Instead her mind filled again with images of Miaoshan in life. As a toddler in split pants. As a girl dressed in a faded blue padded jacket who was devoted to her studies, diligently practicing her Chinese ideograms and reciting her English. As the young woman she had recently become who sometimes seemed such a stranger. "One day I will earn enough money that we will leave this place," she had often said with such conviction that Suchee had believed her. "We will go to Shenzhen, maybe even America…" Silently Suchee pulled at her hair, trying to drive away her dream-ghost daughter. Silently she screamed, How could this have happened?

From the dry-goods store, Suchee purchased paper in assorted colors so that tonight she might cut them into offerings, which would be burned at the grave. In this way Miaoshan, who was so poor in life, would be accompanied to the afterworld with clothes, a car, a house, friends. To distract Hungry Ghosts from Miaoshan's funeral belongings, Suchee would cook up a pot of rice to sprinkle on the bonfire. When the flames died down, her daughter would truly be gone forever.

Suchee had one more purchase to make-a coffin. Undertaker Wang, knowing that Suchee was almost as poor as he, suggested that the girl be cremated. But Suchee shook her head. "I want a coffin, a good one," she insisted.

"I can make you something nice," Wang said. "See this wood over here? This will be perfect for you."

But when Suchee ran her fingertips over the rough grain, she shook her head again. She looked about her until her eyes rested on a crimson lacquer coffin with hand-wrought hardware. "That one there," she said, pointing. "That is the one for Miaoshan."

"Oh, too expensive! My nephew buys that one in Beijing and sends it here to me. At first I'm thinking, my nephew has put me out of business! That kind of coffin is for a Red Prince, not someone in our poor village. But these days…" The undertaker rubbed his chin. "We have some prosperity in our village now. I am keeping it for one of the village elders. They are all old men, and they can't live forever."

But Suchee didn't appear to be listening. She crossed the small, hot room and placed her hands on the crimson surface of the coffin. After a moment she turned and said, "I will take it." Before Wang could voice his objections, Suchee reached into a pocket, pulled out a wad of old bills, and began counting them. She was not prepared to bargain with him as she might have under other circumstances, and, to his honor, he did not cheat her but accepted a fair price with a solid profit. Undertaker Wang considered that if a peasant woman like Ling Suchee was willing to buy a coffin like this for a no-account daughter, then perhaps that nephew of his should send a few more lacquer coffins to the village.

Her business with Wang completed, Suchee stepped back outside into the harsh sunlight. With each of these stops her determination grew. She would make Captain Woo hear her. She crossed the street to the building that housed the Public Security Bureau, then waited while a secretary went into one of the offices to speak with the captain. When she came out, her face was set in a disapproving grimace. "The captain is busy," the woman said. "He says you should go back home. Be a proper mother. You have a duty, you know. Take care of your daughter." The woman's voice softened just a little. "You have things you need to do for her. Go on."

"But I have to tell him-"

The secretary's firmness returned. "Your case has been heard. Captain Woo has already finished the paperwork."

"How can this be?" Suchee asked. "Captain Woo has not interviewed anyone. He has not asked me if Miaoshan had any enemies. We are a small village, but you and I both know there are many secrets here. Why isn't he asking about those?"

Instead of answering these questions, the secretary said, "The official file is complete." As an afterthought she added, "Do not cause trouble for yourself."

Suchee bent her head, looked at her callused feet, and tried to absorb what she had heard.

"Go on," the secretary insisted, a strident tone creeping into her voice. "We are sorry for your loss, but you must go away. If you don't, I will have to call…"

Suchee slowly stood, looked the woman directly in the eye, and uttered the worst curse she could think of. "Fuck your mother," she said and walked out.

She headed straight for the post office, knowing she would have to pass the Silk Thread Cafe. Approaching it, she saw the elders of the town-some old, some not so old, but all of them in clean and ironed white shirts that seemed an affront to all those who labored in the rocky fields that surrounded this village-sitting at their customary tables at the front of the establishment. When the men saw her approaching, their banter quieted so that all that could be heard was the sound of the cafe's television in the background.

She met their stares straight on. With the vision of her daughter hanging in the shed looming before her eyes, she said, "You will pay. I will make you pay if it takes my last breath and my last drop of blood." Then she lifted her chin and continued on to the post office, where she bought paper, a pen, and an envelope. At the counter she slowly, painstakingly wrote out a few characters. It was important to her that their form be neat, that their content be as clear as her simple mastery of the written language would allow. Then-copying from a slip of paper that she had brought with her from that buried box in her fields-she wrote on the envelope the name and address of the only government official she knew, Liu Hulan, who had lived and worked in the village so many years before.

THIS MORNING, AS EVERY MORNING THIS SUMMER IN Beijing, Liu Hulan woke before dawn to the deafening sounds of drums, cymbals, gongs, and, worst of all, the horrible squeals of a suo-na, a many-piped wind instrument that resounded for blocks, maybe even miles. Competing to be heard over the instruments were the exuberant voices, cheers, and yelps of the Shisha Hutong Yang Ge Folk Dance and Music Troupe. This was the beginning of what would be a three-hour session, and this morning it appeared to be taking place directly outside Hulan's family compound.

Hulan hurriedly wrapped her silk robe around her, slipped on a pair of tennis shoes, and stepped outside onto the covered veranda outside her bedroom. Though it was only four, the air was already thick as custard with heat, humidity, and smog. Once the summer solstice passed, Beijingers prepared for the arrival of Xiao Shu, or Slight Heat Days. But this year Da Shu, Great Heat, had come early. This past week had seen five straight days with temperatures over forty-two degrees centigrade and humidity hovering at about ninety-eight percent.

Hulan quickly crossed the innermost courtyard, passing the other pavilions where in the old days the different branches of her extended family had lived. On the steps of one of these, her mother's nurse- already dressed in simple cotton trousers and a short-sleeve white blouse-waited for her. "Hurry, Hulan. Make them stop. Your mother is bad this morning." Hulan didn't respond, she didn't need to. She and the nurse had followed this routine now for the past three weeks.