Dream of Ding Village

by Yan Lianke

  Grandpa stared at Zhao Dequan, dumbstruck. Beneath his faint smile, Grandpa could discern a greyish tinge, the pallor of a man who didn’t have much longer to live. If the colour of his skin were any indication, he’d probably be in need of the coffin very soon, maybe in a matter of days.

  Zhao Dequan’s comment about Ding Hui made Grandpa realize that, outside of his dreams, he hadn’t seen his eldest son for more than two months. He remembered the dream he’d had of Ding Hui picking out caskets at the county coffin factory, and another one, just a few nights ago, about him travelling around the countryside, selling coffins . . .

  2

  At night, the moonlight shone as bright as the sun.

  In the daytime, the sunlight was docile, as meek and mild as moonlight.

  Spring began in earnest. The young wheat, having raised its head into the world, now stiffened and stood tall. The landscape was sprinkled with people weeding or watering the soil. Anyone well enough to work was out in the fields, even those with the fever. In Ding Village, Yellow Creek and Two-Li Village, and in the more distant hamlets of Summerlin, Junction, Old Riverton and Ming Village, the spring planting season had begun. As the villagers bustled around shouldering hoes and shovels, my father travelled from village to village, peddling his black coffins.

  As soon as he arrived in a new place, my father would set up a table at the entrance to the village and place a stack of forms, stamped with the official county seal, on the table. Then he would announce to the villagers that anyone who had the fever was entitled to one black government-manufactured coffin. All you had to do was fill out a form with your name, age, medical history, present symptoms, etc., have it stamped by the village party committee, sign your name at the bottom and affix your thumbprint to certify that you really did have the fever and might keel over in your field any day now. Then you would be entitled to purchase one black coffin, at cost price. If you purchased such a casket at market price, it would set you back 400 or 500 yuan, but by filling out this one simple form, you could get the same casket for the manufacturer’s cost of only 200 yuan. Anyone who met the criteria, and had 200 in cash, was entitled to share in this generous government subsidy . . .

  My father was a very welcome visitor, drawing queues of people everywhere he went. One day he was ‘serving the people’ in Old Riverton, the next he was doing his bit for the sick in Ming Village, a settlement on the east bank of the old Yellow River path, five or six miles from Ding Village. Ming Village had been hit hard by the fever, and its residents needed coffins as badly as they had needed grain during the famine years. After setting out from Ding Village early that morning, my father had made a stop in the county capital to turn in the forms he’d collected the day before, and had picked up two trucks carrying a consignment of eighty black coffins. Now he was on his way to Ming Village to sell them.

  When the villagers saw the trucks rumbling up the road beside the old river path and coming to a stop at the gates of the village, they rushed in from the fields to greet them. The whole of Ming Village gleamed beneath a golden sun. Rays of sunlight shone on the tiled rooftops of the neighbourhood’s two-storey houses bought with blood. Light cascaded through glass doors and windows, and glinted from facades of spotless white porcelain tiles, making the village seem warm and bright. The large trucks, each with a cargo of forty black coffins, were parked outside the gates like two black mountain ranges. The overpowering stench of fresh black lacquer mingled with other odours: the soft perfume of wood shavings, sticky yellow glue and the metallic traces of coffin nails. The motley smell drifted into the fields, masking the scent of spring, and wafted through the lanes and alleyways, giving them a dark, funereal air.

  No longer did my father have to do all the work himself. He had a crew of young men to unload coffins from the trucks and help villagers fill out their paperwork, while he sat at a separate table, sipping water and calling up the villagers one by one to collect their completed forms and payments. After he had counted the cash and stuffed it in his black leather case, he would issue a receipt and direct the person to the trucks to collect his or her coffin.

  Ming Village was wealthier than Ding Village – at least as wealthy as Cottonwood, the model blood-selling village my father and the others had toured so many years ago. But it had a higher incidence of the fever, and many more people had taken ill than in Ding Village. There was hardly a family untouched by the fever, and households with several sick family members were commonplace. Because Ming Village was a model blood-selling village that had grown rich during the boom, the villagers no longer wrapped their dead in straw mats or buried them in simple graves outside the gates. Black coffins were the fashion. But, after so many deaths, wood for coffins was in short supply. The villagers had chopped down all the usable trees in and around the village. Even the trees along the main road and in nearby villages had been lopped, leaving the landscape bare.

  Then my father arrived with his cargo of coffins, like a shipment of coal before a big snowstorm. A timely visitor in their hour of need.

  The villagers rushed in from their fields and queued up at the village gate, eager for a chance to buy a discounted coffin. The enormous line of people stretched 200 yards down the lane. To prevent any family from buying more coffins than they were entitled to, my father enlisted the help of the village mayor.

  ‘Mr Mayor,’ my father said, ‘I wonder if you’d help me vet these application forms.’

  The mayor thought it over. ‘I don’t know . . . if I don’t tend to my family’s land soon, our crops are going to die.’

  ‘Does anyone in your family have the fever?’ my father asked.

  ‘No. None of us sold blood.’

  ‘Do you have any elderly family members?’

  ‘My father’s eighty-four.’

  ‘How about I sell you a coffin now, so you’ll have it ready for him, just in case?’

  After a long pause, the mayor asked: ‘Can you give me a discount?’

  My father did a quick calculation. ‘I’ll give it to you for one-fifty. That’s fifty below cost.’

  ‘Will you make sure it’s a good one?’

  ‘I’ve got three Grade-A coffins. You can take your pick.’

  And so the mayor, official village seal in hand, agreed to help my dad vet the applicants. The first thing he did was to scan the queue for villagers who had no sick family members, and yank them out of line. Then he sat down next to my dad and looked through the pile of forms, weeding out applicants who had claimed their fever was full-blown when in fact it was only mild. When this was done, he got down to the business of selling coffins.

  By midday, the villagers had made their purchases and were carrying home their coffins. The streets of Ming Village were thronged with people carrying shiny black caskets, singing the praises of the local task force on HIV and AIDS and talking about how lucky they were that the government had been so good to them. Upon reaching home, some of the villagers discovered that they didn’t have room for a coffin, so they simply left them sitting in the middle of the courtyard or leaned them next to their doors, right on the street. Everywhere you looked there were shiny black caskets. Ming Village was a sea of coffins. The villagers were so thrilled by their cut-rate caskets that they forgot all about the fever, forgot all about their sick relatives lying on their deathbeds. Many walked around with cheerful, carefree smiles, while some shed actual tears of joy. Other families, whose sick relatives were not yet sick enough to merit a coffin, had managed to worm their way around the rules and purchase a casket anyway. Unable to flaunt their good fortune, they locked their casket inside the house where no one could see it, then stood outside exchanging pleasantries about the fine spring weather with passers-by.

  The next day, my dad made a trip to Old Riverton, not far from Ming Village. This time, he brought three trucks filled with coffins. He instructed the drivers to stop the vehicles in a deserted area about a mile away, so that he could walk into the village alone and reconnoitre. As
he strolled through Old Riverton, my dad noted the cement roads and multi-storey tiled houses, all built within the last decade. He could tell that the village was wealthy, and that the villagers must have sold a lot of blood back in the day. He knew they would now be suffering badly from the fever, but he also knew that most of them would have saved up enough money to afford a coffin. Having established these facts, my dad found his way to the home of the village party secretary, introduced himself as the vice-chairman of the county task force on HIV and AIDS, and produced a letter of introduction from the county government. As soon as the party secretary, a flustered young man, read the letter, he invited my dad to sit down for a glass of tea. After asking a few standard questions about the extent of the fever, village mortality rates, etc., my dad decided that it was time to test the waters.

  ‘So, does anyone in your family have the fever?’ he asked casually, sipping his tea.

  The young party secretary lowered his head, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  ‘How many?’ My dad was all sympathy.

  ‘My older brother died, my younger brother’s bedridden, and now it seems like I’ve got it, too.’

  Silently, Dad handed the young man a handkerchief so he could wipe away his tears. After a moment, he said resolutely: ‘Mr Secretary, I probably shouldn’t do this, but I’m going to make an executive decision: I’m sending our next shipment of coffins right here to Old Riverton, to take care of our sick folks here. But I’ll need your help to keep an eye on things . . . we don’t want people who aren’t sick buying up all the cheap coffins and leaving none for the people who really need them, right? And because the government is selling them at cost, there won’t be enough to go around. At market prices, one of these coffins will set you back at least 500 yuan, as I’m sure you know. But since it’s up to me, no one in Old Riverton will pay a penny more than 200.’

  ‘As for your family . . .’ Dad paused, pretending to think. ‘Since your younger brother’s fever is already full-blown, I think I can manage to get him a coffin for 100 yuan, half the manufacturing cost.

  The village party secretary gazed at my dad, tears of gratitude welling up in his eyes.

  ‘Now, the regulations say you’re not eligible for a coffin until you’ve been sick for at least three months, but you’re the village party secretary after all, one of our grassroots officials. That ought to count for something. Tell you what . . . when I’m finished distributing the coffins, why don’t you pick one out for yourself at the same price? Just don’t let the folks in the village find out.’

  The party secretary disappeared into another room. He emerged a moment later with 100-yuan notes, which he handed to my dad. Then, smiling, he went out to ring the bell, summoning the villagers to gather in the square to buy their coffins.

  By noontime, Old Riverton was filled with shiny black caskets. Like its neighbour Ming Village, Old Riverton had become a coffin-town. The scent of wood and fresh lacquer rolled through the streets and alleyways, permeating every corner of the village. Now that they had their coffins, the inhabitants of Old Riverton, sick and well alike, could rest easy. At the very least, it was one less thing to worry about. Laughter and conversation, sounds that had all but died out over the last two years, were heard in the village once again.

  3

  Grandpa hadn’t seen his eldest son for more than two months. He wanted to see my dad, wanted to visit the house and tell him a few things, but if he went there and found my mother alone, it would be awkward. It wasn’t that Grandpa didn’t like his daughter-in-law, he just never knew what to say to her.

  All day long, Grandpa thought about paying a visit to his son. Just before dusk, my uncle showed up at Grandpa’s door. The first words out of his mouth were: ‘Dad, Hui wants you to come over to the house for dinner. He has something to tell you.’

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Grandpa accompanied Uncle to our family’s house. The gentle mid-spring sunshine cast a pleasant yellow glow on the white porcelain-tiled walls, reminding Grandpa of the homes and courtyards of Ming Village and Old Riverton, the places he had seen in his dream. The only difference was a patch of spicy mustard greens on the south end of our courtyard, where the chicken coop and the pig pen used to be. The plants were a deep, rich shade of green, each about as tall as a chopstick standing on end. Their leaves were the same shape as the leaves of the scholar tree, only thicker and less glossy, covered with a network of tender veins. The plants jostled for space, spilling luxuriantly into half the courtyard and filling the air with their pungent, intoxicating fragrance. Spicy mustard greens gave off a scent not unlike peppermint, but theirs was a cruder sort of smell, not as delicate or refined as peppermint. It was precisely this crudeness that made the county deputy governor love them so. They suited his taste. Naturally, it was for the deputy governor that my parents had planted them.

  As Uncle led the way into the courtyard, the first thing that caught Grandpa’s eye was the enormous patch of spicy mustard greens. My mother, carrying a gourd filled with white flour, greeted Grandpa and Uncle on her way to the kitchen. ‘Hi, Dad,’ she said. ‘We’re having a treat for lunch today – noodles mixed with spicy mustard greens.’

  My mother treated Grandpa as if nothing untoward had happened. It was just like it had been years ago, when she had first married into the family. My father also treated Grandpa as if there had never been any conflict between them. When he saw Grandpa at the door, he quickly composed his face into a smile, and pulled up a straight-backed chair with a comfortable cushion for Grandpa to sit on. The three men sat down together. Grandpa, Dad and Uncle: three corners of a triangle.

  The kind reception unnerved Grandpa; he was uncomfortable at being treated so warmly by his son and daughter-in-law, when he felt so estranged from them. Flushing with embarrassment, he turned his head away and looked around the room. It was more or less as he remembered it. There were the same white-washed walls, a long red table along one wall, and a television and a sofa at opposite ends of the room. The television cabinet was red, its doors decorated with golden peonies.

  Grandpa noticed a cobweb in one corner of the room. Usually my mother swept out cobwebs as soon as they appeared, but this one had fanned out from a corner of the ceiling to the top of the refrigerator. That one cobweb made the house seem different from before. For Grandpa, it was a sign that something had changed. Then he spied several large wooden trunks in a corner behind the door. He realized as soon as he saw them. His son really was moving away.

  Grandpa couldn’t take his eyes off the wooden trunks.

  ‘I might as well tell you,’ said my dad, taking a drag of his cigarette, ‘we’re getting ready to move.’

  Grandpa turned to stare. ‘Move where?’

  Dad shifted his gaze uncomfortably. ‘First to the county capital. Then, when I’ve saved a little more money, to Kaifeng.’

  ‘Is it true you’re vice-chairman of the county task force on HIV and AIDS?’ Grandpa asked.

  My dad looked pleased. ‘Oh, so you’ve heard?’

  ‘And is it true that you’ve been selling coffins in Ming Village and Old Riverton the last few days?’

  Surprised, my dad removed the cigarette dangling from his mouth. ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘Never mind where I heard it. I’m asking you if it’s true.’

  My dad’s expression hardened. He stared at Grandpa and said nothing.

  ‘Did you or didn’t you sell two truckloads of eighty coffins in Ming Village?’ Grandpa pressed. ‘And three truckloads of a hundred and ten coffins in Old Riverton?’

  Astonishment was now thick upon my dad’s face, like a layer of dried mud that could crumble at any moment. His features had frozen into a look of shock, an expression that might never thaw. Father and sons sat stiffly, three points of a triangle. The sound of my mother making noodles in the kitchen drifted through the courtyard and into the house. The soft thud of dough sounded like someone thumping a beefy hand on the wall behind them. My da
d abruptly stubbed out his cigarette, grinding the long stub beneath his shoe until all that was left were shards of tobacco and confetti bits of paper. He glanced at my uncle, then turned to Grandpa, moving his gaze from Grandpa’s face to his head of white hair.

  ‘Dad,’ he said. ‘Now that you know everything you need to, there’s no use talking about it any more. I just want to say one thing: no matter how badly you treat me, you’ll always be my father and I’ll always be your son. But there’s no way I can let my family go on living in this village. I’ve talked it over with my wife, and we’ve decided to give the house and everything in it to Liang. All we’re taking are our clothes. I know Liang hasn’t got much time left, but I think his wife will come back to him if she knows he’s got the house and the furniture. I can’t believe she’d pass up a chance to inherit all the family property. As for you . . .’ He paused. ‘You can move with us to the city if you like, or you can stay here and look after Liang. When he’s gone, you can join us in the city and I’ll support you in your old age.’

  That was all Dad had to say.

  My uncle’s face was wet with tears of gratitude.

  4

  Grandpa lay tossing and turning in his bed. Try as he might, he couldn’t sleep. Since he’d left our family’s house earlier that day, his mind had been overwhelmed by thoughts of my dad selling coffins and planning to move his wife and son out of the village. Just thinking about his son trading in coffins made Grandpa wish he’d killed his first-born when he’d had the chance. Better that he were dead was the thought that kept Grandpa awake, and made his head ache. He suddenly remembered how feuding families on the plain would bury sticks outside their enemies’ houses as a curse. They’d take a twig from a willow or peach tree, sharpen one end and carve on it the name of the person they wished to die. Then, after smashing it against their enemy’s door or the wall of their house, they’d bury it deep in the ground as a curse against that person. Even if they knew that the person wouldn’t actually die, they still went through the motions. It might result in an early death, or an accident in which the cursed individual would break an arm or a leg, or lose a finger or toe.