Dream of Ding Village (40 page)

The day they dug me up, my dad showed up in Ding Village with twenty or so people. They lit incense at my grave, burned paper offerings, set off firecrackers, dug up my plain wood coffin and put my bones into another, fancier, golden coffin so they could take it to the funeral park in Kaifeng. But what my dad didn’t know was that I didn’t want to leave Ding Village in the first place. I didn’t want to leave Grandpa or my grave behind the school, and I was scared of going to a strange place. As soon as they lifted my golden coffin, I started thrashing around inside and screaming for my grandpa. Not screaming for my father. Screaming for dear life
.

‘Grandpa! Don’t let them take me!’

My cries shook the heavens
.

‘I don’t want to leave here! Don’t let them take me!’

My screams ripped a hole in the sky
.

‘Save me, Grandpa, save me …’

Grandpa woke up. He sat on the edge of the bed in a daze, staring at the pale sunlight seeping through the curtains like milk.

It was a lucky coincidence.

The morning Grandpa was packing his things and getting ready to visit my dad in the city, my dad came to him. Dad happened to be passing through Ding Village with his team of matchmakers and decided to stop by the school. He ran into Grandpa as he was walking out of the school gate.

My dad was wearing grey uniform shorts, leather sandals, a white short-sleeved shirt and a straw hat that made him look like a farmer from somewhere down south. He was more tanned than when he’d left Ding Village, his face ruddy and healthy from the sun. When they met at the school gate, my dad handed Grandpa a paper bundle tied with string.

‘What’s this?’ Grandpa asked.

‘Wild ginseng,’ my dad answered. ‘It’s the best kind.’

The package felt heavy, too heavy, in Grandpa’s hands.

The sun was not yet overhead. It shone from the east like a burning haystack, scorching the plain below. The landscape was barren; everything had withered. Grass, wheat, people and villages were dying. Everything had dried up, and the plain was as pale as sand – the same colour as Grandpa’s face when he saw my dad standing at the school gate.

‘You didn’t run into Jia Genzhu in the village, did you?’ Grandpa asked, alarmed.

‘No, but I’m not scared of him. He can’t do anything to me.’ My dad seemed to know what Genzhu was planning, and about his conversation with Grandpa. ‘The villagers already
warned me, Dad. They told me not to come back, but I came anyway, to show them I’m not afraid. And in a few days, I’m going to hold a big ceremony to celebrate my son’s wedding. When they see what I’ve got planned, Genzhu won’t dare lay a finger on me.’

Now even more alarmed, Grandpa stared at his son as if he were a stranger at the gate.

‘Qiang was only twelve. Are you really going to marry him off?’

‘I’ve already arranged it with the girl’s family.’

‘Where are her people from?’

‘They’re from the city. She’s a wealthy man’s little princess,’ said my dad, grinning. ‘Not long after her dad got promoted to governor and started organizing the county blood drive, she got some strange disease, fell into a river and drowned. She’s a few years older than Qiang, but what does age matter?’

‘How much older?’ Grandpa asked.

‘Five or six years.’

‘And you think that’s a suitable match?’

‘Her dad’s the county governor! If he thinks it’s suitable, who are we to disagree?’

‘When’s the wedding?’

‘That’s what I came to tell you. I’ll be back in a few days to remove his bones. We’re taking them to a funeral park in Kaifeng, where he’ll be buried with the girl. Their grave is on a very nice plot of land.’

My dad then told Grandpa that he couldn’t stay long because his helpers were waiting for him on the main road, south of the village. He asked a few questions about Grandpa’s health: was he eating okay? Did he have decent clothing? Was he able to draw water from the school well, or had it dried up in the drought? As my dad was about to leave, he remembered that he had wanted to visit the house on New Street, which had been vacant for many months. Instead of walking along the road, he and Grandpa cut through the dried-up wheat fields on the outskirts of the village. They walked single-file along the ridges that divided the fields until
they came to the south end of the village, and to our house on New Street.

What they saw made them stop in shock.

Someone had smashed the padlock on the gate and left it lying on the ground. Both the wooden gate and the front door were gone. The wooden window frames were intact, but the panes were smashed and the courtyard was littered with broken glass. Every piece of furniture inside the house, from the chairs and tables to the curtains and washstands, was missing.

They’d robbed the house, just like they’d robbed my uncle’s grave. And the courtyard smelled of urine.

His face mottled with anger, my dad stood on the front stoop, peering into the empty house. He turned to Grandpa. ‘Who did this?’

Grandpa shook his head.

My dad kicked the wall. ‘Damn those sons of bitches! It was Genzhu and Yuejin, I know it!’

My dad’s face was pale, twitching with anger. Grandpa, afraid his son might do something rash, suddenly dropped to his knees and began pleading with him.

‘Hui, if you want to blame anyone, blame me, okay? Let’s just say I’m the one who stole the doors and furniture and urinated in the courtyard. If you have to punish someone, punish me.’

Grandpa looked up at his son like a little boy pleading with his father. My dad looked down at Grandpa with disdain, like a father who has lost patience with a misbehaving child.

After a few moments, my dad turned on his heel and left without a word. He didn’t look back.

My dad could easily have taken a shortcut, but instead he marched proudly through the centre of Ding Village, his head held high. Some of the villagers were sitting around the crossroads that marked the village centre. The weather was
hot, but not so unbearable that you couldn’t go outdoors, so they had gathered at the crossroads to eat breakfast and socialize. Most of them had already finished eating when my dad arrived. He had been walking quickly, taking long strides, but as he neared the crowd, he paused for a moment to wipe off his shoes.

One of the men, Wang Baoshan, caught sight of him and shouted, ‘Ding Hui! What are you doing here, so early in the morning?’

My dad smiled and approached the crowd. ‘I was passing by the village, and thought I’d come and have a look.’

He pulled out a packet of expensive, filter-tip cigarettes, handed one to Wang Baoshan, then began passing out cigarettes to the other men in the crowd.

‘You’ve got to try these,’ my dad boasted. ‘A whole pack will set you back half the price of a coffin. Each one costs as much as a ten pound bag of salt, a bottle of liquor or one pound of pork.’ The villagers gasped in astonishment.

‘Are you serious?’ Wang Baoshan asked.

‘Smoke one and you’ll see,’ my dad answered, taking his lighter out of his pocket.

After he had lit Wang’s cigarette, he went down the line, lighting cigarettes for each of the men. But when he came to Jia Genzhu, sitting with a group of villagers on the right, he skipped right over him. My dad took one look at Genzhu and passed him by, then handed a cigarette to the next man. Genzhu’s face was discoloured and covered with dried scabs, and he was so thin and sickly that one push might have sent him sprawling on the ground. His eyes were dull and clouded, and filled with desperation. It was as if the fever had stolen not just his strength but his spirit, leaving him helpless. He had no choice but to endure the insult and try to get along with my dad as best he could. When my dad had first started passing out cigarettes, his eyes had lit up, but when my dad passed him by without a glance and handed a cigarette to the man behind him, his face had flushed deep red. Deep purplish red, the colour of liver.

After my dad had given away all his cigarettes, he said goodbye to the villagers and headed back to the main road, where his team of matchmakers was waiting for him. As he sauntered off, his head held high, my dad turned back for one last look. Genzhu was staring at him with undisguised fury. Impotent, helpless fury. The two men locked eyes. My dad narrowed his, and looked daggers at the man who had recently threatened to kill him.

With that look, my dad drew blood. One last twist of the knife.

Grandpa knew everything now. It was as if everything my dad had ever done had been laid out before his eyes. While my dad was leaving the village, Grandpa was hurrying back to it. His first stop was Ding Yuejin’s house.

Yuejin and his family were gathered around the table, eating a sumptuous breakfast of stir-fried golden pumpkin, scrambled eggs with dark green leeks, piping-hot rice porridge and fried cakes. They were enjoying this feast behind closed doors when Grandpa burst into their courtyard. Yuejin, who seemed surprised to see him, motioned Grandpa to take a seat. Now that he was so sick, he told Grandpa, his family felt that he deserved to eat whatever he wanted. The cakes were supposed to be a special treat just for him, but he had insisted they make more so everyone could share them.

‘Don’t stop eating on my account,’ Grandpa said as he sat down. ‘I don’t want to interrupt your breakfast.’

Grandpa knew that since everyone had moved out of the school, Yuejin had been receiving regular food subsidies from the county government. Because he had the official village seal, he was able to get the best-quality rice and flour for free. His family ate very well, behind closed doors where no one could see. Grandpa glanced around the courtyard and saw piles of brand-new desks and chairs from the school stacked beneath
the eaves. There were also several logs, sawed into six-foot lengths, that Grandpa knew had come from the big paulownia tree that once stood in the schoolyard. Also a dozen or so wooden nameplates, still marked with class numbers, which had once hung above the classroom doors. The sight of all these things, so clearly stolen from the school, embarrassed Grandpa, but he didn’t want them to think he was snooping, so he quickly averted his eyes.

Yuejin’s family lived comfortably. Their house had a tiled roof and a courtyard of poured concrete, and the rafters were hung with ears of corn from last winter’s crop. Everyone was rosy-cheeked and healthy. Even their pigs seemed exceptionally plump. When one of the pigs came snuffling around the table, looking for scraps, Yuejin shooed it off.

As the pig scampered away, Yuejin turned to Grandpa. ‘So, Uncle, what brings you here so early?’

Grandpa unwrapped the paper package my dad had given him, revealing three large ginseng roots. With round knobs at the top, and tendrils branching out from the sides like arms and legs, they looked like little dolls. The skin was pale yellow, almost translucent, and gave off a strong medicinal smell. Yuejin’s family, none of whom had ever seen wild ginseng before, gathered around for a closer look. ‘Ooh, it’s true what they say,’ said one of the women. ‘They look just like little people.’

Grandpa picked up one of the roots and offered it to Yuejin. ‘This one’s for you. You can boil it to make ginseng tea. This is wild ginseng from the north-west. It takes decades for the roots to grow this thick. It’s supposed to be a good tonic for strengthening the body, and will probably fight the fever better than any medicine.’

Ding Yuejin, who knew that wild ginseng was incredibly expensive, refused to accept the gift. When Grandpa insisted, he backed away, blushing and stammering. ‘No, no, Uncle. I can’t take that. Ding Hui meant it as a gift for you.’

But Grandpa pressed it into his hand. ‘Your cousin was very specific. He asked me to give this piece to you.’

Yuejin relented. After he had carefully wrapped the ginseng in paper and set it on the table, he said suddenly: ‘Uncle, you should tell Ding Hui to stay away from the village. Genzhu and some of the others are planning to hurt him.’

‘Genzhu promised me he wouldn’t,’ said Grandpa. ‘If you’d be willing to give up the seal.’

Yuejin thought for a moment. ‘All right,’ he said with a smile. ‘Tell Genzhu that if I die before him, I’ll leave him the seal. I don’t care about being buried with it. It’s not like it’s going to do me any good once I’m dead.’

He glanced at the breakfast table, laden with dishes of food, and seemed embarrassed. ‘But I have a feeling he’ll die first. Other than the rashes and itching, I don’t have any other symptoms. That’s a good sign. If he dies before me, I’ve got to go on living. I need that seal to collect my food subsidies from the county cadres.’

The package of ginseng was still lying on the table, where Yuejin had left it. Eyeing it suspiciously, he asked: ‘Uncle, you didn’t come here to speak up for Jia Genzhu, did you? After all, you and I are family. We Dings have to stick together.’

Now it was Grandpa’s turn to look embarrassed.

‘Of course not, of course not,’ he assured his nephew. He stayed for a while longer, made some small talk, then left.

Grandpa’s next stop was Jia Genzhu’s house.

As Grandpa walked through the courtyard and into Genzhu’s living room, he noticed that the house looked a lot like Ding Yuejin’s. The dozen or so desks and chairs stacked beneath the eaves were brand new, taken from the school. A pile of logs was all that was left of the cottonwood and paulownia trees that had once stood outside the school kitchen. Genzhu had even taken the basketball hoop and frame. It had been dismantled, and was lying in a twisted heap in the middle of the courtyard. Inside the house, the rafters were stacked with
wooden frames ripped from the windows of the school. There were other odds and ends that Grandpa recognized, piled in corners or scattered about the room: pots, woks, a bamboo steamer, a metal bucket, a high-backed chair, a large blackboard, piles of blank homework notebooks and bags of unused chalk and pencils.

Jia Genzhu’s living room looked like a school supply warehouse.