*Reincarnation

: The bloody business of butchering pigs, cows, and the like is called "reincarnation" in Maqiao, a turn of phrase that makes it sound like a loftily noble undertaking. The old-timers said that domestic animals had fates, too, that they'd sinned in previous lives and were paying for it in this life, that they suffered more than any other creature, that by killing them you were letting them be reincarnated earlier, releasing them from their sea of bitterness, that it was a deed of great charity. By this reckoning, butchers could slaughter away, as if right were on their side, and diners could merrily chew and munch, their mouths running with grease, their hearts fully at ease.

Language can change the way people feel: altering a word can mitigate, even erase, the pity that scenes at a slaughterhouse evoke, until blood-letting stimulates nothing but blank, unmoved stares.

After Benyi gave up his post as Secretary, he made a living for several years as a reincarnater. Right up until his health began to fail, as long as he could still get out of bed, all it took was for him to hear the sound of a pig squealing and, quite uninvited, he'd go and stick his nose in, having a go at this person's ancestors, this person's mother-no one at the slaughterhouse would escape a tongue-lashing. He was addicted to wielding that knife of his, was pretty nifty at it too: he was the most famous butcher around here during those years, never needed anyone to catch the pig, or tie it up for him, didn't matter how big it was, or how truculent, after just one look he knew exactly what to do. Catching it unawares, he'd suddenly raise his knife, and then, as if with borrowed strength, overcome the beast with great economy of effort. One hand would grasp the pig's ear, the other would bury itself in the skin on the underside of the pig's head-meanwhile, the knife had long since plunged into its chest, turning once, deep inside, before being briskly drawn out. The pig was flat on the ground before it'd had time to squeal. Then, chuckling away to himself, he'd wipe a few bloody, smudgy marks on the quivering pile of flesh, slowly, calmly, wiping the knife clean.

This was called slaughtering on the run, or mute slaughtering- something he was a real pro at.

Sometimes, when he'd had a bit too much to drink, his hand would slip, one knife-stroke wouldn't get the job done and the floored pig would jump up and run crazily about. He'd glare furiously, all the veins in his neck throbbing with pent-up rage, chasing about the place, waving the bloody knife. At times such as these, he'd always be cursing, "Look at you run around the place, you show-off, you, think it's your lucky day, don't you, think you've got the upper hand…"

People didn't generally have a clue who he was cursing.

*Jasmine-Not-Jasmine

:

• It's going to rain, it doesn't look as if it will (concerning the weather).

• I'm full, I'm full, one more bowl and then I'll be full (concerning eating).

• I reckon the bus isn't going to come, you'd best keep waiting (concerning waiting for the bus).

• This newspaper article is well written, I can't understand a single word (concerning the newspaper).

• He's an honest man, he just doesn't talk honestly (concerning Zhongqi).

Anyone who came to Maqiao had to get used to this kind of double-talk: ambiguous, vague, slippery, vacillating, first this, then that. This rather unsettling way of talking was what Maqiao people called "jasmine-not-jasmine." I found out that Maqiao people weren't generally unsettled by this, didn't even find anything strange about it. It appeared they would quite happily produce statements that weren't really statements, that had no basis in logic. They weren't used to the principle of noncontradiction, it seemed. If sometimes they couldn't avoid speaking a little more clearly than usual, they regarded it as a hard and thankless task, a concession to the outside world which they would make while knowing it was beyond them. I could only suspect that they basically felt double-talk came more naturally to them.

It was because of this that I never really figured out how it was that Ma Zhongqi died. Here is a summary of what people said: Zhongqi was a bit greedy, but he wasn't that greedy; he was always very above-board, it was just that he was a bit underhanded; he'd never had things that rough, it was just that he had bad luck; his wife's illness was obviously curable, it was a pity they couldn't find the right medicine; he always acted like a cadre wherever he went, it was just that he never looked like one; he built a new house, sure, but it wasn't his after he'd built it; fifth old Huang treated him best, it was just that he never helped him out; he was respected, but he didn't have speech rights; it would be unfair to say he stole things, but he walked out of the butcher's with a piece of meat he hadn't paid for; he took the yellow-vine brew himself, suicide doesn't fit the facts. After all this, was anything clear to me? Or was nothing at all clear?

I know generally that for Zhongqi, who'd long nursed a sickly wife, life was very difficult and he never had enough money to buy meat. On the Double Ninth Festival, unable to help himself, he stole a piece of meat from the butcher's, was publicly arrested, and his self-criticism was stuck on a wall. He probably thought he couldn't take the shame and on the next day drank yellow-vine brew. It was that simple. But Maqiao people can't explain simple things clearly and precisely. They have to slip into an ever more ambiguous "jasmine-not-jasmine" way of talking. This can only prove that Maqiao people are unable, or unwilling, to accept a fact this simple. Perhaps they feel that outside every factual link lie yet more facts beyond explanation and clarification; thrown into confusion, crushed and scattered by all these blurred facts, their own remarks can only lapse into irrelevant nonsequitur.

Throughout his life, Zhongqi wrote innumerable "agreeds." The final one was written, through force of habit, on his own self-criticism for the theft of the meat and stuck on the wall for all to see. In the self-criticism, he cursed himself for being a thief, a shameless rogue, a reactionary element, ashamed to stand before Party and government and ancestors. Some of what he wrote was rather exaggerated in tone, indicative of the depths of his terror at the time. He'd spent his life knowing too much of other people's secrets, knowing of too much widespread deception and villainy, while he himself remained law-abiding all his life, not daring to take even a stalk of rice straw that hadn't been allocated to him. And what good did his honesty ever do him? None at all. He was cast aside by a group of people of whom he utterly disapproved, watched wide-eyed as they got rich while he fell on increasingly hard times. He couldn't even buy pork dripping, let alone afford two spare ribs to rub together. Ought he to have changed? As I imagine the scene, he walked into the butcher's, felt around in his own empty, empty pockets, breathed in the oppressive merriment of the festival atmosphere, and finally decided to make a new start with a piece of meat. Unfortunately, he didn't get any meat, only endless public humiliation and censure.

What should he have done then?

Should he have gone on being honest, or gone on being dishonest?

If he was standing before me right now and asked me such a question, I would probably hesitate a while. I would find it very difficult to give a straightforward reply. At this point, I expect I would secretly feel a haze of "jasmine-not-jasmine" creep irresistibly over me.