“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 determined 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.”