Yan Lianke - Dream of Ding Village

Grandpa followed the dead, silent boulevard until he came to the crossroads marking Red Star Square, where the village blood station used to be. There had been a large, circular flower bed in the square, but the flowers were gone and the soil was trampled flat. This was where my dad and his helpers had set up shop, arranging marriages for the young, unmarried dead of Cottonwood. There were a few dozen villagers crowded around the tables, asking questions about this and that. Some were there to sign up dead sons, daughters, brothers or sisters for the matchmaking service, while others had come to check if there was any news on a suitable match.

A middle-aged man handed my dad a photograph of a smiling, handsome teenage boy. After scrutinizing the photo, my dad looked up at the man, taking in his tattered, dirty undershirt and mildewed, sun-bleached straw farmer’s hat.

‘Handsome boy. Was he your son?’

The farmer, gratified, nodded and smiled.

‘How old was he?’

‘Sixteen.’

‘When did he die?’

‘Three years ago.’

‘Did he go to school?’

‘Until junior high.’

‘Was he ever engaged?’

‘Yes, but when she found out he had the fever, she married someone else.’

‘Are you looking for any particular type of girl?’

‘No, just someone close to his age.’

My dad passed the photo to one of his assistants, a slightly effeminate young man, with the cryptic comment, ‘Mid-range.’

The young man flipped through a stack of several dozen photos until he came to one of an average-looking girl. After reading the biographical information printed on the back of the photo, he looked up at the farmer.

‘How about this one? Twenty years old, grade-school education, and no special requirements, just a dowry of 4,000 yuan.’

‘Four thousand?’ The farmer sounded shocked.

‘That’s about as cheap as it gets.’

‘Maybe you could look again,’ the farmer forced a smile, ‘and find us something under 2,000 yuan. That’s all my family can afford.’

Embarrassed, the young man began flicking through a larger stack of photos. He pulled out a photo of a woman holding a baby, and showed it to the farmer. ‘This one’s only 2,000 yuan.’

The farmer glanced at the photo. ‘But my son was just a boy,’ he said with the same forced smile. ‘She looks too old for him.’

After a bit more searching, the young man came up with a photo of a wide-eyed girl, slightly on the chubby side.

‘How about her? The family says they’ll settle for 3,000 yuan.’

She wasn’t a bad-looking girl, the farmer thought, and if he could borrow another 1,000 yuan, the price was within reach. After a few more questions about the girl’s age, name, hometown and family situation, he nodded in agreement and handed over 200 yuan for the matchmaking fee.

‘How soon can we do the wedding?’ the farmer asked.

‘You’ll have an answer within three days.’

‘When you talk to the girl’s family, can you tell them my son was a high-school graduate?’

‘Not unless you have a diploma proving he was.’

‘But he’s so much better-looking than her. If they were alive, he’d be out of her league.’

‘But her family owns a brickworks, and their business is booming. They’ve got more money than they can spend.’

‘If they’re so rich, why do they need a 3,000 yuan dowry?’

‘That’s not the point!’ The young man lost his patience. ‘It’s about return on investment. They didn’t spend all that money raising a daughter, just to give her away for free.’

The farmer thought for a moment. ‘My son was such a sweet-tempered boy. If you ever met him, you’d know. He’ll treat that girl like a princess, every day of her life.’

The farmer was so earnest that the young man had to smile. ‘Don’t you worry, sir. We’ll present a strong case to the family, and do everything we can to talk them down on the price.’

Grinning happily, the farmer stepped away from the table. The next customer was a middle-aged woman looking for a match for her daughter. After my dad had introduced the woman to his young assistant, he handed him a picture of the daughter and told him to find a photo of a man about twenty-five years old.

At this point Grandpa, who had been watching some distance away, stepped forward, coughed and said, ‘Hui?’

When my father heard his name, he turned around in surprise. ‘Dad! What are you doing here?’

Grandpa pulled my father to one side so that they could talk privately. They stood at the edge of the trampled flower bed, near the entrance to a building that had once been the village blood bank. Grandpa noticed that the bright-red cross above the doorway looked new, as if it had been painted yesterday. He could almost smell the fresh red paint, and the thick red stench of blood.

Standing under that red cross, Grandpa told my dad about his meeting with Jia Genzhu, and about how the man had threatened to kill him if he ever came into the village again.

‘That’s why I think it’s best if you don’t come back to Ding Village,’ Grandpa said.

When my dad heard this, a smile blossomed on his face. His lips curled back like flower petals. ‘Jia Genzhu is a nobody,’ he told Grandpa. ‘I’ve got so much clout in the city now, that if I so much as stamp my foot, I can bring down the rafters of his house!’

‘But son, now that he’s dying, he’s got nothing to lose. He’s not afraid of anything.’

‘You go back to Ding Village’ — my dad was still smiling — ‘and ask him if he wants a posthumous marriage for his cousin Hongli. You ask him if he wants his parents to go on living happily after he dies. Because if he does, he’d better mind his own business and keep his nose out of mine.’

At this point, somebody called my dad’s name. He turned and walked back to the crowd, leaving my grandpa alone outside the abandoned blood bank.

Grandpa didn’t return to Ding Village that night. He drove back into the city with my dad, and went out for dinner with my parents and sister. At a four-storey restaurant strung with colourful lights, my dad treated the family to a first-class meal of roasted chicken, Peking duck, and a kind of soup my grandpa had never heard of before. The thick soup, served in very small bowls, was made of transparent slices of something that might have been shark fin, and garnished with coriander leaves and shredded ginger. It had an odd fishy odour, and seemed to have a cooling effect. After Grandpa drank it, he felt a slight chill pass through his body, as if he had just given blood. The second their bowls were emptied, they were cleared away by one of the gorgeous waitresses. My father looked at Grandpa expectantly.

‘Did you like the soup?’

‘It seemed very fresh.’

‘It costs 220 yuan per bowl, about the same as a coffin.’ My father watched to see how Grandpa would react.

When he heard the price, Grandpa’s jaw dropped and his face went pale. He wanted to say something, but he couldn’t seem to get the words out. After they finished dinner, my parents and sister decided to take Grandpa on a tour of the city. As they left the brightly lit restaurant, Grandpa kept asking my dad how much the meal had cost, but my dad refused to say. ‘Don’t worry about the price,’ he told Grandpa. ‘I can afford it. That’s all you need to know.’