Chapter 143: Funeral Turmoil (Part One)

Right at daybreak, just as I got up, I planned to take a trip to the county seat to wander around and buy a few new sets of clothes. Ever since Er-Dai had arrived, he had been going around stark naked. Although I found him rather repulsive, he was taller than me and had a better figure, so constantly wearing my clothes always looked utterly ridiculous. Besides, someone like him was far too risky to let out onto the streets; chances were, he wouldn't even buy any clothes before getting himself lost.

Holding a bowl of congee, I was teasing the dog in the courtyard. That fool of a dog took off the moment it laid eyes on me, acting as though it had just spotted the plague god. I was just about to corner it against the wall when the courtyard gate rattled.

"Knock, knock, knock."

Who on earth was being so energetic at this ungodly hour? I figured it must be someone looking for my father. I opened the courtyard gate to take a look, and—good grief—I swallowed a mouthful of congee right then and there. That congee was piping hot, and instantly, my throat felt as though several daggers had been half-inserted into it, sliding all the way down from my pharynx through my esophagus. The sensation was practically worse than death. I slowly squatted down by the courtyard gate, and my expression probably looked utterly atrocious.

"Brother, what are you doing?"

Standing before me was a girl dressed in mourning attire, with a hemp cloth tied around her head. Her eyes were red and swollen, and tear tracks covered her cheeks, yet this still could not conceal the innate purity about her. She was quite a pretty young woman. Seeing me pouring congee down while clutching my bowl, she came over to help me up. With one hand gripping my neck and the other holding the rice bowl, I waved my hands frantically. How could I possibly speak to you like this? I was on the verge of being boiled alive from the inside out.

She must have realized something was wrong with me, because by then I had already started suffocating. Coupled with the intense heat inside my esophagus, my entire face suddenly flushed a deep crimson. Instead of coming inside, the girl simply called out toward the interior from outside the gate: "Is anyone home? Quick, someone come! Someone here is choking!"

At this shout, my father, Zha Wenbin, and that dog all came running out. This was probably the first time in my father's entire life that he had ever seen anyone choke on congee. He hastily fetched me a bowl of cold water, and I gulped down several large mouthfuls before I managed to catch my breath slightly.

Imagine having this kind of stunt pulled on you first thing in the morning; my heart was burning with irritation. Where in the blazes did someone come knocking on a door dressed like that? Wasn't this deliberately bringing me bad luck? I shoved the bowl into Zha Wenbin's arms, turned around, and snapped at the girl, "Whose family are you from? Do you have any manners at all, running into my house wearing full mourning gear? Early in the morning like this, did you do this on purpose?"

When I roared at her like that, the girl was somewhat dumbfounded. She looked herself up and down and quickly stepped back a few paces, probably realizing that coming dressed this way was indeed inappropriate. Country folk were extremely particular about such matters. Scolded by me like that, her face turned beet red, and she immediately gave me a ninety-degree bow, saying, "Brother, I'm sorry, I'm really... I rushed out in a hurry, I'm truly sorry." As she spoke, she began to weep.

"My, why is this girl dressed like this?" By now, my mother had also come over. Catching sight of this scene, she hurriedly stepped forward to take the girl's hand and said, "Don't cry, child. How unlucky this is! If you've run into some trouble, just tell us. Whatever we can help with, we won't hesitate. Come, come, step inside the house first and talk."

The girl was rather stubborn; instead of letting my mother pull her along, she shook her head and actually dropped to her knees. Wiping away a tear, she said, "Uncle, Auntie, I'm sorry to have caused you trouble. I really didn't mean to. I'm young and ignorant, please forgive me."

My father and mother exchanged glances, and my mother hurriedly went to help her up. Who could look at such a girl and not feel a pang of sympathy? Besides, she looked like a remarkably fragile young woman. Unexpectedly, the girl refused again, saying, "Auntie, I won't go in. I'm afraid of bringing bad luck to your home. I'm just here looking for someone."

Still, my mother managed to pull her to her feet and said, "Say what you need to say slowly, don't kneel, we can't bear that either. Who are you looking for?"

Glancing at my father, the girl asked, "I'm looking for a Daoist priest with the surname Zha. Uncle, is that you?"

"Puff!" A mouthful of congee sprayed right out of my father's mouth, while Zha Wenbin timidly remarked from the side, "Am I really that old...?"

This girl was none other than Diao Fei, the younger sister of Diao Xiao, having caused such a scene at my doorstep early in the morning. What kind of person was Zha Wenbin? Leaving aside the fact that such a pear-blossom-in-the-rain weeping maiden had come to beg for help, even Old Wang from next door could easily negotiate with him. He was a quintessential pushover; as long as ordinary folks had a need, off he went—a living, breathing contemporary Lei Feng. Back then, I even joked with him, asking why he didn't join the Party. Of course, the organization would never accept a religious figure like him.

Come to think of it, Diao Xiao had been a classmate of mine, and moreover, I was present when her corpse was discovered. The reputation of the Diao family's eldest daughter was renowned throughout our region; who didn't whisper behind her back about her bitter fate? Since Zha Wenbin was going, I naturally tagged along to see if I could be of any help. Of course, Number Two was also dragged along by me to serve as manual labor, though this time, to my surprise, he agreed quite out of character.

The Diao family lived in Shang'an Village, some seven or eight li away from us. The girl had walked all the way here since dawn, and the four of us—three men and one woman—drew pointed stares from many people along the road: a young woman draped in hemp and mourning garb followed by three men. Those who knew understood this was going to fetch a Daoist priest; those who didn't had no inkling of what was happening.

When we reached her house, my heart gave a heavy thud. I had heard before that the Diao family's living conditions weren't very good, but I hadn't expected it to be like this. After Liberation, Shang'an Village, Hong Village, and Xia'an Village all belonged to the same commune and were managed by the same production brigade. Later, when the land was divided among households and the population grew, these three villages were separated into individual entities once again. Back then, the commune had a collective farm where livestock was centrally managed, and it happened to be located in Shang'an Village because it sat squarely in the middle of the three villages. The commune had built a large courtyard there along with a row of rooms used for keeping cattle—in reality, cattle sheds. The earthen walls were plastered with yellow mud and straw, and the roofs were initially thatched with reeds, completely unlivable.

After the commune was dissolved, these buildings became collective assets of the village. The Diao family were outsiders who had fled famine. After settling down here, old Diao, while still a bachelor, patched up two rooms that were barely habitable and turned them into his nest. Later, after taking a wife and having children, he mended the two rooms next door as well. As I stepped inside, I saw that the pits on the ground looked as though they had been blasted by artillery shells, one right after another. The light inside was extremely dim, and the dampness was suffocating. Diao Fei's face covered with a thick layer of yellow joss paper, she lay atop a pair of door panels, covered by a tattered quilt. To be frank, the degree of decomposition and distortion of her corpse made it truly difficult to dress her in new clothes.

There were very few people inside the house, but the courtyard outside was packed to bursting. The onlookers were lined up all the way out to the main highway, and quite a few men squatted in groups of twos and threes on the field ridges outside the courtyard smoking. The moment they saw the Diao family's younger daughter bringing several men back, the crowd instantly grew lively.

Who could blame them when Zha Wenbin was quite the popular figure back in those days? As soon as he stepped inside, a crowd surged forward in a rush. In those years, there were hardly any forms of entertainment; the arrival of a Daoist priest performing rituals was no less significant than an opera troupe setting up a stage in the countryside in the past. Old and young alike came to watch. I shouted incessantly outside, trying to maintain some control over the crowd, but it was completely useless. Zha Wenbin, however, acted decisively upon entering: with a resounding "bang," he raised his foot and kicked the door shut. I knew he was angry.

According to the customs of our region, when a family in the village suffered a bereavement, every household was expected to come and help out. Yet the Diao family was an exception.

Because the Diao family were outsiders with no relatives locally, old Diao made his living away from home year-round, and his wife was a raving lunatic. With their impoverished conditions—looking down on the poor was the same in any dynasty—don't think the New China genuinely allowed the poor to turn their fortunes around completely. If you don't believe it, let a poor person go into a restaurant and eat a meal without paying, and see who pays attention to you.

Zha Wenbin had only been inside for about two minutes when—"clang!"—the door was kicked open again. Emerging from the house, Zha Wenbin's face was livid with rage. Just as I was clearing the crowd, he grabbed me by the arm and yanked me backward. Facing the onlookers, he shouted, "Is the Diao family still considered part of this village or not?"

Someone replied, "They're not. They're outsiders from Kaihua."

Retrieving a small booklet from his inner pocket, Zha Wenbin hurled it directly at the middle-aged man who had spoken, shouting, "Open your eyes wide and take a good look! This is an official household registration booklet, and it clearly and plainly states that they are from Group 7, Number 14 of Shang'an Village!" He then roared toward the crowd once more, "Fathers and brothers, uncles and aunts, which of our villages here can dare claim they aren't outsiders? Which of us can claim to be native-born? Now that this family is in distress, this girl is only my age, having suffered her whole life without a single day of relief before departing this world. Who can bear to watch this? We are all fellow villagers and neighbors; we should help out wherever we can—those with money contribute money, those without contribute labor. Let's send Diao Xiao off with dignity, so that her life in this world was not entirely devoid of human warmth and sincerity."

"Who the hell do you think you are?" At this point, the middle-aged man who had spoken earlier, likely feeling humiliated by Zha Wenbin throwing the booklet at him, strode forward and shoved Zha Wenbin backward so hard he stumbled. After all, a farm laborer had considerable strength, and Zha Wenbin couldn't withstand it. The man lunged forward again, grabbing Zha Wenbin by the collar and yelling, "Where did some stray dog come from to act like the big boss here, barking orders and throwing your weight around? Why don't you go ask around—out of the hundreds of households in Shang'an Village, when has the Diao family ever lifted a finger to help anyone else? Heaven watches what mortals do; don't you understand the principle of reciprocity? Now that trouble has hit the Diao family, why should we lift a finger? Get the hell out of here!"

While the man's spittle was still flying wildly through the air, a figure flashed past me with lightning speed. Immediately afterward, I heard the crisp, resounding crack of a heavy slap. With a sharp "whack!" the man was struck so hard he saw stars, his face instantly swelling up and bruising. Without even realizing who had hit him, he scrambled up from the ground, ready to curse, and managed to spit out just one phrase: "Motherfucking little bastard..."

I imagine that man deeply regretted choosing to cause trouble on this particular day. He probably assumed that being a local villager gave him the right to throw his weight around, but he had encountered the wrong person at the wrong time. In that person's eyes, there was never any concept of holding back; in his eyes, there was only life and death!

With a solid, forceful kick—delivered by a pair of my own leather shoes, the pointy-toed variety—he drove his foot hard upward into the man's chin. I heard the distinct snapping of bone, and I saw teeth mixed with red liquid flying through the air, tracing one beautiful parabola after another...

Author's Note:
First update