My Turn

Aunt Winnie was on the telephone when she saw Aunt Mary pass through the living room carrying a coffee pot. "I'll bring some down to you guys in a bit," Aunt Winnie said to Aunt Mary, receiver in hand. "No need, I can take it down myself. The mother and daughter who jumped look pretty gruesome. I'm afraid Molly might get scared staying down there alone for too long." "All right." Aunt Winnie smiled, dialed the next number, and made notes in the registry beside her. She had no idea what sort of parting gifts her nephew intended to send, but right now, the last thing anyone in the Inmerlais family wanted was to sit idle. That suffocating atmosphere would be an agonizing ordeal. Aunt Mary carried the coffee pot back down to the basement. Standing by the doorway of the workshop, she watched in surprise as Ms. Molly stitched the facial skin of the corpse with needle and thread. The needle moved swift and sure, without the slightest hesitation. Everything appeared natural and poised. "You've truly surprised me." Hearing Aunt Mary's words, Ms. Molly smiled and said, "Thinking about how pitifully they died, I don't feel afraid at all. Am I being normal, ma'am?" "I told you, just call me Mary. You're quite normal. In fact, most people aren't afraid of the remains of their own kin." "But they aren't my kin." "Pity is its own emotional bond, I suppose." Aunt Mary sighed and sat down on another round stool nearby. Siso and his mother were easier to handle. Siso had died from poison, requiring only makeup. Siso's mother had died by hanging; she required heavier makeup, and the fracture at her neck could be concealed with clothing. Then, staples from a stapler could tighten the skin at the back of her neck so she would look normal lying in the casket. The memorial service was tomorrow, so they were pressed for time. On top of that, handling four bodies at once meant that even with Molly assisting, they had to rush with utmost urgency. Furthermore, the mother and daughter who jumped had suffered severe facial trauma, requiring re-packing and stitching of the outer skin. Aunt Mary picked up a needle and thread as well and asked Ms. Molly, "Molly, do you have any pigskin left on your side?" "Here." Ms. Molly passed the dish over. "You barely used any?" Aunt Mary glanced at the dish, then curiously stood up to inspect the face Molly had already mostly restored. "Isn't it enough just to keep the face looking normal? I took skin from other parts of her body to use." "That's not quite proper." "Is it not?" Ms. Molly asked in confusion. "I feel like, if I were in their place, I'd rather have skin from other parts of my own body stitched onto my face than pigskin." Aunt Mary suddenly found herself agreeing with Ms. Molly's logic. Putting herself in the woman's shoes, she would have made the same choice. However, after a brief pause, Aunt Mary still spoke up: "The relatives won't like it, if they ever found out." "All right, I understand." Aunt Mary looked at the girl she was working to restore, sighed, and said, "Sometimes, there really is no good way out." Ms. Molly picked up her cup of coffee and drained it in one gulp. Then, pulling at the thread, she said, "Ma'am..." "Call me Mary." "Mary, sometimes life is like a durian cake. It might just smell terrible." Aunt Mary assumed Molly was merely comforting her, so she bantered back accordingly: "Except I'm allergic to durian." *** "We can arrange the caskets side by side: the husband's here, the wife's here, the mother's here, and the little girl's... put it in the middle." Mason gave instructions while Ron stood beside him nodding. "Spread out the tables and chairs a bit more. No need to seat the guests inside—put all the chairs out in the courtyard. That'll make the interior seem more spacious." "As for drinks, they'll be delivered later from over there—all decent wines." "And the food will be handled by my nephew, Karen." "You've arranged it very well, sir," Ron said. Mason stepped back a few paces, faced the bier in the first-floor parlor, and bowed deeply. Ron asked curiously, "Sir, the caskets haven't even been set out yet." "If I wait until the caskets are set out to bow, I'll feel sick to my stomach." "It's not that bad, sir. Gruesome as they look, it's not like we haven't seen worse—" "Ron, I feel sick at myself." Ron fell silent. Mason pulled back the sheer curtain of the first-floor window and saw the crowd still gathered outside in the courtyard. "They're very orderly. From the time I came back at noon until now, they've been perfectly orderly. Look at them now—what are they doing? Practicing slogans?" "Yes, sir," Ron nodded. "They are indeed practicing slogans. Preparing for tomorrow, I'd say." "Still, they should be clearing out soon. The reporters' cars have already left." Mason pulled out a cigarette and offered one to Ron. Ron produced a lighter and lit them both. "To be honest, I really wish I could set up a double-barreled shotgun in tomorrow's memorial service. When the service starts, I'd stride out carrying it." "Oh, sir, that wouldn't be fair." "Is that so..." "You'd need two double-barreled shotguns, or what would I use?" "Right. Two." Mason pointed in one direction: "Tomorrow, you stride out with a gun from over there, and me, I'll come in through the door with one. When the time comes, we'll just go bang, bang, bang!" "Yes, yes. Best put up a wire fence at the entrance in advance to keep them back." "Right, exactly like that." Holding the cigarette between his fingers, Mason's mood suddenly plummeted. Ron's did as well. The two grown men stood facing each other in the empty memorial hall. "Ron, go check outside and see if the liquor delivery truck has arrived." "Right away, sir." Out in the courtyard, Alfred sat on a chair with his legs crossed. Earlier, several female reporters had even gone out of their way to snap a few photos of him. Ron came out, glanced around, and saw no sign of a delivery truck. Pausing, he turned to Alfred and asked, "Hey, buddy, I've always thought those work clothes of yours look sharp. Which shop did you buy them from?" "A boutique garment shop on Rhine Street," Alfred answered. That was the neighborhood where Piaget and Mrs. Seymour lived—not merely a wealthy district, but an aristocratic one. Hearing that, Ron chuckled at once. "Right! I buy clothes there all the time. Clothes from shops anywhere else just don't have that refined flavor." "Indeed." Alfred tugged at his collar. "This piece of mine is the same design His Royal Highness the Prince of Ruilan wore last year during his goodwill tour of the mining district in Belwin City—specially designed to look down-to-earth." Ruilan did have a royal family, though most of the time they were mere mascots, occasionally providing Ruilan citizens with various tabloids and scandals to enrich their leisure hours. "Buddy, you shouldn't be a body handler. You ought to be a salesman—the commissions are way higher," Ron suggested. Alfred gave a slight smile, pulling his hat brim lower to block the moonlight that had already crept out. "But I prefer handling corpses. Different corpses give me different tactile sensations. I quite like this line of work." "Hiss..." Hearing that, even the veteran corpse handler Ron couldn't help getting goosebumps. "Miss Mina and the others are back from school. I'll go meet them so they don't get startled by the hyenas lingering outside." "All right." Alfred stretched lightly and looked up toward the third-floor windowsill to his rear, where a youthful figure sat. *** "The crowd outside has finally left," Karen said as he peeled a tangerine. Purr took a sip of black tea, then began savoring the bowl of carp with baked noodles set before it. "Tastes good, but I feel like this dish could be made even better." "Because our whole family isn't all cats. After making yours, I still had to prepare dinner for everyone." "I'll forgive you this time, for the sake of the new recipe." "Heh." Karen tossed the tangerine peel into the wastebasket by the dining table, walked up to the second floor, and yanked the cord at the bend of the stairs. A crisp chime rang out. Originally, the house hadn't had this, but Karen had installed it himself. Every time he finished making a meal and rang the bell, waiting for the family to gather to eat, it always brought him a satisfying sense of ritual. Dinner was served. Returning from school, Mina, Lunt, and Chris had no idea what had happened at home today, but they could sense that the adults' spirits were generally low. Consequently, though they usually loved sharing school anecdotes at the table, they prudently kept quiet today. Diss still sat at the head of the table. Sweeping his gaze across the faces of the family, he spoke: "When enjoying food, one should be as enthusiastic and cheerful as possible. That is the most basic respect for the person who prepared it." Everyone picked up their forks and began to eat. Diss was the first to finish and leave the table again. Once Diss was gone, Uncle Mason addressed everyone: "Mina, Chris, Lunt—take tomorrow off from school to help out at home. Aside from Mary and Molly, everyone else turn in early tonight. We start work at four tomorrow morning." After dinner, except for Aunt Mary and Ms. Molly, who had to pull an all-nighter to rush their work, the rest of the household went to bed early. Karen took a bath and walked back into his bedroom. "Brother, did something happen at home?" "Nothing that concerns you. Don't overthink it, just go to sleep early." "Okay. Good night, Brother." Karen sat down at his desk, took out *Light of Order* once more, and flipped it open again. This time, he didn't skip any pages; he started diligently from the mythic narratives at the very beginning and read through. When the clock ticked past midnight, Karen quietly closed the book, left wanting more. The immersive atmosphere of reading it tonight was simply incomparable to yesterday. He went to bed and turned off the light. Karen looked silently out the window. *You're looking forward to tomorrow.* *What I'm looking forward to... is tomorrow night.* *** At three-thirty in the morning, the lights throughout the Inmerlais home were already blazing. Ron and Alfred loaded the bodies of the family of four into caskets, wheeled them out of the basement, and arranged them properly in the memorial hall. Just then, a knock came from outside. With a cigarette dangling from his mouth, Uncle Mason muttered, "Ha, so early." Mina opened the door. "Uncle Roth." Standing at the doorway was Roth's family. Even Sarah's grandmother had come, supported by her daughter-in-law and granddaughter. At this hour, the air outside was freezing cold. Rubbing his hands together, Roth cautiously asked Mason inside, "Excuse me, could I come in now to see... to see Siso?" "Of course. Please, come in." Uncle Mason promptly signaled for someone to put on the music. Then, he, Alfred, and Ron flanked the aisle, gesturing for Roth's family to step forward and pay their respects. The mourning didn't last long. After simply looking before each casket, the family gathered at the entrance once more. Uncle Mason took the initiative to ask, "Shall I drive you home?" "No, no, no. You have a busy day ahead, we won't trouble you." Roth looked much older, the spark gone from his eyes. At that moment, Roth's elderly mother retrieved an envelope wrapped in black gauze from her bosom and handed it to Mason. It was condolence money. Mason shook his head. "The funeral expenses have already been paid, and there's no one left to accept condolence money." The entire family had perished; who was left to receive it? The old grandmother insisted, "It isn't much, just a small token to help with the funeral." Uncle Mason gave a polite smile. "Ma'am, the funeral expenses have already been covered." Yet the old woman obstinately shoved the envelope into Mason's pocket. Her lips trembling, she forced out a few words: "Their money... is filthy." Uncle Mason's face flushed red on the spot. He tilted his head back and took a deep breath. Roth pulled his mother back, gesturing for his wife to lead her outside first, and stepped forward to apologize to Mason: "I'm very sorry. My mother didn't mean anything by it, it's just... just..." "It's all right, I understand. I know." Uncle Mason's eyes reddened slightly, but he asked again, "Let me drive you home. By the way, how did you get here?" At this hour, there were no trams running. "No need, we're not heading home just yet. I plan to take my family to a park nearby and sit for the day, then catch the last tram back. Last night, some reporters came and offered me money—quite a lot, five thousand lubi—asking me to come here today for an interview, and said they'd give me another five thousand after it was done. I refused and told them to find someone else, but I was terrified they'd come looking for me at home again today. So I figured I'd take the family out of the house to hide. Added together, that's ten thousand lubi. Even if it were summer all year round, I couldn't earn that much selling slippers." Roth fished out a cigarette from his pocket and smiled wryly. "Cheap tobacco, so I won't offer you one." He popped one into his own mouth, struck a match, and lit it. Turning around, he walked out while saying, "Hiding away is also because I'm afraid I won't be able to resist the temptation of ten thousand lubi. Ah, what a fortune." *** Karen woke at seven-thirty. His schedule had always been steady. Even with an event at home in the morning, he had no need to rise early; today, for instance, his duty was the catering, which excluded breakfast and only covered lunch and afternoon refreshments. Standing by the third-floor windowsill and looking out, the scene below was already bustling. The crowd of "White Roses" that had appeared yesterday had gathered again today, still staging a sit-in and chanting slogans. At the same time, a group of "workers" in overalls with obvious smudges on their faces arrived holding placards, joining the protest. Who knew where they had gotten off their night shifts so early in the morning, getting themselves so thoroughly filthy and rushing over without even resting? Reporters had also arrived and begun snapping pictures. Of course, it was still morning; by noon, it would undoubtedly become far more raucous. Karen had his breakfast first, habitually leafing through the newspaper as he ate. *Rojia Daily* had gone into full overdrive today: the first, second, and third pages—nearly half the entire paper—were dedicated to continuous coverage of the family suicide of the striking worker representative. Moreover, throughout the account, copious attacks were launched against the old mayor. It no longer read like a news report; it felt more like a suspense thriller, as numerous details strongly insinuated that because the strike had humiliated the old mayor, he had dispatched assassins to murder them. No longer content with a straightforward suicide narrative? Karen took note of the chief editor's name: Hummel. After finishing breakfast, Karen began prepping lunch. Grandfather, dressed in his priest's cassock, came downstairs. "Grandfather, have you eaten breakfast?" "I have." "All right." Karen nodded and went back to wrapping his spring rolls. The food certainly didn't need to be gourmet fare; Karen couldn't be bothered to put in elaborate effort anyway. Fried spring rolls, fried eggplant patties, plus egg fried rice—serving these three in abundant quantities was more than enough. Afterward, as he busied himself in the kitchen, Karen could clearly hear the growing clamor downstairs: Crying, Speeches, And even unified roaring at times: "Sixen, get out here and apologize!" At ten-thirty, Karen carried the spring rolls downstairs. Seeing this, Mina, Lunt, and Chris came upstairs to help carry down food and set out platters. It was buffet style: anyone who wanted to eat grabbed a plate themselves, and the drinks were self-serve too. Setting down the tray, Karen wiped his hands on his apron. Grandfather was currently standing beside the caskets conducting prayers, while the people below put on a full theatrical display. Several local celebrities performed with exceptional extravagance, weeping bitterly against the caskets of Siso's family as though their own parents had died. Reporters frantically captured these moments. There was also an actress in a black evening dress looking haughty and aloof. First, she ducked into the restroom corner with her assistant; when she emerged, she had clearly applied something to her eyes. Standing stiffly below the caskets, tears slowly trickled down her cheeks. Her assistant immediately urged the reporters to hurry up and take pictures. Once the photos were done, she took a handkerchief from her assistant to wipe her eyes while complaining under her breath, "It's so dreadfully noisy here, completely ruining my rest." Her assistant quietly soothed her, "It's over, it's over now. The appearance fee of a hundred thousand lubi is in the bag." The actress's expression instantly softened. Throughout their exchange, however, they virtually ignored the apron-clad server standing right beside them—Karen. Next came several prominent figures from Rojia City, arriving to offer flowers and condolences before taking turns speaking at the center stage, all directing their condemnation at Mayor Sixen. A certain Mr. Morf caught Karen's attention. "Mr. Morf is here, hurry and take pictures!" "Hurry up, people in front move aside, you're blocking the lens!" Morf? A tall, well-built middle-aged gentleman with elegant movements. What drew Karen's notice wasn't his appearance, but rather that Karen happened to have a pack of Morf Gold Box cigarettes in his pocket, produced by Morf's tobacco factory. "Karen." A familiar voice called out. It was Piaget. "Mr. Piaget, if you wish to pay your respects, you'll need to line up over there," Karen reminded him. Piaget shook his head. "I don't know them. No need to mourn." "Oh, all right. Would you like a spring roll?" "Hmm? Let me try one." Piaget took a bite of a spring roll, then pointed to the dip beside it. "Is this fruit vinegar? Why is it black?" "It's vinegar," Karen answered. Beside the spring rolls and eggplant patties sat several varieties of dipping sauces: sweet sauce, chili sauce, sesame paste, as well as local Rojia condiment sauces. Piaget dipped the spring roll in vinegar before putting it in his mouth and nodded: "I think this food pairs best with this." "Indeed. Your palate matches mine." However, though many spring rolls had been eaten and the other sauces had been replenished two or three times, the vinegar had barely been touched. "Delice is here! Delice!" Delice, the environmental activist girl, appeared on the scene, immediately drawing cheers from the crowd. Delice delivered an impassioned speech while reporters quickly jotted down her words in their notebooks. It wasn't about protecting the environment, but condemning the four caskets lying here today as a trampling of freedom and democracy, an outrage against human rights. Especially her final shouts: "Who gave him the courage to do this?! Who gave him the right to do this?! How dare he?!" Delice used "him," not "them"—a very explicit, singular target. "What an awful speech," Piaget remarked, still eating his vinegar-dipped spring roll. Karen commented, "I thought she was here to criticize how burying four caskets together isn't eco-friendly." "Haha." Piaget laughed. "Busy day today, isn't it?" "Yes." Karen nodded. Yet looking around, aside from the three children—Mina, Lunt, and Chris—weaving through the crowd serving food and pouring water, Uncle Mason, Aunt Mary, Aunt Winnie, and the others were simply standing in place with frozen expressions, like wooden marionettes. "I don't like this feeling," Karen said. It was like Crown Ballroom all over again, a crowd of people dancing on top of corpses. Out of all these people present, how many had actually come for Siso and his family? Piaget nodded, seemingly catching his drift, and refrained from mentioning that he had been the one to recommend this business to Karen's family. Once Delice finished her speech, the veteran councilman Haggett took the stage, leading a contingent of councilors in roaring slogans: "For the East District! For the East District! For the East District!" "Send the traitor to hell! Send the traitor to hell!" Chanting slogans, they marched out of the memorial hall. Next, they would head straight to the East District, where momentum had already been built up. All that was needed was for them to arrive and join forces with Mr. Ford to completely stoke the public outrage in the East District, turning the old mayor's ironclad base into the vanguard of his opposition. "Sigh." Piaget sighed. Having seemingly eaten his fill, he set down his plate. "I hate politics." "Same here. I don't like it either." Piaget said, "The thought of matching votes against a crowd of fools gives me a headache. Yet sometimes, I realize that I'm just a fool myself." "An accurate summary. Would you like some egg fried rice?" "Sure." Noon passed, and afternoon slipped away. By dusk, a fat man with a massive protruding belly arrived. Like a designer admiring his own installation, he strolled around with his hands behind his back, pacing past the four caskets. "Not bad. I'm very satisfied." Mr. Oca signaled for his assistant to settle the remaining balance. The demonstrations in the East District had been fully organized that afternoon, and protest columns from other directions had followed suit. Aunt Winnie looked somewhat apprehensive. Karen naturally knew what she was afraid of. In the end, Karen stepped forward to settle the final payment with the fat gentleman's assistant. As before, they paid in cash. While the bill was being settled, Mr. Oca started snacking on the spring rolls and eggplant patties on the side: "Hmm, what kind of food is this? Though cold, it still tastes quite good." "They are spring rolls and eggplant patties." "Eggplant patties I understand, but what sort of bizarre name is 'spring roll'? Are there any hot ones?" "None right now, but I can prepare some and deliver them to your place, guaranteed piping hot. You would just need to leave an address, sir." "All right." Mr. Oca nodded and signaled his assistant to leave an address. Afterward, Mr. Oca walked out of the memorial hall. "Boss, I thought you wouldn't bother paying the remaining balance. I know how huge the profit margins are for funeral parlors; with the deposit alone, there's no way they'd lose money." Mr. Oca chuckled. "I did it out of respect for Adams." The memorial service was effectively over. Uncle Mason called Ron and Alfred over, preparing to load the caskets into the hearse to head to the cemetery for burial. Karen stepped forward. "Uncle, Grandfather said to keep them at home for today and bury them tomorrow." "Keep them at home?" Mason didn't quite understand, but since it was his father's instruction, he complied without going to verify it with his father. How could his own nephew deceive him, after all? And so, the four caskets were transported back down to the basement. Dinner was noodles. Karen had quickly stir-fried a meat sauce topping. Even though everyone was feeling downcast, after a long day of labor, they were genuinely hungry. At a time like this, an endless supply of carbohydrates was pure heaven. After eating, Aunt Winnie handed a sheet of paper to Karen: "Karen, just as you asked, I listed them here according to social standing and status, followed by their addresses. Also, Mr. Ford didn't come in person today, but his assistant did and left an address to receive the gifts on his behalf." "Thank you, Auntie. You've worked hard." Karen slipped the paper into his pocket and went to take a bath. He had spent half the day frying spring rolls and eggplant patties, leaving him reeking heavily of grease and smoke. Before partaking in a true "feast," one had best cleanse oneself—not just rinsing the mouth, but purifying one's whole body as well. Even on such a hectic day, Aunt Mary had placed fresh clothes on his bed early on. While changing, he pulled out the list Aunt Winnie had given him and held it in his hand. "Brother, are you going out?" Lunt asked curiously, having long since collapsed into bed after an exhausting day. "Yeah, just going out for a walk." "I want to come too," Lunt sat up. "Today was boring to death." "I'm taking a walk with Grandfather." "I'm tired, I'd better sleep. Take good care of Grandfather, Brother." Karen stepped out of the bedroom, closed the door, and walked up to Diss's study. He drew a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and raised his hand. Before knocking, he paused for a second. Glancing down at the list of names and addresses in his other hand, Karen murmured: "You've all had your fun. Now, it's my turn... to knock."