Yu Hua - The Seventh Day

Zhang Gang died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Li was executed six months later.

This case immediately made headline news. Everyone was talking about it, saying how the police like to throw their weight around, but when it comes down to it they are all useless, even a man who’s got no balls can slash one of them to death so easily and wound another nine, two seriously. If it had been a crowd of men with balls, they could surely have massacred the entire public security bureau. Hearing these comments, the policemen refused to concede they were at fault, arguing that had they known Li planned to kill people they would have overwhelmed him from the start. People who arrive at the public security bureau with backpacks are normally there to deliver bribes, one policeman pointed out — who could have known that this guy would pull out a knife, rather than a gift?

For over ten years Zhang Gang’s parents made efforts to see that their son was awarded the title of “martyr.” The city public security bureau objected to this, on the grounds that Zhang Gang did not die in the line of duty. His parents then embarked on a long petitioning effort, appealing first to the provincial public security bureau, then taking things up to the public security ministry in Beijing. The city public security bureau was driven to distraction by the parents’ campaign. One year, as China’s two major political congresses were being held in Beijing, Zhang Gang’s parents unfurled a banner in Tiananmen Square, demanding that their son be recognized posthumously as a martyr. The authorities in Beijing were infuriated, and they subjected their colleagues in the provincial and city public security bureaus to scathing criticism. The city public security bureau changed its tack, submitting a request that Zhang Gang be awarded martyr status. The provincial authorities passed this request on to Beijing, but were stonewalled. Zhang Gang’s parents persisted in their appeals, making a particular point of boarding a train to Beijing when the two big meetings of the Communist Party Congress were in session, but they would always be intercepted en route, then held in custody in one small hotel or another and not released until the meetings were over. Once the story of Zhang Gang’s parents’ petitioning campaign was publicized on the Internet, the city stopped sending agents to intercept and detain them, and changed its tactics. During every sensitive period when the meetings were in session or the Party Congress was on, they would send people to escort Zhang Gang’s parents on sightseeing excursions instead. Every year, the parents ended up enjoying the kind of expense account tourism that only Party leaders normally get to enjoy. After all this fruitless petitioning, their despair gave way to a taste for novelty, and every time a sensitive date approached, they would make a point of asking what famous scenic spot remained to be seen, meaning they would like to go and see it. The city government was at its wits’ end — it was said that it must have spent a million yuan on Zhang Gang’s parents during these ten years.

I was searching for my father among the throngs of skeletal people. I had the uplifting sensation that he had left traces here, even if those traces were as faint as the distant call of a departing goose. Surely I would discern the marks he had left, just as one feels the movement of a breeze as it ruffles one’s hair. I knew that I might not be able to recognize my father even if he was standing in front of me, but he would be able to recognize me at a glance. I would make my way toward the skeletal people — som etimes a large crowd, sometimes a small clump — and stand before them as though on display, hoping that one among them would call me by my name.

I knew that such a voice would sound foreign to my ears, just as Li Qing’s greeting had sounded unfamiliar. But I would be able to distinguish my father’s call just from his tone. In the world that had left me, there had always been an intimate note to my father’s greeting, and in this new world that should remain unchanged.

Here there roamed everywhere the figures of those who had no graves. Denied a place of rest, these figures were like trees in motion — som etimes scattered, disconnected trees, sometimes dense stands of timber. When I walked among them, it was as though I were wending my way through a well-managed forest. I was looking forward to hearing the sound of my father’s voice, ahead of me or behind me, to the left or the right. I was looking forward to that call of “Yang Fei!”

Often I would run into people wearing black armbands. With the black gauze fastened in place, their sleeves seemed empty. The absence of skin and flesh told me these people must have been here a long time. They would look at me and smile — a smile conveyed not by facial expression but through their vacant eyes. It was a smile of understanding, because we were all in the same boat. In the other world no one would wear a black armband on our behalf — we were all grieving for ourselves.

One such self-mourner noticed my searching look. He stood in front of me and I gazed at his bony face. There was a little hole in his forehead. He greeted me in a friendly fashion.

“Are you looking for someone?” he asked. “Or for several people?”

“Just one,” I said. “My father. He may be here.”

“Your father?”

“Yang Jinbiao is his name.”

“Names don’t mean anything here.”

“He was in his sixties—”

“It’s impossible to tell people’s ages here.”

I looked at the skeletons walking in the distance and close by, and it was true that one couldn’t tell how old they were. My eyes could distinguish only tall and short, wide and narrow, and my ears could differentiate only male and female, old and young.

Recalling how debilitated my father had become in his final days, I added further details: “He’s five foot seven, very thin—”

“Everyone here is thin.”

Looking at these people who were all so thin that only their bones were left, I didn’t know how further to describe my father.

“Do you remember what he was wearing when he came over?” he asked.

“A railroad uniform,” I told him. “A brand-new railroad uniform.”

“How long ago was it that he came over?”

“It’s been over a year now.”

“I’ve seen people in other kinds of uniform, but nobody wearing a railroad uniform.”

“Maybe somebody else has noticed him.”

“I’ve been here a long time. If I haven’t seen him, nobody else will have, either.”

“Maybe he changed his clothes.”

“A lot of people do change before coming here, it’s true.”

“I feel he must be here somewhere.”

“If you can’t find him, he may have gone to the burial ground.”

“He has no grave.”

“If he has no grave, then he should be here.”

As I wandered here and there in search of my father, I found myself once more approaching the two avid chess players. They sat cross-legged on the grass, as concentrated as two statues. Their bodies were completely motionless, and it was just their hands that continually gestured, as though making moves. I saw neither board nor chess pieces, just their hands moving forward and back or side to side, and I couldn’t tell whether the game they were playing was Chinese chess or Go.

One skeleton’s hand had just put down a piece, only to raise it again immediately. Two skeletal hands immediately clasped that skeletal hand, and their owner shouted, “You can’t retract your move!”