monk talk about retribution on the wheel of life; he'd said that individuals who ate meat would themselves be eaten by other meat-eaters. That monk had achieved a high degree of Buddhist attainments, one of many such monks in that place of ours. Take that alms-begging monk, for instance. He once sat in the snow in the middle of the winter, naked to the waist, lotus position, without eating or drinking for three days and nights. Many kindhearted women, afraid he would freeze to death, brought him blankets to keep warm, only to discover that his face was nice and ruddy and that steam rose from his scalp, almost as if his head were a stove. Blankets were the last thing he needed. Admittedly, there were people who said he had taken a ‘fire dragon’ pill, that he had no special gift. But who has ever seen one of those pills? The stuff of legend. But the monk in the snow? I saw him with my own eyes.
The face of Cheng Tianle, who had just lost a tooth, was mapped with more than eighty creases. Chosen as the master of ceremonies for the memorial service, he had a white ribbon draped over his shoulders and wore a white, heavily pleated hat like a rooster's coxcomb. He made a late appearance, though, causing people to wonder where he'd hidden himself for so long. He smelt heavily of alcohol, salted fish and damp earth, which made me surmise that he'd spent the time in Lao Lan's cellar. Well on his way to being drunk, he had trouble focusing his bleary eyes, almost gummed together with sticky residue. His assistant was Shen Gang, the man who'd once borrowed money from my mother. Smelling the same as Cheng Tianle—his cellar mate, obviously—he was dressed in black, with a pair of white oversleeves. In one hand he carried a hatchet and in the other a rooster—white with a black cockscomb. An important individual who walked into the room with them cannot go unmentioned—Su Zhou, younger brother of Lao Lan's wife, a close relative of some note who ought to have made an early appearance. His late arrival was either planned or was the result of his being delayed on the road.
Father, Yao Qi, Xiao Han and a clutch of brawny fellows followed the trio into the main room. A pair of low benches had been set up in the yard, where men with poles waited under the veranda eaves.
‘Homage to the coffin—’
As Cheng Tianle's shout echoed in the air, Lao Lan rushed out of his room and fell to his knees in front of the coffin. ‘Oh, dear mother of our daughter—ah huh huh huh—’ he wailed, pounding the lid, ‘you have cruelly left Tiangua and me behind—’
He thumped the coffin lid loudly with his hand and tears streaked his face, revealing the depth of his overwhelming grief (and immediately squelching a good many rumours).
Out in the yard the musicians played a dirge as the monks chanted, loudly and with enthusiasm. Inside and out, sound triumphantly created an aura of unbearable grief. For the moment I had no thoughts for the evil spirit across from me, as tears cascaded down my face.
Even the heavens lent a hand, first with rolling thunder, then with raindrops the size of old coins that beat a tattoo on the ground. The rain pounded the monks’ shaved heads and battered the faces of the musicians. Soon the drops grew smaller and the curtain of rain grew denser. But the monks and musicians persisted. The water splashing on the monks’ heads had a relaxing effect on the people, though the brassy sound of horns and funereal strains of the suona became increasingly sorrowful. But nothing suffered more than the paper figures. Pounded by the relentless rain, they softened, then began to fall apart, with gaping holes in the front and at the back revealing the sorghum stalk frames on which they were fashioned.
With a silent signal from Cheng Tianle, Yao Qi led the grief-stricken Lao Lan to one side. Mother had me stand at the head of the coffin; Huang Biao's wife had Tiangua stand at the foot. Our eyes met across its length. Like a conjurer, Cheng Tianle whisked out a brass gong and brought an abrupt end to the chants and the music outside. Now the only sound was the patter of raindrops. Shen Gang walked up stiffly to the coffin and laid his rooster, legs tightly bound, on