Peking Story by David Kidd

Author:David Kidd
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-59017-429-6
Publisher: New York Review Books

That night, Aimee reported to the family on the condition of the temple. Major family conferences always took place at night, because that was the only time the whole family could be together. Besides, Aimee said, people were able to think better at night. The family decided that despite the cost, the temple must be repaired, as a last token of respect to the ancestors.

I didn’t go back to it for several weeks. Although I knew that its roof had been mended, its windows restored, and its terrace weeded, I was taken by surprise when Aimee told me, one day, that the family had arranged for a special Buddhist ceremony, called the Feast of the Dead, to be held there the following night in her father’s name. This ceremony is not primarily intended for the welfare of comfortable, well-cared-for souls, such as we trusted old Mr. Yu’s to be, but is really an act of charity done on behalf of the person in whose name the ceremony is held, in order to increase his merits in the other world. It is a kind of mass for the ghosts of all the forgotten people who have died leaving no one among the living to worship them and weep for them, to feed them and look after the needs they have in that vast, shadowy place, where, it is believed, the dead, like babies, are helpless — always demanding and always hungry. This particular ceremony was also to be a sort of farewell to the ancestors, and, indeed, to the temple itself, because, Aimee explained to me, it was highly unlikely that the family would ever again be able to raise enough money to keep it in repair or hold ceremonies there for the dead.

On the night of the Feast, Aimee and I delayed somewhat in setting out for the temple — there was, as a matter of fact, no requirement that the whole family be present for all of the long ceremony, and we were among those members who chose to see only a portion of it — and the ritual was well under way when we arrived. The moon was three-quarters full in a sky as cold and clear as the water of the lake. The broken terrace, now weeded and cleaned, shone almost as white as the moon, except for a square of yellow light falling on it from the open doors of the temple. Within, we heard the sound of music and chanting.

The interior of the temple had changed considerably since I had last seen it. A long table covered with red silk stretched from the doorway to the altar. On it, at about the midway point, stood an elaborate wood-and-paper arch. Seated at the table, along both sides, were twenty Buddhist monks with shaven heads. They were dressed in red-and-black silk robes, and were chanting and playing musical instruments — gongs, bells, and drums. At the end of the table near us sat the head priest, his back to the door, wearing a golden crown from which hung long streamers of red-and-gold brocade.

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