those seemed especially out of place—what did were her human figures, also a boy and a girl. The face of the boy, dressed in a suit and leather shoes, was powdered, his lips painted red; the girl wore a white dress that showed her breasts. Everything about them said bride and groom—and not funeral figures. The cameramen were captivated by these new arrivals—they followed their subjects and knelt for close-ups. (The one from the small-town paper would one day gain fame as a portrait photographer.) Yao Qi wove his way through the paper figures crowding the small yard ahead of a band of funeral musicians, led by a man with a suona hanging at his waist and a cassocked monk working his prayer beads. They went straight to Mother.
‘Lao Luo,’ she shouted towards the eastern wing as she wiped the sweat from her brow, ‘come out here and give me a hand.’
Even as the afternoon sun blazed down I remained at the head of the coffin, mechanically tossing paper money into the clay pot, gazing out at the excitement in the yard and casting an occasional glance at Tiangua; she was yawning, barely able to stay awake. Jiaojiao had run off somewhere. Huang Biao's wife, full of energy and reeking of meat, busied herself like a whirlwind, shuttling back and forth in the hall. Lao Lan was in the next room, holding forth loudly—I couldn't say who he was speaking to, given the dizzying number of people who had come and gone. The house was like a command centre, replete with staff officers, clerks, assistants, local officials, society bigwigs, enlightened gentry and more. Father emerged from the eastern wing, bent over at the waist, with a dark look on his face. Mother had shed her coat and was now wearing only a white shirt tucked into a black skirt. Her face was as red as a laying hen. As she surveyed the two teams of paper artisans, she pointed to Father, who was as wooden as she was efficient and passionate, and said: ‘He'll pay you.’ Without a word, Father turned and re-entered the eastern wing; the two craftsmen exchanged a brief disdainful look before following him in. By then Mother was talking to Yao Qi, the musicians and the monks. Her voice, loud and shrill, pounded against my eardrums. I felt my eyelids grow heavy.
I must have dozed off; the next time I looked into the yard, all the paper figures had been squeezed together to make room for a pair of tables and a dozen or more folding chairs. The blistering sun was now hidden behind clouds. A July day, like the face of a woman, is always apt to change, or so they say. Huang Biao's wife went out into the yard. ‘Please, please,’ I heard her say when she returned, ‘please don't rain!’
‘You can't stop the rain from falling or your mother from marrying,’ said a woman in a white robe. Her hair newly permed, her lips painted black, her face covered with pimples, she had materialized in the doorway. ‘Where's General Manager Lan?’ she asked.
Huang Biao's wife looked the new arrival up and down.
‘So, it's you, Fan Zhaoxia,’ she remarked disdainfully. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Are you inferring that you're welcome but I'm not,’ Fan replied with the same disdain. ‘Boss Lan called and asked for a shave.’
‘That's a lie, and you know it, Fan Zhaoxia,’ hissed Huang Biao's wife. ‘He hasn't eaten in two days, hasn't even touched water. Shaving is the last thing on his mind.’
‘Really?’ Fan said icily. ‘It was him on the phone. I recognized his voice.’
‘You're sure you're not hallucinating?’ asked Huang Biao's wife. ‘That would explain everything.’
‘Why don't you cool off?’ Fan Zhaoxia spit in contempt. ‘Her body's still warm and you're already acting like you're in charge.’ She tried to walk into the room with her barber's kit, only to be stopped by Huang Biao's wife who spread her arms and legs to block the way. ‘Move!’ Fan demanded.
Huang Biao's wife looked at her feet and pointed with her chin. ‘There's a tunnel for you.’
‘You bitch!’ Fan cursed angrily as she aimed a kick at the woman's crotch.
‘How dare you!’ shrieked Huang Biao's wife. She lunged at Fan and grabbed a handful of her hair; Fan retaliated by grabbing Huang Biao's breast.
Huang Biao took notice of the frenetic activity in the yard when he walked in through the gate with his basket of cooking utensils. But when he