Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 507: Three Bunches of White Chrysanthemums

At 8:20 a.m. on April 3rd, in front of the row of flower stalls by the cemetery gate, Zhi'an was crouched beside a blue plastic bucket, checking prices again.

"Forty?" He looked up. "Last year it was thirty-five."

"Wholesale's thirty-six." The vendor pulled two bunches of white chrysanthemums from the bucket, water dripping from the stems onto the spread newspapers below. "The yellows are blooming nice this year. Want yellow or white?"

"White." Zhi'an said.

"Same drill as always." The vendor slid the yellow chrysanthemums back into the bucket. "Five bunches of white left. Pick them yourself. Freight went up twice this year. I don't sell thirty bunches a day. People trading joss paper for flowers at the service point — they're queuing up this year."

Beneath the stone archway, a new service point had been set up: one table, two people, the table stacked with exchanged yellow paper. The line wasn't long — five or six people at most.

She crouched to pick. The paper sleeves still mostly wrapped the flower heads. She slid each bunch down one by one, checking the centers for yellowing. Two pine needles floated on the water's surface. After comparing two bunches, she took the first one back, added two more, and gripped the stems in one hand.

"Three bunches, wrapped separately. Don't shake the water off — it's a long walk in the sun."

"Separate wrapping means two extra ties."

Zhi'an pulled out his phone. "My own bunch, I'll pay for."

The vendor pointed to the code stuck by the bucket. He scanned and paid forty; his phone chimed in his pocket. He held the code up for a closer look before pocketing the phone.

She divided them into three portions — one for Zhi'an, two tucked under her arm. The cloth bag hung diagonally across her shoulder: porcelain vase, wet wipes, old newspaper. She'd checked them all on the table before leaving, then tucked the bag's opening under her arm, the way she'd check three items. The porcelain vase she'd bought in February at the general store by the Zhongshan Road intersection — twenty yuan apiece. She'd tested it on the counter to see if a bunch of flowers would tip it over.

By the stone archway, Lu Jibai stood waiting, no bag, both hands empty.

"Why are you empty-handed?" Zhi'an said.

"We'll buy together."

She handed him a bunch. He took it, folded back the outer layer of newspaper so the heads showed, checked the centers, said nothing.

"Director He said there's noodles back home," he said.

"Got it stewing?"

"Put it on this morning. Lawyer Li left two more numbers downstairs — people asking about the vegetable-money thing."

"We'll go back after the ninth."

The concrete steps up the mountain had been rained on overnight; pine needles pressed into the stone, soft underfoot. An elderly couple moved slowly ahead with yellow chrysanthemums in their arms, and a small boy sat on his father's shoulders, holding the white chrysanthemum the cemetery had handed out. The loudspeaker on the hillside droned as usual: "Burning of joss paper is prohibited in the cemetery grounds." Halfway through, the wind carried down the rest.

An old woman in a dark blue jacket stopped them halfway up, clutching a slip of paper with a queue number. "Excuse me — the row on the west side, where's number seven?"

"Another twenty steps up, on the right," she said. "That row's stones all face southeast."

"Thank you. My old man — first year he's here." The woman folded the slip and tucked it into her sleeve. "I've been looking for half an hour."

"Take your time. No rush."

A few steps up, Zhi'an glanced back. The old woman was making her way up step by step.

"More people than last year," he said.

"Third day of the holiday."

He raised the flowers higher and took the steps two at a time, then stopped to wait.

At 9:20, they reached the row on the west side of the slope. Among the last few stones, that gray one, facing southeast. She set the flowers by her feet and crouched, lifting the plastic bottle in front of the stone. Last year's stems were withered inside; the bottle had been bleached pale by the sun, and the crack along its rim had split to the bottom. The dead stems went into the newspaper. She untied the cloth bag and took out a white porcelain vase, wrapped in two layers of newspaper.

"Said last year I'd bring one," she said.

"I didn't hear."

"Then how'd you know?"

"The bottle's cracked. You can see it."

She swept the water stains and pine needles off the stone ledge with her hand, turned the vase half a circle looking for level ground. It still wobbled slightly.

Zhi'an twisted open a bottle of water and poured in half.

"Put something under it."

Lu Jibai crouched and fished a thin piece of stone from the edge of the ledge, slipping it under the back of the vase. He pressed down twice; the vase held. Then he pulled up a small tuft of grass sprouting by the base of the stone, roots trailing mud, and wiped his hands on the edge.

"Good," Zhi'an said.

That thin crack in the lower right corner of the base, from last winter's frost, had widened a little since the last visit. Zhi'an crouched there, picking pine needles from the crack one by one, gathering them in her palm into a small heap. Last year she'd done this too.

She pulled out a wet wipe and wiped downward from the headstone. At the name, she slowed, wiped once, flipped the wipe, wiped again.

Lu Jibai dug a small pack of wet wipes from his pocket, tore it open, pulled out two, and crouched at the other end, also wiping from the top down. Their hands met in the middle, and neither moved aside.

"This stone won't wipe white," she said.

"Then we wipe anyway."

Zhi'an put his bunch in the vase first, off-kilter; he straightened it and pushed it in a bit further. Lu Jibai unwrapped the newspaper, trimmed the stems, and placed the bunch in, heads outward, un-scattered. The old scar by the knuckle of his left index finger had faded to a white line.

He stood. He stood to her left, a step from the stone.

Last year he'd come up, placed the flowers, stepped back half a pace. This year he stood upright and didn't move again. A pine needle settled on his shoulder; he didn't brush it off.

She placed her own bunch in. Three bunches crowded one vase, petals still wet. She pressed the three heads together, tidied them, and only then released her hands.

"Dad," she said.

The wind came over the mountain from behind, and the hems of three coats fluttered the same way.

"The plate downstairs is up. Registered on the fourteenth, hung the seventeenth — right next to Zhengping's, two fingers apart. The room inside — Director He named it The Shen Qian Room. Your name's on the wall. You can see it level, standing."

"Since opening, people keep coming upstairs. One old woman who sells vegetables — a whole autumn of vegetable money, and her receipt was torn from a school exercise book page. She made nine trips. Three yuan each way, six round trip. I gave the original back to her. I kept one photocopy, pressed under the case jacket. That one isn't closed yet."

"March twenty-first, we went to register. Nine a.m., Chengnan District Civil Affairs Bureau. Two ID cards. The pen was tied to the desk leg with a plastic string."

"Zhi'an's shot up in the last half year. His pants are short by an inch. Director He said she'd alter a pair for him."

She paused.

"Dad. I'm getting married. It's him."

Someone below called for a child; the wind carried the voice up in pieces. Two stones over, a young man crouched, setting an orange on the stone base. He placed it, stepped back two paces, and held his phone to his ear: "Mom, I'm here."

She folded the newspaper from the ground, creasing it over and over. Her palm was damp; she pressed it against her trousers.

"Uncle," Lu Jibai spoke, voice low. "On that paper, March twenty-first, I signed my name."

She lowered her head, looked at the tips of her shoes, and said nothing.

He stood; his Adam's apple moved once, and after that no more words came.

Zhi'an turned to look down the slope, then back after a moment, and cleared his throat. "Dad, no need to take leave this year. It was already a holiday."

"Zhi'an."

"Just saying." He added, "Sis has been sleeping earlier than last year."

"Not much earlier."

"April ninth," she went on. "The noodle shop closed for the day. Two long tables put together. Director He cooks. That day, there'll be a seat for you."

"I'll head down early on the ninth," Lu Jibai said.

"You're there every day."

"That day, earlier."

"After the ninth, I'm going to the outskirts," she said to the stone. "That vegetable-money case — I need to ask the boss in person."

She packed the newspaper into the bag, dead stems and wipes too, and tied the opening once. Lu Jibai rolled up the unwrapped newspaper and shoved it into his coat pocket.

Zhi'an was still crouched, and suddenly asked, "Coming back next time?"

"Yes," Lu Jibai answered.

"At Qingming?"

"At Qingming."

"Good." Zhi'an stood and brushed the mud from his knees.

At 10:20, she said, "Let's go."

He was the last to leave. Before going, he pressed his palm against the stone at the side of the monument, then released.

The steps down were wet. Zhi'an led, and halfway down stopped at a bend and shouted back up, "Walk faster, you two."

"Got it."

The old woman in the dark blue jacket who'd asked directions had found it. She crouched before the second-to-last stone on the slope, laying out yellow chrysanthemums one by one, wiping the stone ledge with her sleeve after each. She looked up at the three of them and nodded.

"Found it," the old woman said.

"Found it," she answered.

"This is my old man." The woman set the last stem straight. "He liked a drink. I didn't bring any today."

As they descended, the wind softened.

"The vase is steady," she said.

"Stone underneath."

"It won't fall next time."

"Next time I'll bring a flat piece."

Partway down the mountain, Zhi'an, without turning back, said, "Last time, here, I told you to stand closer."

"I remember."

"Then why didn't you step up today?"

"No need today," Lu Jibai said.

Zhi'an walked faster, stopped a few steps later, turned and shouted: "I'm carrying the bowls on the ninth. Sis said."

"Carry them, don't run."

"Won't run."

"I didn't cause trouble this year, either." He added it, then seemed to find it unnecessary, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Tell that to your dad," she said.

"Just did."

"Sis, I'm wearing the blue one on the ninth." He went down two steps. "Sleeves are short."

"Short and you'll still wear it?"

"Yeah."

"A few things still not sorted before the ninth," Lu Jibai said. "Vegetables, tables, that notebook by the door."

"Director He said she'll order the vegetables."

"Tang Guo bought the notebook."

"Then it's just the tables," she said. "We'll set them up the afternoon of the eighth."

At the stone archway below, outside the convenience store, a freezer case stood. Zhi'an bought three sodas — one handed to Lu Jibai, one twisted open and passed to her, his own unopened, tucked away for now.

"Enough money?" she asked.

"Enough. I've been saving." He patted the side pocket of his backpack.

"Do you still have work at the firm this morning?" she asked.

"Two pages to look over."

"Then head back first."

"We'll go back together."

At the sorting bins, Zhi'an emptied the bag of dead stems, wipes, and newspaper separately, then folded the bag into a small square and tucked it into his backpack.

The blue bucket at the flower stall was empty. The vendor crouched by the tricycle counting money. He looked up at the three of them, his gaze pausing on Lu Jibai's face, then returning to hers.

"Back again?"

"Came to tell him."