lu min Song of Parting Translated from Chinese by Michael Day 1. ain fell violently through the night. San Ye thought of the R gravestones in Dongba, and the flesh and bones beneath, and the clothes and things buried with the bodies. The coffins must be swimming in slimy muck . he couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned until dawn, got up, and looked outside to see the bridge over the river had collapsed. Sodden planks drifted on the current, spinning gleefully before floating away with bits of rope, branches, and sedge grass, never to be seen again. Fortunately, his little age-blackened boat was still there, bumping and tossing on the water. No one was coming to fix the bridge. These days no one needed it, since San Ye was the only one on this side. When people came to see him, they would call across the water, always in the same low, sub- dued tone: San Ye, Grandma Wu from the west side has passed. San Ye, Shuanzi got electrocuted. San Ye, Jiang Danian’s daughter-in-law drank pesticide and did herself in. No matter the time of day, he would hurriedly pull on his mourn- ing clothes, step outside, and cross the shaky little bridge, watching the river flowing beneath, reflecting only him. When people caught sight of him making his way across, they would turn to one another and say, San Ye crossed the bridge today. That was the way they let one another know, since they all knew what it meant: another of Dongba’s residents had died.Rushing to the scene, he often found both children and adults in a daze — they had been to plenty of neighbors’ funerals, they were old hands at this, but it was different when tragedy struck your own family. They would all say, at times like this, you can see how hard San Ye’s heart is. He would reach out and wipe the corpse’s face with no expression at all. His first task was to make the body presentable, while it was still soft and warm. He would dress it, put a hat on its head, tidy it up and lay 568 it straight, with the feet facing into the room, the opposite of the way living people slept; he would hang a mourning curtain in the door- way, place an offering in the hall, light incense and burn paper money; then he would sit down, write up a shopping list, and send someone to buy things: swaths of white, red, and black cloth; safety pins; ink and a brush, yellow and red paper; white candles; big incense sticks; some paper money; a few meters of straw rope. And so on. Next, he would comb through the friends and loved ones for some- one who could read and write, and put them in charge of the visitors’ log: a ceaseless stream of mourners would bring cash for the living and paper money for the dead, and a record had to be made of each gift. Distant relatives may have gone years without visiting, but when they heard the news, they would drop what they were doing and come to kowtow and burn paper money. There was a set procedure for every- thing, a stricter order even than that of a wedding. Then he would have a tent put up. He would hire a monk to chant sutras. He would have a banquet served, a gravestone carved, and a feng shui reading done. He would hire a band.Once everyone had their instructions, the mood among the family would gradually grow calm. Once every visiting neighbor knew what to do, things would start fall- ing into place. The women would split into teams, rinsing vegetables in the kitchen, cutting white cloth in the courtyard, and folding paper gold bars in the parlor, chatting animatedly among themselves, sharing memories of the departed, who would seem to come alive again with still more outstanding qualities than they had had in life: even tempers, modesty, self-restraint, quick wits . Finally finding a free moment, San Ye would ask the man of the house what kind of paper figures he wanted, then return home across the river and begin putting together the paper people, horses, and car- riages. As a young man, San Ye had made a living making paper things, but then there had been so many funerals, and he didn’t have a wife, so he had slid slowly into the role of presiding over Dongba’s funerals. 2. San Ye was in front of the house cleaning out the little black boat — left to sit a long while, it had filled with leaves, cobwebs, and even clusters of mushrooms — when he saw Old Peng on the opposite bank, carrying a small wooden stool. The old man sat and pulled out a snuff bottle, as if preparing for a long talk with San Ye. 569 THE MASSACHUSETTS REVIEW Old Peng was seventy-three, ten years older than San Ye, and still spry. His voice boomed from the opposite bank: “How have you been holding up these past couple days?” “Oh, you know. Have to get this boat fixed up. I need it now.” “So you’re not gonna fix the bridge?” “I’m the only one here to the west of the river . just me and the mountains.” San Ye turned to look behind him as he babbled. “West or east, we’re all part of Dongba.” “If I could fix it, I reckon I would. But rowing works, too.” “I’ll get someone to fix it for you. It’s no good leaving it like that.” Old Peng’s cheeks sucked in, and the pipe gurgled. San Ye knew Old Peng was no do-gooder, no bleeding heart. His first wife had died young, and his two sons and daughter had moved to the big city, and though they urged their father to join them and live the easy life, the old man stubbornly insisted on lingering alone in Dongba. People respected him for his children’s success, but San Ye doubted he would have much luck rounding up a crew to fix the bridge. In fact, the day after the bridge washed out, all Dongba already knew. In spare moments, old and young alike gathered on the river- bank to gaze at the opposite shore . Aiya, not a single bridge pier left! All of it washed away by the flood . That’s right! Washed clean away, not a pier left standing! The crowd buzzed with excitement. Some greeted San Ye, asking, hadn’t he heard anything in the night? Then they would turn and walk away. No one said a word about fixing the bridge. Like a great tree struck by lightning, it was down, and could not be put right. “Forget it. You know as well as I do that people call this the bridge to hell. Even if it’s fixed, no one will use it.” San Ye didn’t want the old man to waste his energy. Old Peng shook his head and refused to respond, changing the topic. Scalding June sunlight poured down, blackening the green grass across the river. No one made small talk with San Ye — when people saw him, they would look at his hands and seem to catch a chill, shrinking back a little, at a loss for words — and he would go inside, pull out his paper figures and get to work. Blue house, yellow bridge, red man, white horse . it was quite a sight to see, paper figures of all shapes and colors lined up on the ground. 570 Lu Min Old Peng liked looking at them, too. His curiosity stirred, he asked all sorts of things. Okay, San Ye thought, I don’t mind talking about the paper figures. Gold Mountain, Silver Mountain, Tall Trusty Steed, Grand Sedan Chair, Spacious Courtyard, Wooden Cabinet, Bed and Bedding, Red Lacquered Commode, Emerald Servant Girl, a self- contained world of the senses brimming with life. He would send the figures to the family, line them up in the courtyard, and children and adults would gather around to gawk, oohing and ahhing. At times like these, San Ye was so proud. 3. Old Peng started searching for free hands to fix the bridge. San Ye knew who he’d rounded up because they all eventually showed up across the white river from his place. One man squatted on his haunches and pulled nervously at the grass. One man wore a hat. An- other carried a leather bag beneath his arm. When there was a job to be done in Dongba, these were the men who stepped in. “San Ye, about this bridge, you see . ” Fingers stained green, the grass-puller shoved grass in his mouth, seeming to savor the taste. The hat-wearer wore a traveling cap with a ring of small red characters reading “ABC Tour Group, XYZ County.” A tea glass bulged inside the bag. They all seemed to look at San Ye in the same way, and speak in the same tone. “San Ye, you see . .” “Leave it be. I’ll cross on the boat.” He caught the drift quickly. There was no need to drag things out. “Well, San Ye, if you insist . so sorry. Tell you the truth, we’ve got wood, but there are no bridge builders here in Dongba. We went to the next village, asked around, and found one, but no matter what we said, he wouldn’t lend a hand, saying it would be bad luck .