Sunken Fish - Chapter 5
The case was solved, or it might not. Right after my friends disappeared in the Kingdom of Lanna, the newspapers changed their story again: the shopkeeper's death was a strange accident. No cause or effect, no one was charged, just "strange"—that ugly word would forever remain after my name. God, why was I demoted to "shopkeeper"?
A murder case (2)
The report further points out that DNA analysis of the man's skin tissue, blood-stained trousers, and shoes confirmed that the man was not the suspect. So who entered my store and left these traces? Isn't this a clear crime? Who really caused this strange accident? The police haven't mentioned any further investigation; they should be ashamed of themselves.
In the same article, the reporter pointed out "a strange coincidence"—that Chen Bibi had once organized a trip to the Kingdom of Lanna, in which eleven people participated and disappeared.
Such reports truly sadden me, as if I had planned a trip that was doomed to fail from the start. What utter nonsense!
But the worst part is, I don't remember how I died. What was I doing in my last moments? Who was holding the murder weapon? Did I suffer when I died?
Perhaps these memories are too terrifying, so I've blocked them from my memory. It's human instinct—even after I'm dead.
Ghosts are nothing more than a second life for humans.
The police autopsy revealed that I wasn't strangled, but rather bled to death. It sounds horrific, and so far, this information has been utterly useless. The little rake in my throat, the rope around my neck—only a fool would think it was an accident.
As a cadaver to be dissected, I was photographed, especially my gruesome neck, and placed in a metal drawer for research. I lay there for several days before my samples were taken away—cells, tampons, hair follicles, blood, and juice from my stomach. The chief medical examiner went on vacation to Maui, and two more days passed.
Because I am a prominent and distinguished person, especially in the art world—not just in the business world.
As the San Francisco Chronicle put it—so the medical examiner had to examine my body himself, as did several experts in the fields of crime and forensic medicine. They came around lunchtime and made gruesome speculations about the cause of my premature death. They wheeled my body around, rudely discussing what was in my stomach, the integrity of the blood vessels in my brain, my personal habits, my health records, some things so vulgar—it's best not to hear strangers talking about these things so openly at lunchtime.
In this cold, indifferent world, I feel like I've fallen into hell. Truly. It's filled with the most dejected people—an angry woman who storms across Van Ness Street to scare her boyfriend; a young man who jumps off the Golden Gate Bridge but regrets it halfway; a drunken veterinarian who collapses on a nude beach. Everything is an embarrassing tragedy, the most heartbreaking ending, nothing less.
But why am I here?
I was tormented by these thoughts, unable to leave the lifeless corpse. Until I realized my breath hadn't disappeared, but was simply flowing around me like air currents, lifting me upwards. What a remarkable feat! My habits from the past sixty-three years had accumulated and been withdrawn like a bank account.
Others are the same; they seem to inhale hope and exhale despair, yet anger, love, joy, and hatred erupt, spew, sigh, and scream. I now know that the air I breathe is not composed of gases, but of the density and fragrance of emotions; the body is merely a filter, an inspector. When I understood this, I easily freed my soul to do whatever made me happy.
The advantage of death: you don't have to worry about the future outcome, at least that's how I see it.
Watching one's own funeral (1)
The funeral was held on December 11th, ten days after my death. If my body hadn't been preserved properly, I might have become fertilizer.
My funeral was fortunate to be exceptionally grand, with approximately eight hundred people in attendance, including a dog.
This Yorkshire puppy, named Bosney, was at the front of the line. He was my beloved pet. He lay dejectedly on the ground, sighing amidst the countless praises. Beside him was my good friend, Berthold, who had given the poor little dog a piece of dehydrated liver. He was willing to adopt Bosney, and my executor readily agreed, because Berthold was a famous television dog trainer. You may have seen his show, "The Fido Files," which once ranked number one in ratings and won numerous Emmy Awards.
Oh! Our mayor is here too. He stayed for at least ten minutes—it doesn't sound like a long time, but he goes to many places every day and spends less time in each place.
The board members and staff of the Asian Art Museum were also there, including the guides I'd trained for years. My three tenants were also there, all of them troublesome fellows. And my dear repeat customers, and the people who come to my shop every day. Roger, the FedEx courier who delivers my packages; Thieu, my Vietnamese manicurist; Luc, my hairdresser; Bob, my Brazilian housekeeper. But the person I least expected was Najib, the Lebanese owner of the corner grocery store on Russian Hill, who's called me "darling" for twenty-seven years but has never given me a discount, even when the fruit he sells me is completely overripe.
Oh, and there's someone I absolutely can't forget—the twelve friends who signed up with me for the trip to the Kingdom of Lanna, including Berhali, who's feeding the puppy right now. The story of this book will revolve around them.
By the way, I did not mention them in order of importance.