He Will Be Exhumed

There are some interesting things you can do when you kill the narrator if the first few pages.  I got it in my head to finish this book, despite the opening that seemed to tell the whole story, within the first few pages.  “The Dream of Ding Village” by Yan Lianke is a book I’d heard about reading some New Yorker article where a staff writer had accompanied Yan Lianke back to his home town in Henan.  No one was particularly familiar with his work. The tone towards Mr. Yan was one of assumed greatness. 

I bought the book on impulse after considering the article, assuming any Chinese author lauded upon so fawningly should be someone I ought to have an opinion on.  It’s clear rather early on that, as suggested, this will be about the blood bank scandal in Henan where purportedly over one-million people contracted HIV.  There is no mystery about this as the novel unfolds.  The father who has made money more money than the rest of the village, and in doing so killed half the village has no remorse and they poison his son, our narrator in retribution.

I started out, I suppose deflated, assuming there’d be a lack of discovery.  All had quickly been revealed.  But more was in store.  The grandfather almost kills the son, pressing him to apologize to the village.  And the poor narrator is married off, from beyond the grave, and most definitely against his will to the deceased daughter of an up and coming official.  He will be exhumed and moved from Ding village to be buried next to her and he screams to his grandfather from the nether world that this is not what he wants to have happen. 

A lounge is certainly too luxurious a term for what this walled compound is, within the C 1 through10 boarding area in Terminal Three.  But people with little stars on their boarding passes are allowed in.  There are free instant noodles, free gelatinous treats, free peanuts, bevs as well as complementary Chinese wine.  The Chinese guy in glasses grunts in affirmation when I ask him if the seat beside him is free.  The plane is “only” an hour late.  I suppose I should be grateful.  I’m lost in the poisoned blood of the Henan countryside and when I go and ask gent behind the desk he confirms emphatically.  “Yes.  I already called your flight.  It’s last call.  You should hurry.”  So, I do. 

Monday, 5/20/19