‘Under your leadership, we're certain to achieve that goal,’ declared Mother, charmed by his words.
‘Dream on, you two,’ Father said in icy tones. ‘But let's come back to the water issue. The question is: How do we do it? And how much? And what do we do if someone reports us? In the past, it was every family for itself. But now there are more mouths than we can control…’
I walked into the room. ‘Dieh,’ I said, ‘I know an ideal way to inject water.’
‘What are you doing out of bed?’ he demanded. ‘Don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong.’
‘I'm not!’
‘Let's hear what he has to say,’ Lao Lan said. ‘Go ahead, Xiaotong, what's your brilliant idea?’
‘I know how it's done. I've watched every family in Slaughterhouse Village do it. They attach a high-pressure hose to the heart of a newly slaughtered animal. But since the animal is dead, its organs and cells can no longer absorb the water and half of it is lost. Why can't we inject water when the animal is still alive?’
‘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.’
POW! 33
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.)