CDJMM – Volume 1 – Funeral (Part 1)

The first time Mu Liang encountered that rather strange old lady was at a grand funeral.

Using the word grand to describe a funeral did feel a little odd, but apart from that word, Mu Liang couldn’t think of any other way to describe it.

At the entrance of the funeral hall stood rows of Hongqi limousines, understated yet exuding luxury. He often saw the faces of many of these car owners on the evening news.

Armed soldiers and plainclothes agents were stationed at the entrance, the mourning hall, and the parking lot. If it weren’t for the summer training his father had dragged him into with the special forces, Mu Liang wouldn’t have been able to tell that those men in plain clothes were operatives.

Following his mother into the mourning hall, the first thing that caught his eyes was the portrait placed at the center of the altar—it showed a kindly-looking old lady.

But anyone who had taken middle school Chinese and history would not underestimate this old lady whose name was printed in the textbooks.

Starting out as a prostitute, she had fought her way upward, ultimately making a stunning reversal to become a member of the Politburo Standing Committee. Her life was even more outrageously “Mary Sue” than the heroines of novels.

The story of hers most widely circulated online was that she had persuaded her husband, Marshal Xue, to join the revolution. Yet when she discovered that he had defected to the Nationalists and betrayed the cause, she shot him dead with her own hands. Such ruthless decisiveness became a “black mark” in the eyes of many. But for Mu Liang, learning of it only deepened his admiration for Madam Bai.

If not for people like Madam Bai, who broke with their original class for the sake of ideals and principles, cutting ties even with their own kin, how would the descendants of the poor—three generations deep—have the chance to sit behind keyboards today, making lofty speeches online?

Besides, wasn’t Madam Bai the one brought onto the revolutionary path by Mr. Li Jingran himself? The very first stage script of Memoirs of Prostitutes had even been adapted by her!

As a die-hard fan of Mr. Li Jingran, of course Mu Liang had to support Madam Bai.

It was then that he noticed that strange old lady. Dressed in black mourning clothes, she was helped forward by attendants and placed a single white rose before Madam Bai’s portrait.

Against the sea of elaborate wreaths around, that lone fragile rose appeared strikingly conspicuous. But what puzzled Mu Liang even more was that none of the surrounding dignitaries voiced objection. Instead, they nodded respectfully at the old lady, speaking to her in low tones, clearly showing deference.

Who was she? Another important figure? Why had he never seen her before?

The second time he saw her was also at a funeral.

This time, it was the funeral of General Wang Xiaoni—and he saw that same old lady again.

Mu Liang had liked General Wang Xiaoni, so this funeral saddened him for real. General Wang had once been taken in by Mr. Li Jingran. After Mr. Li was betrayed by the Qing Gang, it was only with the help of Li’s friends that Wang was able to continue her studies. Later, after graduating high school, Wang joined the army. After the founding of the nation, she personally drove a tank under the banner of “suppressing bandits,” leveling the Qing Gang to avenge Mr. Li Jingran.

And then came the funeral of the famous international friend, the borderless proletarian revolutionary Nakamura Ryota; the patriotic industrialist Mr. Chun Yan; the pioneer of New China’s philanthropic work, Mr. Fu Kemao…

It was as though, in those few years, God had suddenly grown lonely and summoned countless masters of the Republic era to his side all at once. At each of their funerals, without fail, Mu Liang spotted that same old lady.

Clad in black mourning clothes, drifting from funeral to funeral, she seemed like a black-clad goddess of death, or a harbinger of ill omen.

Finally, when he saw her yet again at the funeral of the legendary director Ji Qi, Mu Liang’s curiosity reached its peak.

After the funeral ended, he boldly went up and spoke to her.

“Grandma, were you a friend of Mr. Ji Qi?”

The old lady looked at him in surprise, but instead of blaming him for his boldness, she smiled kindly. “Not really his friend. My elder brother was his friend.”

“Your brother is…?”

The old lady didn’t answer. Instead, she suddenly asked, “How old are you this year? In high school yet?”

Mu Liang blinked and answered honestly, “Seventeen, second year of high school.”

That ordinary reply seemed to unlock something. The old lady’s calm eyes suddenly lit up with life. She gazed at Mu Liang with something close to affection, her expression tinged with sorrow, murmuring:

“So, you’re seventeen too…”

She studied his face for a while, then broke into a triumphant smile. “You’re not as handsome as my brother.”

Mu Liang was baffled, and repeated his question: “Who is your brother?”

But again, she didn’t answer. Instead, she asked, “Since you’re already in high school, then have you studied The Last Person Who Didn’t Take Drugs?”

Mu Liang’s heart gave a jolt. His teacher had just assigned them to memorize the entire piece over the weekend for a Monday recitation test—and he hadn’t memorized it yet.

Unable to help himself, he grumbled, “Yes, we’ve studied it. The teacher even wants us to memorize the whole thing. Such a long essay and only two days to do it! The teacher’s too cruel!”

The old lady smiled faintly. “And what do you think of the essay?”

Mu Liang rubbed his nose, answering truthfully: “Since it was written by Mr. Li Jingran, of course it’s a good essay. But compared to The Last Person Who Didn’t Take Drugs, I personally prefer The Rise of the Dynasty.”

The old lady looked intrigued. “Why? The Rise of the Dynasty wasn’t even completed, was it?”

The moment the old lady brought it up, Mu Liang flared up: “If it hadn’t been for that damned Zhang Tongjue and the Green Gang, sir wouldn’t have died so young! Rise of the Dynasty wouldn’t have been left unfinished either! Rise of the Dynasty was the very ancestor of Chinese transmigration novels—some of its settings are still being used to this day!”

He sighed. “For decades now, countless people have tried to continue Rise of the Dynasty, but compared with sir’s writing, it just doesn’t feel the same.”

The old lady naturally replied: “Of course. After all, my… Mr. Li Jingran was a genius ahead of his time. The later generations could never hope to imitate him.”

Mu Liang’s eyes lit up. He hadn’t expected that someone from the same era as Mr. Ji Qi would also be a fan of Li Jingran like himself. At once, he found the old lady all the more amiable and approachable.

Glancing around and seeing that no one was paying attention to them in the corner, Mu Liang gathered his courage and lowered his voice to ask the question he’d been curious about for a long time: “Grandma, there’s a rumor online… that before his death, sir actually wrote down the outline for the continuation of Rise of the Dynasty, and had it sent to the revolutionary base to serve as guidance for the revolution…”

The old lady, who had always seemed so kind, suddenly lifted her eyelids and fixed him with a piercing gaze. In those murky old eyes flashed a sharp brilliance that stabbed into him. Mu Liang broke into a cold sweat and swallowed the rest of his words, not daring to continue.

The old lady said flatly: “You’re already seventeen. You should know by now which words can be spoken, and which cannot.”

Mu Liang trembled and nodded, not daring to gossip anymore.

In the funerals that followed, Mu Liang kept seeing the old lady. She would always arrive in full dress, to send off those old figures from her own era.

Guests came and went like flowing water, but the old lady stood firm like iron.

Most of the time she was all alone, rarely with companions. With the sharp eye of a child raised in the compound, Mu Liang could tell she was always accompanied by plainclothes guards—clear proof that her identity was no ordinary one.

And yet, whenever he caught sight of the old lady in her black mourning attire, leaving all alone, her back so desolate, Mu Liang couldn’t help but feel sad.

She was the last one alive from her generation.

Every time he thought of this, Mu Liang’s heart ached unbearably, making it impossible to feel any awe toward her. So, whenever he saw her at funerals, he would always go up and chat idly with her.

Then, at the funeral of Mr. Cao Wanying—the thinker, revolutionary, and initiator of the Chinese Equal Rights Movement—Mu Liang looked at the crowd of influential figures who had come to pay tribute, and couldn’t help but bring up their first encounter, at the funeral of Ms. Bai Shaoyao.

“That really was the grandest, most magnificent funeral I’ve ever seen,” Mu Liang sighed. “To have lived and died like that—now that’s a life well spent.”

The old lady tucked a strand of her silver hair behind her ear, silently gazing from afar at Ms. Cao Wanying’s black-and-white memorial portrait. For a long time she said nothing, and then finally murmured: “I once attended the grandest and most magnificent funeral in all of China. At that time, the entire city of Beiping was shrouded in cries of mourning.”

“Oh?” Mu Liang leaned closer, intrigued. “Whose funeral was it?”

The old lady tilted her head to look at him. Her expression was the dull, vacant look of the elderly, but through her watery, glistening eyes, Mu Liang realized her heart was far from calm.

“Young man, would you like to hear a story?” The old lady showed a weary smile. “A story about a funeral from decades ago. Would you like to hear it?”

Mu Liang straightened up, eyes shining: “Yes, I’d love to!”

The old lady, Li Shuran, gazed at the bright-eyed boy before her. Also seventeen—yet while some could remain innocent and carefree, others had long since bathed in blood and slept beneath the earth.

Unknowingly, more than eighty years had passed. Now she herself was at the age of death.

How had so much time gone by?

Perhaps it was because the old liked to reminisce about the past. Perhaps it was because, after attending the funerals of so many old friends and acquaintances, Li Shuran—who had been silent for decades—suddenly felt the urge to speak of what had once been.

“That day was overcast, heavy clouds roiled in the sky, and the distant rumble of thunder could be faintly heard…”

Fourteen-year-old Li Shuran stood guard in the mourning hall, clutching her brother’s memorial tablet, blankly staring at the guests who came to pay their respects.

“Please accept our condolences.”

They told her this again and again.

But how could she not grieve?

Inside the coffin behind her lay her brother!

The only family she had left in the world!

He had been cruelly murdered, and yet all they told her was “please restrain your grief”?!

She didn’t know how much time had passed when Zhou Dezhang came forward and gently said: “It’s getting late. The burial must begin.”

In her daze, Li Shuran briefly regained clarity. Yes, it was time. Her brother had been lying in the coffin long enough; it was time he was laid to rest. She would bring him back to their ancestral home in Fengtian, to be buried in the family tomb.

Like a wandering soul, Li Shuran carried the memorial tablet out of the mourning hall—only to find, at some unknown time, the courtyard had filled in layers, inside and out, with many beautiful and alluring women, all dressed without exception in white mourning clothes.

When they saw Li Shuran, they knelt as one. The woman in the lead lowered her voice and said: “I know we are of humble birth… but still, please, young miss, allow us to accompany sir on his final journey.”

Li Shuran was stunned for a moment before recognizing her. It was Qiu Ju—the actress who had played Bai Moli in the stage play and film Memoirs of Prostitutes.

She swept her eyes over the crowd of kneeling women behind Qiu Ju, her voice catching in her throat: “You are…?”

Someone answered timidly: “We… we are all courtesan-actresses from Memoirs of Prostitutes.”

At this, a guest immediately jumped up in protest: “Outrageous! How can these vile women be allowed to taint sir’s funeral?!”

Qiu Ju’s body trembled. She lowered her head, biting her lip, saying nothing. The other courtesans shrank into themselves, wishing they could disappear on the spot.

“You may come.” Li Shuran ignored the protester and spoke softly. “If my brother were still here, he would be glad to see you.”

Clutching the memorial tablet, Li Shuran walked at the front. Behind her followed the funeral procession with its drums and gongs—and the courtesan-actresses in plain white mourning clothes.

But the procession had barely begun before they were stopped by the police.

A bloated officer sneered, saying that Li Jingran was a criminal. He was not to be given a grand public funeral—only a quiet, secret burial.