For several days in a row, Yahui was in a state of bewilderment—she lived as though in a dream. For three days she didn’t attend class, nor did she buy anything for her new apartment, much less make any papercuts or read any sutras. It seemed that during those three days, the place she went most frequently was the bathroom. She constantly felt that her body was unclean, and when she wasn’t showering with scented soap and bodywash, she was using bottled water to rinse the area between her legs. At one point she even used an abrasive detergent, which she stirred until the solution was full of bubbles, and then sat in a tub to soak her lower body.
After learning that Pastor Wang had committed suicide, she continually felt that her body smelled of semen. It was as though Nameless were constantly inspecting her body, walking over it with his hands as though they were a pair of feet. She felt like a bag filled with water, and whether she was placed on the ground in front of the balcony or on her towel and white sheets, her body didn’t seem to know how to fall asleep.
The person who was about to become a deity of deities had known that it wouldn’t kill her if he left her in a drafty location. He had known that, since this was her first time to connect with a man’s body, she had been so anxious that she had lost consciousness. Therefore, as though going to the birthing room to retrieve his child, he had carried her out of the bathroom and placed her in the sun and wind. Then, he had removed his robe, revealing a body that resembled an old tree. He slowly knelt down next to her and unfastened her buttons one by one. Each time he unfastened a button, his hand would pause in midair and his gaze would linger on her exposed flesh. He unfastened the first button, then the second—and upon seeing her soap-bubble-like breasts, his gaze froze. He quickly unfastened all her remaining buttons, then pushed her clothing aside and pulled down her bra. She lay naked on the white and red surface. He was seventy or eighty years old and knew that at this point, it was more important to see her than to enter her. He could derive an hour or two of excitement from seeing her, but if he were to enter her right away, he might not be able to do anything, and it was possible that the excitement might dissipate after a minute or two. Therefore, he half urgently and half leisurely lay down on her body, sucking on her breasts one after the other. He kissed her entire body, from her lips to her chest, breasts, belly, and groin. After reaching the area between her legs, he pulled her legs apart, then pressed his lips down. He licked again and again with the tip of his tongue. Like a man parched with thirst who sees a spring and doesn’t care about the quality of the water, he had to first take several gulps—and only then could he sit down and appreciate the clarity of the water, and the Mother Earth and fairy world that had produced the spring in the first place. In this way, he used her body to quench his thirst before proceeding to examine her body from head to toe.
In his lifetime, he had had many encounters with women, but this was the first time he had a chance to carefully inspect the body of an eighteen-year-old jade nun. So, he stood in front of Yahui and took a step backward. As he was examining her pure white body, he suddenly noticed that she resembled a young Guanyin, with a round face, fluttering eyelashes, and a nose that was both straight and rounded. Her lips were so full that they looked like they might start bleeding at any moment. She wasn’t as tall as Guanyin, and her shoulders weren’t as broad, nor were her breasts as large, but this simply made her look like the Bodhisattva Guanyin when she was still a girl and had not yet become the Bodhisattva. She was a little-girl Guanyin, or a young Mary who had not yet married Joseph the carpenter. Her skin was as white as a cloud, and her face was also cloudlike. The smile on her lips looked as though she were talking to someone, while the tips of her fingers and toes were as beautiful as freshly ripened grapes.
The man stood motionless in front of her, as his blood began to surge through his veins. Suddenly, he became very agitated. That thing, which had not become erect for the longest time, sent him a gift.
He rushed over to her and knelt in front of her, separated her legs, and licked that area with the tip of his tongue. Then he placed his legs around hers and as he gently entered her, he thought, God, oh God, I must be appointed director of the National Religion Association, and must become a deity of deities, and definitely must have all jade nuns be like her—becoming my food and gifts …
Yahui kept smelling semen on her body, and constantly felt as though there were bugs crawling over her face, torso, and back. She wanted to wash off that stench and soak her crotch in that basin. While washing herself, she sometimes scratched and slapped her crotch. She first used bodywash, then laundry detergent, but when she found that she could still detect the stench of semen emanating from between her legs, she even wanted to pour sulfuric acid over that area. In the end, however, she went to buy a bottle of concentrated kitchen cleanser instead. The first day she washed herself three times, the second day she washed herself four times, and by the third day the area between her legs hurt so much that she felt as though the skin were going to peel off. She imagined she could hear agonized screaming coming from between her legs, and only then did she get out of the basin, pour out the water, put on her clothes, and emerge from her room.
By that point, it was already eight or nine o’clock at night. There wasn’t a trace of movement in the entire religion building. The doors to every room were closed, the lights of each floor’s activity room were turned off, and the building resembled a giant tomb, as it had since Pastor Wang’s death.
Yet no one discussed Pastor Wang’s suicide, and it was as though no one even knew that he had died.
However, even though no one acknowledged that they knew about the suicide, it was still true that today, yesterday, and the day before, none of the disciples were smiling and chatting when they attended class. Instead, they were all silent, as though gloomy weather were pressing down on the classroom and slowly permeating the entire building, the entire sky, and the entire world. One might have expected that after Pastor Wang’s death something momentous would happen in the classroom, but in the end nothing did.
Even as Yahui was beginning to think that the situation had passed, a new situation quietly developed when she went downstairs. Because the insides of her thighs hurt, Yahui walked with her legs separated, and as she hobbled down the stairs and into the lobby, a voice wafted toward her.
“You appear jaundiced. Are you ill?”
As Yahui turned to the window of the reception office, she heard the voice again: “Go to the classroom and see what your classmates are doing.”
Dazed, she headed to the first-floor classroom. When she arrived, she gently pushed the door open and saw several students from other institutes standing in the entranceway, while other disciples were standing on the classroom’s stage, staring at the floor. Several tables had been pushed against the walls, leaving an open space the size of half the classroom. In the center of that open space, the yellow ceiling lamp resembled an enormous page from a wordless scripture, and as it shone down on everyone’s faces it made them appear pale and bloodless. Under that yellow light, there were three desks, two of which were oriented vertically while the third was oriented horizontally. Wang Changping’s blue shirt and pants were laid out on the desks. On the end with the shirt there was a mirrored frame with an enlarged photograph of Wang Changping, while on the other end there was his favorite pair of black leather shoes. This was Wang Changping’s cenotaph, and every effort had been made to arrange it so that it would look like he was asleep on the desk.
At this time there wasn’t a trace of sound in the classroom. This late-spring night was comfortably warm, which helped the funeral proceed as smoothly as rain that comes when it is prayed for. In front of Wang Changping’s portrait, there was a brand-new Bible and a white bowl that was temporarily serving as a stoup. The bowl was half-filled with water, but the water was so clear that the bowl appeared empty. It seemed like it was filled only with air, but also like it contained nothing at all. Standing at the end with Wang Changping’s pants were the Protestant disciples, and behind them were the Catholic disciples. Beyond them were the Buddhist, Muslim, and Daoist disciples. Meanwhile, standing even farther from the end with the portrait, there was Director Gong and two young people from the school’s security office whom Yahui didn’t recognize.
The classroom was as solemn as a church, or a tomb.
The funeral ceremony began. The old bishop picked up the Bible from the table and hugged it to his chest, and after making the sign of the cross, he quietly intoned “Amen,” then recited a hymn in a voice so low that no one could hear him clearly. He intoned, “Heaven awaits, and the deceased can rest, while God, the angels, and other spirits are all waiting for Wang Changping at heaven’s gate.” Finally, he prayed that the soul of the deceased would ascend peacefully to heaven, leaving behind the frustration and suffering of the mortal world. Then he replaced the Bible in front of Wang Changping’s funerary portrait. He picked up the bowl, sang several more hymns, then dipped his finger in the holy water and touched it to Wang Changping’s portrait and clothing. He dipped his finger in the holy water again, and walked in a circle around Wang Changping’s clothing. When he reached the left side, his gaze momentarily met the gaze of the figure in the frame, whereupon he bent over and grabbed Wang Changping’s empty sleeve, as though shaking his hand. Then he went behind Director Gong and the two cadres from the security office.
Next, Wang Changping’s fellow disciples came forward one by one. Each of them stood where the old bishop had been standing and placed a white flower on Wang Changping’s clothing. Each of them gazed at the portrait in the frame, then bent over and shook hands with the left sleeve. Then they said goodbye, walked around the clothing, and stood behind the old bishop.
No one said a word, and it was so quiet that you could hear the droplets of holy water falling to the ground. After the Protestant disciples bid farewell and departed, the Catholic disciples had their turn. After the Catholic disciples finished, the Muslim disciples came over and lined up behind Imam Tian, each of them holding a copy of the Quran. Imam Tian slowly walked forward, stood next to the table, and then removed a letter from his Quran and gently placed it next to Pastor Wang’s sleeve, as though placing it directly into his hand. The envelope was still sealed, and where the recipient’s address would be, there was a sticker printed with a single line:
Recipient could not be located, return to sender.
In the middle of the envelope below the sticker, there were the names of the letter’s two addressees:
At the very bottom, there was the sender’s address and signature. The address was National Politics University’s religious training center, and the sender was Wang Changping. Everyone looked at the letter and then stepped away from the sleeve next to which the letter was positioned.
The final group to bid farewell were the Buddhist and Daoist disciples. They were led by the seventy-three-year-old Shuiyue shifu, who was wearing the black funerary robe prescribed by Buddhist ritual and holding a copy of the Heart Sutra and three incense sticks. But when she approached Wang Changping’s cenotaph, it occurred to her that this was not a Buddhist funeral, and therefore, after she performed a farewell ritual at Wang Changping’s feet, she did not place incense sticks at both ends of his cenotaph as prescribed by Buddhist practice. Instead, holding the incense sticks, she walked halfway around his clothing, then took the copy of the Heart Sutra and placed it next to his cenotaph.
As the farewell ceremony was about to conclude, the last person to pay his respects was Gu Mingzheng. Like his fellow Daoist classmates, Mingzheng bowed down before Wang Changping, and then, as he walked around his clothing bidding his farewell, he took the letter Imam Tian had left on the cenotaph table and looked it over. He glanced at the entrance of the classroom, where his gaze met that of Yahui, who was standing by the door. He waved to her, gesturing for her to come over. However, at that moment Yahui felt an intense pain between her legs, as though she were being stabbed by a knife. Her face became as pale as a sheet of paper and was covered in large drops of sweat. She grasped the back of a chair, as though without it she would fall to the ground. She saw Mingzheng gesturing to her, but due to the pain between her legs all she could do was simply stand there. She noticed that all the classmates were looking at her, but she continued leaning against the chair, not daring to move.
Imam Tian walked over. “Why don’t you bid farewell?” he said. “The National Religion Association is going to appoint a new director, and after his appointment begins, even this sort of farewell ritual is likely to be forbidden.”
Yahui stared at Imam Tian, wanting to ask him something. However, Director Gong and the two cadres from the security office interjected, saying, “How about this—regardless of whether it is a question of fellow disciples or classmates at the center, you have all taught, understood, and felt, haven’t you?”
Then Director Gong collected Wang Changping’s clothing, photograph, and letter, and placed them in a cardboard box, as though collecting props following a theatrical performance.
The disciples began heading out of the classroom. At this point, the hoarse sound of a Qin opera tune suddenly emerged from the throat of the imam who could sing opera:
I let out a mighty cry—here I stand outside!
Brave warriors all about cheer in great delight
I, Shan, alone astride my horse, trampling the Tang camps in a single stride
Wreaking death and destruction until grown men cry
Wreaking death and destruction until rivers of blood flow to the sea and nigh.
Then, everyone began to sing along:
Wreaking death and destruction until mountains of corpses pile high
Those piddling Tang troops, cowering in terror from my might.
The song rolled through the classroom like thunder, as though it were about to make the building collapse. The disciples continued singing as they filed out, and finally Mingzheng came over and stood by Yahui’s side. She asked him, “The National Religion Association is going to appoint a new director?”
“That’s what I’ve heard,” Mingzheng replied. “But it is apparently an administrative issue, not a religious one.”
At this point, Director Gong, having collected Pastor Wang’s effects, came up to Yahui, and she asked him the same question: “Will the National Religion Association have a new director tomorrow?”
Director Gong laughed and said, “Yes, and it will be a good thing. By changing directors, our center will be able to move to a new campus, and we will begin a new chapter.”
Yahui suddenly felt that the area between her legs stopped hurting, and she instead felt bloated, as though a man’s organ were inside and thrusting in and out. Stunned, she stood there, feeling as though that twitching organ were stealing all her energy, transforming her into a hollow shell. Meanwhile, the scene in front of her seemed to morph into the room on the twenty-second floor of the Shangri-La Hotel, and the door and windows, bed, and sofa appeared to spin around in front of her. She dug her toes into the floor and stared intently at Director Gong, then at Gu Mingzheng, who had been looking at her strangely, after which she turned and walked out.
In the hallway, she again heard several imams loudly singing the lyrics to The Decapitation of General Shan:
When Jingde captured me, that was as fate would have it
But I do resent that the hearts of all the braves were his to buy
Thinking back to how we sealed our brotherhood with blood, and all bonded as one,
Yet now, one after another we bend to the Tang—should that be right?
Yahui left behind that hoarse singing and proceeded to the lobby. When she looked up, she saw the agent hurry over and wave at her with a mysterious smile. With this, Yahui knew that Nameless was really going to become the person who oversees deities, a deity of deities. She knew that the agent was summoning her because Nameless, wanting to celebrate having become a deity of deities, was again waiting for her on the twenty-second floor of the Shangri-La Hotel. Yahui remembered he had told her that the next time she came, she should make sure to bring her Buddhist robe, because he wanted her to strip naked and lie on that robe so that they could do the same thing as before. Upon seeing the agent’s smiling face, Yahui immediately ran away.
She turned instead to the elevator, at which point she heard Gu Mingzheng and the agent calling out, “What’s wrong?! What’s wrong?!” But the elevator seemed to be waiting for her and immediately opened its doors. She dashed in and pressed the “close door” button, leaving Gu Mingzheng and the agent outside. When they ran up the stairs to catch up to her, Gu Mingzheng, who was in front, heard a heartrending cry like the one that emerged from his throat when the blade came down between his legs three months earlier.