Chapter 3

The rest of the family were enjoying the evening’s entertainment as much as the baby. His grandma was the elderly woman feeding the fire. She jealously guarded a supermarket-bag of money and whenever the flames died a little she would fish out another big wad and throw it on. She constantly spoke to the baby, describing to him the ways of her world, as if she were passing on some arcane knowledge that the child would need to survive in a difficult future.

The baby’s mother stood behind a small collapsible table that had been set up on the pavement next to the iron money-burner. She tended to an array of groceries and cooked food that adorned the formica surface, arranging and rearranging packets of potato chips, a bowl of oranges, several small cups of green tea, a whole cooked chicken, several bowls of rice, and a few cans of beer. She picked up six sticks of incense that had rolled together at the edge of the table and lit them as a single bunch with a lighter. She then waved the flaming sticks vigorously to extinguish the fire, before raising the smouldering sticks in her clasped hands, prayerlike, to her head. She genuflected, in no particular direction, but more or less towards the temple across the street; as she did so she pushed the ends of the sticks through her hands and into the skin of her forehead. Nobody seemed to notice her acts of devotion.

The baby’s father lurked behind, detached from the proceedings, sitting on a stranger’s parked scooter, the last vehicle in a line that stretched to the corner. From the table of offerings he had liberated a can of beer, which he now tilted into his scarred, round face, sipping slowly. He seemed unaware of the actions of either his pious wife or garrulous mother. He was watching the passers-by, the human traffic that flowed over to the temple opposite. The temple was busy tonight and the baby’s father had already greeted several of the worshippers whom he knew. They all said that they would be back in two weeks, to see his appearance, when the celebrations would climax in a wild night of devotion.

The baby’s grandpa was not bodily present, he was supposed to be on the other side, enjoying the sudden windfall.

All along the street, on the pavement opposite the grounds of the Three Treasures Temple, other families had rolled out their money ovens, set up their tables, and were engaged in similar acts of obedience to tradition. The busy street was filling with smoke and fluttering pieces of burning money—the festival had begun.

A mangy stray dog limped towards the scooter, where it stopped and looked forlornly up at the baby’s father, through watery, sad eyes. It was hairless, as if a sadistic barber had run a quick blade around its body, leaving scars, rashes, and sores. Breaking through its loose cover of skin was one of its shoulder blades, already in an advanced state of decay. The mutt managed to raise a tired hind leg before pissing on the front wheel—a lame squirt that barely splattered the rubber. The father, still slouching on the saddle of the scooter, drained off the beer and threw the empty can down at the dog. The dog bucked its head and tried to bark then limped off down the street.

The father returned his gaze to his family. His wife wanted to help feed the fire but his mother wouldn’t let her near the plastic bag; the old woman fisted out another wad and threw it into the oven, jabbering away to his baby. He thought of his father and regretted that he couldn’t be here with them on this special holiday. His wife stepped back behind the table—she had given up trying to help the old woman, who had now lifted up the baby and was letting him nose into the bag. He wondered if his mother would get along with his wife now that she had moved in with them. His wife didn’t really mind because they could now rent out the spacious apartment on the top floor of the building and boost their income. Not that they were poor; his connections with the temple opposite kept them comfortable enough. He adjusted his position on the saddle. Life, he reflected, wasn’t that bad. His baby dribbled on his mother’s cheek and she hastily dropped him back in the pushchair.

The fire was dying down, all the money having been burnt, and the baby began to stretch his neck from side to side, looking up and down the street, through the smoke that was still coming off the embers. He struggled with the restrainer, first pulling his body up to the right then the left—nothing gave. The father noticed his son’s restlessness, lowered himself off the saddle, stepped over the drooling creature that had limped back to the scooter to lie, panting, at his feet, and walked over to the pushchair. He bent over his son and pulled him out, noticing the baby’s smarting eyes and tears rolling down his cheeks. As he pulled him into his chest, a loud car horn blew in the street, startling both of them. The baby squirmed and turned to see where the noise had come from. He stretched out an arm towards the sturdy, black German car, then a finger.

‘Yes, son. That’s Ma ,’ the father said as an orange-robed figure bundled out of the back of the black car and marched towards the temple gates.

‘Ma,’ he said again to the child, pronouncing the name slowly, with the correct falling and rising tone of this ancient family name.

‘Ma,’ the child repeated, with a bubble of saliva. He ran his chubby fingers along the scars in his father’s forehead.