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Chapter 3 — Self-Recommendation
Coming from a place like Nanping Town, where wealth wasn’t rare—especially among families who had lost elders—it wasn’t unusual for people to hire funeral cosmeticians. It was about dignity. About showing they could afford to send someone off properly, with ceremony and pride.
The town’s funeral home wasn’t large. It had fewer special requirements, and most of the deaths there were natural, which made the work comparatively easier.
In Beijing, things were different.
Chen Maidong only handled unnatural deaths there—traffic accidents, suicides, homicides, drownings, disasters both man-made and natural. The worst cases required painstaking reconstruction, piece by piece. Sometimes a single body took two or three days to restore.
Natural deaths, by contrast, required a different kind of skill. The body had to be brought back as close as possible to a peaceful, lifelike state—cleaned, disinfected, dressed, facial features repaired, makeup applied. A final act of restoration, of giving someone back a shred of dignity before goodbye.
His first year in the profession was all adjustment—physical and psychological. Only in his second year did he begin to steady himself, learning to face each body with calm detachment, treating them gently, as if that quiet care could return something of their humanity.
A last bit of respect. A last bit of grace.
After showering, Chen Maidong came out to find his grandmother already setting the table. She was muttering about going to the township office, insisting they should assign him a wife.
Her logic was simple enough: her grandson worked for the civil affairs system, serving the people—so the state ought to “distribute” him a wife too.
Chen Maidong sat down to eat.
Grandma Chen tapped his head and scolded him for being useless, saying other people could just shake their phones and “shake out” a girlfriend, so why wasn’t he trying harder? He should be holding his phone all night, shaking it until something fell into his lap.
She even tugged his ear, and Chen Maidong—who feared pain more than anything—quickly promised he would find a girlfriend this year.
At nearly thirty, he was tall, well-built, and good-looking. On paper, there was nothing wrong with him. But he simply didn’t date. No matchmakers ever came calling either.
Still, Grandma Chen had standards of her own. The girl didn’t have to be pretty—but she absolutely could not work in a funeral home. In other words: no colleagues. Everything else was negotiable.
She had even gone to the township office twice, demanding they “handle the matter.” She used modern words too—said it was unfair, discrimination, even “anti-socialist,” that no girl was willing to marry her grandson because of his job.
People underestimated Grandma Chen.
When she was young, she had been a table tennis coach in the city. Sharp as a blade. Only now, in old age, did her mind drift in and out of clarity.
That night, just before bed, Chen Maidong received a short video from a friend. It showed a neighboring village holding a funeral where, in the middle of the night, a strip performance was being staged.
He recognized the place immediately—the same household that had hosted both a wedding and a funeral during the day.
He couldn’t sleep anyway, so he rode his motorcycle over. Not for the performance, but for the suona band. The sound in the video had been excellent.
Because of his work, Chen Maidong had very few friends. Only a handful he could actually talk to. Normally, he didn’t attend weddings or celebrations—he avoided them out of consideration for others. His presence, after all, carried an awkward weight.
When he arrived, leaning casually against his motorcycle, the bereaved family recognized him and insisted on seating him in the front. They even shoved two cartons of cigarettes into his hands.
On stage, a song-and-dance troupe and a suona band were performing at the same time, competing for attention. The sound clashed—singing against blowing horns—each side trying to outdo the other.
Around him, most of the audience were elderly men. All the younger men had already been dragged home by their wives. In the front row, only Chen Maidong and one other young woman remained.
Then he noticed her.
Zhuang Jie.
She had come to deliver goods—fifty roast chickens ordered for the funeral. With the National Day holiday approaching, her family was busy plucking feathers for packaging. She was the only one free enough to make the delivery.
When she saw him sitting there watching the strip performance, she was visibly surprised. So surprised, in fact, that she forgot to manage her expression. Chen Maidong saw her reaction and instinctively stood up.
She immediately waved him down.
“Sit, sit,” she said casually. “Keep watching.”
To spare him embarrassment, she even walked over and stood beside him instead.
The so-called “strip performance” was nothing more than a gimmick—flashy theatrics. The performers were still wearing undershirts underneath. No real indecency.
Chen Maidong, seeing her so relaxed about it, sat back down. He even handed her a stool.
The program shifted. A man and woman stepped forward to perform a duet. It started off proper enough, but gradually turned vulgar—so crude it bordered on obscene.
Chen Maidong glanced around. Most of the viewers were old men. The younger ones had long been dragged away by their wives. Only he and Zhuang Jie—two young people—sat right in front of the stage.
He looked at her.
Zhuang Jie spat on the ground.
“Disgusting,” she muttered. “What low-class nonsense.”
Without another word, she turned, got into her delivery tricycle, and left.
Chen Maidong stayed.
He lit a cigarette and continued watching as if nothing had happened. When the show ended, he rode home slowly, cigarette in his mouth.
Back at the yard, he stood under the fig tree and urinated casually, then went inside. From the room, Grandma Chen called out:
“Is that Dongzi back?”
“Yeah,” he replied, cigarette still between his lips.
He flicked off the ash and went into her room, unfolding a military-style cot beside her bed and lying down.
“How late is it?” she asked.
“Almost eleven.”
Grandma Chen couldn’t sleep. She started rambling—half memories, half nonsense—cursing Chen Maidong’s father for being unfilial, and his mother for never coming home to see the child.
When her mind was clear, she would never say such things in front of him. But clarity came and went these days like tides.
Since his grandfather passed away, she had grown fearful of sleeping alone. So whenever Chen Maidong was home, he stayed with her.
He closed his eyes, trying to drift off, and lightly patted her through the blanket until she fell asleep.
He had barely slept two hours when his phone vibrated under his pillow.
The funeral home was calling.
They had found the missing child.
He had been in the water for days—already beyond recognition.
A village child had been missing for a week. He was found twenty kilometers away, by the riverbank.
Chen Maidong went to the site.
Wearing gloves, he examined the body briefly. With police permission, he lifted the swollen, balloon-like remains into the hearse.
By the time the vehicle arrived at the funeral home, the child’s parents had already rushed there. The mother collapsed instantly upon seeing the clothes.
Chen Maidong transported the body into cold storage. The father went to complete the paperwork.
Under daylight, he looked again more carefully.
The face was deformed beyond recognition. Age was impossible to tell. Police estimated fifteen years old—first year of high school. The school had noticed the absence, the parents had searched for two days, then filed a report. Preliminary conclusion: accidental drowning.
When Xiao Sun arrived, Chen Maidong was already suited up, ready for reconstruction.
Xiao Sun had only been working there for a few months. One look at the body was enough—he turned pale and stumbled out to vomit.
Chen Maidong didn’t even look at him. He simply picked up the scissors and began cutting away the soaked clothing.
“Master… give me ten minutes to mentally prepare,” Xiao Sun said weakly from the hallway.
He stepped out, tried to steady himself—but the moment he caught another smell, he ran out again.
After more than ten minutes, he returned with full protective gear. Even then, he hesitated at the door.
Inside, Chen Maidong worked without pause—patient, precise, almost gentle—as he reconstructed the child’s face.
Outside, preparations for the funeral hall were already underway. The family had chosen a feng shui date and cremation time, believing it would ease the child’s passage.
Hours later, when the parents finally saw the body again, the mother shook her head violently.
“That’s not my child,” she cried. “That’s not him. My son is still in school—this isn’t him!”
She broke down completely.
After showering, Xiao Sun looked at Chen Maidong with admiration.
“Master, you’re incredible. You didn’t even react at all. This is the first time I’ve seen something like this.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Chen Maidong said simply, walking out of the funeral home.
Only when he was far enough away did he take out a cigarette and light it. He smoked hard, one drag after another.
Xiao Sun looked up at the sky and muttered, almost sincerely, “The world outside is really beautiful.”
Chen Maidong didn’t respond.
“You’re completely different when you’re working,” Xiao Sun added. He wanted to say something like “you look almost… sacred when you work,” but couldn’t find the words.
To Xiao Sun, Chen Maidong’s focus made everything feel meaningful—like they were doing something noble. Something important.
But the truth was simpler.
Chen Maidong had just ended up there with no better place to go.
At twenty-four, Xiao Sun was still studying for an accounting certificate, planning to leave as soon as he could. Unlike Chen Maidong, he was just a contract worker.
As they spoke, someone from the funeral home came to call them back in.
Chen Maidong crushed his cigarette and went back inside.
He worked from dawn until noon.
Finally, he managed to grab two meat buns—bought earlier by the front desk. He ate one, handed the other to Xiao Sun, who shook his head.
He drank some tea, planning to go home and sleep.
At the front desk, someone was chatting with Xiao Sun. The deputy director had said two staff members would be sent to the city for training—to “improve the overall professionalism of the funeral service team.”
When Chen Maidong returned home, Grandma Chen had already gone out.
The noodles she left behind were too salty to eat.
He reluctantly finished a bowl anyway, then quietly poured out the rest and cooked a fresh one.
When Grandma Chen came back, she noticed the noodles had been replaced but didn’t think much of it. She called out to him, but he said he had already eaten and told her to eat instead.
She sat by his bed, eating and talking about the upcoming National Day temple fair. The town would be crowded with relatives returning to visit.
She told him to go out and look around—maybe he’d meet a girl.
Half-asleep, Chen Maidong mumbled, “Young people don’t go to temple fairs anymore.”
“Oh, you young people are so aloof,” she said, pulling the blanket up for him before leaving.
The temple fair had a hundred-year history. It used to be full of dragon dances, lion dances, drums and gongs. Now only the elderly still cared. The young rarely went.
The next morning, Chen Maidong opened the fridge and found only a hard leftover bun.
Grandma Chen dragged him outside, insisting they buy food in town. She said meat was the most nourishing thing and led him straight into Zhuang Jie’s roast chicken shop.
It was almost National Day. Her mother was busy vacuum-packing chickens at home, so Zhuang Jie was alone in the shop.
She was battering fried chicken when Grandma Chen stepped in line.
“Fried chicken is what’s popular now,” the old woman said confidently.
Zhuang Jie nodded at Chen Maidong, then went back to work.
Grandma Chen noticed and immediately asked, “Dongzi, you know this girl?”
“Middle school classmate,” he said absently, scrolling his phone.
“Oh,” Grandma Chen studied Zhuang Jie carefully.
She wasn’t dazzlingly beautiful, but the more you looked, the more she grew on you—tall, slim, capable. The kind of girl who looked like she knew how to live life properly.
Zhuang Jie glanced back and smiled politely.
She told Grandma Chen to wait a moment—the chicken would be ready soon.
Grandma Chen was delighted.
She leaned over and whispered, “Dongzi, does she have a boyfriend?”
“I don’t know,” he replied.
Then she walked right up to the counter.
“Girl,” she asked cheerfully, “do you have a boyfriend?”
Zhuang Jie froze for a second, then glanced at Chen Maidong before smiling.
“Not yet, Grandma.”
Grandma Chen’s smile widened.
“You’re so poised, so tall, and you’ve got such a nice smile. If I had a granddaughter like you, I’d wake up laughing every day.”
Zhuang Jie laughed out loud.
Chen Maidong felt a wave of embarrassment. He already knew what was coming.
Before he could stop her, Grandma Chen continued:
“If I were fifty years younger, I’d paste your photo above my bed and pray every day to have a girl like you.”
Then she pulled Chen Maidong forward.
“My biggest regret in life is never having a granddaughter,” she said proudly, “but I do have a grandson who’s tall, handsome, and well-behaved.”
She patted his back hard.
“Look at him—180 centimeters, strong, decent character, no problems at all. Civil service job, stable position, owns a house in the city…”
Chen Maidong stood there silently.
He couldn’t even look at Zhuang Jie anymore.
Grandma Chen went on.
“…and he’s not short on money either.”
The fryer hissed in the background.
And Chen Maidong just stared at the frying oil, expressionless, as if waiting for time itself to end.
