The Seventh Day Read online

  “We have bathed you.”

  “I know, many of you have done that.”

  “Not many of us—all of us.”

  “It felt as though all the water in the river was washing me clean.”

  “Everyone lined up to bathe you.”

  “You’re so good to me.”

  “Here we’re good to everyone.”

  “And you’re seeing me off as well.”

  “You’re the first to leave here to rest.”

  We walked along the road, thronging around Mouse Girl as she proceeded to the funeral parlor. The road was a broad wilderness, so long and wide you could not see its end, as vast as the sky above our heads.

  “When I was over there,” said Mouse Girl, “I liked spring best, and hated winter. Winter was too cold, so cold it made my body shrink, whereas in spring the flowers blossomed—and my body bloomed as well. But here I like the winter and was dreading the spring, thinking my body would rot when spring arrived. But now everything’s fine—I don’t need to worry about the spring.”

  “Even if spring were to move as fast as an Olympic sprint champion can run in the world over there, it wouldn’t be able to catch up with you,” one of us said.

  Mouse Girl chuckled.

  “You’re so pretty,” another said.

  “You’re saying that to please me, aren’t you?” Mouse Girl responded.

  “You really are pretty,” we assured her.

  “When I walked down the street over there, they would turn their heads to look at me. Now, over here, you turn around to look at me too.”

  “It’s called a high head-turn rate.”

  “You’re right—that’s what they call it over there.”

  “That’s what we call it over here too.”

  Mouse Girl chuckled once more. “There and here, everyone calls it a high head-turn rate.”

  “The head-turn rate goes wherever you do,” we said.

  “You’re sweet-talking me!”

  Mouse Girl was wearing the dress she had made out of the pair of pants. The dress was so long that we couldn’t see her feet—all we could see was her dress trailing along the ground.

  “The way your dress trails along the ground,” someone said, “it looks like a wedding dress.”

  “Really?” she asked.

  “Really,” we answered.

  “You’re just saying that to humor me, aren’t you?”

  “Not at all, it really looks like a wedding dress.”

  “But I’m not going off to get married.”

  “It looks like that, though.”

  “I’m not wearing makeup, and brides always doll themselves up.”

  “You may not be wearing makeup, but you’re more dazzling than any woman in makeup over there.”

  “I’m not going off to marry Wu Chao.” A melancholy note crept into Mouse Girl’s voice. “I’m going to my burial place to rest.”

  Mouse Girl’s tears began to flow, and we fell silent.

  “I was too impulsive,” she said. “I shouldn’t have left him.”

  She walked on with a heavy heart, saying dejectedly, “How will he manage by himself? It was I who got him into this.”

  Mouse Girl wept as she made the long trek across the open country.

  “I often got him into trouble,” she said. “When we were hairwashers in the salon, he had his sights set on something better, so he sought advice from the stylist on how to cut hair. He learned so quickly that the manager praised him and said he planned to have him be a hairdresser. Privately Wu Chao told me that once he officially became a hairdresser he’d make a better income, and once he was really proficient he would quit the job and the two of us would rent a space and open up a little salon of our own. There was a girl in the salon who liked him and was always sidling up to him and coming on strong. This got me mad, and I’d give her a hard time every chance I got. Once, we actually started to fight. She grabbed my hair and I grabbed hers, and Wu Chao came over to pull us apart. I shouted at him and asked him if he wanted her or wanted me and got him very embarrassed. I yelled at him so loud that all the clients in the salon turned around to look at me. The manager was furious and told me to clear the hell out. While the manager was still cursing me, Wu Chao went up to him and announced that we were both handing in our notice and told the guy he was an asshole, then came back and put his arm around me and led me out of the salon. I said we still had two weeks’ wages due, and he said the hell with that, I don’t give a shit. That drove me to tears. We walked down the street for a long time, him with his arm around me, and all along I was crying and saying I’d let him down and made him lose face and wrecked his future, because he was just about to become a hairdresser. He had one hand around me and kept wiping away my tears with the other, saying, ‘The hell with being a hairdresser, the hell with losing face, I couldn’t care less about any of that!’

  “Later I suggested we look for work at another salon, given that he already had mastered the skills of a hairdresser, but he refused. I promised not to get jealous again and told him if another girl took a fancy to him I’d just ignore it, but he insisted there was no way he would work in a salon. So the only option was to work in a restaurant. The manager said since I was good-looking he’d have me serve in an upstairs private room, while Wu Chao could service the large dining room downstairs. The manager liked how dedicated and nimble he was, and it wasn’t long before Wu Chao was promoted to captain. In free moments he would go chat with the chef and pick up some cooking tips. Once he’d really learned the ropes, he told me, we’d quit and set up our own little restaurant.

  “It was often businessmen and officials who booked the private room. There was one time when a whole bunch of them had a bit too much to drink, and one put his arms around me and started squeezing my boobs. I shouldn’t have made an issue of it, I should just have found an excuse to leave the room, but I ran downstairs sobbing to complain to Wu Chao. He could never tolerate anyone taking advantage of me, so he barged into the private room and started a fight. He was way outnumbered, and they got him down on the ground and started kicking him, kicking him in the head. It was only when I threw myself on top of him and begged them to stop that they finally left him alone. The restaurant manager came up and bowed and scraped and apologized to them. They had been the ones doling out abuse, but the manager didn’t stand up for us at all and cursed us out instead. Wu Chao’s face was covered in blood. I put my arms around him and helped him out of the private room, but once we got downstairs he pushed me aside, wanting to go back upstairs and fight another round. He only made it up a few steps before I dashed over and clung to one of his legs for dear life, crying and begging him not to. He came back down and helped me to my feet, and we left the restaurant clinging to each other. His nose was bleeding the whole time, and it was raining outside, and when we got to the other side of the road he didn’t want to go any farther, so he sat down on the sidewalk and I sat next to him. The rain poured down, drenching our clothes, and cars kept driving past and splashing us with the water from the puddles. ‘I want to kill someone!’ he said again and again, and I just couldn’t stop crying, begging him to calm down.

  “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 spe
nt 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.

  I stayed put. In the row in front of me, five remaining crematees were seated, and my father in his faded blue jacket and worn white gloves stood in the passageway to their left, looking ready to respond to any need they might have. I felt as though my father’s erect figure was like that of a silent mourner. When a crematee turned his head and said something, my father stepped forward promptly and responded quietly to the person’s question, then withdrew to his post in the passageway. My father was always sedulous in performing his duties, no matter whether in that departed world or in this one.

  After the remaining five crematees entered the oven room in turn, the waiting room seemed so empty it was almost as though it had run out of air, with only a dim light emanating from the widely separated candle-shaped sconces. My father came over with heavy steps and I rose to meet him. I clutched his empty sleeves—the bones inside seemed as slender as a cord. Supporting his weight, I was planning to head toward the VIP zone, where comfortable chairs awaited. But my father stopped me, saying, “That’s not the place for us.”

  We sat down on the plastic chairs and I clasped my father’s gloved hand. Through a hole in the glove I could feel the bones of his fingers, and they seemed so brittle that they would break at the slightest impact. My father’s dim eyes peered at me as though determin
ed to confirm my identity. “You’re here so soon,” he said mournfully.

  “Dad,” I said, “were you afraid of being a burden, and that’s why you left?”

  He shook his head. “I just wanted to go back there and have a look,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I was upset. The thought of having abandoned you upset me.”

  “Dad,” I said, “you didn’t abandon me.”

  “I just thought of that rock, and wanted to sit there for a bit. I’d always wanted to go there. When it got dark, I would want to go there, but in the morning I would see you and change my mind, because I couldn’t bear to leave you.”

  “Dad, why didn’t you tell me? I would have gone with you.”

  “I thought of telling you—I thought of that many times.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Were you worried I’d be upset?”

  “No, that wasn’t it,” he said. “I preferred to go there myself.”

  “So you left without saying goodbye.”

  “No,” he said, “I meant to come back on the evening train.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “I did.” After he died, he meant. “I stood a long time opposite the shop and saw it was someone else who came out from inside.”

  “I went to look for you.”

  “When I saw that someone else had taken over the shop, I knew you had gone to look for me.”

  “I kept looking and looking,” I said. “I went to the department store, because there had been a fire there the day you left and I worried you might have been trapped.”

  “What department store?”

  “The big silver one not far from the shop.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  I realized that when the department store opened he was already struck down by illness and pain. “You never went there,” I said.

  “You’re here so soon,” he repeated.

  “I looked all over the city, and I went to the countryside to look for you too,” I said.

  “Did you see your uncles and aunts?” he asked.

  “I saw them, yes. There’s a lot of change there too.” I didn’t tell him how desolate things looked.