Lu The Funeral Cryer

Main
ISBN: 978-1-83895-757-5
Verlag: Allen & Unwin
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 384 Seiten

***'A refreshing perspective on mourning, as well as a moving tale of a social outcast' - i-D Magazine*** ***'Subtle and understated [...] ultimately very moving' - The Big Issue*** ***A fascinating glimpse into how [rural women's] lives are still led' - Dorset Magazine*** Is it ever too late to change your life? Elegant, wry and moving, The Funeral Cryer tells the tale of one woman's mid-life re-awakening in contemporary rural China and proves that it's never too late to alter your fate. The Funeral Cryer long ago accepted the mundane realities of her life: avoided by fellow villagers because of the stigma attached to her job as a professional mourner and under-appreciated by The Husband, whose fecklessness has pushed the couple close to the brink of break-up. But just when things couldn't be bleaker, The Funeral Cryer takes a leap of faith - and in so doing things start to take a surprising turn for the better . . . Dark, moving and wry, The Funeral Cryer is both an illuminating depiction of a 'left behind' society - and proof that it's never too late to change your life. What readers have been saying about The Funeral Cryer: 'A beautiful, thought-provoking book [...] incredibly humorous' - J. Wells, Five-star Reader Review 'A stunning debut' - Stacey, Five-star Reader Review 'A first person narrative that shows how the life of a middle-aged woman working as a funeral cryer in China is deeply linked to the people who touch her life and the way they treat her.' - Kate Poels, Five-star Reader Review 'A remarkable novel that explores themes of marriage, family relationships, elderly care, and gender equality [...] this book offers a unique reading experience and an opportunity for deep contemplation.' - Rui, Five-star Reader Review 'Excellent literary fiction. [...] Simultaneously the story speaks to the rural economic desperation, the separation of town and country, they way the young move to the cities and are often left with no other option to finance themselves than selling themselves. The huge discrepancy between the haves and have-nots is very evident.' - Cheryl M-M, Five-star Reader Review

Originally from Shanghai, China, Wenyan Lu is the winner of the SI Leeds Literary Prize 2020. Wenyan holds a Master of Studies in Creative Writing as well as a Postgraduate Certificate in Teaching Creative Writing from the University of Cambridge. Her unpublished historical novel The Martyr's Hymn was also longlisted for SI Leeds Literary Prize 2018 and Bridport First Novel Prize 2019.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Lu, Wenyan

Leseproben

Chapter Three

I had been crying at funerals for a living for about ten years. It wasn’t my choice, but there were no better jobs available. I had to find a job, as the husband and I were both out of work.

In the village, most people around my age had no jobs. They spent a lot of time in the fields allocated by the village committee, growing rice, onions, sweetcorn, potatoes and sweet potatoes. We used to have some fields, but they were confiscated by the committee on grounds of neglect. We were now amongst the very few people in the village who had to buy rice and flour. I wish I could turn back time. I would have done all the hard labour needed to keep the fields.

There were hardly any young people left in the village, as there was no future for them here. Who wanted to live in a smelly place? They had all gone to cities for education or work, including my own daughter. Some of the more ambitious young people had gone abroad.

Once young people had families, they would send their children back to live with their parents to save on childcare costs. If they earned good money, they would ask their parents to move to the cities to take care of their households. But that rarely happened. It was hard to survive in cities, unless they happened to make a fortune, which was very unlikely for the majority. Over the years, two or three grandmas in the village had been abroad to look after their grandchildren, which caused much envy at the time.

I was born in this village. It’s called xi ní hé cun, West Mud River Village. There was enough mud in the village, but there was no river. I had asked Mum and Dad whether there was ever a river before. The answer was . I then asked why was in the name of the village. They said nobody knew why, or cared what the village was called. But I cared. Whenever people asked me where I was from, I felt embarrassed. I hated the thought of people laughing at such an ill-fitting name.

There were two mountains that formed the backdrop of the village – one was called South Mountain and the other North Mountain. They were useless mountains. People used to bury their ancestors on South Mountain, but it wasn’t in use any more. In theory, Mum and Dad were allocated grave plots on the mountain by the village committee, but these days people would buy a plot in the graveyard instead. Then there was North Mountain. There was nothing there, apart from some rocks and maybe a handful of trees and plenty of weeds. I had never been to the mountains, and most people in the village had never been there either.

The husband wasn’t home. He had snuck out when I was in the backyard.

Mum and Dad used to keep two pigs in a pigsty in the backyard. The filthy pigsty was still there, in the corner of the backyard. There was a chicken run too. We used to have our own eggs and chicken meat. We stopped raising pigs when the husband and I got married. He said it was too dirty and smelly, and it was hard work. Mum insisted on keeping the chicken run. Three years ago, after she moved to the brother’s, we ate some chickens and sold the rest.

There was plenty of room to grow vegetables in the backyard. I mainly grew what Mum used to grow, like onions, beans, snow peas, mooli, potatoes and sweet potatoes, together with some green vegetables, since they were easy to look after. Stir-fried sweet potato leaves were the most delicious.

We had always been tight for money when I was little, so being thrifty was second nature. I used to think money wouldn’t be tight one day, but sadly it still often was. I would sit on the bench in the backyard admiring my vegetables. I couldn’t help trying to work out how much money I had saved. I wouldn’t make a fortune through growing my own vegetables, but it was a little help.

The husband never told me when he went out. He must have taken some cash and gone to play mah-jong. He always boasted he was better than most of his friends. Some would play mah-jong overnight – sleeping and eating were the only other things they did, but he would at least come home for dinner. I thought perhaps he could come home after dinner, which meant I wouldn’t have to cook for him, but of course I never suggested that.

*

People used to come to our house to play mah-jong until I started working as a funeral cryer. They used to enjoy coming. I would prepare snacks and occasionally watch them play. They would donate a fraction of their winnings as ‘rent’. To be honest, I didn’t like to have people around playing mahjong, but it seemed they liked the husband and me. It was important to be popular in a village where everyone knew everyone.

I’ll never forget the moment when people stopped coming to our house – in fact, when they left. I had just been offered my first funeral-crying job, so I was excited. There were people playing mah-jong in our house, and I told them about it. As soon as they heard the news, they put the mah-jong tiles back in the box, got up and walked out.

Now that I brought bad luck and I smelt of the dead, nobody would step into our house to play mah-jong or chat. I didn’t like mah-jong, but I liked to have some female friends over, eating snacks and gossiping. As for the bad luck and smell, I couldn’t disagree too much. You could say it was superstition, but when someone was associated with death constantly, it was understandable that people wanted to keep away from them. I wouldn’t go to a funeral cryer’s house myself.

As I was home alone, I was able to practise my singing. The husband complained that my singing sounded like a ghost howling, so I wouldn’t sing when he was around. I guessed he’d forgotten that he used to tell me I was a good singer.

I didn’t need to practise, since nobody at funerals would care about the quality of my singing. The clients would prefer to have a cryer who could sing well, though. The funeral goers paid money to go to ‘eat tofu’, so it made sense that they would like to return home satisfied, as if the whole experience had turned into an occasion for entertainment.

I hated singing at funerals, even though I was paid to do it. After everyone queued up and bowed to the body in the coffin, the calm and solemn funeral turned into chaos. No one needed to show their grief any more. Some funeral cryers would bring a random band to play loudly, and often out of tune, but I would never do that. Having to sing joyful songs was bad enough.

There was always some pressure for funeral goers, as it was hard to show the right level of sorrow. You didn’t have to be as sad as the surviving family. In fact, you didn’t even need to be sad, but it’s kind to show that you care. As the last part of the funeral, joyful songs would perhaps bring some relief, if not joy, into the air. After being engaged in the crying, I found them awkward.

Being a funeral cryer wasn’t easy, as my income relied on dead people. These days, people were living much longer than in the past. It wasn’t that I was hoping for people to die younger, but whenever someone died, it was my chance to earn some money. More deaths meant more money for me. I heard I was the best funeral cryer within twenty kilometres. There were not many cryers around anyway.

I took a nap in the afternoon. I hadn’t slept well. I never slept well after a funeral. The waxed face in the coffin would appear before me for several days after the event. I always tried not to invest any emotion into funerals. I shed tears, but I didn’t cry. Nevertheless, the energy required left me feeling exhausted. When I sat down at home after a funeral, sometimes I couldn’t tell whether I was feeling down or simply drained.

I checked the vegetables in the backyard. There were no more garlic leaves left in the pot. I would have to wait for three or four days until they were long enough to cut again. Maybe I could go about the village to find some wild garlic. Wild garlic leaves are slightly wider and they taste more delicate. They weren’t difficult to find along village paths.

I grabbed a small plastic bag and left home.

We still have mud paths in the village. They look okay on dry days, but of course they’re grubby and dirty and slippery when it is wet. Towards the entrance to the village, a couple of paths have been concreted and lead to the tarmacked main road outside the village.

‘Is that you?’ I heard someone’s voice and turned around.

‘Auntie Fattie.’ I greeted her and stopped.

Auntie Fattie was a thin woman, a friend of Mum’s. She must have been fat before, but I didn’t remember.

‘What are you doing? I hardly see you.’

‘I’m going to look for some wild garlic.’

‘Wild garlic? Are you so tight for money? Nobody eats wild garlic any more.’

‘I don’t use it that often.’

‘Are you still crying for funerals for a living?’ Her tone was stern.

‘Yes.’

‘A woman from a decent family shouldn’t do anything like that.’

‘I need to earn money.’

‘Yes, you do. Your husband is useless.’

‘He’s a clever man.’

‘Cleverness can’t feed you. Money can.’

‘We’re fine for money, Auntie Fattie.’

‘I hope so. By the way, do you always wear clothes like these?’ She looked at me from head to toe.

‘They’re my daughter’s old clothes.’

‘They’re too tight for you....