Life and Death are Wearing Me Out

were made of satin with dark gold longevity characters sewn in. I fell to my knees in front of the coffin.
    “Mother,” I wailed, “your unfilial son has come too late . . .”
    Your mother’s coffin finally emerged through the gateway, accompanied by the mournful wails of those who survived her and funeral music provided by a renowned peasant musician’s troupe. Excitement spread among the bystanders, who had waited a long time for this moment. The musicians were preceded by two men carrying long bamboo poles to clear the way ahead. White mourning cloth hung from the ends of the poles, like antisparrow poles. They were followed by ten or fifteen boys carrying funeral banners, for which they would be richly rewarded, reason enough for them to beam happily. Behind this youthful honor guard came two men who covered the procession route with spirit money Next came a four-man purple canopy protecting your mother’s spirit tablet, on which, in ancient script, was written: “Wife of Ximen Nao, Surnamed Bai, called Yingchun.” Everyone who saw this tablet knew that Ximen Jinlong had established his mother’s lineage as the deceased spouse not of Lan Lian but of his biological father, Ximen Nao, and not as concubine but as legal wife. This, of course, was highly unconventional, for a remarried woman was normally not entitled to interment near her original husband’s family graves. But Jinlong broke with this tradition. Then came your mother’s mahogany casket, followed by the direct descendants of the deceased, all walking with willow lamentation canes. Your son, Ximen Huan, and Ma Gaige had simply thrown a white funeral sackcloth over their street clothes and wrapped their heads in white fabric. Each supported his grieving mother, all shedding silent tears. Jinlong trailed his lamentation cane behind him, stopping frequently to go down on his knees and wail, shedding red tears. Baofeng’s voice was raspy, all but inaudible. Her eyes were glassy and her mouth hung open, but there were no tears or sounds. Your son, with his lean frame, had to support the entire weight of your wife, requiring the assistance of some of the other mourners. She wasn’t walking to the cemetery, she was being carried along. Huzhu’s loose black hair caught everyone’s attention. Normally worn in a braid and encased in a black net, now, in accordance with funeral protocol, she let it fall loosely around her shoulders, like a black cataract spreading out on the ground, muddying the tips. A distant niece of the deceased, who had her wits about her, trotted ahead, scooped up Huzhu’s hair, and laid it across her bent elbow. Many of the bystanders were whispering comments regarding Huzhu’s miraculous hair. Someone said, Ximen Jinlong lives amid a cloud of beautiful women, but he won’t ask his wife for a divorce. Why? Because the life he lives has been bestowed upon him by his wife. It is her miraculous hair that has brought him wealth and prosperity.
    Pang Kangmei walked hand in hand with Pang Fenghuang with the group of dignitaries, behind the direct descendants. She was but three months away from being tried for a double offense. Her term of office had ended, but she had not yet been reassigned, which was a sure sign that trouble was brewing for her. Why, then, had she chosen to participate in a funeral that would later become a major expose by the news media? Now, I was a dog who had experienced many of life’s vicissitudes, but this was too complicated a problem for me to figure out. Nonetheless, I think the answer lay not in anything involving Kangmei herself, but must have been tied to Pang Fenghuang, a charming but rebellious girl who was, after all your mother’s granddaughter.
    “Mother, your unfilial son has come too late . . .” After I shouted my line, all of Mo Yan’s instructions disappeared without a trace, as did my awareness that I was acting the part of Blue Face in a TV series. I had a hallucination — no, it wasn’t a hallucination, it was a real-life feeling that the person lying in the coffin in funeral clothes with a sheet of yellow paper covering her face was, in fact, my mother. Images of the last time I’d seen her, six years earlier, flashed before my eyes, and one side of my face swelled up and felt hot. There’d been a ringing in my ears after my father had slapped me with the sole of his shoe. What my eyes took in here — my mother’s white hair; her face, awash in murky tears; her sunken,