Jia Pingwa - Ruined City

“You have all this money and you hid it from me? Do you know how much trouble I had to go through to get sixty thousand yuan?”

“No matter how much I have, it would never fill that opium pit of yours. If I didn’t save the money, what would we do in an emergency? Your mother is away, and that’s why you’ve had a tough time. But you did well. I thought that no one would help you out with the way you are, but you actually managed to borrow the needed amount. Tell me who the lenders were, and we’ll pay them back tomorrow.”

“Who would lend me so much money? The Public Security Bureau gave me four days to pay the fine, so urgently it was like trying to put out a fire. Luckily an art dealer bought your calligraphy and paid enough for me to get you out.”

It was like a thunderclap to Gong, who hurried to open the closet. Ninety percent of his favorite works were gone, and a quick check told him that not much was left of the antique scrolls he had collected over the years. He overturned his desk and flew into a rage.

“You’re fucking hopeless. You sold off everything, all for sixty thousand yuan! You stupid shit. And you say you’ve saved me? You just killed me. I didn’t need you to save me. I’d rather spend five years in jail than have you destroy me like this. Why didn’t you sell the house while you were at it? Why didn’t you sell your mother, too?”

“Why are you so upset, Dad? You’re so tightfisted, it was like slicing off a piece of your flesh whenever I asked for a few measly yuan. How was I supposed to know we had that much money in the house? I didn’t have time to worry about how much I’d get for those scrolls; all I cared about was getting you out. You have talent and can produce more calligraphy, so what’s the big deal?”

Gong kicked Xiaoyi out the door. “What the fuck do you know?” he screamed. “You think I can write whenever I want? Am I a printer?” He continued his tirade, calling his son all sorts of names. Having finally tired himself out, Gong lay down on the bed, wondering how someone like him could have a prodigal son like that. Xiaoyi smoked so much opium that he barely looked human, and worse yet, the idiot had squandered nearly everything over a minor incident. What would become of them if he kept at it? Then his thoughts shifted to himself. In the past, he had spent up to three days in jail after being arrested, but few people knew about that. But this time the news had gotten around, and everyone would be calling him a gambling addict. Cradling his money, he had to curse the way the ease of getting money had ruined him and his son. Overcome by extreme sadness, he decided to end his life. He looped a rope over the rafter, made a noose, and climbed onto a stool.

But then his thoughts turned to the despicable man who had brokered the deal between his son and the art dealer. Who was the man, and who was the dealer? “Damn you, you thieves; you took advantage of me when you thought I didn’t have any money. You deserve to die a terrible death. I’m going to show you my wealth today before I die.” Jumping off the stool, he pasted hundred-yuan bills on the wall until all the cash was used up. He chortled when it was done before regretting his action, for that might bring more derision. With so much money in the house, why would the son have to sell everything for sixty thousand yuan to get his old man out of jail? He splashed ink on the walls before using a coal rake to scratch and scrape the walls until the money, along with the wall, was turned to pulp. Throwing the rake down, he sat on the floor and cried like a lowing old cow. “It’s over. It’s all over. Now I’m truly penniless.”

He slapped his hands on the floor, then bit off the three rings on his fingers, swallowing them one by one.

. . .

After a cup of tea, Zhuang was about to leave when Wang Ximian and Ruan Zhifei walked in, followed by several people who brought with them a large custom-made case for sacrificial implements. It was an intricate case: the bottom had a gold mountain and silver ridges made of colored slices of pigs’ heads, while the top displayed flour figurines depicting the eight immortals crossing the ocean, the several sages in the bamboo grove, the twelve beauties of Nanjing, and the eighteen club-wielding monks of Shaolin Temple, all delicately created and lifelike.

After greeting Wang and Ruan, Zhuang said: “I just got here. I figured you’d come soon. Let’s offer the sacrificial drinks together.” They laid the case on the bier, lit some incense and candles, and knelt on one knee to burn spirit money in a clay bowl by the bier. Then, a cup of liquor in hand, they each offered three kowtows and six bows and, calling out “Brother Gong,” sprinkled the liquor into the burning paper.

“It’s dark out; why don’t they have lights in the yard?” Ruan asked as they got to their feet. “And no one is crying. It’s so quiet, it doesn’t look like someone has died in this house. Where’s Gong Xiaoyi? Xiaoyi, where are you? Why aren’t you holding the wake and greeting the guests?”

The mourning relatives wailed a few times before stopping. Some went into the yard to fetch a lamp from one of the side rooms, while another walked to the bedroom to get Gong Xiaoyi. A while later the relative came out to say, “Cousin Xiaoyi is sick.”

Zhuang and some of the others went to the bedroom; it was in total disarray, with the walls in tatters, though edges of the money were still visible. Xiaoyi was curled up in bed, foaming at the mouth, his limbs quivering with spasms, his body shaking uncontrollably. Ruan walked up and slapped him. “Why couldn’t you be the one who died? The vice will be gone only when you’re dead.” With his eyes fixed on Zhuang, Xiaoyi did not respond.

“All right; that’s enough. He just needs a fix. You can scream at him, you can hit him, he won’t know,” Zhuang said. “Let’s go sit out there and talk about what needs to be done now, since Xiaoyi is not going to be much help.”

They all went to another side room, all but Zhao Jingwu, who stayed behind and took out three small packages of opium when everyone was gone. “These are from your Uncle Zhuang. He was afraid you’d need it during the funeral preparations. And he was right.”

“Uncle Zhuang is the only one who’s nice to me,” Xiaoyi said as he lit up. A few puffs later he was a different person, fully energized. “Go on out there, Brother Zhao. Let me lie here for a while.”

“Are you looking to get revenge again?” Zhao knew what he was like.

“No, no more revenge. I’ve killed everyone in the city many times over. This time I’m just going to enjoy it and ask Buddha, the Holy Mother, and the immortals to sing.”

“Don’t enjoy it too much. Friends of your father’s have come to pay their respects and are outraged that you, the filial son, did not go out to greet them. Do you need another slap? Your mother isn’t home yet, and if the elders get angry and leave, what are you going to do with your father’s body? Leave it out there to stink and rot away?” Zhao dragged Xiaoyi over to the side room.

Zhuang, Wang, and Ruan were assigning tasks to the relatives — contacting the crematorium, hiring a vehicle to transport the corpse, buying funeral garb, and getting an urn. Someone asked if Xiaoyi’s mother had been notified and was told that a telegram had been sent. She would fly back early the next morning, and would need to be picked up at the airport. They had to make sure that nothing happened to her if she was overcome by grief. Xiaoyi, who was listening quietly off to the side, kowtowed to each of them when they were done. “Everything requires money; where am I going to get it? Why don’t I sell the two jade-inlaid tables tomorrow?”

“You’re still thinking about selling stuff?” Ruan Zhifei said. “Do you want your father to turn over in his grave? When your mother gets back, we will talk to her about it. You just go kneel there and burn some paper for your father.”