Hangzhou, Zhejiang Province - China
There are worse ways to wake up, I tell myself.
In the past three months I’ve had the bed collapse under me as I was sleeping, bedroom windows explode and litter the bed with tiny shards of glass, crazy men watch me sleep then try to break in...so waking up this morning like this should be easy.
Usually I wake up to the sounds of the Nursery opposite playing the same damn calliope music over and over again and hordes of screaming children swarming from one end of the playground to the other.
This morning there was none of that, not even the workmen who had considerately decided to repair the half meter triangular patch between the pavement, the road and a tree that no one ever uses.
Waking up. Eyes open, and the sound of screaming, women screaming. Not just screaming but actual baying. Blood curdling screaming that turned me cold. Literally. And it didn’t stop, it seemed to get stronger, to feed on itself, crazy with grief and anguish, shredding itself up and out of their lungs, through their throats and tearing into the sunlit courtyard.
I got up and went outside and joined the other 100 people standing around the two funeral cars. A monk dressed in traditional Buddhist robes, threaded hat and red Nikes carried a picture of the old woman who had died, the frame festooned with what looked like black feathers. Fireworks were let off, giant window-shuddering ones who's violence was fully exploded in the daylight. The fireworks rose up and destroyed themselves in self-masticated messes, then fell among the bystanders who ran with embarrassed looks that slipped off their faces when they stood still again.
Neighbors peering through their windows and balconies, old people solemn and thoughtful, middle-aged people opening gates, opening car doors, quietly laughing, and young people faces frozen and unchanging, unblinking, Uncomprehending what was happening. A five year old girl in white and pink, carrying a balloon, skipped around and among them, stood still, put her finger in her mouth then skipped on out of frame.
The body came next, wrapped and decorated, carried by six people who seemed to be struggling. Their arms long and low, shoulders twisted, walking quickly to the car. The women who were making all the noise appeared, each one ornamented by two stone faced men that had locked their arms around the women, half carrying, half dragging them.
The daughters who had lost their mother, the girls left alone, beating their fists on their chests, tearing at their hair.
The car doors closed, the people left, the gates closed and all that were left were the others, standing around in tiny groups, half whispering, half laughing. Furtive glances betraying their need to be comforted from the stranger’s death. Nervousness pervaded their smiles, laughs, walk and talk. By the time I looked again, they had all left and the courtyard was empty, filled with sunlight.
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