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Authors: Wenguang Huang
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would serve them good liquor and food, they would do the job for free so no one could accuse them of moonlighting.
Mrs. Zhang studied the lunar calendar and chose an auspicious date for the carpenters to start the job. Father thanked her, but, sounding like a progressive, tradition-defying Communist Party member, said, “We are urban folk and we live in a new society now. We don’t need to follow those rules.” In truth, he and Mother had already decided on the two-day National Day holiday when the carpenters from Henan would conveniently “come for a visit.”
At about eight o’clock on the morning of October 1, the carpenter and his two friends arrived. Mother pulled me and my sisters out of bed and sent us out to play, reminding us not to say a word. When we returned at lunchtime, the air smelled of pine and the yard was strewn with wood shavings and sawdust. Lunch was laid out on a small table in the living room. A bottle of Xifeng rice liquor—a coveted local brand—that Father had bought on the black market was placed next to a big bowl of steaming rice, around which was assembled a veritable feast of four meat and vegetable dishes. Rice and pork were rationed—a pound of pork and one pound of rice per adult per month. I was salivating at the sight and smell of so much food when Mother dragged me into the kitchen and gave me a piece of corn bread. She promised to let me have the leftovers if I behaved myself in front of the guests. I understood.
Feeding the carpenters so extravagantly drained our ration; it would be a long time before we next ate meat. The carpenters went home that evening and came back early the next morning. At the end of the second day, the wood shavings and sawdust having been cleared away, the courtyard held, perched on two wooden benches, a coffin that looked like a boat.
I climbed up onto a small stool and looked inside. “The coffin is big enough for two grandmas,” I exclaimed. I asked Father why there was so much space for such a little person. He gave me a stern look. “Watch your mouth.” The lead carpenter quietly explained the need for so much space. “Don’t forget that your grandma will be wrapped in a quilt and layers of clothes,” he said. “We don’t want to squish her in too tightly.”
The last task was to seal the wood, and Father produced a bucket filled with lumps of amberlike resin, which the carpenters melted in a big pot and applied to the inside of the coffin twice. “The pine resin will repel bugs or insects,” the carpenter explained. “Give it a couple of layers of black paint on the outside and it will shine beautifully. It would look even nicer if you can find an artist to draw a couple of longevity birds, like a crane or a phoenix, on the side.”
After giving it a final wipe, the carpenters and Father lifted the coffin and carried it inside. Our house was not large and I wondered where it would go. Grandma’s bed occupied the only spare space in the living room and my sisters already overflowed their bedroom. That left only my parents’ room, which was shared with my little brother and me. There was a space, next to the window, where I slept. Mutely, I watched as my little plank bed was taken apart and replaced with the coffin. It became clear to me that I would be sleeping next to it.
“Are you going to be scared at night?” I remember the carpenter asking with a comradely tap of his finger to my nose. Father pulled me over, his hands fondling my hair. “It’s your grandma’s future home. What’s to be afraid of? You are the eldest grandson, the coffin keeper.”
I had been a coffin keeper for sixteen months and I still remember that first night when it loomed large next to my bed. The idea of death, which had hardly existed in my consciousness, suddenly took on a physical shape in my imagination. My mind would be racing; try as I might to think of something else, my thoughts kept returning to Grandma—dead. I witnessed the burial
Mrs. Zhang studied the lunar calendar and chose an auspicious date for the carpenters to start the job. Father thanked her, but, sounding like a progressive, tradition-defying Communist Party member, said, “We are urban folk and we live in a new society now. We don’t need to follow those rules.” In truth, he and Mother had already decided on the two-day National Day holiday when the carpenters from Henan would conveniently “come for a visit.”
At about eight o’clock on the morning of October 1, the carpenter and his two friends arrived. Mother pulled me and my sisters out of bed and sent us out to play, reminding us not to say a word. When we returned at lunchtime, the air smelled of pine and the yard was strewn with wood shavings and sawdust. Lunch was laid out on a small table in the living room. A bottle of Xifeng rice liquor—a coveted local brand—that Father had bought on the black market was placed next to a big bowl of steaming rice, around which was assembled a veritable feast of four meat and vegetable dishes. Rice and pork were rationed—a pound of pork and one pound of rice per adult per month. I was salivating at the sight and smell of so much food when Mother dragged me into the kitchen and gave me a piece of corn bread. She promised to let me have the leftovers if I behaved myself in front of the guests. I understood.
Feeding the carpenters so extravagantly drained our ration; it would be a long time before we next ate meat. The carpenters went home that evening and came back early the next morning. At the end of the second day, the wood shavings and sawdust having been cleared away, the courtyard held, perched on two wooden benches, a coffin that looked like a boat.
I climbed up onto a small stool and looked inside. “The coffin is big enough for two grandmas,” I exclaimed. I asked Father why there was so much space for such a little person. He gave me a stern look. “Watch your mouth.” The lead carpenter quietly explained the need for so much space. “Don’t forget that your grandma will be wrapped in a quilt and layers of clothes,” he said. “We don’t want to squish her in too tightly.”
The last task was to seal the wood, and Father produced a bucket filled with lumps of amberlike resin, which the carpenters melted in a big pot and applied to the inside of the coffin twice. “The pine resin will repel bugs or insects,” the carpenter explained. “Give it a couple of layers of black paint on the outside and it will shine beautifully. It would look even nicer if you can find an artist to draw a couple of longevity birds, like a crane or a phoenix, on the side.”
After giving it a final wipe, the carpenters and Father lifted the coffin and carried it inside. Our house was not large and I wondered where it would go. Grandma’s bed occupied the only spare space in the living room and my sisters already overflowed their bedroom. That left only my parents’ room, which was shared with my little brother and me. There was a space, next to the window, where I slept. Mutely, I watched as my little plank bed was taken apart and replaced with the coffin. It became clear to me that I would be sleeping next to it.
“Are you going to be scared at night?” I remember the carpenter asking with a comradely tap of his finger to my nose. Father pulled me over, his hands fondling my hair. “It’s your grandma’s future home. What’s to be afraid of? You are the eldest grandson, the coffin keeper.”
I had been a coffin keeper for sixteen months and I still remember that first night when it loomed large next to my bed. The idea of death, which had hardly existed in my consciousness, suddenly took on a physical shape in my imagination. My mind would be racing; try as I might to think of something else, my thoughts kept returning to Grandma—dead. I witnessed the burial
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