At noontime, Huang Biao's wife called Tiangua and me into the kitchen; there, she laid out a platter of meatballs, a winter melon soup with ham and a basket of steamed buns for the two of us and Jiaojiao. I didn't have much of an appetite—the day was hot and I'd spent most of the morning breathing in smoke from the burning paper. But Tiangua and my sister wolfed down their food—a meatball washed down with a spoonful of soup, followed by a bite from a steamed bun. They ate without looking at each other, as if engaged in an eating contest. Lao Lan walked in before we'd finished. He hadn't combed his hair or shaved, his clothes were rumpled, his eyes were bloodshot and he looked utterly dejected.
Huang Biao's wife went up and gazed at him with her limpid eyes. ‘General Manager,’ she said, her voice heavy with concern, ‘I know how painful this is for you. One night between a man and a woman produces a lifetime of affection. And you were together for so many years. Your wife was a virtuous woman, so saintly that we are as saddened by her departure as you. But she has left us, and there is nothing we can do about that, while you have your family to look after. And the company cannot operate without you. You are the village backbone. So, my dear elder brother, you must eat something, not for yourself but for all us villagers…’
His eyes red and puffy from crying, Lao Lan said: ‘I appreciate your kind thoughts but I can't eat. Make sure the young ones are fed. I have many things to do.’ He rubbed my head, then Jiaojiao's and Tiangua's, before walking out of the kitchen with tears in his eyes.
Huang Biao's wife followed him with her eyes. ‘He's a fine man with a good heart,’ she said emotionally.
When we finished eating, we went back to burning spirit paper at the bier.
A steady stream of people walked in and out of the yard, undisturbed by the family's dogs, which had been struck dumb after the death of Lao Lan's wife. They lay sprawled on the ground, resting their heads on their paws, teary-eyed and sad; only their eyes moved as they followed the people in the yard. The saying ‘Dogs share human qualities’ could not be truer. A group of men carrying papier-mâché human and horse figures entered the yard and made a big show of looking for a spot to place them. The artisan was a fit old man whose eyes darted this way and that. His head was as smooth and shiny as a light bulb, and he sported a few mousey whiskers on his chin. Mother signalled to him to have his men stand the figures in a row in front of the house's western wing. There were four altogether, each the size of a real horse, white with black hooves and eyes made of dyed eggshells. Horse-sized though they were, they had the mischievous look of ponies. The camera focused first on the horses, then moved to the craftsman and then finally to the human figures, of which there were two, a boy and a girl. Their names were pinned to their chests. His was Laifu—Good Fortune—hers Abao—Treasure. People said that the whiskered old man was illiterate, and yet at the end of every year he set up a stall in the marketplace and he sold New Year's scrolls. He didn't write what was on his scrolls—he simply drew what had been written by others. He was a true artist, a master of plastic arts. There were many stories about the man but none that I can go into here. He also brought along a money tree, its branches made of paper and from which hung leaves, each a shiny coin whose sparkle dazzled the eye.
But before Mother had seen off the first paper artisans, a second group showed up, this one with a Western flavour. The leader, we were told, was an art-institute student, a girl with short hair and glittering hoops in her ears. She was wearing a short fishnet blouse and what looked like rags over a pair of jeans. Her midriff was bare and her trouser legs shredded, like mops, with holes at the knees. Imagine a girl like that taking up a trade like that. Her men carried in a paper Audi A6, a large-screen TV, a stereo system—all modern things. None of