Sandalwood Death

BOOK THREE


Tail of the Leopard



CHAPTER FOURTEEN


Zhao Jia’s Soliloquy

I am Zhao Jia, preeminent executioner in the Board of Punishments for more than forty years, a period during which I lopped off more heads than I can count, a wagon or a boatload at least. In my sixtieth year, thanks to the grace of the Empress Dowager, I was permitted to return home in retirement with a grade seven official rank medallion for my cap. At first I planned to conceal my identity in a butcher’s home in a humble lane in this little town, to engage in moral cultivation, conserve my nature, and live out my allotted time, from duties released. What spoiled my plan was my qinjia, Sun Bing, who beguiled the local throngs, hoisted the flag of rebellion, and, by running afoul of the nation’s laws, ignited armed conflict with the alien beast. To unnerve unruly subjects and preserve discipline and the rule of law, the Shandong Governor, Excellency Yuan, invited me out of retirement to inflict the sandalwood death. A popular adage has it that “A scholar will die for a true friend, a bird will sing for an admirer.” So as to repay a debt of gratitude to Excellency Yuan, I picked up the knife again, my burden increased. Truly a case of:

In the early morning my hand burned as if it held hot cinders, and I knew that heavy responsibilities awaited my shoulders. (ya-ya-wei) The self-important Magistrate of Gaomi County, Qian Ding, felt that I, Zhao Jia, was unworthy of his attention (wei-ya-ya), yet a gift from the Emperor had him groveling at my feet. (ha-ha ha-ha) As they say, People are spirited when good things happen, a triumphant general has a broad view of the world. (ya-ya-ah-wei) I lost two of my teeth, for which Qian Ding’s right to an official’s cap has ceased. Old Zhao Jia sits in front of his house, wind in his face, as grumbling yayi carry favored objects, item by case by basket by chest, into my yard, north, south, west, and east.

—Maoqiang Sandalwood Death. Soliloquy and nonsense





1




The chief yamen attendant, Song Three, only yesterday a browbeating toady who took advantage of his favored position, a universally feared man whom people called Third Master, today stood at my door with an ingratiating smile. A petty servant who only the day before had stood tall and proud was now bent nearly double. You young men, in more than forty years, there is nothing I did not see in the capital, men and affairs, and I tell you that shitty little functionaries are all like that. If one from this county were to be the exception, then Gaomi would be outside the Great Qing Empire’s sphere of influence. He bowed deeply at my door and sputtered:

“Old . . . old . . . sir, if it please you, shall we carry in what you requested?”

I curled my lip and smiled inwardly. I knew that the “old” dripping from that dog’s mouth was intended to be followed by “master,” but clearly I was not his master. I think he wanted to be familiar by calling me Old Zhao, but I was sitting in a chair bestowed upon me by the Emperor Himself. Having no choice, he had to settle for “old sir.” A wily son of a bitch. With an almost imperceptible wave of my hand, I said, “Bring everything in.”

Mimicking a stage voice, he announced loudly:

“Bring the old gentleman’s things inside!”

Like a line of black ants, the yayi entered the compound carrying everything I had requested from Excellency Yuan. Each item was presented at the door for my approval:

A purple sandalwood stake five feet long and five fen wide, like the metal spike used by the Tang general Qin Shubao. The absolutely indispensable item.

A large white rooster with a black comb, legs tied with a strip of red cloth, which lay in the arms of a fair-faced yayi like a bawling, unhappy baby boy. A rare breed, one of which they had managed to find somewhere in Gaomi County.

New leather straps that still gave off the pungent smell of tanning salt, light blue in color, as if grass-stained.

Two wooden mallets with a reddish luster that had been used in an oil mill as far back, perhaps, as the reign of the Kangxi Emperor, two centuries before. Made from date-wood knots and in constant contact with oil, they had by now drunk their fill and were heavier than their metal counterparts. But they were nonetheless wood and not metal, and thus more yielding. Hardness with a bit of give was what I had specified.

Two extra-large baskets, each filled with a hundred jin of the finest white rice. The unique fragrance and blue tinge were proof that it had come from Tengzhou Prefecture, which produced rice of a quality unmatched anywhere in Gaomi County.

Two hundred jin of flour packed in four gunnysacks stamped with the Tonghe Refined Flour Mill trademark.

A basket of red-shelled eggs, one of which, a first egg, was stained by real blood. Just seeing it evoked the image of a little red-faced hen straining to lay her first egg.

A sizeable cut of beef on a large platter, the sinews in the meat seemingly still vibrating.

An enormous cauldron, carried by two men, big enough to cook a whole cow.

Song Three was carrying half a jin of ginseng under his clothes. He took it out and handed it to me. Even through the paper wrapper, the bitter smell of fine ginseng was strong.

“Old sir,” Song Three said as his face lit up, “your humble servant personally visited the herbal shop and kept his eye on Qin Seven, that wily old fox, as he opened a catalpa cabinet with three locks and selected this ginseng from a blue and white porcelain jar. ‘If it’s not the real thing,’ he said, ‘you can twist my head right off my shoulders.’ This is prized ginseng. Just by carrying it next to me this little while and smelling its fragrance, your humble servant grew light on his feet, sharp-eyed and clear-headed; I felt like I was becoming an immortal. Just think what eating it could do!”

I peeled back the paper wrapping and counted the gnarled brown roots whose necks were tied together with a red string: one, two, three . . . five . . . eight altogether, each as thick as a chopstick at the top and as thin as a bean stalk at the end, from which a beard of fine hairs fluttered in the slightest breeze. Half a jin? I don’t believe it. I gave the man a cold glare. Well, the bastard bent at the waist and, with an unctuous smile, said softly:

“Nothing gets past the gentleman’s eyes. These eight roots only weigh four liang, not eight, but that is all Qin Seven had in his shop. He said you could boil them in water, pour the liquid into a dead man’s mouth, and he’d jump out of his coffin—do you think, sir . . .”

I waved him off without saying a word. What was I supposed to say? Chief yayi like him are craftier than demons and sneakier than a monkey. He got down on one knee to pay his respects. That, he thought, made up for the shortage. The swine was getting away with at least fifty liang of silver from the ginseng alone. But then he took a small chunk of silver out from under his clothes and said:

“This, old squire, is what your humble servant was given to buy pork, but it occurred to me that one does not fertilize another’s field, and since you have someone here in your home who slaughters pigs, why go elsewhere? This should be yours.”

Now, I knew that this little bit of silver was worth far less than what he had skimmed from the ginseng, but I thanked him anyway. “You put a great deal of thought into this,” I said, “so take the silver and divide it among your fellow yayi as a little bonus.”

“We thank the old squire!” He bowed again, as did the men who had come with him.

Money talks! A tiny bit of silver had that bastard calling me “old squire” instead of the vapid “sir.” If I’d given him a gold ingot, he’d be down on all fours, banging his head on the ground and calling me Daddy! Again I waved my hand, this time for him to get up, and without a trace of emotion, as if commanding a dog, said: “Go now. You and your men take all these things to the execution site, where you are to set up a big cook stove. Dump the sesame oil into the cauldron, fill the belly of the stove with kindling, and light it. Then set up a smaller stove for stewing the beef. After that, put up a mat shed near the stoves, place a vat inside, and fill it with water—be sure it’s fresh drinking water. And ready an earthen pot for herbal medicine along with a hollow horn used to medicate livestock. Carpet the ground in the shed with a thick layer of this year’s dry wheat straw. Then I want you personally to carry in my chair—you know its background, I take it. That master of yours and the Provincial Governor, Excellency Yuan, both got down on their knees and performed the rite of three bows and nine kowtows in front of it, so be very careful. If you so much as knock off a chip of paint, Excellency Yuan will skin you like a dog. Everything I’ve told you must be ready precisely at noon. If you are missing anything, go see your laoye.” The man bowed and proclaimed loudly:

“It will be as you say, Laoye.”

After they left, I checked off the remaining objects in the yard again: the sandalwood stake—the single most important item—would require much painstaking work, but nothing I would let those bastards watch, not with their unclean eyes, for that would spoil the effect. Nor would I let them hold the rooster, not with their dirty hands, for that would sap its power. I shut the gate; two armed yayi were posted to keep people out. Apparently our Magistrate Qian had seen to everything. Of course, I knew it was all for Excellency Yuan’s benefit. Oh, how he hated me, but my gums still bled from losing two teeth, and to teach the dog a lesson I needed to let him know who he was dealing with. I must not demean myself. I was not putting on airs or throwing my weight around, flaunting the fact that I had been favored by gifts from the Empress Dowager and the Emperor. And this assuredly was not a case of abusing public power to avenge a personal slight. It was a matter of national honor. Since I had been chosen to end the life of a man whose shocking criminal acts had gained worldwide attention, an extravagant display was both proper and necessary. The extravagance would belong not to me, but to the Great Qing Empire. Being laughed at by foreigners could not be tolerated.

Damn you, von Ketteler, I know you Europeans have used wooden stakes on people, but that is simply nailing someone to a crossbar and leaving him to die. I am going to let you see what a real punishment is like, one that is so exquisite, so refined, that the name alone reveals its resounding elegance: sandal—wood—death, a term with a rough exterior but an aesthetic core, displaying the patina and aura of antiquity. It is a form of punishment beyond the imagination of any European. Out on the street, my neighbors, all hopelessly rustic and shortsighted, craned their necks to get a peek into my yard. The looks on their faces revealed envy and admiration. Attracted by wealth, they were blind to the dangers that lay behind it, and my son was no less wooly-headed than they, though his muddled mind had its endearing qualities. Hearing my shifu tell how he had dismembered the woman with skin like pure snow had brought an end to my sexual life. Not even the lascivious women of the capital’s infamous Eight Lanes, who oozed lust, had the power to arouse me. At some point—when I cannot say—my beard stopped growing, and I was reminded of Grandma Yu: “My sons,” he said, “people in our profession are like palace eunuchs: Their potency has been excised with a knife, but their desire lives on. Our physical maleness remains intact, but our hearts have been purged of desire.” Grandma Yu said that when the day comes that the sight of a woman has no effect on you, when even the thought does not cross your mind, you are on the verge of becoming a totally accomplished executioner. Some decades ago, when I came home from an assignment and went to bed, a hint of potency remained, and I somehow sired a foolish but not totally worthless offspring, something hard to imagine, on the order of producing a stalk of sorghum from a fried seed. The reason I tried so hard to retire and return to my native home was that I had a son to return to, someone I wanted to train to become the Great Qing Empire’s next preeminent executioner. The Empress Dowager Herself once said that every profession has its zhuangyuan. I was one, and my son would follow in my footsteps. My daughter-in-law was a spirited woman who kept Qian Ding’s bed warm and subjected me to humiliation. But heaven has eyes, and saw to it that my qinjia fell into my hands. I laughed as I said to her: “Daughter-in-law, I must show him some favor, since we are related. All these things you see here are for him.”

She glared at me, eyes wide open, mouth agape, face pale with fright, unable to say a word in response. My son, who was crouching in front of the rooster, cackled as he asked:

“Will we be able to keep this rooster, Dieh?”

“Yes, we can keep it.”

“How about all this rice and flour and meat?”

“Yes, we can keep it all.”

“Ha-ha . . .”

He laughed happily. That son of mine may have looked like a fool, but knowing the value of good things kept him from being one. “All this will be ours to keep, son, but we have a job to do for the nation. Tomorrow at this time will be our moment to shine.”

“Are you really going to kill my dieh?” my daughter-in-law asked piteously. A face that had always been radiant and sleek seemed suddenly covered by a coat of rust.

“That is his good fortune!”

“How do you plan to kill him?”

“With a sandalwood stake.”

“Swine . . .” Her shouts were eerie. “You bastard . . .”

She yanked open the gate and burst out of the compound, swaying her hips.

I sent the crazed young woman off with a resounding comment: “Dear daughter-in-law, I am going to see that your dieh’s name will live forever, that his legend will become the stuff of grand opera, just you wait and see!”





2




I told my son to shut the gate as I placed the length of sandalwood on top of the flesh-and-blood-stained slaughtering rack, and had him fetch a saw, which I used to cut the wood in two lengthwise. Saw teeth biting into the wood produced the harsh, ear-piercing sound of metal on metal; sparks flew from the blade, which was too hot to touch, and a strange burning odor assailed my nose. Picking up a plane, I then painstakingly shaved the two halves into stakes with blunted tips and tapered edges, slightly rounded, like the leaves of a chive plant. Once that was done, I used sandpaper, coarse at first, then fine, turning the stakes over and over as I worked, until they shone like mirrors. True, I had never carried out a sandalwood execution, but I knew instinctively that success in this epochal event lay in the quality of the instrument. A job of this magnitude required meticulous preparation, something I had learned from Grandma Yu. The sanding alone took me half the day—a sharp ax makes the best kindling, or, as the adage goes, “The best work requires the finest tools.” I had no sooner sanded the two treasures to perfection than a yayi knocked at the gate to report that Gaomi County Magistrate Qian Ding’s workers had erected something called an Ascension Platform on the parade ground in front of the Tongde Academy in the center of town, one that adhered to my specifications and was sure to become the stuff of legend for a century or more. The mat shed I had requested was also in place, and sesame oil was churning in the large cauldron, while beef stewed in its smaller companion. I sniffed the air, and there it was, the heavy fragrance of sesame oil and meat carried on the autumn wind.

After running out early in the morning, my son’s wife still had not returned. I could understand what was troubling her—it was, after all, her dieh who was to be executed, and she had to be experiencing emotional, even physical, pain because of it. But where could she have gone? To plead her case with her gandieh, Magistrate Qian? Maybe, but my dear daughter-in-law, your gandieh is like a clay bodhisattva who must worry about its own survival while crossing the river. I do not intend to curse him by predicting that the day your dieh breathes his last will also see his downfall.

I changed into a new set of official clothes: a black robe cinched with a red sash, a red felt cap with red tassels, and black leather boots. There is truth in the adage that “People are known by their clothes, horses by their saddles.” With new clothes, I was no longer an ordinary man. With a grin, my son asked me:

“What are we going to do, Dieh, sing Maoqiang opera?”

Maoqiang? Songs from your idiotic dog opera, maybe! I cursed inwardly. Talking to him was a waste of time, so I simply told him to get out of his greasy clothes, which were stained with pig fat and dog blood. Guess what he said to me.

“Close your eyes, Dieh, don’t look. That’s what she tells me to do when she changes clothes.”

Keeping my eyes slitted, I watched him take off his clothes. He had a coarse, ugly body, and that thing drooping above his scrotum was an obviously useless appendage.

Yet in his high-topped, soft-soled black leather boots, red waist sash, and red-tasseled cap, his size gave him a formidable, martial appearance. But then he made a face, tugged at his ear, and scratched his cheek, and he was just another monkey in human form.

With the two stakes over my shoulders, I told him to pick up the rooster and follow me out the gate on our way to the Tongde Academy. The streets were lined with would-be spectators, men and women, young and old, all standing wide-eyed and open-mouthed, like fish sucking air above water. With my head up and my chest thrown out, I appeared to be oblivious to their presence, though in fact I saw everything out of the corner of my eye. My son, on the other hand, kept looking right and left and greeting the crowds with a foolish grin, as the rooster struggled to get free, squawking frantically. The dull-witted people gaped as we passed. Xiaojia was stupid, all right, but the people were worse. The show hasn’t even begun, you clods, and if that’s how you look now, what are you going to be like tomorrow during the grand performance? It’s your good fortune to have a man like me in your midst. The finest play ever staged cannot compete with the spectacle of an execution, and no execution on earth can begin to compare with the sandalwood death. And where in China will you find another executioner talented enough to kill a man with it? With me in your midst, you will be treated to a show the likes of which no one has ever seen, nor likely ever will again. If that is not good fortune, what is? I ask you, if that is not good fortune, what is?

Old Zhao Jia walks with his stakes and says with respect to the gathered fold, I carry the law of the nation in my arms; it is weightier than gold. I call out to my son to pick up the pace and stop gawking like a fool. Tomorrow we will show them who we are, like carp transformed into dragons so bold. Three steps instead of two, two steps outpacing one, strides faster than a shooting star—the Tongde Academy awaits.

We look up, ahead is the parade ground, flat and even, its sand white and cold. An opera stage on one side, where Pear Garden actors will come to play. Kings and princes, generals and ministers, heroes and warriors, scholars and beauties, three religions and nine schools of thought . . . all brought together like a running-horse lantern of old.

There, in front of the stage, the County Magistrate has erected an Ascension Platform, fronted by soldiers, our presence to behold. Black and red batons on the shoulders of some, broadswords in the hands of others. In front of the platform, a mat shed secured with rush rises behind a cauldron in which sesame oil churns. Fellow countrymen, the grand opera is about to begin, the story to be told!





3




I tied the rooster to a shed post. The creature cocked its head and looked up at me, its eyes the color of yellow gold, sparkling and blinding bright. I turned to my son. “Xiaojia,” I said, “knead some dough with fresh water.” He cocked his head to look at me, gawking like the rooster.

“What for?”

“Do as I say, and don’t ask questions.”

I studied the shed while he was kneading the dough. The front was open, the back closed. It stood opposite the opera stage. Perfect, just the way I wanted it. The floor was laid well enough, with a gold-colored rush mat on top of the noisy layer of wheat stalks. New wheat, new rush, both exuding a fresh aroma. My sandalwood chair had been placed in the center of the tent, enticing my backside to sit in it. I went first to the cauldron, where I dropped the two spear-shaped stakes into the fragrant oil. They sank straight to the bottom, with only the squared-off butt ends floating to the top and breaking the surface. Ideally they should cook for three days and nights, but I did not have three days. A day and a night would work, since sandalwood this smooth would soak up little blood even without being cooked in oil. Fate has smiled on you, Qinjia, by allowing this to be the instrument of your death. I sat in my chair and looked up at the red sun setting in the west, ushering in dusk. The Ascension Platform, built of thick red pine, had a gloomy appearance in the twilight and exuded the aura of death, like a great frowning idol. I could not fault the County Magistrate’s preparations; the platform, encircled in mist and hooded by somber clouds, fairly epitomized the solemnity of the occasion. Magistrate Qian, you should take your rightful place in the Board of Public Works as a supervisor of grand projects. Your talents are hopelessly stifled in piddling little Gaomi County. Sun Bing, Qinjia, you too are one of Northeast Gaomi Township’s outstanding individuals, and though I do not like you, I cannot deny that you are a dragon among men, or perhaps a phoenix; it would be a crime for you not to die in spectacular fashion. Anything less than the sandalwood death, and this Ascension Platform would not be worthy of you. Sun Bing, your cultivation in a previous life has brought you the good fortune of falling into my hands, for I will immortalize your name and make you a hero for the ages.

“Dieh,” my son said excitedly from behind me with a platter of dough the size of a millstone, “the dough is ready.”

Believe it or not, he had used up the entire sack of flour. But no harm done, since we would expend a great deal of energy tomorrow, and would need plenty of nourishment to get through the day. I twisted off a chunk of dough, rolled it between my hands, and pulled it into a long strip, which I dropped into the oil. It rolled and twisted in the churning oil like an eel fighting to stay alive. With a clap of his hands, my son jumped up and down.

“Fried fritter!” he shouted. “It’s a fried fritter!”

Together we dumped a steady stream of dough twists into the oil. They sank to the bottom, but quickly floated to the top and tumbled in the space between the sandalwood spears. I was frying them in the same oil so the essence of grain would attach to the wood. I knew that these stakes would enter Sun Bing’s grain passage and travel up through his body, and that the grain coating would be beneficial. The aroma of frying fritters spread—they were done, so I fished them out with a pair of tongs. “Eat one, son.” With his back to the mat shed, he started in on the lip-burning fritter; his bulging cheeks showed how happy he was. I picked one up and took a bite, slowly savoring its unique sandalwood taste and its Buddhist aura. I had stopped eating meat after receiving the string of prayer beads from the Old Buddha Herself. Kindling blazing beneath the stove crackled and spit; the oil in the cauldron bubbled and popped. After eating several of the fritters, I went to work cutting the slab of beef into fist-sized chunks and tossing them into the oil. I did that so the essence of meat would overlay that of grain and soften the wood even more. All this I was doing for Qinjia! My son moved up close and muttered:

“I want some meat, Dieh.”

“Son,” I said affectionately, “this is not for us. In a while you can have some from the small cauldron. Once the punishment is administered to your Maoqiang-singing gongdieh, you can eat the meat and he’ll drink the broth.”

Just then the crafty chief yamen attendant, Song Three, came up and asked what I wanted him to do next, slavishly bowing and scraping as if I were a powerful official. Naturally, I had to assume the proper air, so I coughed importantly and said:

“Nothing more. Preparing the stakes is all there is to do today, and that is my job, not yours, so you may leave and do whatever you are supposed to do.”

“Your humble servant may not leave.” The words slithered out of his oily mouth like loaches. “We dare not leave.”

“Has His Eminence your master the County Magistrate told you to stay?”

“Not His Eminence, but His Excellency Governor Yuan, who ordered us to stay for your protection. You have become a living treasure, sir.”

He stuck out his paw, picked up an oil fritter, and stuffed it into his mouth. As I stared at his greasy lips, I said silently: I am not the treasure, you bastards; it is that which I carry with me. I reached under my clothes and took out the sandalwood prayer beads given to me by the wise and august Empress Dowager Cixi, and began fingering them, closing my eyes and striking the calming pose of a meditating monk to keep those bastards from knowing what was on my mind. I could have crushed them into pulp without their ever guessing what I was thinking.





4




Old Zhao Jia sits by the shed, his state of mind a mass of tangles. (What are you thinking, Dieh?) Images of earlier days float past his eyes from all angles. (What images?) The benevolent Yuan Shikai had not forgotten his old friend, and that is how father and son have reached this day. (What day is this?)

—Maoqiang Sandalwood Death. A father and son duet

After completing the slicing death on the brave Qian Xiongfei, I picked up my tools and, along with my apprentices, planned to return overnight to Peking. People say that one should avoid crowded, hectic places and not linger where disputes arise. With our belongings on our backs, we were about to set out when our way was blocked by one of Excellency Yuan’s most loyal retainers, a fierce-looking man who gazed up into the sky and said:

“Do not leave, Slay-master. Excellency Yuan wants to see you.”

After getting my apprentices settled in a tiny inn, I fell in behind the retainer. We passed through a series of sentry posts before I was kneeling in front of Excellency Yuan. Sweat dripped from my back, and I was out of breath. I banged my head loudly on the floor, managing between kowtows to sneak a look at his corpulent image. Over the previous twenty-three years, as I well knew, thousands of high officials and talented individuals had passed in front of the great man’s eyes like a running-horse lantern, so what chance was there that he would remember someone as insignificant as me? But I remembered him, remembered him well. Twenty-three years earlier, as a handsome young man who could not even grow a moustache, he had spent much of his time in the yamen with his uncle, Yuan Baoheng, Vice President of the Board of Punishments. Bristling at his enforced idleness, he had come to the Eastern Compound, where we executioners lived, and struck up a conversation with me. Excellency, you were fascinated by our profession—putting people to death—and said to Grandma Yu, who was still healthy and active, “Take me on as your apprentice, Grandma!” Seized with terror at the request, Grandma Yu said, “Young scion, are you toying with us?” With a straight face, Excellency, you replied, “I am serious. Great men appear in chaotic times, and if the seal of authority is beyond their reach, the knife is not!”

“You did your job well, Grandma Zhao.” The great man’s comment brought my reveries to an abrupt end. His words seemed to come from the depths of a bell, like deeply moving chimes.

I admit that I had carried out my duty in a manner that did nothing to undermine the Board of Punishment’s reputation, and I was confident that I was the only person in the Great Qing Empire who could have performed the slicing death to such a high standard. But that was not the attitude I could assume in the presence of Excellency Yuan. I might be a man of little importance, but I knew that Excellency Yuan, who commanded an elite modern army, was a prominent figure in the Imperial Court. “It was not an effort I can be proud of,” I said humbly, “and I can only beg forgiveness for disappointing Your Excellency.”

“Grandma Zhao, you sound like an educated man.”

“I respectfully confess that Excellency Yuan’s humble servant can neither read nor write.”

“I see,” he said with a smile. Then he abruptly switched to his native Hunan dialect, as if swapping his official clothing for a jacket of homespun cloth: “If you raise a dog in an official yamen, in ten years it will speak like a classical scholar.”

“A wise comment, Excellency. In the Board of Punishments I am a dog.”

Excellency Yuan laughed lustily at my remark.

“Well spoken,” he said once he had finished laughing. “It takes a good man to humble himself! You are a dog in the Board of Punishments, and I am a dog at the Imperial Court.”

“Your humble servant does not deserve to be mentioned in the same breath as Your Excellency . . . gold-inlaid jade, while I am nothing but a cobblestone . . .”

“Zhao Jia, how shall I thank you for helping me accomplish something so important?”

“Your humble servant is a dog raised by the nation; Your Excellency is a pillar of the state, whom I am obliged to serve.”

“I find nothing wrong in what you say, but I wish to reward you nonetheless.” He turned to his attendant. “See Grandma Zhao off to the capital with a hundred liang of silver.”

I got down on my knees and thanked him with a resounding kowtow.

“Your humble servant will never forget Excellency Yuan’s generosity,” I said, “but I cannot accept your gift of silver.”

“Why is that?” he said coldly. “Is it too little?”

“Your humble servant has never in his life received a hundred liang of silver,” I said after a second loud kowtow, “and I dare not take it now. By bestowing the honor of bringing me to Tianjin to carry out his orders, Excellency Yuan has enhanced my status in the Board of Punishments, and I fear that taking Excellency’s silver could shorten my allotted time on earth.

Excellency Yuan grew pensive.

“Grandma Zhao,” he said after a moment, “this was a difficult assignment.”

Once again I responded first with a kowtow.

“Excellency, I was thrilled to do it. I am indeed fortunate to have had the opportunity to put my talents to work for the Imperial Court.”

“What would you say if I asked you to stay on as a member of my criminal affairs unit, Zhao Jia?”

“I would not dare decline to be so favored by Your Excellency. I have worked in the Board of Punishments for more than forty years, and have put to death a total of nine hundred eighty-seven criminals, not counting those executions in which I assisted. I have been so favored by the nation that I should spare no effort to continue working until I am stopped by death or old age. But ever since the execution of Tan Sitong and his five fellow criminals, I have been bothered by a wrist that is sometimes so sore I cannot even use chopsticks. I have been hoping to return home and beg Your Excellency to seek permission from the Board of Punishments on my behalf.”

He merely laughed grimly. I did not know what to make of that.

“Excellency, your humble servant deserves death. I am a low-class nobody who is unworthy of inclusion in any of the lower nine trades. I am a dog if I leave and a dog if I stay, and I have no business troubling any of my superiors. And yet I can boldly assert that while I am a man of demeaned status, the work I perform is not, and as such I am a symbol of national power. We are a nation with a thousand laws, but in the end it is I who enforce them. My apprentices and I have no annual stipend and no monthly wage, and must rely upon the sale of our victims’ cured flesh as a medical restorative. I have accumulated no savings after more than forty years in the Board of Punishments. It is my hope that the Board will give me a settling-in allowance so that I will not have to wander the streets destitute. I venture to ask for fair treatment for my brethren in the profession by including executioners in the personnel ranks of the Board of Punishments with a monthly wage. I ask this not just for myself, but for all of us. As I see it, executioners will be indispensable for as long as the nation exists. This is a parlous age, with a host of criminals among official ranks and legions of robbers and bandits on the loose, the precise moment in time when skillful executioners are most in demand. With unforgivable audacity, I implore Excellency Yuan to grant this humble request.”

I followed my bold statement with a series of resounding kowtows, then remained on my knees and waited with sly glimpses to see how he would react. He stroked his dark moustache, with the calm look of a man deep in thought. Suddenly he laughed.

“Grandma Zhao, there is more to you than a lethal hand. Your mouth is nearly as lethal!”

“I deserve death, but I have spoken the truth. Only because I know that Excellency is a man of great wisdom and uncommon magnanimity have I had the audacity to make the request.”

“Zhao Jia,” Excellency Yuan said, suddenly lowering his voice in an aura of mystery, “do you still recognize me?”

“For someone as impressive and dignified as His Excellency, a single glance can last a lifetime.”

“I do not mean now; I am talking about twenty-three years ago, when my uncle was Left Vice President of the Board of Punishments and I was a frequent visitor to the yamen when I had some free time. You had not met me then, had you?”

With bad eyes and a poor memory, I truly had not known who he was. But I did know Yuan Baoheng, Excellency Yuan, who had bestowed favors on me at the time.

“Truth is, how could I not recognize such a distinguished appearance? Back then, Excellency Yuan, you were a mischievous youngster. Your uncle wanted you to take up studies and make your name as a civil service scholar. But you were not scholar material, and you never missed an opportunity to come to the Eastern Compound to spend time with us. Once you gained an understanding of our rules and traditions, you talked Grandma Yu into letting you put on a set of executioner’s clothing without telling your uncle, then you smeared your smooth, round face with rooster blood and went with us to the marketplace for the execution of a criminal who had impudently hunted a rabbit near the Imperial Mausoleum and disturbed the sleep of deceased emperors. I pulled the criminal’s queue to expose his neck while you raised your sword and, with no change of expression and a steady hand, needed but one chop to separate him from his head. When it was all over, your uncle learned what you had done and slapped you in front of us. We were so terrified we fell to our knees and banged our heads on the floor as if we were crushing cloves of garlic. ‘You miserable wretch,’ your uncle exploded, ‘how dare you do something like that!’ But you leaped to your own defense: ‘Do not be angry, revered uncle; killing someone during a crime is a heinous offense, but killing someone who has committed a crime is an act of patriotism. Your unworthy nephew is determined to make his name on the battlefield, and the reason I assumed the appearance today was to fortify my courage for the future.’ Your uncle continued to rage, but we all knew that he was looking at you with increased respect . . .”

“Old Zhao, you are too smart a man,” a smiling Excellency Yuan said, “not to recognize me. You are afraid I will blame you for what happened. In truth, I do not regard what happened as anything to be ashamed of. Back when I was studying with my uncle in the Board of Punishments, I read up on the executioner’s trade and benefited greatly from it. Going with you to execute that criminal was a rare and unforgettable experience that has had a major impact on my life, and I have summoned you here today to thank you.”

I responded with more kowtows and expressions of gratitude.

“Get up,” Excellency Yuan said. “Go back to Peking and wait there, quite possibly for welcome news.”





5




A civil zhuangyuan, a military zhuangyuan, a civil and military zhuangyuan, for as they say, every profession has its zhuangyuan. I am the zhuangyuan of executioners. Son, the Empress Dowager Herself bestowed this designation on me, and the precious words that come out of Her mouth are not mere pleasantries.

—Maoqiang Sandalwood Death. A father and son duet

News of the Tianjin executions and the informal audience with Yuan Shikai created ripples of excitement in the Board of Punishments compound. My fellow tradesmen gave me curious looks, a mixture of envy and admiration. Even mid-level bureau officials, the various vice directors who came to work carrying their official clothing in a bundle, nodded silent greetings that told me that these graduates of the Imperial Examination had begun to see me in a different light. I would be lying if I said this displeased me, but I refused to let it go to my head. A lifetime in the yamen had taught me that the ocean is deeper than a pond and that flames are hotter than cinders. I did not have to be told that the tallest tree stands beneath the heavens, the tallest man is dwarfed by a mountain, and the brawniest slave obeys his master. On my second day back in the capital, the Board’s Vice President, Excellency Tie, summoned me to his document room, where the Deputy Director of the Bureau of Detentions, Eminence Sun, was in attendance. Excellency Tie grilled me about the Tianjin executions, wanting to know even the smallest detail. I answered all his questions. He then asked about the New Army’s military preparedness at Small Station, including a description of the soldiers’ uniforms, even the colors. How was the weather there, what was the state of the Hai River . . . Finally, when there was nothing more to ask, he asked how Excellency Yuan looked and felt. “He is fine,” I said, “a nice ruddy complexion, and a voice like a brass bell. I personally watched him eat half a dozen eggs, a large steamed bun, and a full bowl of porridge in one sitting.” Excellency Tie glanced at Eminence Sun and said with a sigh: “He is in his prime; his future is assured.” Eminence Sun added: “With Yuan Shikai’s military background, it is natural to have a hardy appetite.” Encouraged by what I saw in Excellency Tie’s eyes, I decided to offer up a blatant falsehood: “His Excellency asked me to pass on his best wishes,” I said. “Indeed?” Excellency Tie said excitedly. I nodded to assure him. “It is worth mentioning that Excellency Yuan and I are related. His great-uncle Yuan Jiasan’s second concubine’s niece is the wife of my father’s younger brother!” “I seem to recall that Excellency Yuan mentioned that once.” “Family connections like that are not that important!” Excellency Tie said. “Grandma Zhao, your success at the Tianjin executions has burnished the reputation of the Board of Punishments. Grand Secretary Wang has expressed his satisfaction, and I have summoned you here today to reward you. I hope that this will not lead to arrogance and rash behavior, and that you will continue to work for the nation to the best of your ability.” “Excellency,” I said, “ever since returning from Tianjin, I have been bothered by a sore wrist, and I . . .” Excellency Tie interrupted me: “The Court has initiated a series of reforms that may well mean the abolishment of such cruel punishments as the slicing death and cleaving a criminal in two. I am afraid that Grandma Zhao may become a hero denied a place to demonstrate his skills. Eminence Sun,” he said as he stood up, “give Zhao Jia ten liang of silver from your Bureau of Detentions funds and charge it to the Board, on Grand Secretary Wang’s authority.” I fell to my knees and kowtowed before backing out of the hall bent at the waist; I saw a cloud spread across Tie’s face, in contrast to the genial look he’d worn while bragging about his family connection to Excellency Yuan. High officials were subject to mercurial mood changes, but I was familiar enough with their temperament to not let that bother me.

The new year had barely begun, and the second lunar month was already upon us. The weeping willows lining the stream beside Board of Punishments Avenue were beginning to turn green, and the crows perching on the scholar trees in the compound were getting livelier by the day, and yet there was no sign of the welcome news Excellency Yuan had promised. The ten liang of silver from Excellency Tie could not have been what he was referring to, could it? No, of course not. Not when I had turned down his offer of a hundred liang. How could ten liang of silver be considered welcome news? I was convinced that he was not in the habit of jesting. He and I had formed an amicable relationship, and he would not string me along, like someone who teases a dog with an air-filled bladder.

On the second night of the new month, Deputy Director Sun brought word that I was to rise by the fourth watch the next morning, bathe, eat a light breakfast that included nothing that dispersed internal heat—no spicy foods such as ginger or garlic—dress in new clothes, and carry no sharp instruments. I was to appear at the Bureau of Detentions by the fifth watch and wait for him. I considered asking what this was all about, but one look at his long, somber face convinced me to hold my tongue. I had a premonition that Excellency Yuan’s welcome news awaited. But never in my wildest imagination could I have anticipated that I was about to be received in a solemn audience by Her Royal Highness, the Empress Dowager Cixi—may She live forever—and His Imperial Majesty, the ageless Emperor!

The third watch had just been announced, and I was too tense to sleep, so I got out of bed, lit a lantern, smoked a pipe, and told the nephews to boil some water. Filled with excitement, they clambered out of bed bright-eyed and spoke in hushed tones. First Aunt assisted me into a large tub to bathe, Second Aunt dried me off, and Third Aunt helped me get dressed. We had rescued this youngster, with his fair complexion and nicely chiseled features, a boy who managed everything he touched with clever assurance, from the life of a beggar, and he treated me like a filial son. The joy he felt flowed from his eyes. All my apprentices enjoyed a shared sense of joy that morning. When auspicious things happened to their shifu, they reaped benefits, and I could see that their good feelings were heartfelt, with no hint of pretense.

“Don’t be too quick to celebrate,” I said, “for we do not know whether this news is good or bad.”

“It’s good,” Third Aunt insisted. “I know it is!”

“Your shifu is getting on in years,” I said with a sigh, “and the slightest slip could cost him his head . . .”

“That cannot happen,” First Aunt said. “Old ginger is the spiciest. Besides, Grandma carried out an execution on the Palace grounds decades ago.”

I had assumed that another Palace eunuch had committed a crime and that I was being summoned to carry out his execution. But I could not dismiss the feeling that something was different. Back when I was apprenticed to Grandma Yu and assigned the responsibility of putting Little Insect to death with Yama’s Hoop, the Palace had spelled out our duties well ahead of time and had said nothing about bathing or eating a modest breakfast beforehand. But if this was not about plying my trade, what possible reason could there be for summoning an executioner? Could it be . . . could it be my turn to go on the chopping block? In a state of agitation, I ate half a meat-stuffed wheat cake, brushed my teeth with roasted salt, and rinsed my mouth with fresh water. I walked outside, where I saw that the constellation Orion had moved a bit to the west, though the fourth watch had not yet been announced—it was still early. So I engaged my apprentices in conversation until I heard a rooster’s crow. “Better early than late,” I said. “Let’s go.” So, escorted by my apprentices, I arrived at the entrance to the Bureau of Detentions.

Though the weather in the capital on that early day of the second month was still quite cold, I wore only a lined jacket under my official clothes in order not to appear frail. But my teeth chattered under the onslaught of the chilled early morning winds, and I instinctively tucked my neck down into my shoulders. There was a sudden change in the sky, which turned pitch-black and seemed to light up the stars. We waited an hour, until the fifth watch was announced, when the sky turned a fish-belly gray and the city and its outskirts began to stir. The city gate creaked open to welcome in water wagons that groaned under their heavy loads. Then a horse-drawn carriage rumbled quickly into the compound, preceded by a pair of servants carrying red lanterns, the shades stamped with the black character “TIE,” which told us that Excellency Tie had arrived. The servants pulled back the protective curtain to allow Excellency Tie, a fur coat over his shoulders, to step down. His servants moved the carriage to the side of the road as His Excellency walked my way with faltering steps. I greeted him with a respectful salute. He coughed, spat out a mouthful of phlegm, and looked me over.

“Old Zhao,” he said, “limitless blessings have been bestowed on you.”

“I am unworthy and can only throw myself at Your Excellency’s feet.”

“Once you are inside, answer with care, saying only what is expected of you.” His eyes sparkled in the dim light.

“I understand.”

“You others may leave now,” he said to my apprentices. “Rare good fortune has arrived for your shifu.”

My apprentices departed, leaving only me and Excellency Tie standing in front of the Bureau of Detentions. His servants stayed with the carriage, lanterns now extinguished. I heard the sound of horses eating feed in the darkness; its fragrance carried all the way over to me—it was, I detected, a mix of fried soybeans and rice straw.

“Excellency, what do you want me to . . .”

“Keep your mouth shut,” he said coldly. “If I were you, I would not say a word except in response to questions by the Empress Dowager or the Emperor.”

Could it really be . . .

When I stepped out of the small, canopied palanquin carried by two eunuchs, a slightly hunchbacked eunuch in a loose tan robe nodded enigmatically to me. I fell in behind him and passed through a maze of gardens and corridors, finally arriving in front of a hall that seemed to reach the heavens. By then the sun had climbed into the sky, its redness sending rays of morning sunlight in all directions. I sneaked a look around me, and saw that magnificent linked buildings in resplendent golds and greens surrounded me, as if ringed by a prairie fire. The eunuch pointed to the ground at my feet; I was standing on green bricks that shone like the bottom of a scrubbed frying pan. I looked up, hoping to see in his face a sign that would tell me what he meant, but the old fellow had already turned away from me, and all I could see was his back as he stood respectfully, arms at his sides, and I realized that he wanted me to wait where I was. By then I knew precisely what awaited me—Excellency Yuan’s welcome news. The next thing I saw was a progression of high officials in red caps backing out of the hall, heads down and bent at the waist. They wore somber looks and looked out of breath; oily drops of perspiration dotted some of their faces, and the sight made my heart race wildly. My legs trembled, and my palms were sweaty despite the cold. I did not know whether what awaited me was good fortune or ill, but if I’d had the chance, I’d have slunk out of there as fast as possible and taken refuge in my little room, where I could quell my fears with a decanter of fine spirits. But now that I was here, that was out of the question.

A eunuch whose face glowed beneath his red cap emerged through an enormous doorway that I dared not even glance at; he gestured to the old eunuch who had brought me there. The man’s large face was as radiant as a Buddhist treasure, and though no one has ever told me who he was, I suspect it was the Chief Eunuch, Li Lianying. He and my confidant, Excellency Yuan, were sworn brothers, and it was all but certain that it was he who had arranged my audience with his benefactress, the Empress Dowager. I stood there like a fool, my mind a blank, until the hunchbacked old eunuch tugged my sleeve and said softly: “Move! They are summoning you!”

That was when I heard someone call out in a booming voice:

“Summoning Zhao Jia—”

I have no recollection of walking into the hall that morning, and recall only the scene of splendor that greeted my eyes once inside, as if a golden dragon and a red phoenix had suddenly materialized. When I was a child, my mother told me that the Emperor was the reincarnation of a golden dragon, and the Empress Dowager the reincarnation of a red phoenix. Terror-stricken, I knelt on the floor, which felt as hot as a newly heated brick bed. I kowtowed and I kowtowed and I kowtowed; it wasn’t until later that I realized how badly I had injured my forehead, which was a bloody mess, like a rotten radish, which must have nauseated the Empress Dowager and Emperor. I deserved a thousand deaths. I was supposed to wish Them long, long lives, but I was so flummoxed by then that my head might as well have been filled with paste. All I could do was kowtow over and over and over.

It must have been a hand grabbing hold of my queue that brought my head banging to a halt. I struggled to keep connecting with the heated floor, but was stopped by a voice behind me:

“No more kowtows. The Old Buddha has asked you a question.”

Peals of laughter erupted up ahead, and I was by then so disoriented that I looked up. And there, in front of my eyes, on a throne sat an old lady whose body radiated light. The words “I deserve death” slipped from my mouth. Seated in front of me was the wise, ageless Empress Dowager, the Old Buddha Herself. A question floated slowly down from on high:

“I asked you, Slay-master, what is your name?”

“Your servant is Zhao Jia.”

“Where are you from?”

“Your servant is from Gaomi County in Shandong Province.”

“How many years have you plied your trade?”

“Forty years.”

“How many people have you put to death?”

“Nine hundred eighty-seven.”

“Ah! You must be a death-dealing demon king!”

“Your servant deserves death.”

“Why should you deserve death? Those whose heads you detached are the ones who deserved death.”

“Yes.”

“I say, Zhao Jia, when you kill someone, are you afraid?”

“I was at first, but no longer.”

“What did you do for Yuan Shikai in Tianjin?”

“Your servant went to Tianjin to carry out a slicing death for Excellency Yuan.”

“You mean carving up a living person so he will suffer before he dies?”

“Yes.”

“The Emperor and I have decided to abolish the slicing death punishment. Are We not expected to initiate reforms? Well, this is one of them. Is that not right, Your Majesty?”

“Yes.” It was a melancholy sound that floated over to me, and when I boldly looked up, I saw someone in a chair to the left and a bit ahead of the Empress Dowager. He was wearing a bright yellow robe, a golden dragon with glittering scales embroidered on the chest, and a tall hat whose centerpiece was a sparkling pearl the size of a hen’s egg. The face beneath that hat was large and as white as fine porcelain. The August Ruler, the Son of Heaven, Emperor of the Great Qing Dynasty. Of course I knew that he had fallen out of favor with the Empress Dowager over the commotion caused by Kang Youwei and his fellow reformers, but that did nothing to alter the fact that He was the Emperor. Long live His Majesty the Emperor, may He live forever and ever! The Emperor said:

“What my august progenitor says is true.”

“Yuan Shikai has said that you desire to return to your native home in retirement.”

The sarcastic tone in the Empress Dowager’s comment was unmistakable, and I felt two of my three souls departing in abject fear. “Your humble servant deserves to die ten thousand deaths,” I said. “Your humble servant is a pig and a dog, and has no right to cause the Old Buddha any concern. But your humble servant is not thinking of himself alone. It is his thought that while an executioner may be demeaned, the work he performs is not, and as such he is a symbol of national power. We are a nation with a thousand laws, but in the end it is we who enforce them. Your humble servant ventures to propose that executioners be included in the personnel ranks of the Board of Punishments with a monthly wage, and hopes for the creation of a retirement system for executioners, who can subsist on a national pension and not be reduced to wandering the streets in poverty. Your humble servant . . . humble servant hopes as well for the creation of a hereditary system for executioners, so that this ancient profession will be viewed as an honorable one . . .”

A stately cough by the Empress Dowager sent shivers through me. I stopped talking, went back to kowtows, and said over and over:

“Your humble servant deserves death . . . humble servant deserves death . . .”

“What he says is sensible and has merit,” the Empress Dowager said. “No single trade may be excluded from the list of professions. It is said that every profession has its zhuangyuan. Zhao Jia, in my view, you are the zhuangyuan of your profession.”

“By investing me with the designation zhuangyuan of my profession, the Empress Dowager brought me immeasurable glory.” More kowtows.

“Zhao Jia, you have put many people to death on behalf of the Great Qing Empire, which has brought you credit for hard work, if not for good work, and has earned praise from Yuan Shikai and Li Lianying. So I shall break from precedent and award you a grade seven medallion for your cap and allow you to return home in retirement.” The Empress Dowager tossed a ring of sandalwood prayer beads at my feet and said, “Lay down your knife and turn at once to a life of Buddhist contemplation.”

My kowtows continued.

“How about Your Majesty?” she asked. “Should you not reward him with something for all the people he has put to death for us, including those running dogs of yours whose heads he lopped off?”

I sneaked a glance at His Majesty, who, clearly flustered, got to His feet and said:

“We have nothing prepared. What do you suggest We reward him with?”

“I think, maybe,” the Empress Dowager said with a distinct chill, “You should give him the chair You have just vacated!”





6




When I listened to my dieh-dieh relate history, my heart sang. Dieh-dieh, Dieh-dieh, you are wonderful, for the Imperial audience you had. Xiaojia wants to be an executioner, to learn the trade from his dad . . .

—Maoqiang Sandalwood Death. A father and son duet

Xiaojia sat on the rustling straw mat, leaning against a tent post as the night deepened. He looked like an oversized rabbit, his eyes dim with sleep. Flames in the belly of the stove flickered on his young face, and words that sometimes sounded foolish and sometimes not emerged from his grease-encrusted mouth to find their way into my recollections and my narrative—”Dieh, what does the Emperor look like?”—creating a close link between my recollections and narrative and the scene and situation we faced. “Dieh, does the Empress Dowager have breasts?”—All of a sudden, I smelled something burning in the sesame oil cauldron. With shocking clarity, I realized what was happening. My god, boiling oil is not boiling water! Water cooks something till it is soft; oil can burn it to a crisp! I jumped up off the mat and shouted:

“Come with me, son!”

I bounded over to the cauldron, reached into the oil barehanded—no time to worry about tongs—and fished out the two sandalwood spears, holding them up to a lantern to check them carefully. They had a dark, muted sheen and a powerful fragrance. I saw no singed spots. They burned my hands, so I laid them on a piece of cloth to rub them and turn them over and over, thanking my lucky stars there were no burn marks. The beef, on the other hand, was not so fortunate; I scooped out the burned pieces and threw them away, just as the chief yamen attendant sidled up and asked enigmatically:

“Something wrong, Laoye?”

“No.”

“That’s good.”

“Old Song,” my son cut in, “my dad is a grade seven official, so I am not afraid of you people anymore! If you harass me in the future, I’ll see that a bullet has your name on it.” My son pointed a finger at Song’s head. “Pow! There go your brains!”

“Young Brother Xiaojia, when did I ever harass you?” Song Three said inscrutably. “Even if your father were not a grade seven official, I would never think of making things difficult for you. If your wife were to utter a single word against me to Magistrate Qian, I would be kicked out of the yamen.”

“Don’t you know he’s not quite right, you foolish man?”

I could see a number of yayi standing in the shadows of the stage and the Ascension Platform. I lowered the fire under the cauldron and added oil. Then I carefully put my precious spears back into the cauldron, reminding myself, Pay attention, Old Zhao. Wild geese leave behind their cry; men leave behind a name. You need only carry out this sandalwood execution with perfection to live up to your designation as the zhuangyuan of executioners. If you fail, your name will die with you.

I draped the Empress Dowager’s sandalwood prayer beads around my neck, got up out of the Emperor’s chair, and looked heavenward, where a scattering of stars twinkled and the moon, like a silver platter, was rising in the east. That extraordinary brightness put me on edge, as if something monumental were about to happen, a feeling that persisted until it occurred to me that it was the fourteenth day of the eighth month and that the next day, the fifteenth, was the Mid-Autumn Festival, a day for families to come together. How lucky you are, Sun Bing, that Excellency Yuan has chosen that auspicious day for you to receive your punishment! In the light of the flames beneath the cauldron and the bright moonlight above, I watched the two sandalwood spears tumble in the oil like a pair of angry black snakes. I picked one out of the oil with a white cloth—taking care not to damage it—unimaginably sleek, it glistened with beads of oil that flowed to the tip and then formed liquid threads that fell silently back into the cauldron, where they coagulated and exuded a pleasant scorched aroma. It felt heavier in my hand now that it had absorbed so much fragrant oil; it was no longer the same piece of wood, but had taken on the characteristics of a hard, slippery, and exquisite instrument of death.

While I was taking solitary pleasure in admiring the spear, Song Three sneaked up behind me and said in a spiteful tone: “Laoye, why are you taking such pains simply to impale the man?”

I looked askance at him and snorted disdainfully. How could he understand what I was doing? He was good only for flaunting the power of his superior to oppress and extort money from the common people.

“You really ought to go home and get a good night’s sleep and leave these trivial matters to us.” Tailing along behind me, he added: “That son of a bitch Sun Bing is no one to take lightly. He’s skillful and courageous, a man of substance who refuses to blame others for his actions. It was his misfortune to have been born in Gaomi, an insignificant little place that gave him no room to put his talents to good use.” Song Three was clearly trying to ingratiate himself with me. “You have been away for many years, Laoye, and there is much about your qinjia that you do not know. He and I were friends for many years, so close that I can tell you how many moles he has on his you-know-what.”

I had seen too many people like this fellow—toadies and bullies who know how to say what you want to hear, whoever you are, man or demon—but I was in no mood to expose him for what he was, not then; allowing him to carry on behind me served a purpose.

“Sun Bing is a man of extraordinary talents. Words flow from his mouth as if written by a scholar, and he is endowed with a flawless memory. If only he knew how to read and write, he could be a capped scholar ten times over. Some years back,” Song Three continued, “when Old Qin’s mother died, they asked Sun Bing’s troupe to perform in the mourning hall. Qin and Sun were good friends—Qin’s mother was Sun’s ganniang—and Sun sang the funeral passages with deep emotion. But it was more than that—not only did his singing break the hearts of the filial descendants, they heard a pounding sound emerge from the coffin itself; the gathered descendants and people who had dropped by out of curiosity nearly died of fright, their faces a ghostly white. Isn’t that what’s called shocking the dead back to life? Well, Sun Bing walked up to his ganniang’s bier, opened the lid in grand fashion, and the old lady sat up, light streaming from her eyes, like a pair of lanterns tearing through the dark curtain of night. Then Sun Bing sang these lines: ‘When I call out Ganniang, listen carefully as your son sings “Chang Mao Wails at the Bier.” If you have not lived enough, get up and live some more. If you have, then when my song is finished, fly to heaven, away from here.’ Sun Bing kept changing roles, from the sheng to the dan, weeping one moment and laughing the next, interspersed with all sorts of cat cries, turning the bier into a living, lively opera stage. All the filial descendants put aside their grief, while the casual spectators forgot that an old lady, just brought back from the dead, was sitting up in her coffin, listening to the performance. When Sun Bing sang the final high note, which hung in the air like the tail of a kite, Old Lady Qin slowly closed her eyes, released a contented sigh, and fell back into her coffin like a toppled wall. That is the story of how Sun Bing sang someone back from the dead. And there is more: he can also sing the living to death. Old Lady Qin is the only person he ever sang back from the dead, but the bastard has sung more living people to death than there are stars in the sky.” While he was spouting his story, Song Three sidled over to the cauldron, reached in, and snatched a piece of beef. “This beef of yours,” he said with an impudent smile, “has a wonderful flavor—”

Before he could finish what he was going to say, I saw the bastard straighten up as something erupted on his head and he tumbled into the cauldron of boiling oil. While my eyes were riveted on the scene in front of me, my ears pounded from the explosion of bone, and my nose was assailed by the smell of gunpowder merging with the sesame-enhanced smell of sandalwood. I knew immediately what had happened: someone had fired a shot in ambush, one meant for me. The greedy Song Three had been my unwitting stand-in.