Yan Lianke - Dream of Ding Village

Grandpa ignored the comment. He was more interested in me. ‘And her dad is the county governor?’

Dad just smiled.

‘I also hear the girl had epilepsy.’

My dad stared at Grandpa, wide-eyed, wondering where he could have got this information.

Grandpa knew from my dad’s reaction that the things he’d dreamed were true. With a deep sigh, he turned back to the road and continued watching Jia Genzhu’s house, which was visible in the distance. Although the wooden gates were unlocked, no one had come in or out of them in a long time. Just as Grandpa was beginning to think the house was empty, a man emerged from the gate carrying a strip of white cloth tied to a bamboo pole. After he had hung it from a tree, the man calmly went back inside. In Ding Village, this was the traditional way of signalling that someone had died. When Grandpa saw that strip of white cloth hanging outside Genzhu’s gate like a flag of surrender, he felt his heart skip a beat. He turned to my dad with a look of regret and relief.

‘Hui, I’ve seen the way you put on airs, but really, did you have to marry off your son to a girl like that?’

‘How could I have possibly found a better match?’ My dad seemed puzzled. ‘Don’t you know her father is moving up in the world? They just promoted him to mayor of Kaifeng!’

Grandpa snorted derisively and gave my dad a look of disgust. Without a word, he stood up, wiped the sweat from his face and the dirt from the seat of his trousers, and turned to the crowd of people at the school gate. The red cloth that had been spread over my grave was now draped over my golden coffin. Grandpa knew that meant the exhumation was finished, and that my remains were inside the new coffin. My leg bones were wrapped in the pair of red trousers, my ribs and arms in the red tunic, and the bones of my feet in a pair of red cloth shoes. In transferring my remains to the golden casket, the exhumation had been made a celebration, and a sorrowful event into a joyous one. When Grandpa began walking back to the school, my dad followed him.

‘Dad, you’re too old for this. Why don’t you come and live with me in the city?’

Grandpa glanced at his son and kept trudging towards the school.

‘Life is good in the city, and there’s nothing left for you here. All your relatives are gone. Why not leave this place and never come back?’

This time, Grandpa didn’t even bother to turn around.

At the school gate, eight young pallbearers lifted my golden coffin on to their shoulders and prepared to carry me from the school. The master of ceremonies lit another long string of firecrackers, and amid much noise, the procession began. Because I had died so young, there were no sons or daughters dressed in mourning to walk beside my coffin. But because I was getting married, the head of my coffin was decorated with the red cloth, which had been twisted into the shape of a flower. This was how I would leave Ding Village.

This was how they would carry me away.

They were taking me away from my grandpa and my school and my home.

They were taking me to a strange place where I’d be married to a crippled, epileptic girl who was six years too old for me.

They were taking me away.

There was the pop-popping of firecrackers and the babble of voices, fountains of sparks rising into the air and bits of burnt paper fluttering down. My father, walking behind my coffin, glanced around at the villagers who had come to join in this rare celebration.

He instructed the pallbearers to stop for a moment, then stood atop a little sand dune and announced loudly:

‘People of Ding Village, brothers and sisters, friends and neighbours, thank you for coming out today. In the future, if you ever need help with anything, anything at all, you can find me in the city. But I was born right here, and as a native son of Ding Village, you know I’ll always be truthful with you. So I may as well tell you about my latest venture: the county governor and I are planning to buy nearly 1,000 acres of land on the banks of the Yellow River, halfway between Kaifeng and the county seat, and turn it into a funeral park. It will be a burial site fit for an emperor, with the best location, steps away from the water, and feng shui to rival the imperial tombs of the Mang mountain range in Luoyang.

‘I know you’ve all heard the saying,’ my father continued in a booming voice, ‘that it’s best to be born in Suzhou or Hangzhou, and best to be buried in the mountains of Mang. But how many people are lucky enough to be born in those cities, or buried in those mountains? I can’t do anything about where you were born, but now that I’m a county cadre, the least I can do is see that you’re buried in style. Fellow villagers, friends and neighbours, I give you my pledge: anyone from Ding Village who wants to be buried in my funeral park will receive the finest plot of land on the banks of the Yellow River, right next to my son Ding Qiang. I guarantee that you’ll be able to purchase one of these fine burial sites for the lowest possible price. You’ll be getting a final resting place with a river view and auspicious feng shui practically for free.’

When my father had finished his sales pitch, he looked up at the blazing sun, which was nearly overhead, and swept his eyes over the crowd. Then he stepped down from the sand dune and signalled to the pallbearers that it was time to continue the procession.

The villagers trailed after my coffin, chattering excitedly about the planned funeral park. Grandpa stayed behind for a few last words with my father.

‘It’s safe to leave the village now,’ said Grandpa. ‘Jia Genzhu is dead. He won’t be bothering you any more.’

My father laughed. ‘Dad, as long as you don’t plan on killing me, I’ll always be safe. There’s not a person in any village on this plain who would dare to mess with me now.’

My father rejoined the funeral procession into the village, leaving Grandpa standing at my empty grave, next to the space where my golden coffin had been. Grandpa’s face had turned pale, his features rigid. My father’s words seemed to have triggered something in him, brought back some long-forgotten memory. He could feel his heart thundering in his chest, the perspiration oozing from his pores, the palms of his hands growing slick with sweat. He shifted his gaze from my father’s retreating back to the crowd of villagers and the golden coffin, draped with red silk, being carried into the village like a bridal sedan chair. Like a flame being held aloft. The midday sun was dazzling, and a layer of haze hung over the plain like a luminous veil. The silence in all directions was absolute. Willow Hamlet, Two-Li Village and Yellow Creek lay hushed beneath the sunlight. Even the cattle and sheep grazing among the dunes nibbled their dry grass in silence. The only living sounds came from the cicadas, crying lustily from the branches of the few remaining trees. Their buzzing, and the distant explosions of fireworks, echoed in Grandpa’s ears. As he turned to look at my empty grave, the grave they had opened and not bothered to fill in, realization came crashing down upon him: they were taking me away. My father and the others were carrying me away, taking me away from him for ever. Grandpa was alone in the school, friendless in the village, and abandoned by his family. I don’t know how I hadn’t noticed it before, but there wasn’t a single black hair left on Grandpa’s head. His silvery-white hair stuck up in tufts, making him look like a sacrificial lamb that had been hoisted into the air, waiting to be dashed upon the ground. The wrinkles on his weathered, ancient face were as numerous as cracks upon the arid plain, and the eyes that followed my funeral procession held no sorrow, or anger, or tears. All that was left was an indescribable hopelessness. His eyes were twin pools of despair, wells that had dried up long, long ago.