My first brainstorm was about a series of conveyor belts from the injection station to the various kill rooms. But I rejected that. Even though Lao Lan had said not to worry about the cost, I knew that the plant's finances were tight and I didn't want to add to my parents’ money worries. I was also aware that the plant had inherited its electrical system from the canvas factory and that its old, frayed wires and transformers were already overloaded. The system would collapse it it had to power conveyor belts carrying tonnes of cows. Next, I considered sending the animals into the kill rooms on the hoof, that is, perform the treatment there and then slaughter. But that would put the newly created meat-cleansing building out of commission even before it was up and running. And I'd be out of a job. Even more important was the fact that the animals receiving the water treatment continuously emptied their bowels and their bladders. Slaughtering them amid all that filth would affect the quality of the meat. Every animal sent out from the meat-cleansing workshop was supposed to be clean, inside and out; that was what separated United from independent butchers and all other meatpacking plants.
The donkey meat sang in my mouth as my brain went into high gear, each discarded idea quickly replaced by a new one. In the end, I came up with a solution that both suited local conditions and was simple and cheap. Lao Lan's eyes flashed in excitement when I explained it to him: ‘You really are something, youngster!’ he said with a pat on the shoulder. ‘I approve. Put it into operation.’
‘I guess that's what we'll have to do,’ said Father.
At the workshop's exit, I had a team of workers build a rack with five thick fir posts. Then a hoist atop the rack with a block and tackle, christened the ‘lifting gourd’. Another team joined two flatbeds to make a moveable platform. With that device, when the workers led or dragged a water-treated cow or some other large animal to the exit—standing if possible, lying if not—a rope was placed under its belly to hoist it up onto the platform, which was then pushed and pulled—two men on each end—rumbling straight into one of the kill rooms.
What happened to it there was not our concern.
Water-injected large livestock no longer presented a problem. As for pigs, sheep, dogs and other domestic animals—well, they're not even worth a mention.
POW! 35
My narrative is cut short by the wail of ambulance sirens, one from West City and another from East City. Then two more out from each, making it a total of six. When they meet on the highway, two turn onto the grass field, leaving the remaining four in the middle of the road. Their flashing red and green lights heighten the tension and terror in the air. EMTs in white smocks, white caps and blue masks, some carrying medical bags, others lugging simple stretchers, rush out of the ambulances in the direction of the meat-vendors, where people have formed a dozen or more tight circles. The medics push people out of their way to get to the stricken—some lying unconscious, some rolling on the ground, some others bent over, vomiting. People pat the backs of their retching friends, and family members kneel beside the unconscious and anxiously call out their names. The medics first examine and tend the unconscious and those rolling on the ground. Then up onto the stretchers they go, to be carried off to the ambulances. There are not enough stretchers so an EMT asks for help to carry or help poison victims to the ambulances. The medical vehicles halt traffic from both directions and, in no time, more than forty cars are stopped, bumper to bumper. They do not suffer in silence, however, and announce their displeasure with a barrage of blaring horns. It's the worst noise in the world. If I were king of the world, Wise Monk, I'd destroy every single horn and horn-blower. Now come the police cars and the police. A policeman drags a truck-driver out of his cab because he refuses to stop honking. The driver resists, and his surly manner so angers the policeman that he grabs the man by the throat and throws him into a ditch. The driver crawls out, soaked, and screams in a heavy accent: ‘I'll sue, damn it! All you cops are thugs!’ The policeman takes a step in his direction and the driver jumps back into the ditch. With the police directing traffic, the ambulances bearing the poison victims drive onto the temple grounds, then turn and speed off to their respective hospitals through the slender spaces between the lines of cars. The police cars lead the way. A policeman sticks his head out the window and orders the drivers to clear a path. Another group of poison victims has collected on the grassy field, the sound of their retching and moaning merging with the shouts of the police directing traffic. The police have commandeered several private vans to take the sick into town, ignoring the drivers’ complaints. ‘Who told those people to eat so much?’ grouses a low-ranking Party official. His comment draws a glare from a large, swarthy policeman. Thus silenced, he stands by the road and lights a cigarette. Now van-less drivers begin to congregate in our compound. Some poke their heads inside the temple, others gape at the Meat God lying out in the sun. One of them, delighted at the calamity that has struck the enviable Carnivore Festival, says: ‘Well, folks, I think we're witnessing the end of the Carnivore Festival.’ ‘The whole thing's ridiculous,’ another agrees. ‘Baldy Hu was looking to make a big splash. It was a terrible idea but his superiors think the world of him and let him go ahead. He's in big trouble now, and he'll be lucky if no one dies. If lots of people die—’ A woman with piercing eyes steps out from behind a tree and interrupts in a severe tone of voice: ‘If lots of people die, Chairman Wu, what good will that do you?’ ‘I was just thinking aloud,’ the man replies, obviously embarrassed, ‘and I apologize. We were about to phone the hospital to send help for you.’ The woman, a cadre herself, shouts into her cellphone: ‘It's beyond urgent! To hell with the cost! Mobilize everything you've got, personnel, money, everything. Punish anyone who stands in the way!’ A small fleet of Audi A6s drives up with a police escort, and Mayor Hu steps out of the car. On-site cadres rush to report. The mayor's face grows grave at the enormity of the situation and he walks towards some of the stricken individuals.
With Father (actually, with me) in command, the United Meatpacking Plant began production as scheduled.
I was enjoying a meal in the kitchen.
‘Your father's the plant manager,’ Huang Biao said, ‘but you run the show.’
‘I'd be careful with what I say, Huang Biao,’ I replied sternly although I was secretly pleased with his words. ‘My father won't be pleased that thought.’
‘It's not just what I think, my young friend. It's what everyone thinks. I can't help repeating what I hear. It's my nature. I just thought you'd like to know.’
‘What else do they think?’ I said, trying to sound casual.
‘That sooner or later Lao Lan will fire your father and hire you in his place. If you ask me, there's no need to be humble when that day comes. Having officials for parents is never as good as being one yourself.’
I turned my attention back to the meat in front of me and ignored him but I didn't ask him to stop. His flattering remarks—half true, half false—were like spice for the meat, stimulating my appetite and giving me a sense of true comfort. When I finished the meat, I felt replenished and sated. It now lay in my stomach, waiting to be digested, as I drifted off into a state of suspended animation, as if afloat in the ether. Thinking back now, those were among the happiest days of my life. When I first went to the plant kitchen to feast on meat during working hours, I did so on the sly so as not to be seen. But the day came when I could openly enjoy my meals. When we were gearing up for production in the workshop, I'd say: ‘Yao Qi, take over while I go to the kitchen to think.’