Yu Hua - The Seventh Day

“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.”

The other two fell silent. “Nobody who’s gone there has ever come back,” the man in the fur robe said, “so nobody knows whether it’s hot or cold. If by any chance the conditions are harsh, I’m all prepared.”

“He doesn’t understand,” a skeleton near me muttered. “Fur comes from animals. He’s going to be reborn an animal.”

The other two VIPs asked the man in the fur robe where his burial site was. On a tall mountain peak, they were told, and one where the mountain falls away on all sides, so that he could enjoy a 360-degree view.

The other two VIPs nodded. “Excellent choice.”

“They don’t have a clue,” the same skeleton muttered. “A mountain should have high spurs on both sides rather than fall away sheer. If it has high spurs, one’s children will prosper, but if it falls away on both sides, one’s children will end up beggars.”

The number V12 was now called. The VIP in the fur robe rose with a slight stoop, as though from extensive experience of emerging from sedan cars. He nodded to his two peers, then walked smugly toward the oven room.

It was now the turn of A44. The number was slowly called three times, and then it was on to A45. This number too was called slowly three times, and then it was on to A46. When the numbers were called, it was like the sound of soughing wind on a dark night — drawn out and lonely. This lonesome sound made the waiting room seem empty and unreal. After three unanswered summonses, A47 stood up — a female figure who came forward hesitantly.

We sat quietly around Mouse Girl, conscious that the hour of her leaving was growing closer. After the VIPs V13 and V14 left, the call went out for A52 and our eyes could not help but turn toward Mouse Girl. She sat lost in thought with her hands clasped in front of her chest, her head bowed.

After A52 was called three times, we heard Mouse Girl’s A53 called and we bowed our heads in unison, conscious that Mouse Girl was walking away from the plastic chairs.

Although I had averted my gaze, I could still in my imagination see Mouse Girl, trailing a wedding-gown-like dress behind her, walking off to her resting place. I could see her walk off but did not see the oven room and did not see the burial ground. What I saw was her walking toward a place where ten thousand flowers bloom.

Then I heard the plastic seats give a slight creak and I knew the skeletons were rising from their places and leaving, withdrawing gently, the way a tide goes out.