noonday. The usher quickly marched toward the front door.
The mayor entered, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie. He walked in soberly, sporting heavy makeup on his face, a pair of bushy black eyebrows, and bright lipstick on his lips. The usher greeted him, leading him in solicitously. “Mayor, please make yourself comfortable in the VIP luxury suite.”
The mayor, nodding, followed him in. Two huge doors in the waiting room slowly swung open, only to close again slowly once he had entered.
The VIPs in the armchairs had all gone quiet. The VIP luxury suite had reduced the armchair zone to silence; wealth conceded its inferiority to power.
Among the plastic chairs, conversation continued to rise and fall, with burial remaining the topic of interest. Everyone bemoaned the fact that graves were now even more expensive than houses. In graveyards that were terribly crowded, despite their remote location, a square-yard plot still cost you thirty thousand yuan—and with a guaranteed tenure of only twenty-five years. Although houses were expensive, at least you could be sure of keeping them for seventy years. Some crematees were highly indignant, while others were racked with anxiety. “What will happen after twenty-five years?” they worried. By that time the price of a grave plot would most likely have reached astronomical levels, and if their family couldn’t afford to pay out for a renewal of the lease, their ashes would simply end up as fertilizer.
“Dying is such an expensive business these days!” one of the crematees in the front row grumbled.
“Best not to think about the future,” the old gentleman next to me calmly advised.
The old man told me that seven years earlier he had purchased a square-yard plot for three thousand yuan, and now it was worth thirty thousand. He rejoiced in his foresight at the time—if he wanted to buy it now, he would never be able to afford it.
“In seven years the price has risen tenfold,” he sighed.
Reservation numbers began to be called. The mayor had now been cremated, and his urn, over which the Communist Party flag had been laid, was deposited on a black hearse, which then slowly moved away, followed by several hundred sedans. Funereal music began to sound from the sealed-off roads. I realized now that whereas ordinary reservation numbers began with an A, VIP reservation numbers began with a V. I wasn’t sure what letter reservation numbers of luxury VIPs like the mayor started with—perhaps they didn’t require any number whatsoever.
The six VIPs with the V numbers went in. Many A numbers were called, but just as the usher in blue had said, there were a lot of no-shows—occasionally there would be ten or more no-shows one after another. I noticed now that the usher was standing in the passageway next to me, and when I raised my head to look at him, his weary voice again sounded. “The no-shows don’t have graves.”
I had neither urn nor grave. Why did I come here? I wondered.
I heard the number A64—my number—called, but I stayed put in my chair. A64 was called three times, and then they moved on to A65. The woman next to me stood up. She was wearing a traditional shroud—in the Qing dynasty style, it looked like—and as she walked, her wide sleeves swung back and forth.
The old man next to me was still waiting, and still chatting. He said that although his grave site was out of the way and hard to get to, the scenery was decent, with a small lake nearby and some just-planted saplings. He said that once he was there he planned to stay put, so it didn’t matter to him that it was far away and not convenient to reach. Then he inquired in which funeral garden he would find my grave.
I shook my head. “I have no grave.”
“Without a grave, where will you go?” he asked in astonishment.
I felt my body stand up. It took me and left the waiting room.
Once more I placed myself in the enveloping fog and swirling snow, but I didn’t
The mayor entered, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie. He walked in soberly, sporting heavy makeup on his face, a pair of bushy black eyebrows, and bright lipstick on his lips. The usher greeted him, leading him in solicitously. “Mayor, please make yourself comfortable in the VIP luxury suite.”
The mayor, nodding, followed him in. Two huge doors in the waiting room slowly swung open, only to close again slowly once he had entered.
The VIPs in the armchairs had all gone quiet. The VIP luxury suite had reduced the armchair zone to silence; wealth conceded its inferiority to power.
Among the plastic chairs, conversation continued to rise and fall, with burial remaining the topic of interest. Everyone bemoaned the fact that graves were now even more expensive than houses. In graveyards that were terribly crowded, despite their remote location, a square-yard plot still cost you thirty thousand yuan—and with a guaranteed tenure of only twenty-five years. Although houses were expensive, at least you could be sure of keeping them for seventy years. Some crematees were highly indignant, while others were racked with anxiety. “What will happen after twenty-five years?” they worried. By that time the price of a grave plot would most likely have reached astronomical levels, and if their family couldn’t afford to pay out for a renewal of the lease, their ashes would simply end up as fertilizer.
“Dying is such an expensive business these days!” one of the crematees in the front row grumbled.
“Best not to think about the future,” the old gentleman next to me calmly advised.
The old man told me that seven years earlier he had purchased a square-yard plot for three thousand yuan, and now it was worth thirty thousand. He rejoiced in his foresight at the time—if he wanted to buy it now, he would never be able to afford it.
“In seven years the price has risen tenfold,” he sighed.
Reservation numbers began to be called. The mayor had now been cremated, and his urn, over which the Communist Party flag had been laid, was deposited on a black hearse, which then slowly moved away, followed by several hundred sedans. Funereal music began to sound from the sealed-off roads. I realized now that whereas ordinary reservation numbers began with an A, VIP reservation numbers began with a V. I wasn’t sure what letter reservation numbers of luxury VIPs like the mayor started with—perhaps they didn’t require any number whatsoever.
The six VIPs with the V numbers went in. Many A numbers were called, but just as the usher in blue had said, there were a lot of no-shows—occasionally there would be ten or more no-shows one after another. I noticed now that the usher was standing in the passageway next to me, and when I raised my head to look at him, his weary voice again sounded. “The no-shows don’t have graves.”
I had neither urn nor grave. Why did I come here? I wondered.
I heard the number A64—my number—called, but I stayed put in my chair. A64 was called three times, and then they moved on to A65. The woman next to me stood up. She was wearing a traditional shroud—in the Qing dynasty style, it looked like—and as she walked, her wide sleeves swung back and forth.
The old man next to me was still waiting, and still chatting. He said that although his grave site was out of the way and hard to get to, the scenery was decent, with a small lake nearby and some just-planted saplings. He said that once he was there he planned to stay put, so it didn’t matter to him that it was far away and not convenient to reach. Then he inquired in which funeral garden he would find my grave.
I shook my head. “I have no grave.”
“Without a grave, where will you go?” he asked in astonishment.
I felt my body stand up. It took me and left the waiting room.
Once more I placed myself in the enveloping fog and swirling snow, but I didn’t
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