Wolf Totem: A Novel by Jiang Rong Page B

the liquor and the meat, spread across the lake and drew the hunters back to eat and rest.
    By midday, all the rafts had made two or three trips to shore to unload their quarry, and each family’s cart was piled high with six or seven frozen gazelles. It was time for the men to turn the work over to the well-fed women and children, who climbed aboard the felt rafts and went out onto the snow lake to bring up more animals.
    Freshly roasted gazelle is a delicacy of the Mongolian grassland, especially after a hunt, when the meat is roasted and eaten on the spot. Historically, it was a favorite of the khans and royalty, and an essential component of gatherings of ordinary hunters. As newly acknowledged hunters, Chen Zhen and Yang Ke were invited to participate in the feast. The thrill of the hunt, along with sheer exhaustion, had given Chen such an appetite that he felt he appreciated the event more than any Mongol khan ever could; it was an outdoor feast for humans following an outdoor feast by a pack of wild wolves. Chen and Yang, who at that moment felt as free and powerful as any Mongol, impulsively grabbed flasks from the hands of fellow hunters who were drinking and eating and singing with fervor and passion, and gulped down great mouthfuls of liquor.
    With a burst of laughter, Bilgee said, “I’d be afraid to go see your parents in Beijing a year from now, since by then I’ll have turned you into Mongol savages.”
    “We Han could use a heavy dose of Mongol spirit,” Yang Ke said, the smell of liquor strong on his breath.
    At the top of his lungs, Chen Zhen shouted “Papa” three times, raised the flask in his hand above his head, and toasted the “Venerable Tribal Leader.” The old man took three drinks from his flask and responded, “Minihu, minihu, minisaihu” (My child, my child, my good child).
    Batu, giddily drunk, slapped Chen on the back and said, “You... you are only half a Mongol, wh . . . when you, you marry a Mongol girl . . . a woman, father a... a Mongol brat, then you’ll be a true Mongol. You, you’re on the weak side, no good, not good, not good enough. Mongol women under . . . under the bedcovers, make you work, worse than wolf . . . wolves. Mongol men, most of us, are scared of them, like sheep.”
    “At night,” Sanjai piped in, “men are sheep, women are wolves. Especially Gasmai.”
    The hunters all roared with laughter.
    Lamjav was in such high spirits that he flipped Yang Ke heavily onto a snowdrift. “When . . . when you can do that to me,” he stammered, “that’s when you . . . the day you’re a Mongol.” Yang grabbed hold of Lamjav and tried to wrestle him to the ground, only to be flipped head over heels three more times. Lamjav laughed. “You... you Han Chinese are grass-eaters, like sheep. We Mongols are meat-eaters, like wolves.”
    As he brushed the snow from his clothes, Yang said, “Just you wait. Next year I’m going to buy a full-grown ox and eat every bite of it myself. I plan to keep growing till I’m a head taller than you, and then you’ll be like a sheep.”
    “Yes!” the other hunters shouted approvingly. “Good comeback!”
    Grassland Mongols are known more for their capacity for liquor than for their appetite for meat. After a few rounds, all seven or eight flasks were empty. Seeing that there was no more liquor, Yang boldly proclaimed to Lamjav, “You can outwrestle me, but let’s see who can outdrink who.”
    “Playing the fox, are you?” Lamjav retorted. “Well, out here, wolves are cleverer than foxes. Wait here. I’ve got more liquor.” He ran over to where his horse was standing and took a bottle of clear liquor out of his felt saddlebag, that and two cups. Waving the bottle in front of Yang, he said, “I was saving this for . . . for guests, but now I’m going to use it to punish you.”
    “Punish!” the hunters shouted. “Punish him! Give him what he deserves!”
    With an embarrassed smile, Yang Ke said, “It looks like this