After the snow in the twelfth lunar month of 1962, Cheng Zhiguo tucked a slab of pork belly deep inside his padded jacket and headed into the courtyard. Yan Bugui was shoveling snow by the gate. The moment he spotted the meat, he dropped his shovel and came over, saying he had liquor at home and wanted to share a couple of drinks. I sidestepped him. "No thanks, I'm allergic." I went into the kitchen and set the meat on the chopping board. Across from me, Jia Zhangshi poked half her face through a crack in the door, her eyes fixed on the meat. I casually shut the door.
