One of the Chan boys found her—first light, grey quiet, no storm. Villagers left their floating beds for the stone dragon arch oh the old thing lies stiff, very small…The air was warm and close. They watched.

Gnar Por. Mrs. Lam, the village chief’s wife, identified her not by surname, which was eventually remembered as Lau, but the name by which she’d long been unknown. (As a child, Gnar Por—in your words, ‘deaf-mute granny’, or close enough—had enjoyed the distinction of two nicknames: Tragic Lau Girl, and Gnar Mui—‘deaf-mute little girl’.)

It is was all they could return, for they were distracted and quieted by certain compelling details of death: the decoration of small, shiny leaves and twigs on the face; a mud speck on an eyelid; the strings of grey hair plastered over the neck; the muddied smock; the thin, carefully patched-up trousers; a twig hung from the slightly open mouth. The coroner's report would later reveal that she’d been hit by lightning, a verdict they met with incredulity, yet at the time, shortly after It is, some of the villagers fancied all sorts of things, mad she was, what was she thinking, mad, wandering out like that in the middle of doesn’t she look like a doll mad a grubby porcelain idol bad luck cows and trucks turning round and round I saw it in a movie no a house-god trembling at the doorpost, trembling trembling sucked up by the typhoon spun over roofs dogs barked and howled joy canopies tearing squealing doors rattling windows cracking flailing trees tumbling telephone poles hissing wires dancing spinning down three two clean backward fall heel to head Enough! Enough!

Mrs. Lam’s concern was the belt of shadow across the waist of the body. What we have here is a conundrum. They considered the village chief’s wife, her words and her distinguished, equine profile, that, along with a Confucian pragmatism and a talent for accounts, had endeared her to her future husband and inspired an unusually cautious, deferential reception from the Siu-shuet village elders. Is she in or is she out? Look at her legs They're sticking out past the gate. (To the circling kite above, the stone dragon arch appeared as a thick grey line, the old woman laying slapbang through the centre, forming—but depending of course on how the kite looked at it from a philosophical/psychological/cultural point of view—a cross, a plus sign, or a Chinese ten.) There was a brief discussion:

The poor thing. You have to feel sorry—

She brought it on herself.

 Should we call the authorities?

Woman, we’ve got four inches of water in the living room and you want to—

—the issue at hand. Is it the responsibility of the village to bury this woman?

We’ve never had one like this before—is she in or is she out?

She has no family.

I told you, look at her legs.

The authorities will take care of it—

—in the proper manner.

All agreed?

Fine.

Fine.

Fine, but it doesn't seem right to leave her out here.

This last comment made by Blackie Liu, a stocky, tanned postman in his mid-forties who’d often passed the old woman on his early morning route. While the other villagers stood and watched, he locked his arms under her armpits and paid twenty to the Chan boy to take her feet; the two of them carried her to the crumbling drystone cottage at the far end of the village, before the single dirt road disappeared into the hills. They edged her through the doorway into the cold, wet darkness, where they found no bed but a bamboo mat on the floor with frayed, curling corners. They couldn't lay her down there because of all the water, so they placed her on top of the dining table, which was in fact an old mahjong table with a piece of board placed on top of it. It was too small for a child to lie on without its legs and arms dangling off the edge, but with the body so stiff and small…Blackie and the Chan boy stood over it for some time, intent, but not really looking at it. Suddenly the boy clapped his hands, rubbed his palms quickly together as if he were trying to make a fire, then gave a theatrical sort of shudder and skipped out of the house, leaving Blackie to poke around the ownerless drawers and cupboards for a blanket, a sheet, a towel—anything that he could use to cover the body.

 

 

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