Sandalwood Death

CHAPTER FIFTEEN





Meiniang’s Grievance

Dieh, oh, Dieh, Zhao Jia says he will impale you on a sandalwood stake, and Meiniang has nearly lost her mind. She flies to the county yamen to appeal to Qian Ding, but the gate is shut, guarded by soldiers malign. To the left, Yuan Shikai’s Imperial Guards, to the right, von Ketteler’s German troops, standing heads high, chests out, Mauser rifles aligned. I step forward; those German devils and Chinese soldiers glare with eyes big and round as brass bells, their ferocious snarls meant to keep me out. My heart pounds, my legs tremble, I fall. With wings on my shoulders, I could not enter the yamen, for these are powerful, strong-willed soldiers, not bumbling militiamen, those friends of mine. They have enjoyed my company, and the iron railing would come down by letting them have their way, I opined. But the Germans are hard-hearted, the Imperial Guards an impressive cadre, and if I break for the gate, the holes in my body would be of their design. In the distance stand the lockup and Main Hall, both with roofs of green. My tears fall—tin tin tine tine. I think of my dieh suffering in his prison cell, and of our kinship. I think of how you taught me to sing an opera feline, trained me to be an acrobat and martial artist. I followed you from village to town, from temple to shrine, singing in roles female, major and minor, to Little Peach, all truly divine. On mutton buns and beef noodles, flatbreads fresh from the oven we dined. My dieh’s cowardice purged from my mind, his virtues of a heroic kind. To save his life, his daughter to bold action is resigned. Calling up nerves of steel, I rush the gate, leaving shouts of protest far behind.

—Maoqiang Sandalwood Death. A soliloquy





1




A crowd of people in vivid dress, faces painted all the colors of the rainbow, some tall and some short, emerged from Rouge Lane, southwest of the county yamen. The leader had powdered his face the white of a handsome young actor and painted his lips the bright red of a ghost of someone hanged. His upper body was covered in a red satin unlined robe (almost certainly appropriated from a corpse) that fell below his knees and revealed a pair of greasy black legs and bare feet. A live monkey was perched on his shoulder, enjoying its bumpy ride as the man hopped along, brass gong in hand. He was none other than Hou Xiaoqi of the beggar troupe. After three beats of the gong—clang clang clang—he sang a line from a Maoqiang opera:

“Beggars celebrate a festival in their own wretched way, ah~~”

He had the ideal voice for opera, with a unique lingering quality that made his listeners wonder whether they should laugh or cry. After he’d sung his last note, the other beggars responded with cat cries:

“Meow~~meow~~meow~~”

Then a few of the younger beggars imitated a cat fiddle as a prelude to a new aria:

“Li-ge-long-ge li-ge-long-ge long~~”

When they had finished the prelude, my throat began to itch, but this was not a day for me to sing. On the other hand, it certainly was for Hou Xiaoqi. Melancholy affects people everywhere, rulers and subjects, at least to some degree. Except for beggars. Hou Xiaoqi began anew:

“With boots on my head and a cap on my feet, come hear my topsy-turvy song~~meow~~meow~~Mother goes into mourning when her son gets married, a Magistrate travels afoot while in a chair we are carried~~meow~~meow~~a rat chases a cat that is harried, snow falls in midsummer and a city is buried~~meow~~meow~~”

A thought broke through the fog in my head that tomorrow was the fifteenth day of the eighth month, which meant that today, the fourteenth, was Beggars’ Day, celebrated throughout Gaomi County. On this day each year, beggars from all over the county parade three times past the official yamen. They sing Maoqiang opera the first time and perform acrobatics the next. On their third pass, they untie sacks from around their waists and, first on the south side of the avenue, then on the north, they approach women, young and old, standing in their doorways, to fill their sacks from proffered gourds and bowls, some with various grains, others with uncooked rice, and others still with rice noodles. When they come to our door each year, I dump greasy brass coins from a bamboo tube into a chipped ladle in the hands of a crafty little beggar who opens his throat to let loose a cry of gratitude: “Thank you, Ganniang, for that tip!” All those greedy eyes then turn to me, and I know what they want! But I cock my head, curl my lip, and flash a smile, letting my eyes sweep the crowd, getting a rise out of all those monkeys, which turn somersaults to the screaming delight of the children behind them and the onlookers lining the street. My husband, Xiaojia, takes greater pleasure in this festive day than the beggars themselves. He gets up bright and early and, without stopping to slaughter pigs or butcher dogs, falls in behind the parading beggars, dancing for joy, singing along with them one minute and making cat cries the next. Lacking the voice to sing Maoqiang, Xiaojia has a talent for cat cries, sounding like a tomcat one minute and a tabby the next, then a tomcat calling out to a tabby and a tabby calling out to her kittens, and finally lost kittens crying for their mother, this last call bringing tears to the eyes of anyone within earshot, like an orphan who longs for her mother.

Niang! How tragic you died so young, leaving your daughter to suffer torment alone. But your early passing spared you from the paralyzing anxiety and crippling fear for which my dieh must atone . . . I watched the contingent of beggars swagger past the imposing array of soldiers. Hou Xiaoqi’s voice does not crack; the beggars’ cat cries never waver. On the fourteenth day of the eighth month, beggars rule the roost in Gaomi County, and even my gandieh’s loyalists must quietly make way for their procession. Beggars carry a rattan chair over their heads with Zhu Ba, the reprobate. He has worn a tall red-paper hat and a yellow satin dragon robe of late. For a pauper, a commoner, or a minor bureaucrat to dress like that would have been a crime, one that would likely cost them their life. But Zhu Ba had license to overstep all authority, for the beggars had created their own kingdom, and freely did as they pleased. But this year there was a new twist: they escorted an empty chair—Zhu Ba was nowhere to be seen. Where had he gone? Why is he not sitting imperiously in his Dragon Chair? Glory as great as an official in the top-tier range. Meiniang hears her heart skip a beat. The beggars this year, I think, are acting strange.

I, Meiniang, born and raised in Gaomi, came to the county town as a bride in my late teens. Before that, I sang Maoqiang opera in my father’s troupe, performing in all nine villages and eight hamlets. I’d come often to the county town, which seemed like a big place to me, and I have a vague recollection of my father teaching opera to the town’s beggars. I was still young then and wore my hair like a boy, which is what people thought I was. Actors and beggars, my father said, are alike. Beggars are no different than actors; actors are the same as beggars. Which is why beggars and I came together naturally. And why I saw nothing unusual in a beggars’ parade. But those German soldiers from Qingdao and the Imperial Guards from Jinan had never seen such a sight. They slapped the butts of their rifles, ready to confront the enemy, and then stood wide-eyed—some eyes round, some slanted—gawking at the bizarre, raucous assemblage of approaching humanity. But when the procession drew near, they loosened their grip on their weapons as odd, scrunched-up expressions crept onto their faces. Those of the Imperial Guards weren’t nearly as comical as those on the faces of the German soldiers, since they at least were familiar with the tunes emerging from Hou Xiaoqi’s mouth. To the Germans it was gibberish, all but the obvious cat cries mixed with lyrics. I knew they were wondering why all those people were yowling like cats. And while their attention was riveted on the parade of beggars, they forgot about the one person who wanted to storm the yamen gate—me. My brain was engaged. The moment had arrived, and I’d have been a fool to let it pass. Turn the gourd upside down, and the oil spills out. When opportunity falls into your lap, do not stand up. For me it was trying to catch fish in muddy water, frying beans in a hot skillet, adding salt to boiling oil. The chaos on the street was Meiniang’s invitation to dash through the gate. Meiniang would crash the yamen gate to free her dieh from his prison cell. Though she be smashed like an egg against steel, her tale as a martyred daughter the people would tell. I waited for the chance, my mind made up. Hou Xiaoqi’s gong rang out louder and louder; his topsy-turvy tune was getting increasingly dreary, and the cat-criers were holding out just fine, filling the air with their exaggerated yowls as they made faces at the soldiers and guards. When the procession got to where I was standing, as if on a signal, the beggars pulled cat skins out from under their clothes; large head-to-tail skins were draped over their shoulders, and smaller ones went on their heads. This unexpected, stupefying turn of events stunned the guards. I’d never get a better chance, so I stepped to the side and slipped between the German soldiers and the Imperial Guards, heading for the yamen gate. Momentarily dumbstruck, they quickly came to their senses and blocked my way with bayonets. But I would not be denied—the worst they could do was kill me—I was going into that yamen, bayonets or not. But at that critical moment, two powerful beggars pulled out of the procession, grabbed me by the arms, and dragged me back. I made a show of struggling to break free and run toward the bayonets, but a half-hearted one. Though not afraid to die, I was in no rush to do so now. I wouldn’t be able to close my eyes in death without seeing Qian Ding one last time. Truth is, I was like a poor donkey trying to walk down a flight of steps. With eerie shouts, the beggars surrounded me, and before I knew it, I was sitting in the rattan chair tied to a pair of bamboo poles. I fought to get down, but four strapping, grunting beggars hoisted the poles onto their shoulders, and I was up in the air, rising and falling with the motion of the chair beneath me. I felt a sudden sadness; tears filled my eyes. But that made the beggars happier, as their leader, Hou Xiaoqi, beat a frantic tattoo on his gong and raised his voice higher than ever:

“The street walks on people’s toes, a dog flies in tail to nose. Pick up the dog and hit a brick, the brick bites the hand of a man expecting a lick~~meow meow~~”

My beggar escort carried me southward, leaving the yamen gate behind. After slanting off the main road, we traveled another ninety paces or so until we were in front of the Temple of the Matriarch, whose roof tiles made a good bed for cattails, known locally as dogtail grass. The beggars had stopped singing and screeching once we were off the main road, for that is when they broke cadence and quickened their pace, and it was also the moment I realized that today’s procession was not about stocking up on provisions, but was all about me. If not for them, by then I’d likely have been lying dead, bayoneted by a German soldier.

My rattan chair was no sooner settled on the temple’s chipped and cracked stone steps than two of the beggars picked me up by the arms and bundled me into the dark confines.

“Is she with you?” a voice in the darkness asked.

“She is, Eighth Master!” said the two men who had carried me in.

There, on a tattered mat in front of the statue of the Matriarch, fumbling with something that gave off a bright green light, sat Zhu Ba.

“Light a candle!” he commanded.

His words hung in the air when a little beggar lit a piece of touch paper and with it the stubby half of a candle hidden behind the statue. Light suffused the temple’s interior, including the guano-covered face of the Matriarch. Zhu Ba pointed to the ratty mat he was sitting on.

“Have a seat.”

At this point, what could I say? I sat down without a whimper—I had to, since I had no feeling in my legs. My poor legs! Ever since Dieh was imprisoned, you’ve been running all over the place, leaping and jumping, until you’ve worn the soles right off your shoes . . . dear left leg, precious right leg, this has all been hard on you.

Zhu Ba stared holes in me, apparently waiting for me to say something. The green light from whatever he was fumbling with was now more muted, but thanks to the bright candlelight, I was able to discern that it was a gauzy sack that held hundreds of fireflies. For a moment I couldn’t imagine why this village elder was playing with bugs. Once I was settled on the mat, all the other beggars found places to sit, except for those who sprawled on the floor. But whether seated or lying down, none of them said a word, and that included Hou Xiaoqi’s sprightly little monkey, which squatted at his feet and limited itself to jerky movements of its head and clawed feet. Like Zhu Ba, they all had their eyes glued to me, and that too included the monkey. I greeted Zhu with a kowtow.

“Compassionate and merciful Master Zhu—! Tears flow before a word she can say, the distressed young woman cannot find her way. Please, Eighth Master, save my dieh from the Provincial Governor Yuan, the German von Ketteler, and the minor county official Qian Ding—Three dignities a ruthless plan do make, to impale my dieh on a sandalwood stake—the executioners will be my gongdieh, Zhao Jia, and my husband, Zhao Xiaojia. They are determined to make the process inhumanely cruel, forcing him to linger impaled between life and death for five days, until the rail line between Qingdao and Gaomi is completed. I beg Eighth Master to save him, and if that cannot be done, then to kill him with merciful speed. The foreign devils’ conspiracy must be foiled, oh, Eighth Master . . .”

“I tell you, Meiniang, worry not; eat some mutton rolls while they are hot.” Once he had sung these two lines, Eighth Master said, “These rolls did not come to us as alms. I sent a boy to buy them at the home of Jia Si.”

A young beggar dashed behind the Matriarch’s statue and emerged carrying an oilpaper packet in both hands. He placed it on the mat in front of me. Zhu Ba touched it to see if it was hot, and said:

“People are iron, food is steel, and you will starve if you miss a meal. Have one while it’s still hot.”

“My situation is too dire to have any appetite for stuffed rolls, Eighth Master.”

“Sun Meiniang, don’t give in to alarm, for that ruins harvests and to the heart brings harm. It’s said that earth can stop a flood and a general can block an army, so hear me out and eat your rolls while they’re warm.”

Zhu Ba stuck out his right hand, the one with the extra finger; he waved it in front of my eyes, and a glistening dagger appeared. A flick of the dagger, and the oilpaper parted to reveal four steaming stuffed rolls. Song Xihe’s layered cakes, Du Kun’s baked wheat buns, Sun Meiniang’s stewed dog meat, and Jia Si’s meat-filled rolls were Gaomi’s most famous snack foods. Plenty of shops in Gaomi sold dog meat, so why had mine become one of the famous four? Because it tasted better than everyone else’s. And why was it so tasty? Because I secretly stuck a pig’s leg in with the dog meat, and when everything in the pot—meat, raw ginger, a bit of cinnamon, and prickly ash—was boiling, I stirred in a bowlful of strong spirits. That was my secret recipe. Master Zhu Ba, if you find a way to save my dieh, I’ll bring you a cooked dog’s leg and a jug every day for the rest of your life. One large roll sat atop three others on the oilpaper in the shape of a candelabrum. Their reputation was well earned. Jia Si’s rolls, steamy white as snow, tops twisted into a plum-blossom bow, a spot of red in the center~~a spun-gold date, charming and mellow. Zhu Ba laid his dagger down in front of me, an invitation to spear one of the rolls. Either he was concerned that I might burn my fingers if I picked one up, or he was afraid that my hands were not clean. I waved off his offer, reached down, and grabbed one. It warmed my hand as the fragrance of leavened dough filled my nostrils. With my first bite I devour that gold-spun date, and its sweetness coats my throat. The red date slides into my stomach, where it awakens juices there afloat. With my second bite I open the wheaten folds, and expose the mutton-carrot filling inside. The mutton is salty, the carrot sweet, with leeks and ginger the taste is complete. If you’ve not eaten Jia Four’s rolls you haven’t lived. Now, I may not have been a pampered heiress, but I was a respectable woman, and should not display traits of anything less in front of all those beggars. Small, dainty bites were called for, but my mouth had a mind of its own, and before I knew it I had gobbled up half a roll that was larger than my fist. I’d been taught that a decent girl chewed slowly and swallowed with care, but my throat acted like a greedy hand, reaching up and pulling down every bite as soon as it entered my mouth. The first roll was gone before I had a chance to actually taste it, and I had to wonder if it had really found a home in my stomach. I’d heard that beggars have an uncanny ability to strike down a dog through a wall and move objects by thought alone. I could not be sure, but that roll seemed to have entered my mouth and slid down to my stomach, though in fact it had done no such thing, and now lay in the stomach of somebody else, somebody like Zhu Ba. That is the only way to explain why my stomach seemed empty and why I felt hungrier than I’d been before the roll disappeared. Then my willful hand snatched the second roll out of its wrapping, and, like its predecessor, I finished it off it in three or four bites. Now that I’d put away two of the rolls, my stomach actually felt like there was something in it. So I turned to the third roll, wolfed it down, and now there was a heaviness in my stomach. By then I was stuffed, but I reached out for the last roll anyway. In my little hand it looked bigger than ever, had greater heft, and wasn’t all that appealing. The mere thought that three big, heavy, ugly things just like it were already nestled in my stomach sent an embarrassing belch up and out of my mouth. But while my stomach was sated, my mouth was not. With three large rolls having laid a foundation down there, I could eat more slowly for a change, and at the same time pay a bit of attention to my surroundings. I looked up and saw Zhu Ba staring at me, and behind him were dozens more twinkling eyes. All those beggars were watching me, and I knew that in their eyes I had gone from something approaching a goddess to a common woman with a greedy mouth. They ought to change the adage that “Man eats to live” to “Man lives to eat.” Nothing makes you worry about dignity like a full belly, and nothing overcomes thoughts of shame quicker than an empty one.

“Had enough?” a smiling Zhu Ba asked after I’d polished off the last roll.

I nodded abashedly.

“Well, then,” he said softly, his hands busy with the dagger and the sack of fireflies, his eyes emitting a green light, “now you can listen to what I have to say. To me, your dieh is a true hero. You probably don’t recall—you were very young—but he and I were quite close at one time. He taught me twenty-four Maoqiang arias, which gave my youngsters here something they could trade for food. Why, it was your dieh who helped me devise this Beggars’ Day idea. You can put aside everything else, and I am ready to rescue your dieh for his bellyful of Maoqiang arias alone. I’ve already come up with a foolproof plan. I’ve bought off the jailer, Old Fourth Master, known to you as Su Lantong, that scar-eyed old reprobate, who will help us with a scheme known as stealing beams and changing pillars—in other words, a switcheroo. I’ve already found someone to take your dieh’s place—that’s him over there.” He drew my attention to a beggar fast asleep in the corner. “He says he’s had a full life, and he looks enough like your dieh to get by. He’ll willingly die in your dieh’s place. Of course, after he’s gone, we’ll set up a memorial tablet and burn incense for him every day.”

I fell to my knees and kowtowed in the man’s direction; tears filled my eyes.

“Old Uncle,” I said, my voice quaking, “righteousness such as yours reaches the clouds, for you are prepared to die for a cause. With high moral character, your name will live for all eternity. Only a hero of gigantic stature would willingly sacrifice his life for my dieh, and that burdens my heart. If his life is saved, I will see that he writes you into a Maoqiang opera, so that your courageous deed will be the stuff of song for the masses . . .”

The man opened his eyes—droopy as a drunken cat—gave me a bleary look, then rolled over and went back to sleep.





2




I awoke from a terrible nightmare just before nightfall. In the dream I’d seen a black pig standing like a gentleman on the stage erected on the Tongde Academy parade ground. My gandieh, Qian Ding, was standing behind the pig, but the space in the center was reserved for a red-headed, green-eyed, big-nosed foreigner with an injured ear. If that wasn’t the man who killed my stepmother, slaughtered my stepbrother and sister, butchered all those villagers, and had the blood of our Northeast Township on his hands, Clemens von Ketteler, I don’t know who it was! My eyes blazed when they spotted my mortal enemy, and it was all I could do to keep from charging and sinking my teeth into his neck. But for a defenseless young female, that would have been suicidal. Seated beside him was a red-capped, square-jawed official with a moustache, and I knew at once that he was the celebrated Governor of Shandong, Yuan Shikai, the man who had ordered the execution of the Six Gentlemen of the Hundred Days’ Reform, who had murderously put down the Righteous Harmony Boxer movement in Shandong, and who had brought back my gongdieh, that horrid creature, to put my dieh to death in the cruelest manner imaginable. Stroking his moustache and narrowing his eyes, he sang:

“Sun Meiniang, Queen of Flowers in song, a cute little thing, and a face to go along. No wonder Qian Ding was smitten, for even my heart itches to you to belong.”

I was secretly delighted. That seemed to be the moment for me to kneel down and beg for my dieh’s life. But then Excellency Yuan’s face hardened, like frost settling over a green gourd. A curt signal from him brought my gongdieh, carrying a sandalwood stake saturated with sesame oil, followed by Xiaojia, oil-soaked date-wood mallet in hand—one tall, one short, one fat, one skinny, the yin and the yang, a madman and a moron—up to the black pig. Yuan Shikai eyed Qian Ding and said, his voice dripping with contempt:

“What do you have to say, Eminence Qian?”

Qian Ding prostrated himself at the feet of Yuan Shikai and von Ketteler and said, his voice suffused with reverence:

“To ensure that nothing goes wrong at tomorrow’s execution, your humble servant has invited Zhao Jia and his son to practice on this pig. With your permission, of course.”

Excellency Yuan looked over at von Ketteler, who nodded his approval. Yuan Shikai nodded his, a signal for Qian Ding to get up, quick-step his way over to the black pig, reach out and grab it by the ears, and say to my gongdieh and Xiaojia:

“Commence.”

My gongdieh placed the tip of the sandalwood stake, from which sesame oil still dripped, up against the pig’s anus and said to Xiaojia:

“Commence, son.”

With his legs spread, Xiaojia spat into his hands, made a circle in the air with his oil mallet, and gave a mighty whack to the butt end of the stake, half of which slurped its way up inside the pig. An involuntary arching of the back was followed by an ear-shattering screech. The animal lurched forward, knocking Qian Ding off the stage. The “oof!” when he hit the ground sounded as if he had landed on the head of a drum. The next thing I heard from him was a shrill:

“Heaven help me! I could have been killed!”

Now, although I was unhappy with Qian Ding, we were, after all, lovers, and it pained me to see him hurt. So despite the fact that I was pregnant, I jumped down off the stage and tried to help up the man I held in my heart. His face had a deathly pallor, his eyes were shut, and for all I knew, he could have been dead. So I bit his finger, pinched the groove between his nose and upper lip, and kept at it till I heard him sigh and saw the color return to his face. He clutched my hand and, with tears spiraling in his eyes, said:

“Ah, Meiniang, you are what makes my heart beat, so tell me, am I dead or alive, am I dreaming or am I awake, am I a man or a ghost?”

“Dearest Qian Ding, my love, though I say you are dead, you live on, though I say you are awake, you sleep on, and though I say you are a man, you look like a ghost.”

All hell broke loose up on the stage, A beaten drum, a clanging gong, a cat fiddle goes li-ge-long. A black pig, sandalwood stake up its rear, in circles runs, chased by my gongdieh and his son. The pig bites off Yuan Shikai’s leg, blood everywhere, then takes off half the German commander’s buttocks. How happy I am, two unlucky stars have fallen, but thunder and lightning prove me wrong. Yuan Shikai’s leg returns, von Ketteler’s buttocks are whole again, they sit on the stage looking fit and strong. But the black pig is no more, replaced by Sun Bing, to whom I belong. He suffers cruel torture, as the air fills with mallet sounds~~bong bong bong~~and the stake splits his body, his screams loud and long . . .

My heart pounded in my chest, and cold sweat soaked through my clothes.

“Did you have a nice sleep?” Zhu Ba asked, his eyes smiling.

“Eighth Master,” I said sheepishly, “I’m so embarrassed to have fallen asleep at such a critical moment . . .”

“That is a good sign, for people capable of accomplishing great things at critical moments are normally able to enjoy good food and a restful sleep.” He placed four more rolls in front of me. “Eat these while I tell you what’s happened today. This morning, your gongdieh put the finishing touches on his sandalwood stakes, and the County Magistrate erected an Ascension Platform across from the opera stage on the Tongde Academy parade ground. By the platform stands a matted shed, a large stove in front, a small one in back, there for your gongdieh and his son. The stakes steep in sesame oil, the fragrance traveling far. Oil in the large pot, beef in the small, for father and son it is an oily treat. But tomorrow at noon, one of those stakes will be driven up your dieh’s back, his life undone. The yamen entrance is still guarded like a fortress, security is tight, and there have been no sightings of your dear Qian Ding, Yuan Shikai, or von Ketteler. I sent one of my cleverest youngsters disguised as a food delivery boy, hoping he could get in through the gate to check things out. A German bayonet abruptly ended his mission. Going in through the main gate, it seems, is out of the question . . .”

Just as Zhu Ba was getting started, a shout from outside cut him off in midsentence. Hou Xiaoqi’s monkey startled us when it skittered in through the front entrance, with Hou himself hard on its heels. His face was lit up, as if coated with moonbeams. He ran straight to Zhu Ba.

“Eighth Master,” he said, “wonderful news! My vigil by the ditch behind the yamen has paid off. Fourth Master passed on the news that we are to climb over the rear wall late at night, when the sentries are sleepy. We can pull the switch, make the exchange, right under their noses. I scouted the terrain and discovered a crooked-necked old elm tree ready-made for scaling the wall.”

“Monkey,” an obviously pleased Zhu Ba said excitedly, “damned if you don’t have a couple of tricks up your sleeve! All of you, sleep if you can, but lie there and conserve your energy if sleep won’t come. The time to act has arrived. Pulling this off will be like ramming it up von Ketteler’s ass, and none of those bastards will know what hit them.” Zhu Ba then turned his attention to the corner, where the good fellow who would take my dieh’s place was fast asleep. “Xiao Shanzi,” he said, “that’s enough sleep. Time to get up. I’ve got a jug of fine spirits here, that and an off-the-bone roast chicken. You can share that with me as my going-away gift. If you’re having second thoughts, I can find someone else, though this promises to be not only a sensation, but one in which the name of the central figure will go down in history. I know what a fine singer you are, a disciple of Sun Bing. Your voice is an exact replica of his, and there is hardly any difference in appearance between you two. Look closely, Sun Meiniang, and tell me if this fellow isn’t the spitting image of your dieh.”

The fellow got lazily to his feet, yawned grandly, and wiped off the slobber that had crept out of his mouth while he slept. Then, rousing himself out of his lethargy, he turned to show me his coarse, long face. His eyes and brows certainly did resemble my dieh’s, and he had the same high nose. But he had a slightly different mouth. My dieh had full lips, while this fellow’s were thin, but that was all that kept him from being my dieh’s double. Add the right clothes, and he could fool anyone.

“Oh, I forgot one thing, Eighth Master,” Hou Xiaoqi said sheepishly. “Fourth Master wanted me to be sure to tell you that when Sun Bing was being interrogated, he angered von Ketteler with such foul curses that the German hit him with the butt of his pistol and knocked out two front teeth . . .”

Every eye in the room was immediately focused on Xiao Shanzi’s mouth. His lips parted to reveal two perfect rows of teeth. Most beggars have good teeth, since they survive on hard, crunchy food most of the time. Zhu Ba studied Xiao Shanzi’s mouth.

“You heard what he said. Yes or no, it’s up to you. I won’t hold it against you if you say no.”

Xiao Shanzi spread his lips wide, as if to show off his perfectly aligned, albeit yellow, teeth. Then he smiled.

“Shifu,” he said, “if I’m willing to give up my life, why would I want to hold on to a couple of teeth?”

“Good for you, Shanzi,” Zhu Ba said emotionally as he turned the sack of fireflies over and over in his hand. “That’s what I’d expect a true disciple to say.” The light from the agitated insects rose like a mist and lit up the few scraggly white hairs on Zhu Ba’s chin.

“Shifu,” Shanzi said, tapping his front teeth with a fingernail. “They’re starting to itch, so bring on the food and drink.”

Beggars swarmed the area behind Zhu Ba to be the first to bring out a jug and the cooked chicken, wrapped in clean lotus leaves. I could smell the chicken even before the leaves were peeled away, and the aged spirits before the stopper was removed. The two aromas were totally different, but came together as a potent reminder of the Mid-Autumn Festival, which was only days away, and the ambience surrounding it. A moonbeam filtered in through a crack in the temple door: a hand peeled away the oily lotus leaves in the light of the moonbeam; a golden-red cooked chicken glimmered in the light of the moonbeam; a black hand laid two shallow black glazed bowls next to the chicken in the light of the moonbeam; Zhu Ba put the sack with the fireflies into a pouch at his waist and clapped his green hands. I noticed how long, slender, and nimble his fingers were, looking like little people with something to say. He hopped forward a couple of spots, still seated on the mat, until he was right in front of Xiao Shanzi, the man who was going to take my dieh’s place in his cell and die in his stead. Zhu Ba held one of the bowls out for Xiao Shanzi, who accepted it but said with what looked to be much embarrassment:

“I can’t let you serve me like this, Shifu.”

Zhu Ba picked up the second bowl and clinked it against Xiao Shanzi’s, loud enough for all of us to hear it and hard enough to splash out some of the contents. Their eyes met, and to us sparks seemed to fly, like steel striking a flint. Their lips were quaking, and they both seemed about to speak—but they didn’t. Instead, they tipped back their heads and, with audible glugs, emptied the bowls. Zhu Ba laid down his bowl and tore off a drumstick with the skin attached. He handed it to Xiao Shanzi, who took it and seemed about to say something. But still nothing. A moment later, his mouth was stuffed to capacity with roast chicken, which rotated twice before it slipped down his throat like a greased rat. I’d have loved to run home to cook a dog’s leg for him, but there was no time for that, since a dog’s leg had to cook all day and all night. Now that he’d eaten the meat, he gnawed on the bone to pick it clean, almost as if to show us what his teeth could do. The image was of a squirrel chewing on an acorn. Though they were undeniably yellow, they were solid teeth. As soon as the tendons were picked clean, he started in on the bone itself, which produced the most noise. Not a single thing emerged from that mouth, not even bone chips. You poor man. If I’d known earlier that you were willing to die in my dieh’s stead, I’d have invited you to a sumptuous feast, making sure you got a taste of the best food anywhere. Too bad life does not allow for predictions or do-overs. As soon as Xiao Shanzi finished off one drumstick, Zhu Ba tore off the other one and held it out for him. But this time, Xiao Shanzi cupped his hands respectfully in front of him and said devotedly:

“I thank Shifu for giving me this opportunity!”

Then he reached behind him, picked up a broken brick, and smacked himself in the mouth, producing a dull thud. A front tooth fell to the ground, and blood spurted from his mouth.

Everyone froze, staring and speechless. Their gazes bounced back and forth between Xiao Shanzi’s bloody mouth and the gloomy face of Zhu Ba, who moved the tooth around on the floor with his index finger, then looked up at Hou Xiaoqi.

“How many teeth did Sun Bing lose?”

“Two, according to Fourth Master.”

“Are you sure that’s what he said?”

“I’m sure, Eighth Master.”

“After what you’ve done,” Zhu Ba said to Xiao Shanzi, his awkwardness showing, “I don’t have the heart to ask you to do it again.”

“There’s no reason to feel bad, Shifu. Once, twice, what’s the difference?” Xiao Shanzi said, blood bubbling from his mouth. He picked the brick up again.

“Wait—” Zhu Ba cried out.

But too late—Xiao Shanzi smacked himself in the mouth a second time.

He tossed the brick away and lowered his head. Two teeth fell to the ground.

The sight of the gaping hole in Xiao Shanzi’s mouth drove Zhu Ba into a frenzy.

“You dumb bastard,” he cursed, “I told you to wait. Now you’ve knocked out too many teeth, damn it! With too few we could have figured something out, but what are we going to do now?”

“Don’t get mad, Shifu, I’ll keep my mouth shut the whole time,” Xiao Shanzi said with a pronounced slur.





3




In the middle of the night I draped a tattered jacket over my shoulders, as instructed by Zhu Ba, added a beat-up old straw hat, and quietly exited the temple in the company of the beggars. There wasn’t a sound on the deserted streets, which were suffused in the chilled green of beams sent down from a full moon, painting everything with ghostly airs. I shivered and my teeth chattered, the clicking sound striking my eardrums with such force I was afraid I might wake up the whole town.

Hou Xiaoqi led the way with his monkey, followed by Xiao Luanzi, who was carrying a spade and was the group’s tunneling advance guard. Xiao Lianzi, the undisputed master of tree climbing, walked alongside Xiao Luanzi, a leather rope girding his waist. Next in line was that valiant figure Xiao Shanzi, he of great virtue—upholder of allegiance, defender of righteousness and morality, disfigurer of his own face, death-defying—a man whose name was destined for eternal glory. I watched as he walked along, never wavering, his gait firm and steady, bold and spirited, almost as if he were on his way to a fine year-ending meal. A man like that comes along once a century, if that. The beggar chief, old Zhu Ba, himself a steely, dauntless figure, followed behind Xiao Shanzi, holding me, a young, beautiful woman, by the hand. We formed a small but potent procession of ancient figures: Zhan Zhao, Judge Bao, his attendants Wang Chao to the left and Ma Han to the right, with Di Long out front and Di Hu in the rear. Zhuge Liang harnessed the east wind but angered Zhou Yu, and there was a perfect match at Dew Drop Monastery.

Hou Xiaoqi led us into Smithy Lane, and from there into the sandals market, where we followed the contours of a low wall whose shadow concealed us as we trotted along at a crouch, all the way to Lu Family Lane, and from there to the bridge over the Xiaokang River, which flowed like a band of silver. On the far side of the bridge we streamed into Oil Mill Lane, at the end of which we could see the yamen’s high wall directly ahead; the rear garden was on the other side.

I was breathing hard as I crouched at the base of the wall, my heart pounding. Breathing came more easily for the beggars, whose eyes flashed, even the monkey’s.

“It’s time,” Zhu Ba said, “get to work.”

Xiao Lianzi took the rope from around his waist and looped it over a tree limb. Using both hands and feet, he climbed like a monkey—no, better than a monkey—and one-two-three, he was safely in the crotch of the tree, from which he easily dropped onto the top of the wall, and then continued down the other side, where he and his rope vanished from sight. But a moment later, he flung another rope over. Zhu Ba grabbed this one and pulled it toward him, confident that things were going smoothly. He handed the rope to Hou Xiaoqi, who plucked the monkey off his shoulder and sent it flying up into the tree, where it landed spryly on one of the branches, while he himself walked up the wall with the help of the rope, hand over fist, and then grabbed the other rope and disappeared behind the wall. Who was to be next? Zhu Ba pushed me up front. My heart was racing, cold chills ran up and down my spine, and my palms were sweaty. I grabbed hold of the rope, which was cold to the touch, like a snakeskin. I gripped it in both hands, but I’d barely taken two steps when my hands began to ache, my legs felt rubbery, and I was shaking all over. It hadn’t been all that long since I’d climbed that tree without the aid of a rope, but now I couldn’t make it up the wall with one. That other time I’d been nimble as a cat; now I was clumsy as a pig. This was not a case of worrying more about my lover than my dieh, nor was it the new life growing inside me. What was stopping me now were thoughts of what had happened on the other side of that wall the first time. You know the adage: “Get snakebit once, and you’ll fear ropes for three years.” Well, that wall and that tree brought a reminder of being covered in dog filth and going home with a sore backside. But then I heard Zhu Ba say:

“We’re here to rescue your dieh, not ours!”

How right he was. These beggars were risking their lives to rescue my dieh. How, then, at this critical juncture, could I run like a coward? And that sparked the return of my courage, as I was reminded of Hua Mulan, who went to war in place of her father, and of the hundred-year-old She Taijun, who rallied the troops for her slain grandson, Yang Zongbao. If there’s dog filth, so be it; if a whip lashes out, let it come. Suffering is the road to respectability; danger is the path to prominence onstage. In order to ensure that my name would live on, I clenched my teeth, stomped my foot, and spat in my hands: rope in hand, feet on the wall, face turned to the moon above. Propped up from behind by some of the beggars, I soared to the top of the wall in less time than it takes to tell, and found myself gazing down at rooftops in the yamen, tiles flickering in the moonlight like fish scales. Hou Xiaoqi stood ready to help me to the ground, so I grabbed hold of the rope hanging from the tree and, closing my eyes and steeling myself, sailed down into the grove of green bamboo.

My thoughts returned to boudoir frolics with Qian Ding in the Western Parlor, where by standing on the four-poster bed and looking out the window, I could see the splendor of the flower garden out back; the first thing to catch my eye was always that grove of green bamboo. Then my gaze would travel to the tree peonies, Chinese roses, herbaceous peonies, and blooming lilacs, whose perfume was nearly suffocating. The garden was also a showcase for potted mums on a little manmade hill. Prized Lake Tai rocks, all delicately shaped, lined a small pond whose lotus leaves were surpassingly lovely. I recalled seeing a pair of butterflies taking nectar from flowers around which buzzing bees flitted. A woman with a ruddy complexion strolled through the garden, the dour look on her face more severe than any seen on Judge Bao. A slim-waisted, light-on-her-feet serving girl followed close behind, and I knew that, though the older woman was not much to look at, she was the Magistrate’s wife, an intelligent woman from a good family who excelled in both talents and intrigues. Feared by the yayi, she was an intimidating presence in the Magistrate’s life. I had once entertained a desire to stroll through the garden, but Qian Ding insisted that I put that thought out of my mind. He kept me hidden in the Western Parlor to prevent our illicit relationship from going public. So here I was tonight, standing in the garden, not to stroll but to stage a rescue.

Once we were all together in the bamboo grove, including Hou Xiaoqi’s monkey, which he’d brought down from the tree, we crouched out of sight, waiting for the night watchman to sound the third watch on his clapper before moving on. Noise came on the air from up front, most likely an exchange by one team of sentries relieving the other. Then there was silence, broken only by the forlorn dying chirps of late autumn insects. My heart was pounding; I wanted to say something, but dared not. Meanwhile, Zhu Ba and the others sat peacefully on the ground, neither moving nor speaking, like five dark stone statues. That excluded, of course, the monkey, which began to fidget; Hou Xiaoqi quickly forced it to settle down.

As the moon traveled westward, its late-night rays grew increasingly cold. Chilled dew settled on bamboo leaves and stalks, lending them an oily sheen. The dew dampened my straw hat, my tattered jacket, even my armpits. If we don’t do something soon, Eighth Master, the sun will be up, I thought anxiously. But then there was more noise from up front, with shouts and bawling and the clanging of a brass gong, followed immediately by a red light that painted the compound scarlet.

A young yayi in uniform emerged from a path alongside the Western Parlor and, bent at the waist, stole over to us. He beckoned for us to follow him back onto the path, past the Western Parlor, the tariff room, the chief clerk’s office, and the dispatch office all the way up to the lockup, which was in front of the Prison God Temple.

Flames shot thirty feet into the air in the square fronting the lockup. The mess hall kitchen was on fire. Clouds beget rain, fire creates wind. Thick, choking smoke made us cough. The scene was as chaotic as ants on the move, as raucous as a disturbed crows’ nest. Soldiers scurried back and forth with buckets of water. We took advantage of the confusion to slip past the outer cells and the women’s jail, as if our feet were oiled, spry as cats, undetected, all the way up to the condemned cells. The stench nearly made us gag. The rats there were bigger than cats; fleas and ticks were everywhere. Windowless cells were fronted by low doors, the interiors black as pitch.

As he unlocked the door, Master Four urged us to move fast fast fast! Zhu Ba tossed his firefly sack inside, abruptly flooding the cell with a green glow. I saw my dieh; his face was bruised black and blue, his mouth caked with dried blood. His front teeth had been knocked out. He no longer looked human. My shout of “Dieh!” was cut short by a hand over my mouth.

Dieh had been chained, hands and feet, to a “bandit’s stone” in the center of the cell. It was immovable, no matter how much strength was employed. In the flickering firefly light, Master Four removed the padlock on the chains and set him free. Then Xiao Shanzi took off his jacket, which he’d worn over tattered clothes the same color as my dieh’s, and sat down in the vacated spot, where he let Master Four put the chains on him as the others quickly dressed my dieh in the jacket Xiao Shanzi had taken off. With a disjointed stammer, my dieh sputtered:

“What are you people doing? What do you want?”

Master Four clamped his hand over his mouth.

“Dieh,” I said softly, “snap out of it. It’s me, Meiniang. I’ve come to save you.”

He was still making noise, trying to talk, so Zhu Ba doubled up his fist and hit him in the temple, knocking him unconscious. Xiao Luanzi bent down, slipped his hands under my dieh’s arms, and hoisted him onto his back.

“Let’s get out of here,” Master Four urged softly.

We squeezed out of the cell at a crouch and, as the confusion outside continued, ran all the way to the path behind the Prison God Temple, where we spotted a pack of yayi carrying water headed our way from the secondary gate. Magistrate Qian Ding was standing on the gateway steps shouting:

“Stay in line; careful with that water!”

Hidden in the shadows of the Prison God Temple, we froze in place as a line of red lanterns led the way for a high-ranking official who materialized on the pathway in front of the side gate, a cluster of bodyguards behind him. If that wasn’t the Shandong Governor Yuan Shikai, I don’t know who it was. We watched as Qian Ding ran up, knelt at the man’s feet, and sang out:

“Your humble servant has failed to keep the mess hall from catching fire and disturbing Your Honor. I deserve to die a thousand deaths!”

We heard Yuan Shikai respond with a command:

“Send someone to the jail to see if anyone has escaped, and do it this minute!”

We watched the Magistrate scramble to his feet and run with attendants in the direction of the condemned cells.

We held our breath, wishing we could disappear into a hole in the ground as our ears filled with shouts from Master Four in the prison yard. The cell doors clanged open. We kept our eyes peeled for a chance to run, but Yuan Shikai and his bodyguards were in no hurry to vacate the path in the center of the courtyard. After what seemed like an eternity, the Magistrate puffed his way up to Yuan Shikai, fell a second time to one knee, and announced:

“Reporting to Your Excellency: I have examined the jail cells. All prisoners are present and accounted for.”

“What about Sun Bing?”

“Chained to a stone.”

“Sun Bing is the Imperial Court’s foremost criminal. Tomorrow he is to be executed, and your heads are on the line if anything goes wrong.”

Yuan Shikai turned and headed back to the Official Guesthouse, sent off by the County Magistrate with a courtly bow. We breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived, for my dieh, that damned fool, chose that moment to regain consciousness, and with a vengeance. He stood up, disoriented, and blurted out:

“Where am I? Where are you taking me?”

Xiao Luanzi grabbed his leg and pulled him to the ground. But he rolled over, out of the shadows and into the moonlight. Xiao Luanzi and Xiao Lianzi pounced on him like marauding tigers, each grabbing a leg to pull him back into the shadows. He fought like a madman.

“Let me go, you bastards!” he shouted. “I’m not going anywhere with you!”

His shouts caught the attention of the soldiers, whose bayonets and brass buttons reflected the cold light of the moonbeams.

“Run, boys!” Zhu Ba said, keeping his voice low.

Xiao Luanzi and Xiao Lianzi let go of my father’s legs and stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do, before running straight at the onrushing soldiers, whose shouts merged with crisp gunfire: “Assassins!” Like a hawk, Zhu Ba pounced on my dieh and, unless my eyes deceived me, began to throttle him. I knew at once that he was trying to kill my dieh to keep them from subjecting him to the sandalwood death. Hou Xiaoqi grabbed my hand and dragged me over to the path on the western edge, where we were met by a gang of yayi coming straight at us. Without missing a beat, Hou Xiaoqi flung his monkey at the men. With a screech, the animal attached itself to the neck of one of the petty officials, who voiced his agony with appropriate shrillness. Still holding me by the hand, Hou Xiaoqi ran from the dispatch office back to behind the Main Hall. Yayi were streaming from the Central Hall, and my ears rang with the sound of gunfire, the roar of flames, and men’s shouts, all coming from the courtyard beyond the side gate, while my nostrils were assailed with the smell of blood and fire. The moon abruptly changed color, from silver to blood red.

We kept running, heading north, desperate to make it to the rear garden, our only chance of escape. More and more footsteps sounded behind us; bullets whizzed overhead. When we reached the side of the Eastern Parlor, Hou Xiaoqi jerked a time or two, and the hand holding mine fell away weakly as steamy green blood, like newly pressed oil, streamed from a hole in his back. I stood there, not knowing what to do, when a hand reached out and pulled me off the path, just in time for me to see soldiers run down the path past me.

I had been saved by the County Magistrate’s wife, who quickly led me into a private room in the Eastern Parlor, where she removed my straw hat and stripped the tattered jacket off me, rolling it into a ball and tossing it out a rear window. Then she shoved me down onto the four-poster bed and under the covers. Next she lowered the silk drapes on both sides of the bed, with her on one side and me on the other, in total darkness.

I heard the loud voices of soldiers, who were now in the rear garden. Raucous human noise rose everywhere—the garden’s front and rear paths, the compounds fronting the two main halls, and the side courtyards. Then the moment I’d feared arrived: the pounding of footsteps had reached the Eastern Parlor courtyard. “Commander,” someone said, “these are the Magistrate’s private quarters.” The next sound I heard was that of a whip landing on someone’s back. The drape was pulled back, and a scantily clad, chilled body slipped into my bed and pressed up against me. It was, of course, the Magistrate’s wife, the body my lover had once embraced. There was a knock at the door; the knock then became a pounding. We held each other tight, and though I could tell she was trembling, I knew that I was more frightened than she. The door flew open; she pushed me to the far side of the bed and covered me from head to toe before parting the drape. Her hair was a mess, I assumed; she was dressed for bed, and she must have looked like someone who has been startled out of a deep sleep.

“First Lady,” a coarse voice said, “we have been ordered by Excellency Yuan to search for an assassin!”

With a sarcastic little laugh, she said:

“Back when my great-grandfather Zeng Guofan led soldiers into battle, Commander, he had one inviolable rule to maintain discipline and preserve the cardinal guides and constant virtues, and that was, no soldier was permitted to enter women’s chambers. Apparently the New Army personally trained by Yuan Shikai, Excellency Yuan, has no use for that rule.”

“Your humble servant would not dare offend Your Ladyship!”

“What does daring or not have to do with anything? And what do you mean, offend me? You search what you wish and see what you want. You people have already destroyed the revered Zeng family name, with no voice at the court, and you take your puffed-up courage from that fact.”

“Those are harsh words, Your Ladyship. Your humble servant is only a soldier who obeys his superior’s orders.”

“Then go tell Yuan Shikai that I want to know if it is acceptable for soldiers to break into women’s quarters in the middle of the night, humiliating their occupants and besmirching their virtuous good name. Is Yuan Shikai an official of the Great Qing Dynasty or isn’t he? Does he have no womenfolk of his own? A popular adage has it that ‘A warrior can be killed but not dishonored; a woman can die but not be defiled.’ I shall let my death stand in opposition against Yuan Shikai!”

Just then a flurry of footsteps sounded outside the door.

“The Magistrate is here,” someone whispered.

The First Lady burst into tears.

The Magistrate came through the door and, in a voice quivering with emotion, said:

“Dear wife, I am a worthless man for letting them give you such a fright!”





4




Once the commander and his troops were scolded out of the room, the door was shut, and the candle extinguished, I climbed out of the Magistrate’s bed, with moonlight filtering in through the window lattice, lighting up part of the room and leaving the rest in darkness.

“I thank Your Ladyship for saving me from certain death,” I said softly. “If there is another life after this one, I hope I can return to serve you, even as a beast of burden!”

I turned to leave, but she stopped me by tugging on my sleeve. I saw a glimmer in her eyes and detected the subtle fragrance of cassia on her body. That took my thoughts back to the cassia tree that stood tall in the courtyard of the Third Hall. The Mid-Autumn Festival was a time when the perfume of cassia blossoms filled the air, and the County Magistrate and his wife ought to be enjoying a shared drink and the beauty of a full moon. I knew I was not fated to share that enjoyment with my beloved, but the taste of a lovers’ tryst in the yamen late at night was nearly overpowering. People said that my dieh was guilty of disturbing the peace, but in my view, it was the tyrannical behavior of the Germans that had caused all the problems. I thought about the anguish my dieh felt, as if his heart were tied up in knots. Dieh, you old fool! Your daughter nearly ran her legs off, and a gang of beggars did not rest, day or night, all in an attempt to rescue you. In order to do that, Xiao Shanzi knocked out three of his own teeth and bled all over his chest. In order to rescue you, Zhu Ba himself led the effort, which wound up costing the lives of some of his beggars. We exhausted ourselves, devising a ruse to free you from your condemned cell, but when success was nearly in our grasp, you opened your big mouth and sounded the alarm . . .

“You cannot leave, not yet,” the First Lady said, a chill to her voice as she broke into my confused thoughts. I could hear that the situation outside remained unsettled, with the occasional soldier’s shout.

On orders from Yuan Shikai, the Magistrate had been sent to keep watch at the Main Hall. Thoughts of the danger I had barely managed to escape when the commander burst into the women’s quarters with his men would not leave me. The First Lady went over and closed the door, and in the light from the weepy red candle, I saw how red her face was, without knowing whether she was excited or angry.

“My husband,” I heard her say, the chill still in her voice, “your humble wife took it upon herself to hide your lover in your bed.”

The Magistrate took a look outside through the window before rushing up to the bed and pulling back the covers to reveal my face. He hurriedly covered me back up, and I heard him say softly:

“My dear, you magnanimously put aside all previous concerns. You are an extraordinary woman, and Qian Ding thanks you from the bottom of his heart!”

“The question is, should I send her away or let her stay where she is?”

“That is for you to decide.”

There was a shout in the yard. Qian Ding left, obviously flustered. While he appeared to be leaving to carry out his official duties, in truth he was running from an awkward situation. It was the sort of thing that occurred often on the operatic stage, so I knew what he was doing. His wife blew out the candle and let the moon light up the room again.

Feeling awkward, I got up and sat on a stool in the corner, my tongue parched, my throat dry and raspy. As if she could read my mind, she poured a cup of cold tea and held it out to me. Hesitant at first, I took it from her and drank every drop.

“I thank Your Ladyship.”

“I could never have pictured you as a brave and resourceful woman!” the Magistrate’s wife said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

How was I supposed to respond to that?

“How old are you?”

“May it please Your Ladyship, I am twenty-four this year.”

“I understand that you are pregnant.”

“I am young and ignorant, and I can only ask Your Ladyship’s forgiveness for any offense I have given. As the popular adage has it, ‘A great man overlooks the flaws of a lesser man, and a Prime Minister has a capacious nature.’”

“What a clever little mouth you have,” the First Lady replied with the sobriety of her station. “Can you say with certainty that the child in your belly is Laoye’s?”

“Yes, I can.”

“Then,” she said curtly, “do you want to stay or leave?”

“I want to leave,” I said without a moment’s hesitation.





5




I stood beside a gatepost in front of the yamen staring blankly inside. I’d not slept a wink, suffering through a hellish night worse than any performed onstage. This was no performance, but it would not take long for it to find its way into operatic lore. Before I left the yamen, the First Lady urged me to go somewhere far away to keep myself safe. She even handed me five liang of silver. But I was not about to leave. My mind was made up. If I was going to die, it would be in Gaomi County, nowhere else. Whatever happened, happened.

All the local people knew that I was Sun Bing’s daughter, and they spared no effort to shield me, like mother hens protecting a single chick. White-haired old ladies tried to hand me still-warm eggs, and when I refused to take them, they stuffed them into my pockets.

“Eat, young lady,” they said tearfully, “you must eat to stay well and strong.”

Truth is, as I knew all too well, before troubles had beset my dieh, all these county women—young and old, daughters of fine families and prostitutes from local brothels—had ground their teeth when they heard my name mentioned and would have loved to take a bite out of me. They hated the fact of my relationship with the County Magistrate, they hated the fact that I lived better than they did, and they hated the fact that I had healthy, unbound feet that could run and hop and were prized by the Magistrate. Dieh, when you raised the flag of rebellion, their attitude toward me changed for the better, and better still when you were taken into custody. When the Ascension Platform was erected on the Tongde Academy parade ground and an announcement was posted in all the villages that you were to be dispatched by the sandalwood death, well, Dieh, your daughter was transformed into everyone’s favorite niece, loved by all.

Dieh, last night we tried to save you, and almost won. If you’d not lost your head, the deed would now be done. Dieh, oh, Dieh, four beggars’ lives were lost. Look at the winged walls beside the gate~~your heart will ache, blood from your eyes will run. On the left two heads, on the right three, one monkey and two human. On the left Zhu Ba and Xiao Luanzi, on the right Xiao Lianzi, Houqi, and his monkey, all rotting in the sun. (So vicious that even an innocent monkey was not spared!)

The sun climbed slowly into the sky, yet all was quiet inside the yamen. I imagined they would wait till noon to take my dieh out of his cell. But already, people—dignified individuals in robes and hats—were emerging slowly from Shan Family Lane, opposite the yamen gate. As the most famous lane in town, it had gained notoriety for being home to not one, but two Imperial licentiates. That glory, however, belonged to the past. Now the family’s reputation was propped up by a single metropolitan licentiate, not quite so honored, but still worthy of admiration. No one in the county enjoyed higher prestige or greater respect than Shan Wen, an old man whose style name was Zhaojin. Although he had never visited our home to buy spirits or dog meat and was a virtual recluse who spent his days reading, writing, and painting, he was no stranger to me. I must have heard Qian Ding mention his name a hundred times, and when he did, his eyes glowed as he stroked his beard and studied samples of the old man’s painting and calligraphy hanging on his wall. “How can a man like that suffer such neglect!” he said with a sigh, and followed that with “How can a man like that not suffer such neglect!” When I asked what he meant by such confusing talk, he would only lay his hand on my shoulder and say, “All the notable talent in this county of yours is concentrated in a single individual, but now the Royal Court plans to do away with the examination system, and he will never have a chance to pass the Imperial Examination, to ‘win laurels in the Moon Palace,’ as they say.” But as I studied the scrolls, with hills and trees that looked like none I had ever seen, with dim outlines of people, and with written characters that did not conform to those I knew, I failed to see a sign of greatness. But what did I, a mere woman who could sing a few Maoqiang arias, know? Master Qian, on the other hand, was an Imperial licentiate, a man of vast knowledge who knew many things; if he said something was good, then good it was, and so in my eyes old Mr. Shan was truly a great man.

Licentiate Shan had bushy eyebrows, a prominent nose and mouth on a large face, and a beard that, while finer than most, was inferior to Qian Ding’s, the most impressive beard anywhere in Gaomi after my dieh’s was plucked clean; old man Shan now owned the second-finest beard in the county. He was striding at the head of the procession emerging from the lane, head held high, a man comfortable in the position of leader. His head was cocked at a slight angle, and I wondered whether that was a permanent impairment or something unique to today’s circumstance. I recalled having seen him in the past, more than once, in fact, but that detail had escaped me. Cocking his head gave him sort of a wild look, more like a bandit chief than a man of learning. The crowd behind him was composed exclusively of prominent Gaomi personages. They included the corpulent pawnbroker Li Shizeng, in his red-tasseled cap; the skinny Su Ziqing, proprietor of the local fabric shop, who never stopped blinking; and pockmarked Qin Renmei, proprietor of the herbal medicine store . . . everyone who was anyone in Gaomi’s county town was there. Some wore somber looks and kept their eyes straight ahead; others, clearly skittish, kept glancing around, almost as if looking for support; and still others walked with their heads down, staring at the tips of their shoes, seemingly afraid of being recognized. Their emergence from Shan Family Lane drew the immediate attention of everyone on the street, taking many by surprise. But there were those who knew exactly what this augured.

“Well, now,” they said, “Licentiate Shan has made an appearance, which surely means that Sun Bing will be saved!”

“Not only Master Qian, but even Excellency Yuan will find it necessary to give Licentiate Shan a bit of face, especially since all the other Gaomi luminaries have shown up.”

“Not even the Emperor himself would oppose the people’s wishes. Let’s go!”

And so the people fell in behind Licentiate Shan and the other distinguished gentlemen as they walked over to the square across from the county yamen and formed a sprawling crowd. Like languid dogs suddenly splashed with cold water, the German sentries and Yuan Shikai’s Imperial Guard snapped out of their lethargy, turning the “canes” on which they were resting back into rifles. Green rays spurted from their eyes.

All sorts of strange revelations had floated in the air since the German devils first came ashore at Qingdao. One report had it that their legs were straight and rigid, with no kneecaps to allow them to bend. When they fell over, it was said, they could not get back up. I knew that was a ludicrous rumor because I could see the foreign soldiers’ knees bulging out like little garlic hammers in their tight uniform pants. Another story about those creatures was that they screwed like horses and donkeys, shooting their wads as soon as they made it in. But a prostitute in the red light district said to me: “Shoot their wads like horses and donkeys, you say? I tell you, these self-styled gods are like oversized boars, and once they climb on top of you, they stay there for the next hour, at least.” People also said that the creatures were always on the hunt for good-looking, clever, quick-witted boys, and when they found them, they pared their tongues with sharp knives so they could learn how to talk like the barbarians. When I asked Master Qian, he had a good laugh over that. “Maybe they do,” he said, “but you don’t have to worry because you don’t have a son.” Then he gently rubbed my belly and, as his eyes lit up, said, “Meiniang, oh, Meiniang, I want you to give me a son!” I told him I didn’t think that was possible. If I could have a child, I said, after all these years with Xiaojia, I’d have one by now. With a gentle squeeze, he said, “Didn’t you tell me your husband is a fool who hasn’t grasped the concept of intimacy?” He squeezed harder, hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. “I haven’t let Xiaojia touch me since the first day I gave myself to you,” I said. “Go ask him if you don’t believe me.” “Are you actually suggesting that I, a dignified Magistrate, the county’s most respected individual, should go calling on an idiot?” “Not even the county’s most respected individual’s prick is carved out of stone,” I said, “and when the most respected individual is soft, what’s the difference between that and a puddle of snot? The most respected individual isn’t above jealousy, is he?” Well, after I said that, he loosened his hand and giggled. Then he took me in his arms and said, “My little treasure, you make my chest swell and my heart soar; you are a magic potion sent down to me by the Jade Emperor . . .” Burying my face in his chest, I said coquettishly, “Why won’t you find a way to take me from Xiaojia so I can spend every day of the year looking after you? I don’t need a formal title; I’ll be content to be your personal serving girl.” He just shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. How could I, a dignified County Magistrate, a representative of the Throne, take a citizen’s wife from him? If word of that got out, being mocked would be nothing compared to the certain loss of my official hat.” “Then let me go,” I said. “From this day forward I will never again set foot in this yamen.” Well, he kissed me and said, “But I cannot give you up.” Then, in the style of a Maoqiang actor, he sang, “This official is in dire straits~~” “When did you learn how to sing Maoqiang? Who was your teacher, my dear man of the hour?” “If wisdom you wish to reap, then with a teacher you must sleep,” he said roguishly as he patted me on the buttocks as a prelude to more singing, this time in the style of my dieh, and remarkably similar: “The sky turns yellow as the sun sinks in the west, a tiger runs into the hills, a bird returns to its nest. Only this county boss has nowhere to hide, and must sit in his hall, loneliness to abide~~” “What sort of loneliness must you abide when you have me keeping you company in bed?” Instead of answering me, he turned my buttocks into a cat drum, pounding out a rhythmic, sonorous beat as he continued to sing: “I have been a parched seedling sprinkled with dew, ever since the day I first met you.” “You are forever trying to sweet-talk me,” I said, “me, a village woman who sells dog meat for a living. What good is someone like that?” “Your virtues know no end~~in the heat of summer you are ice, in the depths of winter I’m warmed by the flames you send. Your greatest virtue is how you slake my thirst, till I sweat from every pore and my aging joints once again can bend. To lie in bed with the Sun mistress in my arms surpasses the immortals with their heavenly charms~~” As his song came to an end, he laid me down and covered my face with his beard, as if it were a fanned-out horse’s tail. “Gandieh, ah, the words go:

“Flowers planted will not bloom, stick a willow branch in the ground and give it room. We could not have guessed that our conjugal bliss that day would plant the precious seeds of a dragon child. I was ready to reveal glad tidings when~~Heaven help me~~you arrested my dieh to impale him on a stake defiled~~”

I watched as the country squires led by Licentiate Shan moved toward the contingent of wolfish soldiers, whose eyes widened as they held their rifles in both hands, parallel to the ground. At that point, all but the licentiate slowed down and, as if stepping on eggshells or mired in mud, stopped moving altogether. Little by little, Licentiate Shan separated himself from the crowd, like the leader of a bird formation, but one who left the flock frozen in place behind him. When he passed beneath the Education Memorial Archway, he was met by the sound of rifles being slapped into readiness. The country squires cowered behind the archway, but Licentiate Shan stood fast before it. I tore free of the crowd of women and ran to the archway, where I fell to my knees in front of the craven men and behind Licentiate Shan and howled, startling them all. As they turned to gawk at me, I appealed as if chanting on stage: “Revered elders, respected uncles, honorable shopkeepers, worthy squires, hear my plea. I, Sun Bing’s daughter, Sun Meiniang, kowtow to you and beg you to come to my dieh’s rescue. He was forced into rebelling by another. Everyone knows that even a rabbit will bite in defense, a truth that surely applies to a courageous, upright man who abides by the cardinal guides and constant virtues, a defender of ceremony and propriety. He fomented rebellion among the masses for the benefit of all. Good masters, good uncles, good squires, I beg you, do the merciful thing, for his life is in your hands.”

In the midst of my tears and pleas, I saw Licentiate Shan, a towering man, lift up the hem of his robe, take two or three steps forward, and fall to his knees at the feet of the soldiers. I knew he was kneeling not out of respect for them, but for the county yamen and for Magistrate Qian Ding, my gandieh Qian Laoye.

Oh, Gandieh, Meiniang’s belly swells, the birth of our precious son it foretells. He is the issue of your mighty seed and will carry on the family line. If not for the monk, then for the Buddha himself, come set my dieh free from the condemned cells.

Now that Licentiate Shan was kneeling, the gentlemen behind him did the same, until the street was a sea of bowed black heads. He took a rolled-up document out from under his robe, opened it with both hands, and, in a loud voice, read each of the words written there:

“Sun Bing caused an incident, but not without reason. When his wife and daughter were abused, his wrath surfaced. He led a rebellion, but on behalf of the common people. His crimes do not warrant the penalty of death, and clemency under the law is what we ask. Release Sun Bing in the name of the people . . .”

Licentiate Shan raised the petition over his head and held it there with both hands, making no move to rise, as if waiting for someone to come take it from him. But all was quiet inside the yamen, so effectively sealed by the wolfish soldiers that it took on the appearance of a rundown temple. Wisps of green smoke continued to rise from scorched beams in the mess hall kitchen that had gone up in flames the night before, and on the walls hung a row of reeking beggars’ heads.

Last night heroic men rioted in the Magistrate’s lair, flames lit up the sky and chaos was carried on the air. If I hadn’t witnessed it with my own eyes, on pain of death I would not have believed the scene that was playing out before me. The thought alone struck fear in me. But a second thought removed that fear, for it belonged to the courageous beggars who had looked death in the eye, proclaiming that losing their heads merely produced bowl-sized scars. I think about what occurred last night and cringe at my dieh’s crazed way, a foolproof plan that quickly went astray. That you will not live costs little, that others died is a heavy price to pay. Your erstwhile saviors gave up their lives. If the First Lady had not played her hand, your daughter would not have survived this day. Why? Why, Dieh, tell me why!

From time to time, a somber-faced yayi sped by like a cat on the prowl. Licentiate Shan stayed frozen in his kneeling position—a human statue—for as long as it takes to smoke a bowlful of tobacco. The gentlemen and commoners arrayed behind him created flesh-and-blood statuary. And still all was quiet inside. There was no change—a second bowlful up in smoke. And then a third. The soldiers stood there, wide-eyed, rifles at the ready, as if facing menacing enemies. Sweat dripped down Licentiate Shan’s neck. Another bowlful, and his legs began to twitch; sweat stains spread across his back, and still there was no movement inside the yamen, which was as quiet as death.

Suddenly, from deep within the crowd, the cry “Have mercy—” from old Granny Sun broke the silence.

The cry was echoed by others in the crowd:

“Have mercy—”

“Have mercy—”

Hot tears blurred my vision, but through the watery veil I saw all the supplicants bang their heads in kowtows. Bodies behind and in front of me rose and fell; on both sides rose a cacophony of tearful shouts and thuds of bone against stone.

The crowd of local residents remained on the street until the sun was nearly overhead and the sentries had changed shifts twice, and yet no one had emerged from the compound to accept Licentiate Shan’s petition. Slowly, inevitably, the old man’s hands fell lower and lower, and his back began to arch forward. Then, finally, he toppled over in a faint. At that moment, I heard drums pound, horns toot, cymbals and bells ring. Cannons fire three times as the gate makes its rumbling swing. From it emerges an honor guard. I turn away from the wolfish sentries and from the official party. My eyes are fixed on a prison van, on which two cages stand, a prisoner in each. One is my dieh, the true Sun Bing, the other Xiao Shanzi, the sham Sun Bing.

Meow meow, meow meow, my heart was breaking . . .