everywhere but in front of me, a spot of purity amid the litter, in the center of which stood a glass filled with red wine.
“Bottoms up, my dear little friends,” Babbitt said genially, holding out his glass.
His wife also held out her glass; some of her fingers were bent, others were straight, like an orchid, a gold ring gleaming in the center. A cold white glare rose from the exposed upper half of her breasts. My heart was pounding.
My tablemates clambered to their feet, mouths crammed full of fish, their cheeks, the tips of their noses, even their foreheads, glistening with oil. Sima Liang, who was next to me, wolfed down his mouthful of fish and picked up a corner of the tablecloth to wipe his hands and mouth. I had smooth, fair hands, my outfit was spotless, and my hair had a glossy sheen. My digestive system had never been called on to process the corpse of a living animal, my teeth had never been told to chew the fibers of any vegetation. A line of oily claws held out their glasses harum- scarum and clinked them against those held by the newlyweds. I was the sole exception; I stood in a daze, staring at Niandi’s breasts, gripping the edge of the table with both hands to keep from rushing over and suckling at the breast of my sixth sister.
A look of astonishment filled Babbitt’s eyes. “Why aren’t you eating or drinking?” he asked. “Haven’t you eaten a thing? Not a bite?”
Niandi came briefly down off her cloud and regained some of what had made her my sixth sister. She rubbed the back of my neck with her free hand and said to her new husband, “My brother’s the next thing to an immortal. He doesn’t eat the food of common mortals.”
The redolence emerging from her body threw my heart into a frenzy. In rebellion against my wishes, my hands reached out and grabbed her breasts. Her silk dress was slippery smooth. She yelped in alarm and flung her wine into my face. Her face was scarlet, and as she straightened the twisted bodice of her dress, she cursed: “Little bastard!”
The red wine slipped down my face, a nearly transparent red curtain lowering over my eyes. Niandi’s breasts were like red balloons that crashed together noisily in my head.
Babbitt patted my head with one of his big hands. “Your mother’s breasts belong to you, youngster,” he said with a wink. “But your sister’s breasts belong to me. I hope we become friends one day.”
I drew back and glared hatefully at his comical, ugly face. The agony I felt at that moment was beyond words. Tonight, Sixth Sister’s breasts, so glossy, so soft, so sleek, as if carved from jade, peerless treasures, would fall into the hands of that fair-skinned, down-covered American, to grab or stroke or knead at will. Sixth Sister’s milky white breasts, filled with honey, a gastronomical treat unrivaled anywhere, land or sea, would be taken into the mouth of that ivory-toothed American, to bite or nibble or suck dry until only fair skin remained. But what incensed me was the fact that this is what Sixth Sister wanted. Niandi, you slapped me just for tickling you with a grassy tassel, and you flung wine in my face when I barely touched you. But you’ll happily tolerate it when he strokes or bites you. It isn’t fair. You bunch of sluts, why can’t you understand the pain in my heart? No person on earth understands, loves, or knows how to protect breasts the way I do. And you all treat me like a jackass. I cried bitter tears.
Babbitt made a face and shrugged his shoulders. Then he took Niandi by the arm and headed over to toast the other tables. A waiter came up with a tureen of soup with egg drops and something that resembled dead man’s hair floating on the top. My tablemates took their cue from the next table by scooping up the soup, the thicker the better, with white spoons, blowing on it to cool it a bit before sipping. At our table, the soup sprayed and splashed everywhere. Sima Liang poked me. “Try some, Little Uncle,” he said. “It’s good, at least as good as goat’s milk.” “No,” I said. “None for me.” “Then sit down. Everybody’s looking at you.” I looked around. No one was looking at me.
Steam rose from the center of every table, curling up near the electric lamps, where it turned to mist before dissipating. The tables were a jumble of plates and glasses, the guests’ faces blurred, and the air inside the church stifling with the smell of alcohol. Babbitt and his wife were back at their own table. I watched as Niandi leaned over to Zhaodi and whispered something. What did she say? Was it about me? When Zhaodi nodded, Niandi leaned back, picked up a spoon and dipped it into the soup, then put it up to her mouth, wetted her lips, and drank it elegantly. Niandi had known Babbitt little more than a month, but she was already a different person. A month earlier, she’d been a common porridge-slurper. A month earlier, she’d been as noisy as anyone when she spat or blew her nose on the ground. I’d found her disgusting; but I’d admired her too. How could anyone change so quickly? Waiters came out carrying the main courses: there were boiled dumplings and some of those wormlike noodles that had ruined my appetite. There were also some colorful pastries. I can’t bring myself to describe how the people looked when they ate. I was upset and I was hungry; Mother and my goat must have been waiting anxiously. So why didn’t I get up and leave? Because after Sima Ku’s proclamation, and after the meal, Babbitt was going to demonstrate once again the material and cultural superiority of the West. I knew he was going to show a moving picture, which, according to what I’d heard, was a series of live images projected on a screen by electricity.
Finally, the banquet ended, and the waiters came out with bushel baskets, spread out, and swept the tables clean of glasses and dishes, dumping it all noisily into the baskets. What went into the baskets was perfectly usable dinnerware; what they carried away were shards of glass and pieces of ceramic. A dozen or so crack troops ran in to lend a hand, each grabbing a tablecloth, folding it up, and running off with it. Then the waiters returned to spread out fresh tablecloths, on top of which they laid out grapes and cucumbers, watermelons and pears from Hebei; there was also something called Brazilian coffee, which was the color of sweet potatoes and gave off a strange odor – one pot after another, more than I could count. Then one cup after another, also more than I could count. The guests, still belching from all the food, came out to sit down again and take some tentative sips of the Brazilian coffee, as if it were some sort of Chinese medicine.
The soldiers carried in a rectangular table on which they placed a machine that was covered by a piece of red cloth.
Sima Ku clapped his hands and announced loudly, “The movie will begin in a few minutes. Let’s welcome Mr. Babbitt, who will show us something special.”
Babbitt stood up amid thunderous applause and bowed to the crowd. He then walked up to the table and removed the red cloth to reveal a mysterious, demonic machine. His fingers moved skillfully amid a bunch of wheels, big and small, until a rumbling noise emerged from the bowels of the machine. A beam of light knifed through the air and landed on the west wall of the church. It was met by a roar of approval, which was followed by the noise of stools being dragged across the floor. People turned to follow the light. At first it landed on the carved face of Jesus on the jujube cross that had recently been dug up and re-nailed to the wall. The features of the holy icon were unrecognizable. A yellow medicinal pore fungus called
“Turn off the lamps!” Babbitt shouted.
With a pop, the lamps hanging from the rafters went out, and we were thrown into darkness. But the beam of light from Babbitt’s demonic machine intensified. Clusters of little white insects danced in the air and a white moth flitted erratically in the center of the beam, its shape suddenly magnified several times its original size against the white sheet. I heard cries of delight from the crowd; even I gasped. And there, in front of my eyes, were the electric images. Suddenly, a head appeared in the shaft of light. It belonged to Sima Ku. The light shone through his earlobes, in which the flow of blood was visible to us all. His head moved as he turned to face the spot where the light was coming from. His face flattened out and turned white as a sheet of paper, while blocking out a big section of the screen. Loud cries emerged from the darkness.
“Sit down!” Babbitt shouted irately, as a delicate white hand was thrust into the beam of light. Sima Ku’s head sank beneath the light. The wall made a series of popping sounds, as dark specks flickered on the screen – the sight and sound of gunshots. Music then burst from a sound box hanging next to the screen. It sounded a little like a string instrument, the
