I finally received Ah-bing’s letter today. I spent the last two days wondering what the letter might be about, but never once did I think it would be news of my shifu’s death! He had died on the second of March, almost a month ago now. Ah-bing’s letter told me that when death was nearly upon him, my shifu had wanted to see me. He had actually telephoned my work unit, but I was on leave at the time, and there was no way to get in touch with me. Finally, he decided to leave me some last words, instructing Ah-bing repeatedly to deliver them to me. That’s what his letter was about.

Shifu had written the words himself, but his handwriting was worse than a child’s. The characters were all over the place: some were huge, others nearly too small to make out; none were straight and none followed the lines on the page. I was familiar with his handwriting, so I could tell from this letter that when he wrote it he must have been terribly weak, his hand barely able to hold the brush; he must have been labouring horribly – these words scrawled across this page painted a picture before my eyes of an old and feeble man; a man whose heart was heavy, whose hand trembled … This is the first time I’ve received a dying man’s last words: I never thought they would affect me so much. Looking at the words, I couldn’t help but be fearful. His words drew me in: there was something murderous about them, something ferocious; they were like a sword working its way towards my heart. I began to cry, the tears rolling off my face and onto his last words.

This is what he wrote:

Little Shi, it seems as though my time has come. Before death takes me, I need to warn you: that certain matter – you have to believe me that it is incredibly important, no matter what, you must ensure that it remains a secret, buried for ever. It must never be divulged to outsiders. Chen Erhu. 1 March 1987.

What was ‘that certain matter’ he spoke of?