have been jealous,’ he moaned, rocking on his heels.
‘True.’
‘I have been possessive.’
‘And worse!’
‘Worse?’
‘You have been guilty, unworthy morsel, of interfering in discussion of matchless gem-like Thoughts of Chairman Mao, and of attempting to subvert spiritual development of me and Riceman T’song.’
‘Ah, so. I have been guilty of interfering in discussion of matchless gem-like Thoughts of Chairman Mao, and of attempting to subvert spiritual development of wife and Riceman T’song.’
‘And?’
‘And I have been having middle-class thoughts about female bus-travellers. And capitalist ideas about Postwoman Cho.’
‘You are a psychopath.’
‘I am a psychopath.’ Lao Piu-Fong stared at the flickering grate. ‘Mind you,’ he murmured, ‘I have not indulged in any perverted deviationist private enterprise for eight months. Is this not worthy?’
Mrs. Piu-Fong spat.
‘You are complacent,’ she snarled.
‘I am complacent.’
‘Also you have been guilty of not repairing leaking tap in kitchen, contrary to Chapter MCDXVI, sub-section IV, lines II–V: Urban progress possible only if each individual citizen-soldier recognises responsibility to maintaining roof placed over head through foresight and generosity of Chairman Mao. Similarly, you have neglected your duties with regard to faulty ball-cock, hole in bedroom window, and short leg on dining-room table.’
‘All this I have not done,’ groaned Lao Piu-Fong. ‘Indeed, I am guilty of betraying great principles formulated on Long March.’ His stomach rumbled. ‘When are we eating?’
‘First we sing magnificent chart-topper describing the joys of building new wing on public library,’ said his wife. ‘For has not peerless Chairman Mao written: Hunger of soul cannot be satisfied with noodles?’
‘Probably,’ muttered Lao, sotto voce.
After the song had died away at last, he looked down at his small wooden bowl.
‘Excuse, please, obscene disaster in human form,’ he said to his wife, ‘but what is this esteemed muck I am supposed to eat?’
‘It is from special Madame Mao recipe,’ said his wife. ‘With purpose of building healthy citizen-soldiers and at the same time destroying ugly capitalist greed-orientated appetite. Is sawdust foo yong full of nourishing synthetic protein, guaranteed free from artificial colouring.’
Lao forked a moist blob of the khaki paste into his mouth, blenched, and pushed the bowl away. His wife, poised for ideological advantage, raised an eyebrow.
‘Well?’ she said dangerously.
‘Oh,’ cried Piu-Fong, ‘how all-seeing and talented is the great mother of our people!’
She narrowed her eyes.
‘What are you trying to pull, revisionist fink?’ she grated.
‘Nothing. But see how my former fascist greed and unMarxist appetite have disappeared through the wisdom of Mother Mao! Not one more mouthful need I eat, so successful has her policy proved.’
Mrs. Piu-Fong threw down her chopstick.
‘Do you refuse, therefore, to give me the opportunity of self-criticism? Am I not to be allowed to repent for my deviation from the recipe as laid down by Madame Mao?’
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