The Seventh Day (27 page)

Once, Wu Chao woke from unconsciou
sness and asked in a feeble voice of the neighbors who sat by his side, “Was that a bird?”

“There’s no birds,” the neighbors said.

“I heard a bird calling,” Wu Chao continued weakly.

“I saw a bat on my way here,” one of the neighbors said.

“Not a bat,” Wu Chao said, “a bird.”

Xiao Qing said that the last time he went to see him, Wu Chao found it hard even to open his eyes. It was then that he begged Xiao Qing to help. He told him that there was thirty-five thousand yuan hidden under his pillow and asked him to use thirty-three thousand to buy a burial plot for Mouse Girl, a good-quality tombstone, and an urn for her ashes. The remaining two thousand he said he needed to keep for himself, so that he could come out of this alive and sweep Mouse Girl’s grave at the Qingming Festival in future years.

After saying all this, he turned with a moan and had Xiao Qing take the money out from underneath the pillow. The words “The grave of the Mouse Girl I love” were to be carved on the tombstone, he instructed Xiao Qing, with his own name below. Just as Xiao Qing was leaving, money in hand, Wu Chao called him back in a whisper and told him to change “Mouse Girl” to “Liu Mei.”

Mouse Girl was weeping. The sound of her sobs spilled over every face and body here, like the patter of rain on plantain leaves. With the twenty-seven babies warbling in the background, her sobs seemed all the more wrenching.

Many of the skeletal people listened raptly and asked each other who was singing, singing so sadly. Others said it wasn’t singing but sobbing, it was the pretty girl—the new arrival—who was sobbing, the pretty girl in the man’s pants, pants that were long and wide. Every day she’d been walking back and forth and tramping on her pant legs, but now she was sitting on the ground and crying.

Mouse Girl sat amid the riverside greenery, her back against a tree, her legs screened by grass and blossoming wildflowers, the river gurgling close by. As she hummed her song of lamentation, the teardrops on her face looked like morning dew clinging to tree leaves. She was making a dress out of the pair of pants.

Xiao Qing stood close to Mouse Girl. As stationary as a street sign, he watched as skeletal people—and a dozen or more fleshed people—app
roached from all directions, forming an ever-denser throng. They stood close, listening attentively to Xiao Qing’s story. From his expression one could sense that Xiao Qing was on the road to forgetting, for his account was muddled, like an effort to piece together disjointed, incomplete dream sequences.

Everybody came over, excited by the knowledge that Mouse Girl could proceed to her resting place. They talked in hushed voices about how nobody so far had ever left this place and how Mouse Girl was the first, and how, moreover, her body and her beauty were fully intact.

Everyone in this huge crowd was eager to take a closer look at Mouse Girl as she sat sewing her dress among the grasses and beneath the trees, and so they circulated around her, interweaving in an orderly fashion, some pressing forward, others hanging back, like banks of waves forming in the ocean, every one of them blessing with a silent glance this lovely young woman who was about to proceed to her resting place.

An old voice emerged from the crowd that was circling Mouse Girl. “My child, you should bathe,” the voice said, as Mouse Girl bowed her head and wept and sewed her dress.

Mouse Girl raised her tear-stained face and looked in astonishment at this skeleton with the old voice.

“Soon you’ll be interred,” the old voice continued. “So you should bathe now.”

“I haven’t finished the dress,” Mouse Girl said.

“We’ll do it for you,” many women’s voices said.

Dozens of female skeletons came up to Mouse Girl and dozens of pairs of hands reached out to her. Mouse Girl lifted the unfinished dress, unsure into which pair of hands she should place it. “We used to work in a clothing factory,” two voices said to her.

Mouse Girl passed them the unfinished dress, then looked up at the old skeleton standing in front of her and asked with some embarrassment, “Can I keep my clothes on?”

The old skeleton shook his head. “You can’t bathe if you’re dressed.”

Mouse Girl lowered her head and in a slow movement let her outer clothes leave her body, then her underwear. When her legs emerged among the grasses and the blossoming wildflowers, she was completely unclothed. Lovely Mouse Girl lay on her back among the grasses and wildflowers, and after putting her legs together she folded her hands across her chest, then closed her eyes, as though entering a dreamlike serenity. The grasses and wildflowers growing so profusely around her lowered their heads and bent at the waist as though lost in admiration, their gaze concealing her body from onlookers. Thus she was hidden from view, and we saw only the grasses spreading and the wildflowers blooming.

“People over there make distinctions between family and strangers,” the hoary old skeleton continued, “but there are no such demarcations here. With interments over there one needs to be bathed by one’s kith and kin, but here we are all her family and we all need to bathe her. People there use bowls of water to bathe a body; here we cup our hands to make a bowl.”

Saying this, the old skeleton picked off a tree leaf, cupped it in his hand, and walked over to the stream. The crowd circling Mouse Girl made an orderly line, each one picking a leaf and cupping it in his or her hands, creating a long, long line of cups made of tree leaves, following the old skeleton to the riverside. Like a strand pulled from a ball of thread, they stretched out in a longer and longer arc. The old skeleton was the first to squat down, and after scooping up water in the bowl made by the tree leaf cupped in his hand, he got up and came walking back, and the people who followed him did the same. The old skeleton went up to where Mouse Girl lay, and after opening his hands sprinkled the water from his leaf bowl on top of the grass and wildflowers that covered Mouse Girl’s body. The grass and the flowers, sprinkled with the river water, trembled and shook, moistening Mouse Girl.

The old skeleton now began to walk off, holding the wet leaf in his left hand and wiping his eyes with his right, as though wiping away tears when parting from a loved one. Those behind followed suit, walking over to Mouse Girl with their leaf cups and sprinkling her with the cleansing water. They trailed behind the old skeleton, the line of them stretching away into the distance like a serpentine path. Some carried a leaf in their left hand, some in their right, and the leaves dripped their final droplets in the gentle breeze.

The thirty-eight victims of the department store fire had been walking back and forth in a group, but now they separated, each squatting down to scoop up water, then one by one walking over to Mouse Girl and sprinkling the grass and flowers so that her body was washed from head to toe. The little girl began to sob, and so did the little boy, and the other thirty-six gave sympathetic sobs of their own. Although they moved separately, their sobs reminded us that they were a tight-knit group.

Tan Jiaxin and his family were also in this long procession. They too gathered river water in their cupped hands and slowly approached the spot where Mouse Girl lay, and they sprinkled their benediction as Mouse Girl prepared to go to her resting place. As Tan Jiaxin’s daughter moved on, she wiped her tears with both hands and her body gave a little tremor; the leaf in her hand drifted to the ground. Where was
her
resting place going to be? she wondered. Tan Jiaxin stretched out an arm and patted her on the shoulder, saying, “So long as everyone is together, one place is as good as another.”

Zhang Gang and Li, the two board game enthusiasts and inveterate arguers, also arrived. They piously filled their leaf cups and sprinkled the contents over Mouse Girl’s grass-and-flower blanket. Noting a wistful look on Li’s face, Zhang Gang patted his skeletal shoulder with his own skeletal hand. “Don’t feel you have to wait for me—you can go on ahead, you know,” he said.

Li shook his head. “We haven’t finished our game.”

The crowd of people who had left after bathing Mouse Girl’s body now formed several long lines stretching into the distance, while people in other long lines continued to queue up to bathe Mouse Girl—it seemed that this ceremony had a long way to go. Zheng Xiaomin’s parents also arrived, her mother still ill at ease, huddling herself up, her hands on her thighs, her father sticking close to his wife, hugging her as though eager to cover her. They separated, however, to pick leaves and scoop up water, and then the man, closely followed by his wife, led the way, as they moved along in the queue.

Again the nightingale song burst forth, but only in brief snatches. Li Yuezhen walked over slowly in her white clothes, with the twenty-seven babies forming a line and singing as they followed behind her. Perhaps the grass was tickling the babies’ necks, for giggles often interrupted their beautiful song. Li Yuezhen carried the babies one by one to the broad tree leaves beside the river. As the babies lay on the leaves that swayed in the breeze, their song was no longer intermittent, but flowed freely like the river water itself.

Mouse Girl, surrounded by grass and flowers, heard the nightingale chorus rising and falling on all sides, and without conscious effort she began to sing the babies’ song. Mouse Girl became the lead member of the choir. She would sing a line and the babies would follow; she would sing another line and they would follow that; and the lead and the chorus would repeat themselves over and over, as though they had rehearsed this in advance, and Mouse Girl’s and the babies’ songs rose and fell, rose and fell.

My footsteps, originally heading on a path toward the funeral parlor, toward my father, still lingered here.

“I
have never been so clean as I am now,” Mouse Girl said. “I feel almost transparent.”

“We have bathed you.”

“I know, many of you have done that.”

“Not many of us—all of us.”

“It felt as though all the water in the river was washing me clean.”

“Everyone lined up to bathe you.”

“You’re so good to me.”

“Here we’re good to everyone.”

“And you’re seeing me off as well.”

“You’re the first to leave here to rest.”

We walked along the road, thronging around Mouse Girl as she proceeded to the funeral parlor. The road was a broad wilderness, so long and wide you could not see its end, as vast as the sky above our heads.

“When I was over there,” said Mouse Girl, “I liked spring best, and hated winter. Winter was too cold, so cold it made my body shrink, whereas in spring the flowers blossomed—and my body bloomed as well. But here I like the winter and was dreading the spring, thinking my body would rot when spring arrived. But now everything’s fine—I don’t need to worry about the spring.”

“Even if spring were to move as fast as an Olympic sprint champion can run in the world over there, it wouldn’t be able to catch up with you,” one of us said.

Mouse Girl chuckled.

“You’re so pretty,” another said.

“You’re saying that to please me, aren’t you?” Mouse Girl responded.

“You really are pretty,” we assured her.

“When I walked down the street over there, they would turn their heads to look at me. Now, over here, you turn around to look at me too.”

“It’s called a high head-turn rate.”

“You’re right—that’s what they call it over there.”

“That’s what we call it over here too.”

Mouse Girl chuckled once more. “There and here, everyone calls it a high head-turn rate.”

“The head-turn rate goes wherever you do,” we said.

“You’re sweet-talking me!”

Mouse Girl was wearing the dress she had made out of the pair of pants. The dress was so long that we couldn’t see her feet—all we could see was her dress trailing along the ground.

“The way your dress trails along the ground,” someone said, “it looks like a wedding dress.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Really,” we answered.

“You’re just saying that to humor me, aren’t you?”

“Not at all, it really looks like a wedding dress.”

“But I’m not going off to get married.”

“It looks like that, though.”

“I’m not wearing makeup, and brides always doll themselves up.”

“You may not be wearing makeup, but you’re more dazzling than any woman in makeup over there.”

“I’m not going off to marry Wu Chao.” A melancholy note crept into Mouse Girl’s voice. “I’m going to my burial place to rest.”

Mouse Girl’s tears began to flow, and we fell silent.

“I was too impulsive,” she said. “I shouldn’t have left him.”

She walked on with a heavy heart, saying dejectedly, “How will he manage by himself? It was I who got him into this.”

Mouse Girl wept as she made the long trek across the open country.

“I often got him into trouble,” she said. “When we were hairwashers in the salon, he had his sights set on something better, so he sought advice from the stylist on how to cut hair. He learned so quickly that the manager praised him and said he planned to have him be a hairdresser. Privately Wu Chao told me that once he officially became a hairdresser he’d make a better income, and once he was really proficient he would quit the job and the two of us would rent a space and open up a little salon of our own. There was a girl in the salon who liked him and was always sidling up to him and coming on strong. This got me mad, and I’d give her a hard time every chance I got. Once, we actually started to fight. She grabbed my hair and I grabbed hers, and Wu Chao came over to pull us apart. I shouted at him and asked him if he wanted her or wanted me and got him very embarrassed. I yelled at him so loud that all the clients in the salon turned around to look at me. The manager was furious and told me to clear the hell out. While the manager was still cursing me, Wu Chao went up to him and announced that we were both handing in our notice and told the guy he was an asshole, then came back and put his arm around me and led me out of the salon. I said we still had two weeks’ wages due, and he said the hell with that, I don’t give a shit. That drove me to tears. We walked down the street for a long time, him with his arm around me, and all along I was crying and saying I’d let him down and made him lose face and wrecked his future, because he was just about to become a hairdresser. He had one hand around me and kept wiping away my tears with the other, saying, ‘The hell with being a hairdresser, the hell with losing face, I couldn’t care less about any of that!’

“Later I suggested we look for work at another salon, given that he already had mastered the skills of a hairdresser, but he refused. I promised not to get jealous again and told him if another girl took a fancy to him I’d just ignore it, but he insisted there was no way he would work in a salon. So the only option was to work in a restaurant. The manager said since I was good-looking he’d have me serve in an upstairs private room, while Wu Chao could service the large dining room downstairs. The manager liked how dedicated and nimble he was, and it wasn’t long before Wu Chao was promoted to captain. In free moments he would go chat with the chef and pick up some cooking tips. Once he’d really learned the ropes, he told me, we’d quit and set up our own little restaurant.

“It was often businessmen and officials who booked the private room. There was one time when a whole bunch of them had a bit too much to drink, and one put his arms around me and started squeezing my boobs. I shouldn’t have made an issue of it, I should just have found an excuse to leave the room, but I ran downstairs sobbing to complain to Wu Chao. He could never tolerate anyone taking advantage of me, so he barged into the private room and started a fight. He was way outnumbered, and they got him down on the ground and started kicking him, kicking him in the head. It was only when I threw myself on top of him and begged them to stop that they finally left him alone. The restaurant manager came up and bowed and scraped and apologized to them. They had been the ones doling out abuse, but the manager didn’t stand up for us at all and cursed us out instead. Wu Chao’s face was covered in blood. I put my arms around him and helped him out of the private room, but once we got downstairs he pushed me aside, wanting to go back upstairs and fight another round. He only made it up a few steps before I dashed over and clung to one of his legs for dear life, crying and begging him not to. He came back down and helped me to my feet, and we left the restaurant clinging to each other. His nose was bleeding the whole time, and it was raining outside, and when we got to the other side of the road he didn’t want to go any farther, so he sat down on the sidewalk and I sat next to him. The rain poured down, drenching our clothes, and cars kept driving past and splashing us with the water from the puddles. ‘I want to kill someone!’ he said again and again, and I just couldn’t stop crying, begging him to calm down.

“Once more I’d ruined things for him—he never got to be a chef, and now we were never going to be able to open a restaurant. For two months we didn’t go to work. We never had much money in the first place, and now we could just eat one meal a day, and after two months of that our money was almost gone. We needed to find jobs, I said, but he refused—he said he wasn’t going to take any more abuse. I said that if we don’t have jobs we don’t have money, and without money all we can do is to wait around until we die of hunger. Even if it means we die of hunger, he said, I refuse to be pushed around. I wept, wept with heartbreak, not because I was angry with him but because the world is so unjust. Seeing me weep, he went out, and it was very late that night when he got back, bringing me two big, steaming-hot stuffed buns. Where did he get the money to buy these buns? I asked. He had spent the day collecting discarded cans and plastic bottles and selling them to a recycler, he said. When he left the room the next day, I went out with him. Why are you coming with me? he asked. To pick up bottles and cans with you, I said.”

“It looks like we’re there.”

We had all walked a long road and now we had arrived at the funeral parlor. As we swarmed inside, a hum of amazement arose in the waiting room. Seeing so many skeletons crowding in, the crematees turned to one another in confusion. “What are these things, and why have they come here?”

“I guess they just got here late,” one among the plastic chairs said.

“They got here way too late,” someone else said.

“They’re fucking old, these ones!” someone in one of the armchairs exclaimed.

“We’re vintage spirits,” one of us muttered, “and they’re draft beer.” A wave of titters rose from the line of skeletons.

There were a dozen or so crematees seated in the ordinary section of plastic chairs, and only three in the elite armchair zone. Several skeletons walked over to the armchairs, struck by how spacious and comfortable it seemed there. The man in the faded blue jacket and the grubby old white gloves approached and said wearily, “That’s the VIP zone. Please sit over here.”

His empty eyes suddenly saw me, and both delight and consternation rose and fell in his glance. This time he recognized me, because Li Qing’s hand had restored my face to its original shape.

I wanted to greet him with a gentle “Dad,” and my mouth opened, but no sound came out. I felt that he too wanted to greet me, but he made no sound either.

Then I felt the sad expression in his eyes as he asked with a trembling voice, “Is it you?”

I shook my head and pointed at Mouse Girl. “No. Her.”

He seemed to give a long sigh of relief, as though temporarily released from sorrow. He nodded, went and collected a slip of paper from the number dispenser by the entrance, then walked back and handed it to Mouse Girl. I saw that the number A53 was printed on it. He studied me carefully, and I heard a deep sigh as he walked away.

We sat down on the plastic chairs.

Mouse Girl gripped her ticket earnestly, for it was her passport to the place of rest. “Finally I’m going there.”

We felt that the whole waiting room was enveloped in a certain emotion, an emotion that Mouse Girl then expressed. “How is it I’m so reluctant to leave?”

We felt another emotion form, and this one too Mouse Girl expressed. “Why do I feel so upset?”

We felt there was one other emotion, and this too Mouse Girl put into words. “I should be happy.”

“That’s right,” we said. “You should be happy.”

No smile appeared on Mouse Girl’s face, for a matter of concern now occupied her mind. “When I leave,” she instructed, “please don’t any of you look at me, and when you leave here, please don’t look back. That way I can forget you and find true rest.”

We nodded in unison, the way leaves rustle in the wind.

Number A43 was called, and from one of the plastic chairs in front of us a man in a cotton Mao-jacket burial suit rose to his feet and shuffled off. We sat quietly, and as late-arriving crematees continued to enter, the usher in the faded blue jacket and worn white gloves greeted them and picked up numbers, then conducted them to the plastic seating.

All was quiet among the plastic chairs, but a hum of conversation could be heard coming from the armchairs. Three VIPs were discussing their expensive burial outfits and luxurious burial sites. One of them was wearing a fur burial robe, and the other two were quizzing him about the need for it.

“I can’t stand cold,” he explained.

“It’s not actually cold there,” one of the others observed.

“That’s true,” the third chipped in. “The winters are mild and the summers cool.”

“Who says it’s not cold?”

“That’s what the feng shui masters say.”

“No feng shui master has ever been there, so how would they know?”

“It doesn’t necessarily follow. You may not have eaten pork, but you’ve probably seen a pig run around.”

“Eating pork and seeing a pig are completely different things. I’ve never set any store by that feng shui business.”