● # 15, Lane 23, Baoqing Road

She was standing behind a longan tree in the distance, hiding out of sight, her heart more than broken. Eyes wide open, she stared desolately at the coffin as it was being lowered into the ground.

	written by Yen Minju translated by David vander Peet That grave, it was brand-new. Actually, calling it a grave may be pushing it a bit: after all, it was little more than a heap of earth cordoned off on all sides by a thin rope, waiting for the builder to furnish it with bricks, and give it a proper top and finishing. The family of the deceased had particularly reminded the builder to make sure that the character for “Zhang,” the victim’s family name inside the back wall’s central circle, should be written in particularly bold calligraphy. And extreme care was also to be taken with the deceased’s whole name on the front tombstone. His family had fought for two weeks about whether the tombstone should be made of terrazzo or marble, without reaching an agreement. Even on the day the of the funeral, his father and uncle almost got into a fistfight in front of all the relatives and friends, and it was only his mother’s breaking out in tears that prevented things from getting out of control. The father felt that he had only this one son, so even though he died in a rather undignified way, it was still necessary to preserve the Zhang family’s good reputation in the village by giving the boy a proper funeral and grave. The uncle took a different view, saying that the guy lying in the ground there had it coming, since he was an unreliable fellow who lost his life young over a mistress from God knows where. No, he simply didn’t deserve a proper grave, and if he couldn’t find peace in death, that was his just reward. The funeral band was playing out a cacophony of dissonant melodies and rhythms with its surnas, yehus, little cymbals and big drums. Add to that the groundswell of the women’s sad wailing, and it was no wonder that even the flies buzzing about the procession were put in an irritable mood. So there they all were, kneeling and praying, kowtowing repeatedly, offering up incense and food. And of course there were also two monks chanting sutras to ensure the deceased’s spirit wouldn’t linger. It was sizzling hot that day, and it was more than an hour before the procession finally went back again, this time a bit quieter than before, leaving no one behind but the cemetery workers in their broad-rimmed farmer’s hats and with wet towels draped across their necks against the heat. They set about finishing their work—shoveling dirt, laying bricks, building a last resting place for that guy. She was standing behind a longan tree in the distance, hiding out of sight, her heart more than broken. Eyes wide open, she stared desolately at the coffin as it was being lowered into the ground. Yes, in that coffin, glistening red and orange in the bright sunlight, someone was lying who had been close to her. According to the geomancer, his head and feet had to be perfectly aligned for this final interment. She was crying so quietly, her sorrow deep yet somehow light and detached at the same time. She couldn’t even bear to raise her hand and wave a last time. In the oppressive heat of a sweltering summer’s day, her entire body felt cold as ice. She didn’t remember how she got home. She took a shower and put on a white shirt, a white skirt, white socks and white shoes. She combed her long black braided hair. Sitting silently at the wooden dressing table, she eventually took white paper from its drawer and began to write a letter. She did so in a happy mood, blissfully writing a bit, pausing to laugh sillily, then writing some more, laughing again… When she was done, she folded up the letter, ever so lightly, and put it in a white envelope. The little stove was just as new as the grave. With a crackling sound, she ignited it and allowed the white letter to be reduced to ashes. She became dizzy as she watched until even the last wisp of smoke has disappeared. Then she got up slowly, went over to the drawer, took out some more white paper, and, happily as before, began to write another letter: writing, laughing sillily, writing some more, laughing again. When she was finished, she folded up the letter and put it in the envelope. In the oblong rectangular space in the middle of the envelope, enclosed by red thick lines, she wrote the recipient’s name, “Miss Jing Yiruo.” To the left of this, outside the rectangle, she wrote, “name and address of sender enclosed.” And on the right, she wrote the recipient’s address, “# 15, Lane 23, Baoqing Road, Baodian Borough, Shanghe Village.” After that, she went to the post office and sent the letter. Now she was feeling at peace. Two days later, she received a letter. She tore it open and read it. Then she smilingly returned the letter to its envelope and put it in the left drawer. From the right drawer, she now took some paper and, as before, began to write in a state of bliss: writing, laughing sillily, writing some more, laughing again… When she was done, she folded up the letter, ever so lightly, and put it in a white envelope. The little stove was still new, and the white letter curled up blackly and burnt to ashes, like a sleep without dream. She got up, took more paper from the drawer, and blissfully wrote another letter. Addressed to the same person at the same address. And as before, after she’d gone to the post office and send the letter, she felt at peace. Writing letters, burning letters, sending letters, waiting for letters, reading letters… As the days went by, always following the same routine, she grew older. Her braided hair grew longer and matted, the white shirt, white skirt and white socks faded to yellow with too many washes. One night, when the rain was pouring down in buckets and the wind howling around the corners, she made her way to the grave, which was no longer new. Her fragile body wet and covered in mud, her soul burdened with quiet grief, she threw herself on the ground in front of the marble tombstone. The white light of lightning was illuminating her slender fingers as they were running over the lines of the deeply engraved characters: “Zhang Zhengtang, born in the year Gengshen, passed away in the year Kuiwei.” She was calling the name of the young man who had died at the tender age of 23. Her drawn-out wails of mourning were heartbreaking… She didn’t remember how she got home. She took a shower and put on a white shirt, a white skirt, white socks and white shoes. She combed her long black braided hair and dug out all the letters from the drawers—filled to the brim—and two large canvas sacks. She read one, and pasted it to the wall, as high up as her arms would reach. Then she read the next letter, and pasted it next to the first one. In this way, she proceeded until the wall, as well as the closet, the bed, the table and the chairs were all covered with letters. As she began to stick letters to the window, she suddenly noticed how the tears from her eyes and the raindrops on the pane were trickling down in strange unison, merging into a blurry mist. When she had covered the windows and even the floor completely with letters, she plastered her own body, white as the paper, with the letters. The few letters that remained after that she tossed in the stove. In the wink of an eye, it was ignited, and the bright flames quickly devoured the paper, turning its whiteness into the darkness of dreamless sleep. Since it was raining hard that night, only one house burned down. The next day, a large crowd of people was standing around the rubble. There was nothing left of the building but the metal address plate, “# 15, Lane 23, Baoqing Road.” A few raindrops were still clinging to its surface, but the wind was threatening to blow them off any moment…