Sandalwood Death

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN





The Magistrate’s Magnum Opus

Sandalwood grows deep in the hills; its blood red flowers bloom in the fall,

Champion of trees and hero of the forest, it stands the tallest of all.

People say that red lips open softly, a song of beauty their goal,

Song of the phoenix, murmurs of the swallow, cry of the oriole.

People say that maidens throw fruit at the young man with cheeks like a rose,

Graced with a tender visage, until his cart overflows.

People say that sandalwood clappers produce a crisp new sound,

In the performance of the Pear Garden actors peace and prosperity abound.

People say that a parade of sandalwood chariots by warhorses pulled,

Moonlight of the Qin, soldiers of the Han, by emperors ruled.

People say that Zhuge Liang’s Empty City Strategy came to jell,

While playing a lute amid the lingering sandalwood smell.

People say that Tanyue befriended Buddhism in his style of living,

And escaped the karma of poverty by good deeds and giving.

But who has ever seen sandalwood used to impale a man?

In the dying days of dynasty, a wicked punishment inhumane!

—Maoqiang Sandalwood Death. A noble air





1




When Xiao Shanzi’s head fell to the ground, the sun turned from white to red. As he picked it up, I knew that the dignified look Zhao Jia wore was false—Disgusting! Nauseating! That son of a bitch, no better than a pig or a dog, raised Xiao Shanzi’s bloody head high in the air and announced to me:

“May it please Your Honor, the execution has been carried out!”

My mind was a tangle of confusing thoughts. A curtain of red fog rose before my eyes as thunderous bursts of cannon fire rang in my ears. The stench of blood was everywhere, such a foul, repulsive smell, one that has already infiltrated the doomed Qing Court. Am I abandoning you, or will I be buried with you? Not knowing what to do, I vacillate, I hesitate; everywhere I look, there is nothing but desolation. There is evidence that the Empress Dowager has fled with His Majesty to Taiyuan. Peking has become a city of wild savagery; the sacred halls of the Imperial Palace have been turned into the playground of the willful Eight-Power Allied Forces. An Imperial Court that brought the capital to its knees now exists in name only, does it not? But Yuan Shikai, Excellency Yuan, has taken from the Imperial Treasury tens of thousands of silver ingots to form and train a cohort of crack troops, not to defend the capital against invaders and protect royalty, but to join forces with the foreign demons to crush my loyal Shandong countrymen. The wolf’s ambition is abundantly clear, his designs known to all, as were those of the Three Kingdoms usurper Sima Zhao. Even urchins in shantytowns sing a ditty: “The Qing is no more, swept away; Yuan has become the Cao Cao of his day.” Ah, Great Qing, breeding tigers only courts disaster; ah, Yuan Shikai, you harbored treacherous thoughts. You have slaughtered my citizens to safeguard foreigners’ rights of passage. You have purchased the favors of the Allies with the people’s blood. Backed by a powerful army, you sit back and wait to see what will happen, confident in your ability to maneuver. The fate of the Great Qing Empire now rests in your hands. Empress Dowager, Your Majesty, have You come to Your senses? Have You? If You still see him as the defender of the people in their peril, then the three-hundred-year foundation on which the dynasty has stood will crumble in an instant. When I examine my own conscience, I find that I too am not the loyal official I thought I was. I lack the faith and the allegiance to die for a righteous cause, to pick up a knife and end the life of that treacherous official, even though I have studied the classics and the martial arts since childhood. The actor Sun Bing is braver than I, the beggar Xiao Shanzi more loyal. I am a cringing coward, a weakling given to making concessions. At times strong passion surges in my chest; at other times I am torn between opposing wills. Caution is my watchword; my appearance is but a deceptive mask. I swagger around the common people, but treat my superiors and foreigners to flattery and obsequious smiles. I am a petty, shameless toady to those above and a tyrant to those below. Hopeless coward Gaomi County Magistrate Qian Ding, though breath remains in your body, you are a walking corpse. Even Xiao Shanzi, who shit his pants from fear just before he died, was three thousand times the man you are. Since you are bereft of a heroic spirit, live on like the running dog you are. Benumb yourself, and, as a dog, carry out your duties as official in charge of the execution. By refocusing my eyes, I looked closely at the head the executioner Zhao Jia was holding as he made his boastful announcement, and understood what was expected of me at that moment. I walked quickly over to the opera stage, where I flicked my sleeves, raised the hem of my robe, and saluted by going down on one knee before reporting to that traitor and thug loudly:

“May it please Your Honors, the execution has been carried out!”

Yuan Shikai said something to von Ketteler, keeping his voice low, to which the German responded with hearty laughter. Then they stood up, walked down the steps on the side of the stage, and came up to me.

“On your feet, Gaomi County!” Yuan Shikai said coldly.

I got to my feet and followed them up to the Ascension Platform. Yuan Shikai, who was robust and stocky, and von Ketteler, who was thin as a pole, walked shoulder to shoulder like a duck and an egret, but took slow steps. I kept my head down, eyes shielded, yet still able to see their backs. Truth is, I had a dagger hidden in my boot, and if I’d had half the courage of my young brother, I could have killed them both on the spot. The calmness and unflappability I’d demonstrated when I went alone into the rebels’ camp to apprehend Sun Bing had given way to crippling fear as I followed along behind them. That alone was proof that I was a tiger in my dealings with ordinary citizens and a sheep in the presence of superiors or foreigners. No, not a sheep, for a ram can butt with its horns, while I have the nerve of a frightened mouse.

I stood at the feet of the intrepid Sun Bing and looked up into his face, bloated by the mass infusion of blood, some of which trickled out of the corners of his mouth. His puffy eyes were mere slits. The absence of teeth slurred the vituperations emerging from his mouth, but not so much as to make them unintelligible. Not only was he was flinging abuse at Yuan Shikai and von Ketteler, but he was straining to spit bloody foam into their faces. He simply did not have the strength, and all he could manage was childish dribbles. His mouth resembled nothing so much as the bubbly opening of a crab’s mouth. Yuan Shikai nodded his satisfaction.

“Gaomi County, reward Zhao Jia and his son with the agreed-upon amount of silver, place them into the second rank of yayi, the ‘black,’ and give them a land-tax waiver.”

Zhao Jia, who was in line behind me, fell to his knees on the inclined plank up to the platform.

“Humble thanks for Your Excellency’s boundless generosity and favor!” he intoned loudly.

“Listen carefully, Zhao Jia,” Yuan said to him in a somber yet intimate tone of voice. “You must not allow him to die, not until the ceremony to commemorate the completion of the rail line on the twenty-second. Foreign photographers will be on hand to memorialize the event. If he dies before then, do not expect our friendship to save you.”

“Fret not, Excellency,” Zhao Jia said, confident of his plan to keep the victim alive. “I will do whatever is necessary to ensure that he will not die before the ceremony on that day.”

“Gaomi County, in the name of the Empress Dowager and His Majesty, stay here with your three ranks of yayi and keep watch over the prisoner in shifts.” Yuan smiled. “There is no need to return to the yamen. Once the rail line has been completed, Gaomi County will become a major hub in the Great Qing Empire. While that may not guarantee a transfer and promotion for you, riches will migrate toward you. Have you not heard the adage ‘When the train whistle blows, a river of gold flows’? My friend, in point of fact, I am making it easy for you to govern your county and keep its people in line.”

Yuan Shikai roared at his little joke while I hastily knelt at his feet.

“I humbly thank Your Excellency for his patronage. Your humble servant will diligently carry out his duties!” I said over the background of Sun Bing’s hoarse curses.





2




Like a pair of bosom friends, Yuan Shikai and von Ketteler made their way down the platform, arm in arm. Then, within a protective ring of soldiers, Chinese and foreign, they left the premises, Yuan in his eight-man palanquin and the German on his massive horse, on their way back to the yamen. Dust flew over the Academy parade ground, accompanied by the clatter of horse hooves on the cobblestone road. The yamen had been turned temporarily into the two dignitaries’ official residence; the Tongde Academy compound had been transformed into barracks and stable facilities for the foreign troops. Now that the official parties had left, local residents, who had been confined to the outer edges of the parade ground, began moving toward the center. A momentary sense of bewilderment was followed by a jolt of terror. Excellency Yuan’s comment just before he departed sent an upsurge of emotion through my heart. “While that may not guarantee a transfer and promotion for you . . .” Transfer and promotion, ah, transfer and promotion; a whisper of hope threaded its way out of my heart, proof that Excellency Yuan still considered me a man of ability: Excellency Yuan bore me no malice. A close examination shows that I had handled the Sun Bing case properly. I entered the enemy stronghold alone and apprehended Sun Bing with no help from anyone, thus keeping the Imperial Guards and foreign soldiers out of harm’s way. As preparations for the sandalwood death were being carried out, I took command, working day and night, managing in less time than anyone thought possible to ready the tools and site of execution for this spectacle, something no one else could have managed as well. Maybe, just maybe, Excellency Yuan isn’t as sinister as people think he is; maybe he is a loyal and upright individual who happens to be prudent and farsighted. A man of great allegiance can appear disloyal; a man of great wisdom can sometimes seem slow-witted. For all I know, he could be a pillar in the resurgence of the Great Qing. Hai! I am an insignificant County Magistrate charged with carrying out his superior’s orders, fulfilling duties in furtherance of remaining true to his individual calling. Great affairs of state are the province of the Empress Dowager and His Majesty, beyond the reach of minor functionaries like me.

Now that I had overcome my confusion and was no longer wavering, I was once again in control of my wits and abilities. I issued orders for the three shifts of yayi to keep watch around the clock over Sun Bing, who was bound to a crossbar on the Ascension Platform. Local spectators crowded forward, until it seemed that the entire county had turned out, faces painted blood red in the rays of the dying sun. At sunset, crows flew past on their way to their nests and their families in the golden canopies of trees east of the parade ground. “County elders, friends and villagers, go home, please, there to live your lives in humiliation in the name of this important mission. Heed your Magistrate’s word that it is better to be a sacrificial lamb than to rise up in resistance against the tyrannical forces arrayed before us. Take Sun Bing, your Maoqiang Patriarch, who stands impaled upon a sandalwood stake on the Ascension Platform, as a solemn and stirring cautionary example.”

But the local gawkers turned a deaf ear to my admonition and swept up to the Ascension Platform like waves crashing against the shore. Yayi drew their swords, as if to confront an enemy surge. But the people, though silent, looked on with alarmingly strange expressions, sending an upsurge of panic to my heart. The sun settled in the west in all its redness; the moon’s jade rabbit climbed into the sky; warm, soft rays of golden sunlight merged with cool, refreshing silver moonbeams on the Tongde Academy parade ground, on the Ascension Platform, and on the faces of the mass of humanity.

“County elders, friends and fellow villagers, disperse and return to your homes . . .”

The people remained silent.

All of a sudden, Sun Bing, whose voice had been long stilled, broke into song. His mouth leaked air and his chest thumped in and out, very much like an old beat-up bellows. From his vantage point, he could see what was going on all around him, and for a man like him, as long as there was breath in his body, not even the sorry circumstances in which he now found himself could keep him from singing. It would not be unreasonable to say that this was the very opportunity he had sought. And I realized at that moment that the swelling crowd had no intention of freeing him from his predicament, but had drawn closer to hear him sing. See how they all raised their heads and let their mouths fall open? That was the perfect image of an opera devotee.

The fifteenth day of the eighth month, the moon is bright~~wildwood breezes sweep past the platform at night~~

Sun Bing opened with a sorrowful Maoqiang aria. He had hurled abuse for so long that his voice was hoarse and scratchy, but the combination of that hoarseness and the bloody mess his body had become merged to invest his tune with a chilling aura of solemnity and to confer upon it the power to stir hearts. I must admit that Sun Bing, a product of Gaomi, a small, out-of-the way county, was a true genius, a heroic figure equal to those who appeared in the biographies of Sima Qian’s Records of the Historian. His name will be spoken down through the ages, praised by the masses and memorialized in Maoqiang opera. My subordinates reported to me that in the immediate wake of his apprehension, a Maoqiang troupe formed spontaneously in Northeast Gaomi Township, and that its performances were tied to burial and funeral activities conducted during chaotic events involving the deaths of so many. Every performance began and ended with howls of grief and was tied to the tragedy of Sun Bing’s resistance against the Germans.

By cruel torture my body torn~~this ancient land I tearfully mourn~~

The sobs of the people at Sun Bing’s feet filling the air contained bleak strains of meow, a sign that even in their agonizing sorrow, they had not forgotten to provide the singer with a chorus.

I gaze at distant blazing fires in this ancient land~~ah, my wife, my children~~

At that moment, the people seemed to know what was expected of them. As if by prior agreement, they intoned every form of meow known to them, and into that chorus was thrust a climactic cry of desolation, like a whirling pillar of white smoke funneling into the cloudy sky:

“Dieh-dieh~~my beloved Dieh-dieh~~”

It was a cry of heartbreaking dolefulness, yet one that highlighted the sorrowful Maoqiang aria and, in concert with the hoarse, scratchy singing from the platform and the chorus of meows by the onlookers, produced a climactic moment. Pile-driving pains thudded into my heart, as if from a human fist. My lover was here, the woman who had stolen my heart, Sun Bing’s daughter, Sun Meiniang. Despite the fact that I had been in the grip of terror for days, like a yellowed leaf fluttering precariously from a branch in the elements, this woman had been on my mind the whole time, and not just because she was carrying my child. I watched as she moved forward, parting the crowd like a black eel emerging from the school against the current. The people slipped away, to her left and her right, opening up a path to the Ascension Platform. Her hair was in disarray, her clothing in complete disorder, and her face grimy, looking like a demon incarnate; she had shed all signs of the flirtatious, singular woman she had been, no longer sleek nor young, but undeniably still Meiniang. Who but Meiniang would dare to come running up at a time like this? What a discomfiting moment! What was I to do now, allow her up onto the platform or not?

“I, I, I have brought forth Heavenly Warriors and Generals, an invincible force~~”

A violent coughing fit cut Sun Bing’s aria short and produced a rooster-like wheeze from deep in his chest. Only a scarlet haze in the west remained from the ebbing sun, while chilled moonbeams cast their light onto his bloated face, turning it the color of polished bronze. His head rocked clumsily from side to side and made the pine crossbar creak and groan. Dark, oily blood spurted from his mouth and quickly overspread the platform with a foul odor. His head slumped weakly onto his chest.

Panic set in, as an inauspicious thought crowded everything else out of my mind. Is he dead, just like that? If he was, it was hard to imagine the reaction I could expect from Excellency Yuan, not to mention von Ketteler, who would erupt in anger. The riches promised to Zhao Jia and his son would disappear like a burst bubble, and my prospects for advancement would fade into nothing. I could only sigh. But then the thought occurred to me that his dying might not be such a bad thing, that maybe in the end it was best, since that would bankrupt von Ketteler’s evil plans and cast a pall of gloom over his public celebration for the completion of the rail line. Sun Bing, you died a timely death, quick and meaningful, keeping your heroic stature and your moral character intact. You are an example for all of your fellow villagers. I cannot begin to imagine the extent of your suffering if you had lived on for four more days. Qian Ding, in this historic moment, when the nation’s destruction looms, when the Imperial Court has been hounded out of the capital, when the people have been thrown into abject misery and rivers of blood run in the street, your personal advancement is uppermost in your despicable, benighted mind. Sun Bing, it is time for you to die. You must not live on. Soar up into the Kingdom of Heaven, where you can be elevated to nobility . . .

Zhao Jia and his son emerged from their shed. The first one out held a paper-covered lantern—that was Zhao Jia; behind him, carrying a black bowl in both hands, came Xiaojia. They walked in step, easy and smooth, onto the plank leading to the platform, where they passed Meiniang shoulder to shoulder.” Oh, Dieh-dieh, what have they done to you?” . . . In full lament, she fell in behind them and threw herself down on the platform floor. When I moved to one side to let them pass, my yayi turned to look at me; but I was scarcely aware of their glances, for my eyes were riveted on Zhao Jia, Xiaojia, and Meiniang. Three members of one family, all gathered around Sun Bing as he suffered the cruelest of punishments, and it seemed somehow fitting and proper. Even if Excellency Yuan had been present at that moment, he would not likely have had reason to interfere.

Zhao Jia raised the lantern overhead, throwing its golden light onto the mass of hair spread across Sun Bing’s skull. With his left hand under the chin, he lifted the head up for my benefit. I’d thought that he had died, but no. His chest continued to thrust in and out, and labored breaths still emerged from his mouth and nose, all signs that his vitality remained strong. I was disappointed, but relieved. A picture began to form in my mind, hazy and unreal: Sun Bing was not a criminal suffering from a cruel punishment, but a desperately ill man, beyond all hope, and yet the people were equally desperate to prolong his life, wanting him to live on . . . I wavered between wanting Sun Bing to die or to go on living.

“Give him some ginseng tonic!” Zhao Jia ordered his son.

That command awakened me to the acrid yet sweet smell of fine ginseng wafting up out of the black bowl Xiaojia was holding. Deep down I had to admire Zhao Jia for his attention to detail. In the wake of the infliction of the punishment, when all around us was a scene of chaos, he was calmly preparing a ginseng concoction. Maybe it had already been steeping over a fire in a corner of the shed even before he began, one of many preparations for what he knew would be required.

Xiaojia stepped forward, with the bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other, scooped up a spoonful, and held it up to Sun Bing’s mouth. When the spoon touched Sun’s lips, his mouth opened greedily, like a newborn puppy that has found its mother’s teat. Xiaojia’s hand shook slightly, spilling most of the liquid onto Sun Bing’s chin, where a fine beard had once grown.

“Be careful!” Zhao Jia snapped unhappily.

Obviously, Xiaojia, a man who butchered pigs and dogs, was not cut out for a job that required finesse. Most of the second spoonful ended up dripping onto Sun Bing’s chest.

“What are you trying to do?” The loss of the ginseng pained Zhao Jia, who held the lantern out to his son and said, “Hold this. I’ll feed him!”

But before he could take the bowl from Xiaojia, Meiniang stepped up and snatched it away.

“Dieh,” she said in a comforting tone, “you are suffering so. Drink some of this ginseng tonic, it’ll make you feel better . . .”

Tears filled Meiniang’s eyes. Zhao Jia, lantern still in hand, raised it for Xiaojia to tilt Sun Bing’s head up by the chin so Meiniang could spoon the liquid into her father’s mouth, little by little, without wasting a drop.

For a moment I forgot that I was standing on the Ascension Platform, where a man was being put to death, and imagined that I was watching a family of three feeding a tonic to a sick relative.

Sun Bing started coming back to life by the time the bowl was empty. His breathing was not as labored, his neck had regained the strength to hold his head up, and he was no longer spitting up blood. Even the bloating in his face had begun to recede. Meiniang handed the bowl to Xiaojia and reached out to untie the straps binding his arms to the crossbar, muttering comfortingly:

“Don’t be afraid, Dieh, you’re going home . . .”

My mind went blank. How was I supposed to deal with this sudden turn of events? Zhao Jia, an old hand, sprang into action. Thrusting the lantern into his son’s hands, he interposed himself between Sun Bing and Meiniang, as cold gleams of light flashed in his eyes.

“Good daughter-in-law,” he said with a dry, sinister laugh, “snap out of it. This man has been condemned by the Imperial Court. If he is freed, the family of whoever lets him go will be slaughtered all the way to the ninth cousins!”

Sun Meiniang slapped Zhao Jia in the face, then turned and did the same to me. Then she got down on her knees before us both and released a gut-wrenching wail.

“Free my dieh,” she sobbed. “I beg you . . . free my dieh . . .”

Aided by the bright moonlight, I saw the crowd below the platform fall heavily to their knees as a din arose from their depths, and only a single utterance:

“Free him . . . free him . . .”

Powerful emotions surged through my heart. People, I sighed, you do not know what is happening up here. You cannot know what is in Sun Bing’s mind. All you see is how he suffers physically, but you do not realize that by swallowing the tonic, he has shown us that he is not ready to die. Nor is it life he seeks. If he had wanted to live, he could have made his escape from the prison and gone to a place where no one could find him. But the way things were now, I could do nothing but wait and see what happened. Sun Bing’s suffering had already transformed him into a saint, and I could not defy the will of a saint. So I signaled for several of the yayi to come up, where I quietly told them to carry Sun Meiniang down off the platform. She fought and cursed me in the vilest of language, but the result was never in doubt, not when she was up against four men who managed to drag her down off the platform. My next order was for two shifts to stand guard on the platform, while the other two rested, trading places every hour. They were to take their rest in an empty Tongde Academy room facing the street. On the platform I said, “Permit no one but Zhao Jia and his son to come up the plank. You are also to ensure that no one attempts to climb onto the platform from any side. If anything happens to Sun Bing—if he is put out of his misery or taken away, Excellency Yuan would begin by having my head lopped off. But I’d see that yours already lay on the ground before that happened.”





3




The next two days and nights passed with agonizing slowness.

After making my inspection of the Ascension Platform at dawn on the third day, I returned to the Academy room and lay down on the mat-covered brick floor, fully dressed, to rest. Yayi between shifts filled the room with their thunderous snores; some even talked in their sleep. Mosquitoes on that summer morning were a true scourge, attacking silently, drawing blood with each bite. Covering my head with my lapel to keep them away offered no help. From outside came the sounds of shifting bits and halters on German horses that were being fed under the poplars to which they were tied, that and the impatient pawing of their hooves and the desolate chirps of autumn insects in weedy spots at the bases of walls. The intermittent sound of rushing water entered my consciousness, and I entertained the thought that the Masang River was singing a melancholy song. With depressing thoughts rippling through my mind, I fell into a fitful sleep.

“Bad news, Laoye, bad news!” Startled out of my sleep by that frantic cry, I was immediately chilled by a cold sweat. There before me was the face of Xiaojia, his dull eyes harboring the threat of treachery. “Laoye, Laoye,” he stammered, “bad news. Sun Bing Sun Bing is going to die!”

Without a second’s hesitation, I jumped to my feet and raced out of the room. The bright early autumn sun was high in the southeastern sky, spreading its light all across the land, so intense that I was momentarily blinded. Shielding my eyes with my hand, I followed Xiaojia up to the platform, where Zhao Jia, Meiniang, and the men on duty were crowding around Sun Bing. A foul stench struck me in the face before I’d even gotten close, and I was confronted by the sight of flies swarming around Sun’s head. Zhao Jia was shooing them away with a horsetail whisk, sending many of them crashing to the floor; but their places were taken by newcomers, thudding against Sun’s body in suicidal waves. I did not know if they were drawn to him by a smell emanating from his body or were being spurred on by some dark, mystical force.

Meiniang cared not a bit about the filth she was encountering as she wiped away the eggs deposited on her father’s body, soiling her white silk handkerchief. As feelings of disgust rose up inside me, I followed the movements of her fingers: from Sun Bing’s eyes down to his mouth; from his nose over to his ears; from the open, seeping wound between his shoulders down to the scabbed wounds on his bare chest . . . the eggs had no sooner been laid than maggots began to squirm over damp spots on his body. If not for Meiniang, they would have made short work of Sun Bing. The smell of death lingered in the stench floating around me.

More than just a fetid smell emerged from Sun Bing’s body—he was also emitting powerful waves of heat, like a roaring furnace; if he still had functioning organs, they were probably baked to a crisp. His lips, cracked and dry, looked like singed bark; his hair had taken on the texture of an old straw kang cover, so dry that a single spark could incinerate every strand, and so brittle that it could not withstand the slightest touch. But he was still alive, still breathing, the sound of each breath strong. His ribcage, which swelled and retreated violently, produced a deep rattle.

Zhao Jia and Meiniang stopped what they were doing when I arrived, and together they turned to stare at me hopefully. Holding my breath, I reached out to touch Sun Bing’s forehead. It was as hot as blazing cinders, so hot it nearly seared my hand.

“What do we do, Laoye?” Zhao Jia implored, a look of helplessness in his eyes for the first time in memory. So, you old bastard, even you know fear, I see! “If something isn’t done right away,” he said weakly, subdued by anxiety, “he’ll be dead by nightfall . . .”

“Laoye, save my daddy . . .” Meiniang was sobbing. “Do it for my sake, please . . .”

Though I remained silent, my heart was breaking, all because of Meiniang, that foolish woman. Zhao Jia was afraid of what Sun Bing’s death meant for him; but Meiniang was beyond reason. Oh, Meiniang, wouldn’t his death release him from the abyss of misery and usher him into heaven? Why must he endure unspeakable suffering, his life hanging by a thread, all to embellish a ceremony to laud the completion of the rail line? Every hour he lives is sixty minutes of agony, and not the sort that human beings can comprehend, but struggling on the tip of a knife, tormented by boiling oil. On the other hand, each day he survives burnishes his stirring legend, creating yet another indelible impression on the people’s hearts, and writing another bloody page in the history of Gaomi, and for that matter the history of the Great Qing Dynasty . . . back and forth my thoughts went, from one side to the other, over and over, until I lost my resolve. To save Sun Bing was to flow with the current; to let him be was to swim against it. No, this was no time to seem wise. “Sun Bing, how do you feel now?” With difficulty, he raised his head; fragments of sound escaped through his quivering lips, and heated black rays with red threads shot from his slitted eyes, seemingly right through my heart. His exceptional life force shook me to the core, and in that brief moment a powerful thought sprang up in my mind: Let him live. He mustn’t die, for this solemn and stirring drama cannot end like this!

I ordered a pair of duty yayi to fetch the county’s preeminent doctors: Cheng Buyi, our expert surgeon, from Nanguan, and Su Zhonghe, the renowned internist, from Xiguan. “Tell them to come with the most effective nostrums at their disposal as quickly as humanly possible. Say that you have come on the order of the Shandong Governor, Yuan Shikai, Excellency Yuan, who will tolerate neither disobedience nor delay. No mercy will be shown to anyone who defies his order!” They left at once.

I then told one of the yayi to summon Chen Qiaoshou, the papier-mâché craftsman, who was to bring with him all his tools and craft material. “Say that you have come on the order of the Shandong Governor, Yuan Shikai, Excellency Yuan, who will tolerate neither disobedience nor delay. No mercy will be shown to anyone who defies his order!” He left at once.

I then ordered another yayi to fetch Pockface Zhang, the tailor at the clothing store, who was to bring with him his tools and two yards of white gauze. “Say that you have come on the order of the Shandong Governor, Yuan Shikai, Excellency Yuan, who will tolerate neither disobedience nor delay. No mercy will be shown to anyone who defies his order!” He left at once.





4




Led by the two yayi, expert surgeon Cheng Buyi and renowned internist Su Zhonghe stepped onto the Ascension Platform. Cheng was a tall, lanky man with a dark, clean-shaven face; wizened and seemingly devoid of body fat, he moved with quick and nimble ease. Su, on the other hand, was short and portly; completely bald on top, he sported a lush, graying beard. Both local men of distinction, they had been ensconced in front-row seats during the battle of the beards between Sun Bing and me. Su Zhonghe had arrived with a full backpack; Cheng Buyi carried a small white cloth bag. Their nervousness showed. A gray cast underlay Cheng’s dark complexion, as if he were unusually cold. Su’s paler face was tinged with yellow and covered with a slick layer of sweat. They knelt at my feet, but before they could say a word, I bent down and had them rise. “This is an emergency,” I said, “which requires the medical mastery of the finest physicians. You know the identity of this individual and are fully aware of why he is here in this condition. Excellency Yuan has commanded that he must remain alive until the twentieth of this month. Today is the eighteenth, which gives us two days and two nights to carry out Excellency Yuan’s orders. One look at him will tell you why I have summoned you here. So now I ask you two gentlemen to come forward and put your skills to use!”

The physicians deferred to one another over and over, neither willing to step up and attend to their new patient. Two men—one tall, the other short; one fat, the other skinny—bowed back and forth, up and down, producing such a comical scene that a young and inexperienced yayi actually covered his mouth to stifle a laugh. I felt nothing but disgust over their ludicrous demonstration of superficial etiquette. “That’s enough decorum,” I said assertively. “If he dies before the twentieth, you”—I pointed to Cheng Buyi—“you”—I pointed to Su Zhonghe—“you”—with a sweeping motion, I pointed my finger at the people crowding around the platform—“and, of course, me—all of us will be buried with him”—I pointed to Sun Bing. You could almost cut through the tension in the air up there. The dumbstruck physicians could only stand and stare. I turned to Cheng Buyi. “You’re a surgeon. You first.”

Cheng stepped gingerly up to Sun Bing like a dog stealing a piece of meat off a butcher block, reached out, and gently touched the tip of the sandalwood stake between Sun’s shoulders with one slender finger. Then he went behind Sun to examine the butt end of the stake. Each time the stake moved, top or bottom, colored bubbles oozed out, carrying the stifling stench of rotting flesh and sending the flies into convulsions of deafening buzzes. The physician staggered up to me and slumped to his knees on wobbly legs. His face twitched and his mouth twisted, like a man about to break down completely. His teeth chattered as he managed to say:

“Laoye . . . his internal organs have shut down . . . there is nothing I can do . . .”

“Nonsense!” Zhao Jia, his eyes wide, glared at Cheng Buyi. “Take my word for it,” he said sternly, “there is nothing wrong with his internal organs!” Then his gaze shifted to me. “If they had suffered any damage,” he defended himself, “he’d be dead by now. He could not have lived this long. You can see that for yourself, Laoye!”

I weighed his comment for a moment. “Zhao Jia is right,” I said. “Sun Bing’s injuries are just beneath the skin. The pus and blood you see are coming from infections, something a surgeon sees all the time. If you cannot deal with that, who can?”

“Laoye . . . Laoye . . .” He was nearly incoherent. “This humble . . . I . . .”

“Stop wasting time with that Laoye and humble business!” I cut him off. “Do what you’re here to do. If it’s a dead horse, treat it as if it were alive!”

Cheng finally summoned the courage to remove his robe and spread it on the platform floor, wind his queue atop his head, roll up his sleeves, and ask for water to wash his hands. Xiaojia ran down the plank and brought up a bucket of water, then waited on Cheng as he washed his hands. That done, Cheng laid his white cloth bag down on his robe, opened it, and removed its contents: two knives, one long and one stubby, two pairs of scissors, one big and one small, two pairs of tweezers, one thick and one thin, and two glass vials, one tall and one short. The taller vial held alcohol, the shorter one medicinal ointment. There were also cotton balls and a roll of gauze.

He picked up a pair of scissors and—snip snip—cut open Sun Bing’s clothing. He then poured alcohol onto a cotton ball, with which he cleansed the open wounds, top and bottom, squeezing out quite a bit of blood and pus, not to mention all the foul odors. Sun Bing shuddered violently and moaned with such agony that it made my skin crawl and gave me the shivers.

Cheng Buyi’s confidence and courage returned in force as he ministered to the injured Sun Bing; professional honor had won out over fear. At that point he stopped what he was doing and walked up to me, not bent over submissively, but standing tall and proud.

“Laoye,” he said, “if you remove the stake from his body, I guarantee that not only will he survive until the day after tomorrow, but he will regain his health completely . . .”

I stopped him in mid-sentence. “If you are willing to have the stake inserted in your own body,” I mocked him, “then feel free to remove it from his.”

Cheng’s face turned ghostly white, his back went from straight to bent, and his eyes shifted evasively. He went back to Sun Bing and continued rubbing his wounds with alcohol-soaked cotton, but this time his hands shook. Next he scooped some dark red medicinal ointment out of the small purple vial with a sliver of bamboo and daubed it on Sun Bing’s injuries.

His work finished, he backed away, bent at the waist. I next summoned Su Zhonghe, who came closer, shaking from head to toe as he reached out with one long-nailed hand and laid it on Sun Bing’s wrist where it was tied to the crossbar. With his hand in the air, his shoulder slumped to one side, and his head bowed in a meditative pose, he presented a comical yet pitiful sight.

His diagnostics completed, Su Zhonghe announced:

“Your Honor, the patient’s eyes are red, his mouth foul; his lips are dry, his tongue charred; his face is swollen, his skin hot to the touch. All symptoms point to internal heat, but his pulse has a floating quality, hollow like a green onion from excessive blood loss, all symptoms of weakness masked as strength, a deficit in the guise of plenty. An inferior physician would be powerless to cure what ails him, and treating him with heat or prescribing the wrong medication would place him at death’s door.”

Su Zhonghe’s reputation as a third-generation master physician was well earned. He was a man of exceptional knowledge, and I was impressed by his diagnosis. “What do you prescribe?” I demanded.

“An immediate infusion of pure ginseng tonic is required!” he said with staunch assurance. “If he is given three bowls of it each day, your humble servant believes he will survive until noon the day after tomorrow. But as an additional precaution, I will prepare three packets of a yin-nourishing concoction that will enhance the effects of the remedy.”

Without leaving the platform, Su reached into his medicine bag and with three fingers extracted a mixture of weeds and tree bark without recourse to his scale, which he placed on a tiny piece of paper; after repeating the action twice more, he folded them into small packets and turned to us, not sure who to hand them to. In the end, mindful of what he was doing, he placed them in front of me.

“A half hour after he’s had the ginseng tonic, boil one of these in water and give it to him,” he said softly.

I dismissed the two physicians with a wave of my hand. They backed out, bent at the waist, manifestly relieved of their onerous responsibility, and fled, not caring where they were headed.

As I pointed to the mass of crazed flies, I turned to Chen Qiaoshou, the papier-mâché craftsman, and Pockface Zhang the tailor. “I don’t have to tell you what I expect from you, do I?”





5




By midday, when the sun was blazing down with a vengeance, Chen Qiaoshou and Pockface Zhang had built a sort of cage around Sun Bing, with matting on the top to protect against the sun, matting on three sides, and a curtain made of sheer white gauze in front. It served both to block the scorching sunlight and to keep the voracious flies away. To further lower the temperature inside, Zhao Xiaojia spread a wetted blanket over the top; and in order to lessen the foul smells that attracted the flies, yayi washed the accumulated filth off of the platform with buckets of water. With Zhao Jia’s help, Meiniang emptied a bowl of ginseng into her father’s stomach, and then, half an hour later, followed that with one of Su Zhonghe’s medicinal packets. Sun Bing cooperated with their ministrations, a sign that he planned to live as long as possible. If he’d longed to die, he’d have clamped his mouth shut.

The emergency treatment worked, as Sun Bing’s condition slowly improved. I could not see his face through the sheer curtain, but his breathing was regular, his body odor less repellent than before. I made my way down off the platform, so tired that I could barely hold my head up and weighed down with an indescribable sadness. I had no reason to be worried. Excellency Yuan’s instructions had been to keep Sun Bing from dying. Now Sun was determined to live on, while Zhao Jia was not about to let him die, and neither was Meiniang. The tonic had infused his body with the strength to go on; exhaustion was no longer his enemy. Go ahead, keep on living. That went for me, too—I was determined to keep on living until my luck ran out.

With bold confidence, I left the Tongde Academy grounds and walked out onto a street that no longer seemed so familiar, heading straight for a public house. A young waiter rushed eagerly up to me, shouting:

“We have an honored guest——”

The rotund proprietor sort of rolled up to me, a smile of manifest puffery on his oily face. I looked down to examine my official garb, which made passing as a common citizen impossible. Besides, even dressed in ordinary clothing, my face was known to everyone in town. Each year on Insect-Waking Day, the beginning of spring, I joined the peasants toiling in the field; on Grave-Sweeping Day, I helped with planting peach trees on the outskirts of town; and on the first and fifteenth of each month, I set up a table in front of the Propagation Hall to read from the classics and instruct the people on the tenets of loyalty, filial piety, benevolence, and righteousness . . . I am a good official, close to the people, and were I to leave office, I am confident that I would be rewarded with a very large umbrella from the masses . . .

“I welcome the esteemed gentleman to this humble establishment. Your presence brings me great honor . . .” The proprietor was reaching the heights of pedantry. “May I ask your pleasure, sir?”

“Two bowls of millet spirits and a dog’s leg,” I said.

“My apologies, Laoye,” the proprietor said unhappily, “but we do not sell dog meat or millet spirits . . .”

“Why is that? Why would you not sell such fine items?”

“All I can say is . . .” The proprietor stumbled over his words, apparently trying to screw up the courage to say what was on his mind. “Laoye is probably aware that the finest millet spirits and dog’s legs in town are supplied by Sun Meiniang. We cannot compete with her . . .”

Heated millet spirits, fragrant dog meat, scenes of the past in my head repeat . . .

“What do you sell?”

“To answer Laoye, we sell Baigar and Erwotou sorghum spirits, baked sesame cakes, and stewed beef.”

“Then bring me two liang of Baigar, one jiao of the beef, plus two hot sesame cakes.”

“Right away, Laoye,” the man said as he disappeared around back.

The Gaomi Magistrate sits in a shop, his thoughts running apace, and all he can think of is Meiniang’s lovely face. She possesses what it takes to create stirrings of love, like water for frolicking fish, or nectar for honeybees, weaving soft romantic lace . . .

After he placed my order in front of me, I dismissed him with a wave of the hand. “I’ll pour my own today,” I said as I picked up the bottle and filled a green cup to the brim. The first spicy cupful brought a pleasant sensation as it slid down my throat; the second heated cupful made me slightly woozy; and the third turbid cupful made me sigh and sent tears streaming down my cheeks. I drank and I ate, I ate and I drank, and when I’d eaten and drunk my fill, I said to the proprietor, “Make out a bill for what I’ve had. I’ll send someone over to pay in a day or two.”

“The mere presence of Laoye has brought great fortune to this establishment.”

I walked out, so light on my feet that I felt as if I were strolling amid the clouds and mist.





6




A yayi roused me out of bed on the morning of the fourth day. The effects of the alcohol had abated but not gone away. I was still in a fog and suffering from a headache; I could barely recall what had happened yesterday, which seemed so long ago. I staggered over to the parade ground, blinding sunlight auguring yet another fine day. Sun Bing’s steady, seemingly happy moans filtered down to me from the Ascension Platform, and I knew that he was holding up well. The duty yayi, Liu Pu, scampered down off the platform and, with a furtive look, said:

“Laoye . . .”

I followed the line he was pointing with his chin. A group of people had gathered in front of the opera stage. Dressed in colorful clothing, they presented a strange sight. Some had powdered their faces and painted their lips; others had red faces and ears. I saw some with blue faces and golden eyes, and others whose faces were shiny black. My heart lurched as I recalled the opera troupe Sun Bing had led not so long ago. Was it possible that the remnants of his troupe had come together to make their entry into town? The sweat oozing from my pores sobered me up at once. Quickly straightening my clothes and adjusting my cap, I hurried over toward them.

They had formed a ring around a large red chest on which sat a man who had painted his face with whites and yellows like a faithful and courageous “justice cat.” A big black cat-skin cloak was draped over his shoulders; a cat cap, with ears that stood straight up and were tipped with patches of white fur, rested on his head. Cat cloaks covered others’ shoulders as well, and some in the group wore cat caps. Quiet and solemn, they looked ready to mount the stage and perform. The top of the chest was covered with red-tasseled spears, knives, swords, and halberds, the whole range of stage props. So the Northeast Gaomi Township Maoqiang Troupe had returned. I breathed a sigh of relief. But I had to wonder if they had come to the Ascension Platform solely to put on a performance. Courage and toughness were hallmarks of Northeast Gaomi Township folkways, something of which I had a clear understanding. With its mystical, gloomy nature, Maoqiang opera had the power to drive its spectators into a frenzy, making them lose touch with reality . . . a chill settled over my heart as I envisioned a scene with glinting knives and flashing swords and thought I heard the sound of battle drums and horns.

“Laoye,” Liu Pu whispered, “I feel something in my bones——”

“Tell me.”

“This sandalwood death is major bait, and these Northeast Gaomi Township actors are fish who have come to take the hook.”

Maintaining a calm demeanor, I smiled and walked toward the actors with measured steps, being sure to look the part of the Laoye. With Liu Pu beside me, I confronted them.

Though none of them said a word at first, the chilling looks they gave me spoke clearly of their animus toward me.

“This is His Honor the County Magistrate,” Liu Pu said. “What is it you’ve come to say?”

They held their tongues.

“Where have you come from?” I asked them.

“From Northeast Township,” Justice Cat said in a muffled stage voice from his seat on the chest.

“For what purpose?”

“To put on an opera.”

“Who told you to come here to put on an opera at this time?”

“Our cat chief.”

“Who is your cat chief?”

“Cat Chief is our cat chief.”

“Where is he?”

Justice Cat pointed to Sun Bing up on the Ascension Platform.

“Sun Bing is a criminal condemned by the throne and is being punished appropriately. He has been on public view for three days, so how could he have summoned you here to give a performance?”

“That up there is just his body. His soul returned to Northeast Gaomi Township a long time ago,” Justice Cat replied dreamily.

I heaved an emotional sigh.

“I know what you must be feeling. Even though Sun Bing committed a terrible crime, he is, after all, your second-generation Maoqiang Patriarch, and staging an opera for him before he dies is fitting and proper. But this is neither the time nor the place. You are citizens of this county, and I have always treated you as my own sons and daughters. With that in mind, I urge you to leave this dangerous spot for your own safety and that of your families. Return to your Northeast Township, where you are free to put on any performance you like, with no interference from me.”

Justice Cat shook his head and in a soft but uncompromisingly firm voice said:

“No, Cat Chief has instructed us to put on our performance in front of him.”

“A moment ago you said it is only your cat chief’s body up there on the Ascension Platform, and that his soul returned to Northeast Gaomi Township long ago. If you put on your performance here, aren’t you doing so for a soulless human form?”

“We obey Cat Chief’s instructions,” Justice Cat said unflinchingly.

“Are you not afraid of losing your heads?” Pointing in the direction of the yamen, I said in a threatening tone, “Excellency Yuan’s crack troops are stationed in the yamen.” Then I pointed to a compound in the Tongde Academy. “There is where the German cavalry troops are camped. A ceremony to celebrate the completion of the rail line is scheduled for tomorrow, and both the foreign and government soldiers are on full alert. If you stage one of your cat-and-dog operas under their noses, they will treat that as tantamount to a rebellion or a riot.” Finally, I pointed up to Sun Bing. “Is that how the rest of you want to wind up?”

“We are not afraid,” Justice Cat grumbled. “We came to put on a performance, and that is what we are going to do.”

“I have long known that Northeast Gaomi Township residents are fond of performing onstage, and I am a fan of your Maoqiang opera. Why, I can even sing some arias. Maoqiang promotes loyalty, filial piety, benevolence, and justice. Teaching people to be reasonable and understanding corresponds exactly with my principles of instruction. I have always supported your performance activities and hold you in high esteem for your deep-seated love of the arts. But not here and not now. I order you to leave. After this is all over, if you desire, I will personally make a formal visit to Northeast County to extend you an invitation to return to stage an opera here.”

“We obey Cat Chief’s instructions,” Justice Cat replied obstinately.

“I am the highest official in this county, and if I say you may not perform, you may not.”

“Not even His Majesty the Emperor has the authority to stop people from performing an opera.”

“Have you never heard the adage ‘Fear not the official, just the office’? Or ‘A Governor lops off a head, a County Magistrate destroys a family’?”

“You can chop our bodies to pieces, but our heads will perform an opera.” Justice Cat got defiantly to his feet and commanded his disciples and followers, “Open the chest, my children.”

The cats picked up weapons from atop the chest, turning their numbers into a traditional opera troupe. They then threw open the mahogany chest and dug out python-decorated robes and jade belts, phoenix caps and embroidered women’s capes, masks and jewelry, gongs and drums and other props . . .

I ordered Liu Pu to hurry over to the Academy and bring back all the off-duty yayi.

“I, your Magistrate, have admonished you as earnestly as I know how, and for your own good. But you have decided to ignore your sympathetic Laoye and go your own way.” I turned to my yayi and pointed to Justice Cat. “Arrest the cat leader,” I said, “and drive the rest of this motley feline crew away with your clubs!”

My yayi began swinging their red-and-black batons amid threatening shouts, though it was really a show of bluff and bluster. Justice Cat dropped to his knees and rent the air with a desolate wail, then began to sing. Seeing him on his knees like that, I assumed that he wanted to plead with me; until, that is, I realized that he was kneeling before Sun Bing, up on the Ascension Platform. I also assumed that the wail was an expression of torment over seeing the Maoqiang Patriarch endure such suffering. Once again I realized my mistake, for the mournful cry was actually a call for the musicians to prepare their instruments, an opening note. A torrent of music burst forth, as if set free by an open floodgate.

Cat Chief~~golden feathers adorn your head purple clouds swath your body you ride a long-maned lion vanquishing foes a pure gold cudgel in hand~~you are the foe of thousands of tens of thousands are the reincarnation of Yue Fei the mortal embodiment of Guan Yu you reign supreme throughout the land~~

Meow~~meow~~

As if by design, all the black-faced cats red-faced cats multihued cats big cats small cats male cats female cats embellished Justice Cat’s cloud-bursting aria with cat cries inserted in all the right places, with perfect timing, all the while reaching into the storage chest to deftly extract gongs and drums and other stage props, including an oversized cat fiddle, each actor expertly adding the sound of his instrument in perfect orchestral fashion.

The first blow topples Taihang Mountain~~reclaims Jiaozhou Bay~~the second blow levels Laizhou Prefecture~~terrifying the ferocious white-headed tiger~~the third blow brings down the mainstay~~takes the Most Exalted Patriarch Lao’s Eight Trigrams Furnace out of play~~

Meow~~meow~~

The performance, filled with music and passion, had an irresistible appeal. Fully half the yayi, all born and raised in the county, were from Northeast Township, and therefore were infatuated with Maoqiang opera, an inbred affinity well beyond the ability of someone like me, an outsider, to comprehend. Despite the fact that I had learned to sing a respectable number of arias, thanks to Sun Meiniang, Maoqiang opera simply did not affect me the way it did Gaomi residents, whose eyes could fill with rapturous tears. Almost immediately I sensed that this was no ordinary performance, and that Justice Cat was a singer of virtually peerless caliber. His voice had that classical raspy Maoqiang timbre and the ability to reach a pitch beyond an aria’s highest note, a quality peculiar to Maoqiang and mastered throughout the genre’s history only by the progenitor, Chang Mao, and the Patriarch, Sun Bing. When Sun Bing took his leave from the stage, even Meiniang believed that he was the last in a line of actors on whom that talent had been bestowed. But then, out of nowhere, this consummate skill had been reborn in the person of the Justice Cat. I would be the first to admit that the quality of his singing was nothing less than brilliant, easily worthy of expression in the most refined surroundings. I could tell that my men, including the unusually competent and clear-headed Liu Pu, were mesmerized by what they were hearing. Their eyes shone, their lips were parted; they no longer knew where they were, and it was clear that before long they would be crying out meows along with those cat figures, and might even start rolling around on the ground, climbing walls, and shinnying up trees, until this pitiless execution site turned into a paradise for cat-calling, a menagerie of dancing. Feeling helpless, I had no idea how to bring this to a close, especially when I saw that the yayi guarding the Ascension Platform were equally distracted, frozen in place. From a spot just outside the opening of the shack, Sun Meiniang added her sobs to the singing, and Zhao Xiaojia had turned wild with joy. His dieh had to grab hold of his clothes to keep him from running over to join in. From all appearances, Zhao Jia’s long absence from his hometown had insulated him from the noxious influence of Maoqiang; able to keep a cool head in the midst of all that ferment, he remained focused on his heavy responsibility. As for Sun Bing, while I could not see his face clearly through the gauzy curtain, the sound he was making—it could have been a cry, it could have been muted laughter—told me everything I needed to know about how he was holding up.

Justice Cat sang and danced, the wide sleeves of his robe swirling in the air like puffy white clouds as his meaty tail swept the ground. His effect on everyone around him as he sang and danced was profound—demonic and infectious, soul captivating and bewitching; he climbed up to the Ascension Platform, one casual step after another, and the other cats followed his lead. Thus was the curtain raised on a grand and spectacular performance.





7




Cats were at the center of the disastrous turn of events. With cat attire fluttering in the air above the platform and cat music rising from below, my thoughts carried me back to when I first laid eyes on Sun Meiniang. On a trip to one of the county villages to apprehend gamblers, my small palanquin was carried onto a stone-paved street in the county town. It was a late spring day, with a fine rain ushering in dusk earlier than usual. Shops on both sides of the street had closed for the day; puddles of water filling spaces between the stones reflected the light. The silence on the deserted street was broken only by my bearers’ watery footfalls. A slight chill in the air created feelings of melancholy. Frogs croaking in a nearby pond reminded me of tadpoles I’d seen swimming in puddles among green sprouts of wheat, and that made the melancholy even worse. I wanted to have the bearers speed up to facilitate an early return to the yamen, where I could make myself a cup of hot tea and peruse some of the classics. The only thing lacking was a lovely young woman to keep me company. My wife was the daughter of an illustrious family, a woman of noble nature and high moral character. But where relations between a man and a woman were concerned, she was as cold as ice and frost. I promised her that I would not take a concubine, but I must admit that the bleak bedroom atmosphere had tested my patience. I was in a terrible mood at that moment, when the sound of a door opening onto the street drew my attention. A public-house sign hung above the open doorway, from which emerged the tantalizing odors of strong spirits and meat. A young woman all in white was standing beside the door filling the air with rude talk, though the sound of her voice was pleasantly crisp. Then a dark object came flying my way and hit my palanquin.

“You damned greedy cat, I’ll kill you!”

A wild feline tore across the street and huddled under the eaves of a house, where it licked its whiskers and kept its eye trained across the way.

“How dare you!” my lead bearer fumed. “Are you blind? You actually struck Laoye’s personal flag!”

The woman bowed in hasty contrition and immediately changed her tone of voice, sending sweet apologies my way. Even through the curtain I could see that she was a woman who knew how to flirt and was taken by the flash of coquettish beauty against the darkening sky. Unfamiliar feelings rose up inside me. “What is sold in that shop?” I asked the lead bearer.

“This shop’s dog meat and millet spirits are the finest in town, Your Honor. The woman’s name is Sun Meiniang, known locally as ‘Dog-Meat Xishi.’”

“Stop here,” I said. “You have here a hungry and cold Magistrate. I believe I will step inside and warm myself with a bowl of heated millet spirits.”

Liu Pu leaned over and whispered:

“Laoye, there is a popular adage that ‘A man of high standing does not enter a lowly establishment.’ I urge you not to honor a roadside shop like this with your presence. I humbly submit that you would be better off returning to the yamen without delay, so as not to worry the First Lady.”

“Even His Majesty the Emperor sometimes travels incognito to gauge the public mood,” I said. “I am a mere County Magistrate, far from high standing, so what harm can there be in drinking a bowl when I’m thirsty and eating rice when I’m hungry?”

The bearers set down the chair in front of the shop; Sun Meiniang rushed up and got down on her knees as I stepped to the ground.

“I beg Laoye’s forgiveness,” she said. “This common woman deserves death. That greedy cat tried to steal a fish, and in my haste I flung it into Laoye’s palanquin. I beg your forgiveness . . .”

I offered her my hand. “Please get up, Elder Sister, for an unwitting error does not constitute a crime. I have forgotten it already. I have left my palanquin with the intent of partaking of some food and drink in your establishment. May I follow you inside?”

Sun Meiniang stood up, bowed a second time, and said:

“I thank Laoye for such magnanimity! Magpies sang at my door this morning, but I never thought my good fortune would arrive in the person of Laoye. Come in, please. Your party is welcome as well.” Sun Meiniang ran out into the street to retrieve the fish, which she flung in the direction of the wild cat without a second glance. “This is your reward, you greedy cat, for bringing an honored guest to our shop.”

With speed and agility, Sun Meiniang lit lanterns and trimmed the candlewicks, then polished the tables and chairs till they shone. That done, she heated a jug of spirits and brought out a plate of dog meat, setting it down on the table in front of me. Her beauty was made even more striking in the muted light, so lovely was she that waves of carnal desire undulated in my heart. My retainers’ eyes lit up like will-o’-the wisps, a reminder that I must commit no breach of moral behavior. Keeping my restless heart in check, I managed to climb back into my palanquin afterward and return to the yamen, accompanied by the image of Sun Meiniang.

The pounding of gongs and drums, the squeal of a cat fiddle, and the raised voices were like a flock of birds passing overhead. At first, local residents moved cautiously into the square in twos and threes, then in small clusters, making their way up to the opera stage on the Academy parade ground. By the looks of it, they had already forgotten that an unimaginably cruel punishment had been meted out on this spot, had forgotten that a man impaled on a sandalwood stake was at that moment suffering on the Ascension Platform across from where they stood. A risqué opera was in progress on the stage in front of them, the story of a soldier taking liberties with the lovely daughter of an innkeeper. It was a comforting sight for me, since Sun Bing’s anti-German lyrics had all been sung, and if Excellency Yuan were to turn up to watch the performance, he would find nothing to object to.

What will you have to drink, honorable soldier?

I want some Daughter’s Red fresh from the vat.

We have no Daughter’s Red.

Elder Sister has a lovely smell.

What will you have to eat, honorable soldier?

Slice some Heavenly Phoenix for me to try.

We have no Heavenly Phoenix.

Elder Sister, you are Golden Phoenix

. . .

Up on the stage, amorous glances from the innkeeper’s alluring daughter created an erotic atmosphere below. Each bit of repartee was like the shedding of clothing, one garment at a time. This was a standard opening drama in the Maoqiang repertoire, loved by the young for its lively irreverence. I was well into my middle years, graying at the temples, but was I immune to amorous thoughts? No, the steamy scene on the stage reminded me of how Sun Meiniang had sung snatches of this kind of play for me in the yamen’s Western Parlor ~~Meiniang, oh, Meiniang, how often you transported the soul of this Magistrate~~baring your jade-like form, wearing only cat clothing as you frolicked on my bed and cavorted atop my body~~by brushing your hand across your face, you presented to me the spirited face of a lovely kitten~~your body taught me that no animal in the world has more natural charm than a cat~~when you licked my skin with your scarlet tongue, I felt as if I had died and been spirited to the land of immortals, as if my heart had been butted out of my body~~oh, Meiniang, if your gandieh’s mouth were big enough, he would wrap it around you, all of you~~

The young soldier and the alluring young maiden were swept to the back of the stage, as if blown there by a strong gust of wind, and their place was taken by Justice Cat in full cat regalia, his arrival announced by a drumroll and the clang of a gong. He first made several quick rounds of the stage before sitting down in the center and launching into a cadenced narration:

“I, Sun Bing, am Chief Cat, a Maoqiang actor who once led a troupe to perform in villages far and wide. My repertoire includes forty-eight operas that bring to life emperors and kings, generals and ministers that through history abide. In my middle years I offended the County Magistrate, who then plucked out my beard though his identity he did hide. My acting days ended, I relinquished my troupe to make a living selling tea, in my native home to reside. Little Peach, who bore me a son and a daughter, was a loving and dutiful wife, true and tried. But loathsome foreign devils invaded our land to build a railroad and savage our feng shui. A traitorous bully made off with my darling children while others made sport in the square with my wife, whose calamitous results cannot be denied. I have wept sobbed cried wailed myself sick~~from hatred loathing abhorrence repulsion my heart has died~~”

Justice Cat intoned his tragic song with fervor, rising and falling like a stormy sea, while arrayed behind him was a cohort of armed cat actors whose outrage spilled over into the audience, triggering a reaction of meow calls and angry foot stomping, rocking the Academy grounds and raising clouds of dust. My unease rose with it, as an inauspicious cloud gradually enshrouded the site. Liu Pu insistently whispered a warning into my ear, sending chills up and down my spine. Yet I felt helpless in the face of the incendiary mood among the actors and their spellbound audience; it was like trying to rein in a runaway horse with one hand, or to put out a raging fire with a ladle. Things had reached the point where I could trust only to Providence, give the proverbial horse free rein.

I retreated to a spot in front of the shed to watch with detachment. Up on the Ascension Platform, Zhao Jia was standing to one side of the protective cage, quietly watching with a sandalwood peg in his hand. Sun Bing’s moans were drowned out by the clamor below the stage, but I knew that he was still alive and as well as could be expected, that his spirit was as high as ever. A popular legend has it that if a Gaomi resident who is on the verge of dying while away from home hears the strains of Maoqiang opera outside his door, he will leap bright-eyed out of his deathbed. Sun Bing, though you have been subjected to a punishment worse than death, seeing this performance and listening to these arias—for your benefit—is surely the opportunity of a lifetime. I turned my gaze to the crowd, searching for the idiot son of the Zhao family, and I found him, saw him sitting atop one of the opera stage posts, adding his calls of meow to those of the crowd. Slowly he slid down the post, but as soon as his feet hit the ground, he shinnied back up, cat-like. I then searched for Meiniang of the Sun family, and I found her, saw her, her hair in disarray as she beat on the back of a yayi with a stick. When this revelry would end, I could not say, but as I looked into the sky to check the time, I saw that a dark cloud had blotted out the sun.





8




Twenty or more armed German soldiers emerged from the encampment on the Academy grounds. Oh, no! A silent cry escaped from my mouth. This was going to end badly. I rushed up to stop their advance, placing myself directly in front of a junior officer armed with a pistol, eager to clarify the situation to him. Worthy . . . officer, that’s what I’ll call you, you bastard. Well, the worthy officer, whose eyes were the color of green onions, said something I couldn’t understand and shoved me out of his way.

The soldiers quick-stepped up to the Ascension Platform and stomped heavily up the wooden ramp, which bent under weight it was never intended to sustain; the platform began to sway. “Stop,” I shouted to the actors on the opera stage and the viewers beneath it. “Stop—Stop—” But my voice was too weak to carry, like throwing a cotton ball at a stone wall.

The soldiers lined up in tight ranks and fixed their eyes on the opera stage, where a fierce battle was being played out. Actors in the roles of cats were trading blows with actors dressed up as tigers and wolves. Justice Cat, seated in the center of the stage, was providing the musical accompaniment to the action in a powerful voice that seemed to reach the sky. This was yet another unique characteristic of Maoqiang opera: sung arias accompanying fighting scenes, from start to finish, their contents often bearing no relevance to the action; as a result, staged fights in the context of an opera actually served as a background for the talents of a principal singer.

Ai yo, Dieh, ai yo, Niang~~ai yo my little son done wrong~~he scratched my itch with his cute little hand~~waiting to grow up big and strong~~his life cut short, now the ghosts among~~two lines of bloody tears as I sing my song~~

Meow meow~~meow meow~~

I looked up at the soldiers, pleading with my eyes; my nose began to ache. “You up there, German soldiers, I’m told that you have opera back home, a place with its own customs and mores, and I ask you to compare those with theirs, and contrast their number with yours. Do not consider the actions onstage to be a provocation, and do not confuse them with the anti-German army led by Sun Bing, even though his men also painted their faces and dressed in stage costumes. You are witnessing pure theatrics, performed by a troupe of actors, and while it may appear manic, it is a common feature of the Maoqiang repertoire, and the actors are merely following long-established traditions. They act to memorialize those who have passed on to ease them into heaven, and they act to bring peace to those about to die. This performance is for Sun Bing, the inheritor of the Maoqiang mantle of Patriarch, for it was in his hands that Maoqiang reached the magnificent level of achievement you see before you today. They are performing for Sun Bing the way a cup of the finest spirits is given to a dying distiller, as a thoughtful gesture and an expression of humanity. German soldiers, lay down your Mausers, I beg you in the name of compassion and reason. You must not kill any more of my subjects. A river of blood has already flowed in Northeast Gaomi Township, and the once-bustling Masang Township is now a wasteland. You have fathers and mothers back home and hearts that beat in your chests; they are not made of iron or steel, are they? Can it be that in your hearts we Chinese are nothing but soulless pigs and dogs? You have Chinese blood on your hands, and I believe you must be visited by terrible dreams at night. Lay down your weapons, lay them down.” I ran up to the platform.

“Do not open fire!” I shouted.

Unfortunately, my shout sounded like an order to fire, which they did, seemingly ripping a dozen holes in the sky with the cracks of their rifles, whose muzzles released puffs of smoke, like white snakes that slithered upward before beginning to break up. The pungent odor of gunpowder burned the inside of my nose and struck my mind with mixed feelings of grief and joy. Why grief? I didn’t know. Why joy? I didn’t know that, either. By then hot tears blurred my vision, and through those tears I watched as a dozen blurry red bullets escaped from the German soldiers’ rifles and spun their way forward slowly, very slowly, almost hesitantly, reluctantly, irresolutely, as if wanting to turn away or fly up into the sky or bury themselves in the ground, as if wanting to stop their momentum or to slow down time or to wait till after the actors on the stage had run for cover before completing their split-second journey, as if they were tied to the German rifles by an invisible thread that was pulling them back. Kind-hearted bullets good and decent bullets mild and gentle bullets compassionate bullets Buddhist bullets, slow down to give my people a chance to fall to the ground before you reach your targets. You don’t want their blood to stain your bodies, you chaste and holy bullets! But those ignorant citizens on the stage were not only oblivious to the need to fall to the ground to avoid your arrival, they actually seemed to be waiting in welcome anticipation. When the hot, fiery red shells penetrated their bodies, some reacted by throwing their arms in the air in what looked like an attempt to pull leaves off of trees; some fell to the ground and grabbed their bellies with both hands, fresh blood seeping out between their fingers. In the center of the stage, Justice Cat was thrown backward, along with his chair, the interrupted strains of his song caught in his throat. The first volley cut down most of the actors on the stage. Zhao Xiaojia slid down his post, cast a dazed look all around until he realized what was going on, wrapped his arms around his head, and ran behind the stage, shouting:

“They’re shooting people, trying to kill me—”

The Germans had no intention of shooting the post-sitter, at least I didn’t think so; his executioner’s attire probably saved him. He’d been an object of fascination for many people over the past several days. After the first volley, the soldiers in back stepped up to the front row and raised their rifles in perfect formation. Their movements were rapid and skillful; they had no sooner taken aim than they pulled the triggers, creating a second volley of explosions that rang in my ears, and before the sound died out, their bullets had hit their marks.

Not a single living soul was now left on the opera stage, abruptly stained by rivulets of multihued blood, while beneath the stage members of the audience were emerging from their Maoqiang trance. My poor subjects scrambled madly to get away, bumping and shoving, wailing and roaring, a chaotic mass of humanity. I saw the Germans up there lower their weapons, glum smiles on their long faces, like a red thread of sunlight poking out from behind dark clouds on a bitter cold day. The shooting had stopped, and once again I experienced mixed feelings of grief and joy. Grief over the destruction of Northeast Gaomi Township’s last Maoqiang opera troupe, joy over the Germans’ lack of interest in turning their guns on the fleeing commoners. Did I say joy? Gaomi County Magistrate, was there really joy in your heart? Yes, there was, great joy!

Puddles of actors’ blood merged and flowed to the sides of the stage, where it streamed into wooden gutters that were intended for rainwater runoff, but now served to channel blood off the stage and onto the ground. After the initial cascades, the flow slowed to a drip, one large drop of heavy, treasured blood on top of another——drip, drip, drip, heavy, treasured . . . the Heavenly Dragon’s tears, that’s what they were.

The common folk made their escape, leaving behind a field littered with shoes and cat clothing crushed beyond recognition; among the litter were bodies trampled in the stampede. My eyes were riveted on the two gutter openings, which continued to send drops of blood to the ground—one drop splashing on top of another. No longer blood, but the Heavenly Dragon’s tears, that’s what they were.





9




As I was returning to the Academy grounds from the yamen, a half moon on the nineteenth day of the eighth month sent cold beams earthward. I stepped through the gate and spat out a mouthful of blood; a brackish, saccharine taste filled my mouth, as if I’d overindulged in honeyed sweets. Liu Pu and Chunsheng were worried.

“Laoye, are you all right?”

Brought to my senses by the sound of voices, I looked at them and asked:

“Why are you two still with me? Get lost, go away, stop following me.”

“Laoye . . .”

“You heard me, I said leave me alone; get lost, the farther the better. I don’t want to lay eyes on you again. If I so much as see you, I’ll break you in two!”

“Laoye . . . Laoye . . . have you lost your mind?” Chunsheng could hardly get the words out through his sobs.

I unsheathed the sword at Li Pu’s waist and pointed it at them, the glint of steel as cold as my tone of voice:

“Father’s dead, Mother’s remarried, now it’s every man for himself. If you two retain any good feelings from the years we have been together, you will get out of my sight. Come back sometime after the twentieth to collect my body.” I flung the sword to the ground, where it clanged loudly and sent waves of sound into the night sky. Chunsheng took a couple of steps back, then turned and ran, slowly at first, then faster and faster, until he was out of sight. Liu Pu just stood there, head down, frozen in place.

“Why aren’t you leaving?” I asked him. “Go in and pack some things to take back home to Sichuan. When you get there, don’t tell anyone your real name. Tend to your parents’ graves and stay away from all local officials.”

“Uncle . . .”

That gut-wrenching word brought on a torrent of tears.

“Go on,” I said with a wave of my hand. “You have to look out for yourself; now go. There’s nothing for you here.”

“Uncle,” Liu Pu repeated, “your unworthy nephew has been thinking about many things in recent days, and I cannot help but feel deeply ashamed. Everything that has happened to you, Uncle, is my fault.” He was tormented. “I dressed up to look like you so I could yank out Sun Bing’s beard, which was why he left the troupe, married Little Peach, and had two children. If he hadn’t married and become a father, he would never have clubbed the German engineer to death, and none of this would ever have happened . . .”

“You foolish, worthy nephew,” I cut him off. “Everything proceeded according to fate’s plan, not because of anything you did. I’ve always known it was you who plucked Sun Bing’s beard, and I know you did that on behalf of the First Lady. It was her attempt to plant the seeds of hatred toward me in Sun Meiniang and to put an end to any romantic liaison between us. I also know it was the two of you who smeared dog droppings on the wall, because you were afraid that an illicit relationship with one of my subjects could ruin my official career. What neither of you knew was that Sun Meiniang and I were fated to meet in this place because of what happened in our past three lives. I bear no grudge toward you or toward her. I bear no grudge toward anyone, for we were all acting in accordance with our fates.”

“Uncle . . .” Li Pu fell to his knees and, his voice breaking with sobs, said, “please accept your unworthy nephew’s obeisance!”

I went up to him and raised him off his knees.

“Now this is where we say good-bye, worthy nephew.”

I turned and headed to the Tongde Academy parade ground.

Liu Pu fell in behind me.

“Uncle,” he said softly.

I looked back.

“Uncle!”

I walked back to him.

“Is there something else you want to say?”

“I, your unworthy nephew, want to avenge my father; I want to avenge the Six Gentlemen and my Uncle Xiongfei. By doing this, I would also extirpate the hidden evil that imperils the Great Qing Dynasty!”

“Do you plan to assassinate him?” I stopped to think for a moment. “Is this a deed to which you are irrevocably committed?”

He nodded decisively.

“Then I can only hope that you have better luck than your Uncle Xiongfei, worthy nephew.”

I turned and once again headed to the parade ground. This time I did not look back. The moon cast its light into my eyes, and I suddenly had the feeling that my heart was like a garden in which countless flowers were ready to bloom. Each of those blooming flowers was a rousing Maoqiang aria. Long and lingering, the arias swirled rhythmically in my head so that all my movements were musically cadenced:

Gaomi Magistrate leaves the yamen, heart full of sorrow~~meow meow~~autumn winds and cold moonbeams and loud drumbeats herald the morrow~~

The moon cast its light on my body, and on my heart. You moonbeams, how bright you are, brighter than I’ve ever seen before, and brighter than I’ll ever see again! I followed the path of moonbeams with my eyes, and what I saw was my wife lying in bed, her face as white as paper. She had dressed in ceremonial attire—phoenix headdress and tasseled cape—and laid a last note on the bed beside her. “The Imperial Capital has fallen,” she had written, “the nation is lost. A foreign power has invaded the country and partitioned the land. I have been graced by Imperial favor in all its majesty. I cannot live an ignoble life, on a par with the animals. A loyal minister dies for his country; a chaste wife dies for her husband. These virtues have been praised down through the ages. Your faithful wife has gone on ahead and is waiting for her mate to join her. Alas and alack, my sorrow is endless.”

My beloved! Knowing the path of righteousness, you have taken poison for the sake of our land. You have set a glorious example for me~~I have chosen to take the same route, for I too cannot live ignobly~~my death has long been planned. But my work is not yet finished, and I cannot die before the end of the story is told. Wait for me at Wangxiang tai~~once I have done what I set out to do, I shall join you and the emperors of old~~

The parade ground was overlaid with a solemn stillness; the moon soundlessly spilled its beams on the ground. Owls and bats cast gliding shadows from above; the eyes of feral dogs flashed on the edges. You pilferers of putrid flesh, are you waiting to feast on the bodies of those who lie where they died? No one has come to collect my subjects’ bodies, which lie in the moonlight waiting for the sun’s rays. Yuan Shikai and von Ketteler are engaged in revelry, drinking good wine and enjoying fine food brought to them from sizzling woks in the yamen kitchen. Are you not worried that I will put Sun Bing out of his misery? You must know that if I want to go on living, Sun Bing will not die. What you do not know is that I have no desire to go on living. I want to follow my wife’s lead and sacrifice myself for the Great Qing Nation after ending Sun Bing’s life. I want it to be his dead body that is the focus of your rail line ceremony, to let your train pass by a Chinese corpse as it rumbles down the track.

I staggered up to the Ascension Platform. Sun Bing’s Ascension Platform; Zhao Jia’s Ascension Platform; Qian Ding’s Ascension Platform. A lantern hung high above the platform, identified as belonging to the Main Hall of the county yamen. My gaze took in the listless yayi standing like marionettes at the platform’s edge, red-and-black batons gripped tightly in their hands. An earthenware pot in which herbal medicine stewed sat atop a small wood-burning stove directly beneath the lantern, sending steam into the air and spraying ginseng fragrance in all directions. Zhao Jia was sitting beside the stove, his narrow, dark face lit up by the fire’s light, his arms wrapped around his knees, on which he was resting his chin. He was staring intently at the flames licking out of the stove’s belly, like a youngster lost in dreams. Xiaojia was leaning against a post behind his father, legs spread apart to accommodate a container of sheep’s intestines, which he was stuffing into steaming cakes before cramming them into his mouth as if he were alone up there. Sun Meiniang was leaning against another post across from Xiaojia, her head lolled to the side, her face hidden behind a mass of uncombed hair. Looking more dead than alive, she had lost every vestige of her once-graceful bearing. I was able to distinguish the hazy outline of Sun Bing’s face behind the gauzy curtain. His low moans told me that he was barely hanging on. The stench of his body was drawing hordes of owls to the site, where they soared in the sky directly above, the silence broken by their frequent chilling screeches. Sun Bing, you should be dead by now, meow meow, that Maoqiang opera of yours is a fount of myriad feelings, and now the sound that has such complex implications—that meow—has actually made a wild dash out of my mouth, meow meow. Sun Bing, it all happened because I was so muddleheaded, blessed or cursed with a soft heart, always cautious and indecisive, a mind too cluttered to see through their cunning scheme. Keeping you alive cost the lives of too many of Northeast Gaomi Township’s residents and cut Maoqiang opera off from its future. Meow meow . . .

I woke the club-wielding yayi out of their stupor and told them to go home to sleep, that I would take care of things up on the platform. I’d just taken a heavy load from their shoulders, and they scooted down the plank, dragging their clubs behind them, as if they feared I’d change my mind; they vanished into the moonlight.

My arrival sparked no reaction from the two men up there, almost as if I were nothing but an empty shadow, or a minor accomplice. Well, they’d have been right, because that’s exactly what I was, one of their accomplices. I was trying to decide which of them to stab first when Zhao Jia picked up the medicine pot by its handle and poured its contents into a black bowl.

“Son,” he said with authority, “are you done eating? If not, finish later. I want you to help me pour this down his throat.”

Xiaojia, ever the obedient son, got to his feet. His monkey-like clownish airs had largely receded after what had happened earlier that day. He smiled at me, then parted the gauzy curtain of the enclosure, exposing Sun Bing’s body, which had shriveled considerably. His face had gotten smaller, his eyes bigger; I could count his ribs, and was reminded of a dead frog I’d seen down in the countryside, nailed to a tree by mischievous children.

Sun Bing moved his head when Xiaojia opened the curtain and began to mumble:

“Hmm . . . hmm . . . let me die . . . just let me die . . .”

It was a stirring snippet of speech, and it gave my plan even more cause and meaning, for now Sun Bing no longer wanted to live, having finally comprehended the sinful nature of trying to stay alive. Plunging my knife into his chest would grant him his wish.

Xiaojia willfully thrust an ox-horn funnel designed for medicating domestic animals into Sun Bing’s mouth, then gripped his head to hold it steady and let Zhao Jia slowly pour in the ginseng. A gurgling sound emerged from that mouth, emanating from deep down in his throat, as the mixture slid into his stomach.

“What do you say, Old Zhao,” I said in a mocking tone from where I stood behind him. “Think he’ll live till tomorrow morning?”

Suddenly on his guard, he turned and said, a bright, piercing light in his eyes:

“I guarantee it.”

“Granny Zhao is the author of a true wonder in the world of humans!”

“I could not have reached the pinnacle of my profession without the support of my betters,” Zhao Jia said humbly. “I cannot lay claim to achievements made possible by others.”

“Zhao Jia,” I said with a chill to my voice, “don’t be too quick to claim success. I do not think he will survive the night—”

“I will stake my life on it. If Your Eminence will grant me another half jin of ginseng, I can keep him alive another three days!”

I laughed out loud before reaching down and extracting a razor-tipped dagger from inside my boot. Knife in hand, I leaped forward to plunge it into Sun Bing’s chest. But the chest it penetrated was not Sun Bing’s. Seeing what was about to happen, Xiaojia had thrown himself between Sun and me. He slumped to the ground at Sun Bing’s feet when I pulled my knife out. Blood spurting from the wound seared my hand. Zhao Jia released a plaintive cry:

“My son . . .” He was disconsolate.

He flung the bowl in his hand at my head; I too let out a plaintive cry when the hot, fragrant liquid splashed on my face. The sound still hung in the air as Zhao Jia crouched down, like a panther about to pounce, and flung himself headfirst at me. His skull struck me flush in the abdomen, sending me flying, arms flailing, to the platform floor, face-up. He wasted no time in straddling me and digging his seemingly soft, delicate hands into my throat, like the talons of a bird of prey, at the same time gnawing on my forehead. Everything went dark as I struggled, but my arms were like dead branches.

Zhao Jia’s fingers loosened their grip at the very moment I saw my wife’s face above Wangxiang tai, and he stopped gnawing on my forehead. I rolled him off me with my knee and struggled to my feet. He lay on the platform floor, a knife in his back, his gaunt face twitching pitifully. Sun Meiniang stood over him, a dazed look in her eyes. The muscles in her pale face were quivering, and her features had shifted; she looked less human than demonic. The moonbeams were like water, like liquid silver; they were ice, they were frost. I would not see such brilliant moonbeams ever again. Looking past them, I believed I could see the worthy nephew of the Liu family suddenly appear in front of Yuan Shikai and, in the name of his father, and of the Six Gentlemen, and of the Great Qing Nation, draw a pair of shiny golden pistols, just as my brother had done . . .

My mind reeled as I got to my feet. I reached out to her. Meiniang . . . my beloved . . .

She screamed, turned, and ran down the plank. Her body looked like a mass of moldy cotton floating through the air, as if weightless. Was there any need for me to go after her? No, my affairs were coming to an end, and we would have to wait to meet again in another world. I pulled her knife out of Zhao Jia’s back and wiped the blood from the blade on my clothing. Then I walked up to Sun Bing and, with the light from the lantern and from the moon—the former was a murky yellow, the latter bright and transparent—looked closely into his tranquil face.

“Sun Bing, I have wronged you in so many ways, but it was not I who plucked out your beard.” With that heartfelt comment, I drove the knife into his chest. And when I did, brilliant sparks flew from his eyes, producing a bright halo around his face, brighter than the moonlight. I watched blood flow from the corners of his mouth, along with a single brief statement:

“The opera . . . has ended . . .”