Chapter Seventy-Five: The Village of Top Scholars (1)

It is said that ghosts can dwell inside umbrellas. I have no idea which dynasty or era this belief originated from, but the tradition of making Qingming umbrellas during the Tomb-Sweeping Festival has been passed down for generations in the northwestern region of Zhejiang. Ever since I was a child, the elders taught me there are certain things one must never bring home if found outside—an umbrella is one of them.

This was a black umbrella, made of foreign cloth, its surface somewhat tattered. Umbrella frames back then were much heavier than those today, but this one was the heaviest I’d ever held in my life. Knowing there was a ghost inside the umbrella in my hand, I suppose nobody could feel at ease in my place. Snow was still falling in the courtyard, blanketing everything in dazzling white, adding even more sorrow to this already mournful day. I walked through the snow, glancing back at Fatty rummaging around, while a frozen corpse still bore the expression it wore in life.

Just days before, during the Qingming incense offering, my eldest maternal uncle was still laughing and joking. Perhaps he never imagined he would one day follow in my father’s footsteps.

Seeing Fatty handling the corpse rather roughly, I grew anxious. There had already been enough strange happenings tonight; I worried he might create further trouble, so I warned him, “Be careful with that, don’t stir up something else.”

Zha Wenbin spoke softly, his head lowered: “No need to worry, the soul is no longer here.” His voice was quiet, as though talking to himself. I didn’t know why he seemed so downcast. Since his return this time, I saw more evasion in his eyes, as if searching for something while fleeing from something else. He spoke even less than before.

Fatty tucked the corpse under his arm, and it was heavy even for him. It’s said that bodies become heavier after death. As Fatty spoke, his breath turned to white mist in the snowy night. “Alright, should we put him in the coffin?”

“Put him in. Gather some firewood and burn him.”

I hesitated. “Is this really appropriate? Our family has always buried our dead in the earth for generations.”

“We’ll bury him after burning. If we wait until tomorrow, it’ll be too late to inter him. Unless you can convince those people to come back and carry the body again.”

I knew it was impossible to get those frightened people back, no matter how much tobacco or liquor was offered. In the end, everyone realizes that nothing is more valuable than one’s own life—no one would risk their life for a drink.

At that time, every rural home had a clay stove and stored firewood. We hauled out bundles of the best dry wood from the shed, and, using the snow as a base, built a platform. The coffin was placed atop the pile. Zha Wenbin went inside to fetch some kerosene, which he poured over the wood. A single match flared, and the flames roared skyward, crackling fiercely, as if they were his final farewell to this land.

My eldest uncle could never have imagined such a lonely end for himself—no funeral procession, no mourners, not even a sheet of paper burned in his honor. In life, he was arrogant and unruly, but in death, he wasn’t even left with a whole body. Sometimes, truly, one should strive to accumulate some merit while alive.

The fire burned for a full hour. The black smoke and drifting ashes could no longer be distinguished from the path to the underworld. In the end, we picked out a few recognizable bones for Fatty to smash with the back of a hoe. We then collected the remains with a broom and dustpan from their own yard. I went inside to ask my great-aunt for a large pickling jar, the kind used in the countryside to store preserved vegetables, and we poured the bones inside.

Zha Wenbin dug up some wet clay outside, sealed the jar mouth with bamboo leaves, then added more clay mixed with rice husks to make it airtight. With that, our work was done.

I checked the time: a quarter to midnight.

“Should we take him up the mountain?” I asked.

Zha Wenbin looked up at the pitch-black sky and replied, “No, it’s too late. There’s a pine and cypress tree in their kitchen garden—bury him there.”

Before burial, Zha Wenbin affixed a talisman to the jar. When I asked what it meant, he explained that it was simply to warn future generations that if they unearthed this jar, they shouldn’t break it, for it contained ashes.

I looked at the pickling jar. I didn’t laugh. I had always scorned this man in my heart, but when Fatty tossed the jar into the pit as if it were garbage, I suddenly felt he was truly pitiable. A lifetime is as fleeting as the autumn of grasses and trees; all our days and memories are nothing but passing clouds and fleeting horses in the grand course of time.

On the way home, Fatty and I trudged through the wind and snow in silence—only he kept chattering on, but I couldn’t be bothered to respond.

“Wenbin,” I suddenly called out to him.

“Yes?”

“Let’s go to America.”

“Why?” he asked.

I stopped and turned to face him, gazing into his profoundly melancholic eyes, and thought of her—innocent, romantic, like some beautiful sprite.

“To find her.”

Zha Wenbin didn’t answer. He paused, managed a faint smile, then walked ahead alone.

Watching his departing figure, Fatty nudged me and asked, “Why go to America? Do you even speak American?”

“No,” I replied, clapping him on the shoulder. “Neither of us speaks Cantonese, but didn’t we manage just fine? For all we know, the troublemakers in America are even tougher than the ones from Japan or Taiwan.”

Fatty beamed, laughing loudly. “Haha, good man! Our scrap business is going global. I’ll become the world’s Scrap King! The Party teaches us that American imperialism is nothing but a paper tiger. We children of the Red Flag, raised in New China, should cross the Pacific and sweep their junk away! I’ll treat their scrap like autumn wind scattering fallen leaves—absolutely merciless, haha!”

In those days, going to America was an unimaginable prospect. Different education, beliefs, values, and outlooks on life. Back then, only the elite, the true backbone of society, could make it across the ocean. We had just emerged from the Cultural Revolution and were still quarreling over grain and meat rations, while owning a black-and-white TV required connections. Meanwhile, America had already entered the computer age. Fortunately, the two countries had just mended relations, and America was experiencing a craze for studying the East, especially China’s ancient culture, as Yuan Xiaobai mentioned in a letter.

But things were far less simple than I had imagined—at least for Zha Wenbin.

From what I heard, even the funeral of my other uncle-in-law was fraught with trouble. Their family lived over a hundred kilometers from our Hong Village, in another county’s jurisdiction. The next day, my father said that things were no less chaotic there than here.

At dinner, we brought up the topic and asked my father, “What happened with that uncle over there?”

“They had the funeral this morning. They’d heard about our incident and decided not to keep the body at home for another day. Some relatives went over, and when they got back, they said the body had vanished. The deceased was laid out on the kang, covered up, and they intended to wait until after the seventh day to bury him. He hadn’t been touched, but when they went to look, he was gone—body missing.”

Fatty took a swig of liquor. “Rose from the dead, huh?”

“Who knows? In the end, they found him, but it was bizarre. That family was quite prominent, with an ancestral hall and three generations of scholars during the Ming and Qing. Xiao Yi, you might remember—when you were twelve, I took you there.”

My father’s words jogged my memory. Their village was called Scholar’s Village, and my uncle-in-law’s surname was Zhou. Half the villagers shared his surname. I remembered their village was unique, with pure Hui-style architecture—white walls, black tiles, every house with a horse-head wall, two-story brick and wood structures. My uncle-in-law’s family had once been well-off, with seven or eight rooms; after liberation, most were confiscated, but four were returned. What impressed me most was the grand mansion resembling a temple—that was the Zhou Family Ancestral Hall.

Children weren’t allowed to play in the ancestral hall. The year I visited, my cousin was married in, and as a maternal relative, I went along. Back then, my great-uncle was still alive and relations among the families were cordial. My cousins and I wandered around the village and ended up at the ancestral hall, whose doors were open. Kids are always drawn to strange things, and I was no exception. I saw a pair of stone lions at the entrance and peered inside through the door. In the center was an incense burner, an open courtyard, and rooms on all sides.

All the rooms had no doors, only strips of yellow and red cloth hanging inside. We children entered one after another. All I remember is that it was nearly dark before the adults came looking for us, and I was nearly beaten by my father for that.

Of course, children’s stories are seldom believed by adults.

We played in the ancestral hall, having a grand time. Why? Because it was full of people—men and women, young and old, at least a hundred. When we entered, we saw an opera troupe performing “Mu Guiying Takes Command.” Nothing was more exciting for kids than a play. We squeezed into the crowd, and after the play, we completely forgot about the wedding feast.

It was even livelier inside: tables laden with wine, meat, and pastries—take what you wanted, pour your own drinks. For the first time, I felt as if I’d stumbled into a welfare house; life here seemed too good to be true. We played to our hearts’ content, surrounded by smiling faces. Sitting in the center were a few elderly men, dressed in strange black long robes embroidered with the character for “longevity.” The actress playing Mu Guiying was beautiful, her performance even better.

I joined in the applause, cheering with the crowd. When the adults finally found me, I must have fallen asleep—the hall was pitch black, and the opera had ended. As my father dragged me out by the ear, I looked back and thought I saw coffins lined up in all those rooms...

End of the first chapter.