He should try to see that the grave was better taken care of. It looked too shabby. Perhaps, like some other families had done, he could arrange to have a picture of his father embedded in the tombstone.
Finally, he was ready to leave. He picked up the paint cans and the brush pen, then glanced at his watch. There was still some time before the bus was due to arrive, so he decided to visit the cemetery office. He was fairly sure he’d already paid the maintenance fee for the next several years, but he might as well double-check. So he made his way to the office at the foot of the hill.
He walked down the hill to the office and pushed open the door. Inside he saw several small windows where people were paying their fees, and along the opposite wall, a row of chairs where other customers sat waiting. Next to the row of chairs were two or three sofas marked with a sign reading VIP AREA. That section was probably for the people responsible for the luxurious new graves on the hillside. At the end of the room, there was an area partially cordoned off with screens in which an elderly man in a spick-and-span Mao suit sat at the desk, ramrod straight, smiling and leafing through a register book.
Chen walked over to the man at the desk, thinking that there were two items he needed to discuss.
One was that he needed to double-check on the yearly maintenance fee. Inflation had affected everything, even cemetery fees. He might as well make sure that he was up to date on the current fees. Secondly, he needed to talk about the maintenance of the grave.
The old man rose, gestured Chen to a chair, and introduced himself as Manager Hong. He lost no time showing Chen a list of fees.
“Wow. It costs more than a thousand yuan a year now,” Chen said, studying the chart of fees in disbelief.
“Have you heard the popular saying, ‘You can’t afford to live, nor to die?’” Hong said. “The price keeps going up, like a kite with its string broken. In the current property market, it costs about fifty thousand yuan per square meter for only seventy years. Now, how much do you make a year? Less than fifty thousand, right? So your annual income would only cover a square meter or less. That’s for a living space-a real-life estate-above the ground. The same logic applies to this kind of real estate-an afterlife estate-under the ground. One possible solution would be to pay the eternal fee-the forever rate.”
“I’m confused, Manager Hong. What do you mean by the eternal fee or the forever rate?”
“Well, it means paying one lump sum now, and that’s it. There are no more annual fees, and you don’t have to worry about inflation.”
Hong turned to the page marked “eternal service” before he went on. “Let me tell you something. Do you know why real estate is only sold-leased, really-for a period of seventy years? It’s because the Party officials may have made enough from selling that land for themselves, and for their children, but they’re concerned about their grandchildren. This way, their grandchild can sell the land again, once seventy years has passed.”
“But how can they guarantee that their grandchildren will also be Party officials?”
“Well, look at the princelings, the children of the Party officials today.” Hong added, “You’re from Shanghai. For instance, Shanghai Party Secretary Lai. His father was one of the eight most powerful leaders in the Forbidden City, and now Secretary Lai’s own son, Xixi, who has been studying abroad, has come back to China to attend some important meetings-like an official.”
“Who can possibly guess how things will be in China in seventy years?”
“Exactly. If you had paid the eternal fee twenty years ago,” Hong said, “it would have cost you only about two thousand yuan.”
“The current fee is a lot more than two thousand yuan. It’s quite a sizable sum,” Chen said, pointing at the page, though it wasn’t unaffordable for him. “But there’s something else I want to discuss with you. My father’s grave has not been well taken care of, Manager Hong.”
“Well, that’s another long story.” Manager Hong unfolded a white paper fan, waving it about dramatically like a Suzhou opera singer. “That grave was constructed many years ago, and the service fee set at the time is unbelievably low compared to today’s standard rates. The tombs constructed in recent years-do you know how much they pay?”
“Do you mean how much the Big Bucks pay for their service under the ground?”
“If that’s the way you want to put it, what can I say? But the local farmers contracted at the old, pre-inflation rates are aware of what other people are making. So for the amount of money they get, what can you really expect from them?”
“That’s true,” Chen said. “So, let me ask you a question. If I chose to have a renovation project done on my father’s tomb-not like those fancy ones, but something fairly decent, perhaps even with a picture embedded in the stone-and include the so-called eternal maintenance fee, then what kind of a quote can you give me?”
“What a filial son!”
“Don’t say that, Manager Hong. It’s just that I don’t have the time to come here often.”
“For the renovation of the tomb, first you’ll have to settle on a specific design.” Hong produced a larger book, which showed a variety of designs marked with prices and details. “The price depends on the style and material of your choice. There are lot of options too.”
Going through the book, Chen did quick calculations, focusing on those decent yet not too expensive designs. He pointed his finger at a page tentatively.
“If that’s the design of your choice, for a rough estimate-how about sixty thousand yuan? That’s about a fifty percent discount.”
“It’s still too expensive for me,” Chen said, though he didn’t like bargaining. “My father was a Confucian scholar. I could pay to have all his work published for that amount.”
“You will spare no expense for your father, I know.” Hong worked on the calculator again, put some numbers on a piece of paper, and then added them up to a lower figure. “How about that?”
Chen was becoming uncomfortable, bargaining over his father’s tomb as if they were in a fish market. There were several higher-priced cemeteries nearby. This one here had been developed years earlier, so the price was not unreasonable. Still, there was no telling whether they would do a good, conscientious job with the renovation.
So he whisked out a business card with his new official title printed in gold: Director of Shanghai Legal Reform Committee. The cards had been delivered to him last night, and he played it now like a trump card, hoping to further bring down the price. Chen being a filial son or not would make no difference to the manager, but his being an official might. However, Chen immediately felt a touch of superstitious uneasiness. It was possibly an ominous sign that he passed out the brand-new business card for the first time in a cemetery office.
“A most filial son, I have to say,” the manager repeated in a loud voice, holding the card in his hand. Several others in the office turned in their direction. “I’m speechless. Trust me. I’ve seen many a man here over the years, but you’re different. A filial son like you will be blessed by Buddha.”
“You don’t have to say that, Manager Hong. But what if I pay everything up front? Any additional discount?”
“If you pay everything at once, then I can offer you an additional ten percent discount,” Hong said in earnest. “Both on the maintenance and on the renovation of the tomb. Your satisfaction is guaranteed.”
Chen nodded. He wasn’t that well-to-do, but doing this could put his mother’s mind at ease-at least on this matter. After all, he didn’t know how long he would be able to hold on to the position printed on the new business card and be able to keep paying the annual fees like before.
“Great. Then if you are able to take off another ten percent,” Chen said, “may I have copies of the designs to take with me? Back in Shanghai, I’d like to show them to my mother.”