The Corpse Walker: Real Life Stories: China From the Bottom Up (2 page)

THE PROFESSIONAL MOURNER

I met Li Changgeng in Jiangyou County, in the southwestern province of Sichuan, on the way to the picturesque Baoyuan Mountain. Li, a professional mourner, is nearly seventy years old. He was born in the central province of Henan, and despite years of absence from his hometown, he still carried traces of the twanging Henan accent. He looked healthy and tough, half a head taller than a typical Sichuanese. He attributed his healthy constitution to years of playing the traditional horn, the suona—the long, trumpet-belled, Chinese oboe—which he told me requires considerable physical strength. Suona music and wailing are both used to create the mood of lamentation at traditional funerals.

LIAO YIWU:
How do you manage to wail and howl over a stranger?

LI CHANGGENG:
I entered the mourning profession at the age of twelve. My teacher forced me to practice the basic suona tunes, as well as to learn how to wail and chant. Having a solid foundation in the basics enables a performer to improvise with ease, and to produce an earth-shattering effect. Our wailing sounds more authentic than that of the children or relatives of the deceased.

Most people who have lost their family members burst into tears and begin wailing upon seeing the body of the deceased. But their wailing doesn't last. Soon they are overcome with grief. When grief reaches into their hearts, they either suffer from shock or pass out. But for us, once we get into the mood, we control our emotions and improvise with great ease. We can wail as long as is requested. If it's a grand funeral and the money is good, we do lots of improvisations to please the host.

I left home and came southwest to Sichuan Province at the age of sixteen. Sichuan was a wealthier place than Henan, and people were willing to blow big money on weddings and funerals. I became pretty famous not long after I arrived here. This is a profession, like acting in a play or a movie. Once you have started, you gradually grow into the role. In a movie, the actor follows a script. For mourners and wailers, we follow the tunes of the music.

These tunes—“Sending Off the Spirit,” “Pursuing the Spirit,” “Requiem,” “Calling the Spirit,” “Farewell from Family Members,” “The Ultimate Sorrow,” “Sealing the Coffin,” “Transcending to Heaven,” “Burial,” “One Last Look,” “The Searing Pain,” and “Oh I Am So Sad”—have been performed for hundreds of years, passed down from generation to generation. There are specific instructions on where to hit the high notes, or drop to the low notes; where to use a cracked voice, or to be high-pitched; where to wail with the effect of a dry throat, or to cry with tears; and where to tremble your body with great sadness or where to sound like you're losing your voice. It has to be very precise.

LIAO:
How long can you wail? What was your record?

LI:
Two days and two nights. Normally, once the suona starts the opening tune, all us band members will drop whatever we're doing and put on our white linen outfits. Then, in unison, we bow to the portraits of the deceased three times, and kowtow nine times. Then we start two rounds of crying, sobbing, and wailing. It sounds pretty chaotic on the surface, but if you take time to observe us from the side for about an hour or so, you will notice that it is a well-orchestrated chaos. For example, when I sob, you wail. It's like while you're taking a break, I work the shift. Voices are our capital and we know how to protect them. Not even a loud, searing, heartbreaking wail will damage our voices.

People's feelings of happiness or anger can be as contagious as a disease, and spread fast. Of course, we recognize that the family members of the deceased are the lead actors. But often, when they're overcome with sadness, their bodies begin to weaken. Before long all the lead actors have to exit the stage. At this time, we, the supporting actors, enter refreshed and warmed up for the role. Frankly speaking, the hired mourners are the ones who can stick to the very end.

As a hired mourner, you are both a participant and an observer. Sometimes, I will steal a glance or two at the relatives: some of them are truly grief-stricken, thrusting forward to the coffin, hoping to cling to the deceased. Others are just feigning. At that point, we are entrusted with dual roles: we will cry and wail our hearts out, and at the same time act as bodyguards, making sure to stop the relatives from dashing forward to bang against the coffin. After all the relatives have walked past the coffin and made their farewells, we come in to keep the momentum going. Traditions dictate that before the coffin is sealed, about five or six of us will try to thrust forward three times, trying to reach over to the deceased, and the others will seize our shirts to restrain us from touching the coffin. Only when the lid is on and the last nail is finally hammered can we secretly utter a sigh of relief.

We used to treat every funeral like a contest. There were lead wailers and backup wailers, and after the gig was over, members would get together and critique one another's performances. Having loud voices is not enough. You need to know how to perform properly. For example, the chanting of poems involves a well-coordinated combination of appealing introductions, smooth transitions, high crescendos, and strong endings. While performing, you have to control and, sometimes, let go of yourself. Your face, your hands, and your shoulders—every part of your body movement is important. When wailing, we chant stanzas like “You have worked so diligently all your life” or “How could you leave us just when our good days have started?,” et cetera. Those are our librettos. We would critique the performance of each stanza so the wailer could improve in the future.

Wailing is more difficult than playing the suona or singing an opera aria. It's acting, but with such subtlety that people don't realize that you're acting. And, in the old days, it was key to our survival. From laying the body in the coffin to the wake, from sealing the coffin to the burial, each time the relatives were brought face-to-face with the deceased, there was a climax of emotional outbursts, and the amount of income we could earn from a gig depended on how well we did with the wailing.

LIAO:
I would assume that people in your profession would always have jobs.

LI:
I used to think so, too. In the 1940s, the Communists and the Nationalists were fighting a civil war. Refugees flooded my hometown like tidal waves. Unlike those refugees who ran away from danger, we rushed to places where there were deaths. Like musicians in the nineties, performers at that time also formed troupes or bands. My dad was a troupe leader. He used to be a Henan folk-song and opera singer; my teacher belonged to a different band. In those years, when China's central region was embroiled in wars, people lived in total misery, and roadside robbers and army deserters abounded. Nobody was in the mood for operas. In a desperate attempt to survive, my teacher suggested merging his band with my dad's. Their logic was that folks who were alive could live without going to concerts or operas, but they had to hold funerals for the dead. My dad didn't know how to play the suona, but he had a loud tenor voice. When he yelled, he could be heard miles away. As a former opera singer, memorizing over ten wailing tunes was a piece of cake for him.

But it wasn't an easy start for us in Sichuan. People used to hire local bands to perform at funerals. Rich households would hire both a local opera troupe and a group of chanting monks to send off the spirit of the dead. In the city of Chengdu, it was impossible for us to break in. We retreated and traveled down to the Mianyang region. We couldn't get any gigs there either. It was the same situation when we got to Jiangyou County. We decided to settle down temporarily in a poor village about six miles away from the township. To survive, we searched for all sorts of odd jobs just hoping to get three meals a day.

In 1948, an epidemic hit this region. Dead bodies were lying everywhere on the roadside. The epidemic saved our troupe. As you know, disease is an equal opportunity hitter, striking both the rich and the poor. Many of the local funeral bands were quite small, more like a family business, a couple of individuals who would bring their suona to a funeral and do a simple performance. There was no way they could compete with a large troupe like ours. Besides, northerners like us were bigger, taller, and stronger. After a while, our troupe pretty much monopolized the businesses of weddings and funerals. When we played the suona, we showed better stamina than those tubercular locals.

But each region was controlled by triad gangs or bandits. If you crossed paths with them and snatched their business, you could end up with a number of stab holes in your belly. Who dared to take business from them? We couldn't even afford to pay protection money. So, after losing their iron rice bowls to us, local suona players and professional mourners rallied together and enlisted help from a local triad leader, called Red Flag Five. This guy ran a teahouse in Qinglian Township. Red Flag Five sent us a message: either we moved our ass out of his territory, or he'd have someone break our legs and throw us out.

Luckily, we were pretty well-known in the area. There was a local landowner whose family were Buddhists. His nickname was Mediator Zhang. He went, begging for mercy on behalf of us, and offered twenty pieces of silver. With a little bribe, Red Flag Five backed down a bit. He proposed the idea of staging a one-on-one contest. My dad asked: How can we stage a competition when there are no dead bodies and funerals? The triad leader said: That's easy.

The next morning, when we got up and opened the door, we stumbled on the corpse of a beggar, right in front of our house. So we treated the beggar as if he were a big shot and prepared a big ceremony. We purchased a coffin, embalmed the corpse, and dressed him up in fancy clothes. We then carried the open coffin to the township square. Then, both sides began to build their separate stages with the mutually agreed terms. Local suona players, professional mourners, and their relatives raised a large sum of money, and paid big bucks to hire some prestigious players, ready to fight us to the bitter end.

Within half a day, both stages were set up. The two stages, standing opposite each other, were almost fifteen meters above the ground. The open coffin was sitting between them. The grand contest attracted people from villages over a hundred kilometers away. This was the first time ever, since the legendary Pangu created the world, that suona players and professional funeral wailers were dueling for territory.

The contest started with the suona. Both sides played the same tune, “The Ultimate Grief.” About several meters away from the stage sat the judges and audience. In the front row were the head of the triad and his lackeys, the county security chief, local celebrities, and rich gentry. I was young and competitive, and decided to mount the stage to start the first round, but my teacher pulled me down. He was in his fifties, but still strong and energetic. He wore a black mourning outfit with a white headband, which was quite dazzling under the sun. He held the suona between his teeth, grabbed the hanging ladder, and with a few big steps he climbed up to the stage. I could see that his opponent was also getting ready on the other side.

A guy in the audience waved a white flag and yelled, “Start!” Music flew out of both players. For a while, the tunes were sharp as a knife stabbing people's hearts. Both players were veterans, very experienced. Half an hour into the contest, it was still hard to declare a winner. At the height of the competition, those with observant eyes could probably see traces of saliva mixed with blood flying out of my teacher's suona. My dad looked very calm. He knew very well that my teacher had good stamina and was quite stubborn. He would never acknowledge defeat. His parents used to call him Mule Head. About an hour later, his opponent began to show signs of fatigue and was gasping for breath. Victory was on the horizon. Suddenly, I saw my teacher's suona snap into two and the guy at the podium flash his white flag. Oh, we were finished. I looked back at the stage and noticed that my teacher's mouth was covered with blood. It turned out that someone had used a slingshot to sabotage him.

I reacted fast, without much thinking, I grabbed the ladder, and the next thing I knew, I was on the stage. My dad was also trying to get on, but the stage couldn't support that many people, and began to sway from side to side. I screamed at my teacher: Teacher, please get off fast. At that moment, the other troupe's members rallied around the stage and blocked Dad's way. He had to give up and stomped his feet, yelling: That little bastard, get off the stage. You are asking for death. Before he even finished, I saw another contestant from the opponent's camp stepping onto the stage opposite me.

It was time for the wailing contest.

My opponent kicked his feet, pounded his chest with his fist, and uttered a thunderous wailing, like a cornered ox. The audience responded with waves of “Bravo.” I thought, We're done! I thought about my teacher who was wounded and had lost the contest. I thought about my dad who couldn't possibly survive this defeat. We had been forced to leave our homes and travel thousands of kilometers, trying to bring laughter to those who were alive and wail for those who were dead. Now we ended up in such a terrible situation, getting bullied by the locals. When would we see the end of our misery? This ritual for this deceased beggar could kill our band. What were we going to do? How were we going to survive? If I was not allowed to play the suona, begging seemed to be the only alternative left. Someday, I could end up with the same fate as the beggar in the coffin.