I was so focused on my intimate interaction with the meat that I was oblivious of the passage of time and of my stomach's growing burden. But when I looked down, I saw that only a third of my portion remained. A bit of tiredness had crept in by then, and my mouth was producing less saliva. So I slowed down, raised my head and continued to eat gracefully while I surveyed my surroundings, beginning, of course, with my closest neighbours, my competitors. It was their participation that lent this extended meal its quality of entertainment, and for that I owed them a debt of gratitude. If they hadn't thrown down the gauntlet, I'd have been denied the opportunity of displaying my special skill before such a large audience—not just my skill but also my artistry. The number of people in the world who eat is as great as the sands of the Ganges, but only one has elevated this base activity into the realm of art, into a thing of beauty—and that is me, Luo Xiaotong. If all the meat in the world that has been or will be eaten were formed into a pile, it would rise higher than the Himalayas, but only the meat being eaten by Luo Xiaotong is capable of assuming a critical role in this artistic presentation…But I've gotten carried away, resulting from the overly creative imagination of a carnivorous child. So, back to the contest, and another look at my rivals’ eating styles. Now, it's not my intention to mount a smear campaign—although I've always favoured calling a spade a spade—so I invite you to take a look for yourselves. First, to my left, Liu Shengli. Somewhere along the line, the hulking, tough fellow has tossed away his chopsticks and begun to dig in with his coarse paws. He snatches a piece of meat like he is clutching a sparrow struggling to get free, as though it will fly away to the tree beyond the wall or float into the far reaches of the atmosphere. His hand is filthy with grease, his cheeks like slimy hillocks. But enough about him. Let's take a look at his neighbour, Wan Xiaojiang, the Water Rat. He has abandoned the skewer for his hands, clearly following my lead or trying to. But you can't copy genius, and in the matter of eating meat I am a genius. They are wasting their time. Look at my hand, for instance—only the tips of three fingers are lightly coated with grease. Look at their hands—so much grease they may as well be webbed, like the feet of ducks or frogs. Even Wan's forehead is coated with grease. How that helps him eat meat is beyond me. Are they burying their faces in the meat? But the really disgusting part of it all is the growls and gurgles they emit, no less than insults to the meat they are eating. Like beautiful maidens, this meat is fated to suffer; it is a cruel but inexorable reality. Lamentations rise from the meat in their hands and mouths, while those pieces waiting to be eaten bury their heads like ostriches in an attempt to hide in the tubs. I can only watch in sympathetic solidarity. Things would have been different if they were on my plate but that is not to be. The ways of the world are immutable. I, Luo Xiaotong, have a stomach that can never be stretched to accommodate all the world's meat any more than all the women can ever wind up in the arms of the world's greatest lover. I watch, helpless. ‘All you pieces of beef lying in the tubs of my rivals have no choice in the matter. You must go where you are sent.’ By now, both the men on my right have slowed considerably, and the faces earlier marked by savage impatience now sag with a stupid lethargy. They haven't stopped eating but their chewing is now in slow motion. Their cheeks are sore, their saliva has dried up, their bellies bulge dangerously. I can see it in their eyes—they are simply stuffing the meat into their mouths, only to have it turn and tumble in their stomachs, like chunks of coal bumping against a throttle gate. They have, I know, reached the point where the pleasure of eating meat has been usurped by sheer agony. Meat has become so disgusting, so loathsome, that they want nothing more than to spit out what is in their mouths and vomit what is in their stomachs. But that would mean defeat. A look at their tubs reveals that the remaining meat has been sapped of its beauty and its redolence. Shame and humiliation has turned it ugly. Hostility for its eater makes it emit a putrid smell. About a pound of meat remains in each of the two tubs but there is no room in either stomach to accommodate it. Lacking emotional ties with its eaters, the consumed meat has lost its mental equilibrium and is now involved in a paroxysm of thrashing and biting. Hard times are upon the men, and it is obvious that they can not possibly eat what remains. My two truculent competitors are on the verge of elimination.
With that in mind, I looked to see how my true rival, Feng Tiehan, was doing.
I turned in time to see him spear a chunk of meat and take a bite. Although there was a change in his sallow complexion, he lowered his eyes and his deadpan expression gave nothing away. His hands were spotless, thanks to his exclusive use of the metal skewer. His cheeks were dry, and the only grease I could see was on his lips. He ate at a steady, unhurried pace, a study in calmness, more like a diner enjoying a solitary restaurant meal than a competitor in a public eating contest. It was disheartening, a reminder that I had a formidable opponent. The other two, with their exaggerated gestures, were all show and no substance. Like the flame-out from a chicken-feather fire. A slow, pig-head simmering flame, like that of my third rival, on the other hand, presented a challenge. He maintained his composure even under my scrutiny, so I studied him some more. He speared a new piece of meat but hesitated, then returned it to the tub and chose a smaller one. As he carried it to his mouth, his hand stopped in mid-air. His body lurched upward and he stifled a low murmur deep in his throat. I breathed a sigh of relief, now that I'd spotted my enigmatic rival's weak spot. His choice of the smaller piece of meat was evidence that his stomach had reached its limit, while the lurch upward forced back a belch that would have brought out the ingested meat. There was also about a pound of uneaten meat in his tub. He obviously possessed sufficient resolve and was determined to stay with me to the end. All along I'd hoped for a worthy opponent so as not to disappoint our audience. A mismatch would have bled the competition of its significance. Now I knew that my fears were unfounded. Thanks to Feng Tiehan's obstinacy, a brilliant victory was assured.
Sensing my sidelong examination, Feng cast me a challenging glance. I responded with a friendly smile, picked up a piece of meat and carried it to my mouth as if to give it an affectionate kiss. I then brushed it with my lips and teeth to gauge its streaks and ridges before tearing off a piece and allowing it to enter my mouth on its own. Then I looked down at the dark red portion of meat waiting to be eaten, kissed it and told it to be patient as I began to chew its companion with passion and sensitivity so as to fully experience its flavour and fragrance, its pliant, moist texture—in other words, its entirety. I sat up straight and let my spirited eyes sweep over the faces in the crowd. I saw excitement there and I saw anxiety. It was clear who was rooting for me to win and who was not. Most, of course, were just there to enjoy the show—for them, a good fight was enough. But what was common across all those faces was the hunger for meat. They could not comprehend why Liu and Wan were having so much trouble eating. That was perfectly understandable—no bystander could relate to the anguish of someone who's eaten until the meat is backed up into his throat and who yet has to eat some more. I communicated with Lao Lan by letting my gaze linger on his face for a few seconds. His faith in me was unmistakable. Don't worry, Lao Lan, I said with my eyes. I won't let you down. I may not boast any other skills, but eating meat is my stock-in-trade. I also spotted my parents, standing on the outer edge of the crowd, staying as inconspicuous as possible, as if they wanted to avoid affecting my mood. Like parents everywhere, they were on tenterhooks, wanting me to win but worried that something might go wrong. My father, especially. This survivor of multiple eating contests, this veteran competitor, who had emerged victorious from every challenge, knew as well as anyone the risks involved and the misery that usually followed. His face was a study in concern, for he knew that the hardest part of a contest was reached when only a quarter of the food remained. It was the equivalent of a sprint to the finish line in a long-distance race. Not only a test of strength or stomach capacity, it was also a test of will. Only the contestant with the strongest will could win. When he can't swallow another bite, that's when a competitor has reached his bursting point. One more sliver of food will be the straw that breaks the proverbial camel's back. The cruel nature of this contest had finally become evident. An old hand at such contests, my father watched with mounting apprehension as the piles of meat slowly diminished. In the end, a patina of worry, like a coat of paint, seemed to blur his features. The look on my mother's face was easier to read. As I chewed one mouthful after another, her mouth moved along with mine, an unconscious attempt to help me along.