Life and Death are Wearing Me Out

bad I must have looked as I sat through the meeting, one scary image after another racing through my mind. The most tragic image was of my wife murdering Chunmiao in an out-of-the-way village or remote spot, then killing herself. A crowd of rubberneckers had gathered around the bodies and police cars, sirens blaring, were speeding to the scene. I sneaked a look at Kangmei, who was volubly describing aspects of Jinlong’s blueprints with a pointer, and all my benumbed brain could think about was how, in the next minute, the next second, anytime now, this huge scandal would land in the midst of this meeting like a suicide bomb, sending fragments of steel and flesh flying. . . .
    The meeting was adjourned amid applause that carried complex implications. I rushed out of the conference room, followed by a malicious comment by one of the attendees: “County Chief must have a crotch-full by now.”
    I ran to the car, catching my driver by surprise. But before he could scamper around to open the door for me, I’d already climbed into the backseat.
    “Let’s go!” I said impatiently.
    “We can’t,” he said helplessly.
    He was right, we couldn’t. The administrative section had lined up the cars by seniority. Pang Kangmei’s silver Crown Victoria sedan was at the head of the line in front of the building. Next in line was the county chief’s Nissan, then the People’s Consultative Conference chairman’s black Audi, the National People’s Congress municipal director’s white Audi. . . My VW Santana was twentieth. They were all idling. Like me, some of the attendees were already in their cars, while others were standing near the gate, engaged in hushed conversations. Everyone was waiting for Pang Kangmei, whose laughter preceded her out of the building. She was wearing a high-collared sapphire blue business suit with a glittering pin on her lapel. She told everyone that she owned only costume jewelry, which, according to her sister, could fill a bucket. Chunmiao, where are you, my love? I was on the verge of climbing out of my car and running out onto the street when Kangmei finally got into her car and drove off, followed by a procession of automobiles leaving the compound. Sentries stood at attention on both sides of the gate, right arms raised in salutes. The cars all turned right.
    “Where is everybody going, Little Hu?” I asked anxiously.
    “To Ximen Jinlong’s banquet.” He handed me a large red, gilded invitation.
    I had a vague recollection of someone whispering during the meeting, “Why all this discussion? The celebration banquet’s there waiting for us.”
    “Turn the car around,” I said anxiously.
    “Where are we going?”
    “Back to the office.”
    He was not happy about that. I knew that not only were the drivers treated to some good food at these events, but they were also given gifts. Not only that, Chairman of the Board Ximen Jinlong had a reputation of being especially generous in this regard. To try to console Little Hu, and to cover myself for my behavior, I said:
    “You should be aware of my relationship with Ximen Jinlong.”
    Without responding, he made a U-turn and headed back toward my office building. Just my luck to run up against market day at Nanguan. Hordes of people on bicycles and tractors, in donkey wagons and on foot, crowded into People’s Avenue. Despite a liberal use of his horn, Little Hu was forced to go slowly with the flow of traffic.
    “The goddamn traffic cops are all off drinking someplace!” he grumbled.
    I ignored him. What did I care if the cops were off drinking? Finally, we made it to the office, where my car was immediately surrounded by a crowd of people that seemed to have risen out of the ground.
    Some old women in rags sat down in front of my car, slapping their hands on the ground and filling the air with tearless wails. Like magicians on a stage, several middle-aged men unfurled banners with slogans: “Give us back our land,” “Down with corrupt officials,” things like that. A dozen men were kneeling behind the wailing old women and holding up sheets of white cloth with writing on them. Then there were people behind the car passing out handbills in the practiced manner of Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution or professional mourners scattering spirit money during rural funerals. People swarmed around us, penning us in with no way out. Fellow villagers, you’ve surrounded the person who least deserves it. I spotted Hong