the kill rooms. Lao Lan considered my suggestion for only a minute before agreeing, his eyes sparkling golden with excitement.

‘I like it!’ I said and on a sheet of paper, using a red-and-blue pencil, I quickly sketched out my plan. Finding nothing to criticize or change, Lao Lan gave it an appreciative look. ‘Do it!’ he announced.

Father, on the other hand, had a number of objections. Although he claimed it to be a terrible idea, I did note a look of admiration in his eyes. There's an old saying that goes: ‘No one knows a boy like his father.’ But you could also say, ‘No one knows a man like his son.’ I could read my father like a book. When he saw me announce to the one-time independent butchers, now employees of the plant, the new procedures, his misgivings were also tinged with pride. A man can be jealous of anyone but his own son. His unease stemmed not from any sense that I'd upstaged him but that I had the mind of an adult in a child's body. The villagers believed that precocious youngsters were fated to die before their time. My quick wits and my intelligence filled him with pride and his father's hope for his son soared high. But, according to local superstition, those same qualities enhanced my chances of dying young. Hence his emotional predicament.

As I think back, it seems almost miraculous that, as a twelve-year-old boy, I was able to devise a method for injecting water into living animals, to redesign a workshop, to be in charge of a few dozen workers and to successfuly increase the plant's production. When I recall those times I can't help thinking that I was quite a remarkable fellow back then!

Wise Monk, now I'm going to tell you exactly how remarkable I was. I'll describe for you the layout of the meat-cleansing station and what I did, and you'll see that I'm not exaggerating.

Security at the plant was tight in order to protect it from the prying eyes of competitors and sneaky reporters. We maintained our secrecy with the claim that we were trying to prevent outsiders from contaminating our products. Though my innovation turned the water-injection process into ‘meat-cleansing’, if the reporters—who thrive on misrepresentation—got wind of it, there's no telling what they'd feed their readers. (My handling of the reporters, which I'll describe later, is one of the highlights of my recollections.)

On my first day on the job, Lao Lan announced that I was in charge. That done, I addressed the workers: ‘If you think I'm just a child, you are sadly mistaken. I may be a head shorter and several years younger, but I know more
than any of you. I'll be watching you and taking note of your performance. I'll report everything to Lao Lan. I may not scare you but Lao Lan's a different story.’

‘You needn't be scared of me either,’ Lan Lan spoke to them next. ‘You are working for yourselves, not for me, not for Luo Tong and not for Luo Xiaotong. We have given him heavy responsibilities because he has room in his head for new and original ideas that can bring vitality to our plant. Now that may not mean much to you but you know the meaning of money, and that is what vitality equals—money. When the plant makes a profit, the money winds up in your pockets and that equals good food and fine liquor, new houses, improved prospects for your sons’ brides and richer dowries for your daughters. In a word, it's what will make you stand straight and tall. You all know that operating as an independent butcher has been outlawed. I wouldn't have created this plant otherwise. If you decide to do some private butchering on the side and get caught, at the very least your family will suffer from a heavy fine. At the very worst, you'll serve jail time. This plant was created for all of us, since the one thing our village knows is how to slaughter livestock. You are all pros at butchering and amateurs at everything else. Even if some of you decide to breed livestock or work with processed meat, at the end of the day you're still involved with slaughter. There can be only one conclusion—if the plant does well, we all do well, and if it doesn't then we all go hungry. How do we see that it does well? By working as a team. The flames rise higher when everyone feeds the fire. United, we can move mountains. The Eight Immortals crossed the sea by calling on everyone's talents. Hard work will be rewarded. In the eyes of most, Xiaotong is just a boy. But in my eyes he's a talented resource, one we must make use of. I'm not talking iron rice bowl here. He'll stay on as long as he performs well. If he doesn't, he'll be out. Director Xiaotong, give the order.’

I'm no longer young, and public speaking makes me nervous. But back then I was almost fanatical in my desire to put on a show—the bigger my audience the better. Well, I put those plant employees through their paces like a fearless cowherd tending a field full of dumb animals. My first task for them was to build a structure in the workshop. In accordance with my design, they were to erect two tall towers—metal posts held together with steel struts, one on each side of the workshop and fitted on top with a galvanized
steel water vat. Iron pipes leading from the vats’ bases stretched along the width of the workshop with a water tap connected to a rubber hose every six feet. That, in all its simplicity, was the meat-cleansing station. Complicated designs are ineffective, effective designs are uncomplicated. Some of the men made faces as they worked, some sniggered. ‘What the hell are we doing?’ one of them muttered under his breath, ‘Making cricket cages?’

‘Right,’ I said loudly, without caring whose feelings I hurt. ‘I plan to put cows into cricket cages!’

I knew that these workers—not long ago the village's most unruly residents and most of them illegal butchers—had no interest in carrying out my orders. Putting me in charge of a workshop was, in their view, a stupid mistake by Lao Lan and one further compounded by my drawings and my instructions. I'd have wasted my time trying to explain things to them, so I thought I'd let the results speak for themselves. ‘Just do as I say,’ I ordered. ‘And think whatever you want.’

Once the structure was complete, the workers backed off to smoke or woolgather while I gave Father and Lao Lan a guided tour. After pointing out the features and their uses, I turned to the smoking workers. ‘If you light up in this building tomorrow, I'll fine you two-weeks’ pay.’

Their eyes blazed with fury at my threat but they did stub out their cigarettes.

Early the next morning, six men filled the two overhead reservoirs. I could have had them hook up a hose to an electric pump but that would have been expensive and, as I saw it, unexciting and dull. I preferred the view of six men labouring to and from the well, time after time.

When the reservoirs were full, the six men walked over to the entrance and laid down their shoulder poles for a rest. ‘Once the process begins,’ I said, ‘it's your job to see that there's always water in the reservoirs. There can be no interruptions.’ ‘No sweat, Director,’ they said as they thumped their chests, apparently in high spirits. I knew why. I'd known from the very beginning that only four men were needed to keep the reservoirs full, but I'd added two more just to spice things up.

Before the formal work day began, my father and mother, along with Lao Lan, showed up for the guided tour. As I spiritedly explained the technical
aspects, I really looked the part of a water-station manager, at least I thought so. Over the past few days Jiaojiao had followed me everywhere, carrying my army canteen—another item Mother and I had found scavenging—filled with sugar water. Every time I'd hand out an order, she'd raise her thumb and say, ‘My brother's great!’ Then she'd unscrew the cap and hand me the canteen: ‘Here, drink.’

After the guided tour, it was time to start work. I stood on a chair by the entrance so I could see everything in the building.

‘Is everyone ready?’ I shouted.

They stared blankly for a moment, but then quickly responded in unison, the way we'd practiced: ‘Ready! We await the director's instructions!’

Their false show of enthusiasm turned what was ceremoniously serious into something akin to farce, and I saw the smirks on the faces of the less sincere workers. But I let it go. I'd worked things out carefully and I knew my plan was all right.

Time to give the order: ‘Bring the first beef cows in from the cattle pens.’

The men picked up their halters and ropes: ‘Got it!’

‘Go!’ I made a chopping motion, the way I'd seen film toughs give commands.

The men's faces froze. I knew that if Lao Lan and my parents hadn't been there then they'd have burst out laughing. Instead, they ran to the door, bumping into one another on their way out. Since we'd rehearsed the drill, they knew what to do and so ran straight to the cow pen in the plant's southeast corner. A hundred head of recently purchased cattle had been herded into a circular pen. Local peasants had brought some to us, others had been driven over by cattle merchants, there were even some that the cattle thieves had delivered in the middle of the night. Mixed with the cattle were ten donkeys, five ageing mules and seven old nags, plus some camels with patchy hides, like old men with padded jackets draped over their shoulders in early summer. We happily accepted any and all livestock that could be turned into meat. We'd also built a sty nearby for, in addition to pigs, a quantity of sheep and goats, including milch goats. And dogs. Fed an enhanced diet, our dogs looked like young hippos, their movements slowed by bloated bodies. No longer agile and intelligent, they had lost all their canine traits and become
dull, stupid animals who were useless as watchdogs—they'd wag their tails in welcome at thieves and snarl at their owners. All these animals, without exception, were scheduled to pass through our meat-cleansing station. But let's start with the cows, since they were our main concern. We were the official suppliers to farmers’ markets and restaurants in town. Urbanites tend to be faddish diners and their tastes change like the wind. At the time, the newspapers were reporting on the nutritional value of beef being higher than that of other meats. Hence, a beef craze. Hence, cows were what we slaughtered. Some time later the newspapers would report that the nutritive value of pork was higher. Hence, the pork craze. Hence, pigs were what we slaughtered. Lao Lan was the first peasant-turned-entrepreneur to realize the importance of the media. ‘When profits from plant operations are high enough,’ he said one day, ‘we'll start our own newspaper,
Meat Digest
, and advertise our own products every day.’ But, back to our workers. Each led in a pair of cows from the pen. Some obediently trotted behind the men who held their halters, some others were less well behaved and veered this way and that and slowed things down. A black bull broke loose, raised its tail and ran, hoofs flying, to the gate, which was now shut. ‘Stop it!’ someone yelled. ‘Stop that bull!’ Now who would be
that
foolish? Anyone who got in the way of those horns would be tossed into the air and land with a thud, a mangled mess. Though I was apprehensive, I was still in control. ‘Out of the way!’ I shouted. The raging bull ran headlong into the steel gate and we were deafened by the sound of the collision. Its neck twisted as it bounced into the air and then landed hard on the ground. ‘All right!’ I shouted. ‘Now tie it up.’ The man with the empty halter walked over tentatively and bent down, legs slightly bowed, ready to flee at a moment's notice. But the bull let itself be haltered, then obediently got to its feet and dutifully followed the man up to the workshop door. Its head was bleeding and it wore a sheepish look, like a schoolboy caught misbehaving. Though only a minor episode, it livened up the atmosphere—a good thing, nothing wrong with that. In a matter of minutes, men and beasts were in position at the door and the cows eager to get in, perhaps because they smelt the fresh water in the reservoirs. The six water-carriers standing by the door lazily observing the goings-on were nudged aside; their buckets clattered loudly against each other. ‘What's the hurry?’ I shouted. ‘This isn't a race to mourn your dead fathers! Bring them
in slowly, one at a time.’ I had to remind the men to treat these beasts with a little kindness during their last minutes on earth. They needed to be cajoled, tricked even, so they'd remain calm and contented. An animal's mood has a direct effect on the quality of its meat. One that's terrified just before it's slaughtered produces sour meat; only an animal that dies peacefully produces fragrant meat. I told them to treat the beef cattle with special care, since they were in the minority; most of the animals had contributed to humanity by working in the fields. We may have been different from Huang Biao, who treated an old cow as the reincarnation of his mother, but we still needed to show them a degree of respect. In today's words: we wanted to let them die with dignity.