Sandalwood Death

BOOK TWO


Belly of the Pig


CHAPTER FIVE


Battle of the Beards



1




Qian Ding, newly appointed Magistrate of Gaomi County, had a spectacular beard that cascaded from his chin down across his chest. At his first official audience, this beard served to warn the wily clerks in the six boards and three ranks of devilishly crafty yayi against insubordination. His predecessor, a man with protruding lips and the chin of an ape, from which had sprouted a few dozen ratty whiskers, had bought his position. The man had been ignorant and incompetent, his only skill the accumulation of riches. He’d sat in the audience hall pulling his ears and scratching his cheeks like a macaque monkey. His wretched appearance and shameless immorality had created a psychological benchmark for his successor, Qian Ding. The gathered petty officials witnessed something fresh and appealing in the dignified demeanor of the new County Magistrate, and Qian Ding was struck by the light of amicability in the eyes of the men arrayed in front of him.

Qian had passed the Imperial Examination with distinction, achieving one of the highest rankings, in 1883, the eighth year of the Qing Guangxu Emperor’s reign, sharing honors with Liu Guangdi, one of the renowned Six Gentlemen of the Wuxu Reform Movement. Liu was the thirty-seventh successful candidate of the Second Rank, Qian the thirty-eighth. After passing the examination, he spent two years in the capital in a minor government office, then bribed his way into a provincial assignment. He had served as Magistrate before, first in Guangdong’s Dianbai County, and then in Sichuan’s Fushun County, the latter being the birthplace of Liu Guangdi. Both Dianbai and Fushun were remote, inaccessible locales with barren mountains and untamed rivers; the people led such impoverished, wretched lives that even had he aspired to be a corrupt official, there was no grease to skim. And so, for his third posting, he came to Gaomi, where access was convenient and riches abounded. While it was a lateral appointment, in his eyes it was a promotion. A man of spirited aspirations and robust vitality, he had a radiantly ruddy face, eyebrows like sleeping silkworms, and a gaze that had the quality of lacquer; every strand in his beard was as thick as horsehair and long enough to touch the desktop behind which he sat. An impressive beard represented half of what it took to gain credibility among the governed. His colleagues were fond of teasing him: “Elder Brother Qian,” they would say, “if the Old Buddha Herself were to lay eyes on you, at the very least you would be posted as a Circuit Magistrate.” Unfortunately, there had been no opportunity to display his dignified demeanor in the Imperial presence, and as he sat at his mirror combing out his beard, he could only sigh and lament, “What a shame that this face, with its dignified appearance, and this fine, ethereal beard are ill regarded at Court!”

On the long journey from Sichuan to take up his new post in Shandong, he had stopped at a small temple on the Yellow River in Shaanxi to draw a divination lot, and was rewarded with great good tidings. The inscribed poem read: “Should the bream reach the western Yangtze, thunder will rend the sky.” This tally swept away the deep-seated depression that had accompanied his career failures, and instilled in him confidence and high hopes. Upon his arrival in the county, despite being fatigued and covered with dust after a long journey, not to mention suffering from symptoms of a minor cold, he set right to work. After receiving the symbols of office from his predecessor, he summoned his subordinates to the audience hall, where he spoke to them for the first time. Splendid words flowing from a cheerful frame of mind gushed from his mouth. His predecessor had been a simple-minded dolt who could not string three simple sentences together. He, on the other hand, had a full-throated, richly seductive voice that at this moment was enhanced by a slightly nasal tone caused by the cold. The looks in the eyes of the listeners arrayed below him signaled success. When his speech was finished, he stroked his impressive beard with his thumb and forefinger and announced an end to the formal audience. His gaze then swept across the faces of the gathered functionaries, each of whom felt that the honorable Magistrate was looking only at him. The enigmatic look in those eyes seemed to include equal parts warning and encouragement. He then stood, turned, and walked out of the hall, a neat, orderly departure, like a breath of fresh air.

Soon afterward, at a banquet for local worthies, his handsome demeanor and impressive beard were once again the focus of attention for all who were present. The nasal obstruction had cleared up, and Gaomi County’s local specialty, aged millet spirits, and fatty dog meat—the spirits relaxed his muscles and joints and enhanced the flow of blood, while the fatty dog meat improved his looks—made his face glow with conspicuous health and lent increased elegance to his beard. He offered a toast in a cadenced voice, announcing to his elite guests that he was determined to use his office to enrich the lives of the local population. His speech was interrupted frequently by thunderous applause and shouts of approval, and when he had finished, the ovation lasted until the incense sticks had burned halfway down. He then raised his glass to all the skullcaps and goatees at the table. The men’s legs trembled when they stood; their hands shook and their lips quaked as they emptied their glasses. The Magistrate then called their attention to one of the dishes—a head of cabbage a vivid emerald green that gave no sign of being cooked. None of the guests dared touch the spectacular dish with his chopsticks for fear of making a fool of himself. “Worthy gentlemen,” the Magistrate said, “not only is this cabbage fully cooked, it has been stuffed with more than a dozen rare delicacies.” He touched the seemingly unblemished head gently with his chopsticks, and it opened like a flower bud, to reveal a rich, pulpy interior and fill the room with an aroma of great refinement. Most of the honored guests—unsophisticated locals and voracious meat and fish eaters—were ignorant of the more poetic forms of cuisine. But urged on by their illustrious host, they reached out, snagged cabbage leaves with their chopsticks, and put them into their mouths. Approving headshakes and words of praise followed. Elder Xiong, Magistrate Qian’s revenue clerk, who had joined him at the table, wasted no time in introducing the Magistrate’s wife, Gaomi County’s First Lady, to the honored guests: she was the maternal granddaughter of Zeng Guofan—given the posthumous title and name of Lord Wenzheng. She had personally prepared the dish, Emerald Cabbage, the recipe having been passed down by her grandfather, who had created it with his master chef when he served in the capital as Vice President of the Board of Rites. Together they had tried several variants before reaching the perfection they were enjoying today. It embodied the wisdom of a generation of renowned officials. The revered Lord Wenzheng, who had mastered both the pen and the sword, had also been a chef par excellence, second to none. Xiong’s introduction was greeted with even greater applause; tears spilling from the eyes of aging worthies sluiced down through the wrinkles in their cheeks. Snivel hung from the strands of their feeble goatees.

After all around the table had emptied three glasses, the local worthies approached the Magistrate, one at a time, to toast his arrival and sing his praises, each in his own way. And while their comments differed in style if not in elegance, the one constant was a mention of the revered one’s beard. One intoned, “Our esteemed Magistrate is a reincarnation of Guan Yu, a rebirth of Wu Zixu.” Another pronounced that Zhuge Liang had returned in the person of the esteemed Magistrate; the Deva King had descended from heaven. Now, while Qian Ding could tolerate a great deal, this group of toadies was more than he could endure. He could not, of course, refuse to be toasted and was obliged to empty his glass each time, and the more he drank, the further he moved away from his official airs. He chatted energetically, he talked and laughed merrily, he shuffled and gestured, his head was turned by the effusive praise, and he began to display his unrestrained nature as he moved steadily closer to the people.

That day he drank himself into a stupor; his worthy guests, too, lay passed out around the table. It was a banquet that rocked Gaomi County to its core and became a popular topic of conversation far and wide. The Emerald Cabbage gained almost mythical qualities on the people’s tongues. People said that it was a mysterious viand that could not be separated until Magistrate Qian touched it with his chopsticks, at which time it opened like a white lily, with dozens of petals, each tipped with a glistening pearl.

Word quickly spread that the new Magistrate was the grandson-in-law of Lord Wenzheng. Endowed with an imposing presence, he sported a beard worthy of Guan Yu himself. Not only was the Magistrate the epitome of dignity, but his name had appeared high on the list of successful candidates at the Imperial Examination, and he thus joined the circle of Imperial attendants. Brimming with talent, he was a master of eloquence. With an unmatched capacity for spirits, even drunk he retained his poise, like a jade tree standing tall before a wind or a mountain withstanding a spring deluge. Then there was the Magistrate’s wife, descendant of an illustrious family, a woman of matchless beauty and incomparable virtue. Their arrival in Gaomi County promised immense blessings for the people.





2




Northeast Gaomi Township was home to the leader of the local Maoqiang troupe, Sun Bing, a man who was also endowed with a splendid beard. Maoqiang, otherwise known as Cat Opera, is an operatic genre created and developed in Northeast Gaomi Township. The arias are exquisite, the staging unique, the ambience magical; in short, it is the ideal portrayal of life in the township. Sun Bing was both a reformer and an inheritor of the Maoqiang tradition, a man who enjoyed high prestige among his peers. As a performer of the old-man role, playing respected old men, he was never in need of a stage beard, since none could match the natural appeal of his own. As luck would have it, upon the birth of his grandson, the township’s richest man, Master Liu, hosted a celebration banquet, to which Sun Bing was invited. Also in attendance was a yamen clerk by the name of Li Wu, who sat at the head of a table in a pompous demonstration of his stature, and proceeded to sing the praises of the County Magistrate, from his eloquence to his every action, from his interests to his favorite activities. But the climactic note was sounded in his tribute to the Magistrate’s impressive beard.

Now, even though Li Wu was on leave from his post, on this occasion he was dressed in full formal attire, minus only his baton of authority. Gesticulating dramatically and blustering nonstop, he so intimidated the other guests, all decent, simple men, that they could only gape in stupefaction, the meal in front of them forgotten. With ears pricked, they listened wide-eyed to the man’s voluble outbursts as he slung slobber into the air. Sun Bing, a man of the world, had been to many places and seen many things, and had Li Wu not been present, Sun would have been the center of attention. But Li was present, and since everyone knew that he was in attendance to the County Magistrate, Sun was ignored. He could only drink alone to drown his melancholy, casting disdainful looks and snorts of derision in the direction of the despicable lackey. No one noticed, and in the eyes of Li Wu, Sun might as well not have been at the table at all, so intent was he on elaborately extolling the virtues of the Magistrate’s beard.

“Among ordinary mortals, no more than a thousand strands make up the finest beard. But can you guess how many strands His Eminence’s superb specimen contains? Ha ha, I see you are stumped. I am not surprised. Last month I accompanied His Eminence on a tour to observe the people’s mood, and engaged him in a conversation. ‘Young Li,’ he said to me, ‘how many strands do you think are in this official’s beard?’ ‘I dare not presume to guess, Your Eminence,’ I replied. ‘I am not surprised,’ he remarked. ‘Well, I shall tell you. This official’s beard is comprised of nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine strands! One short of ten thousand! The First Lady performed the calculation.’ How, I asked, was the calculation of such a beard accomplished? ‘The First Lady is as finely meticulous as a human hair and endowed with surpassing intelligence. By counting one hundred strands at a time and tying them off with a silk thread, she accomplished the feat. She could not possibly be wrong.’ ‘Your Eminence,’ I said, ‘if you grew but one more strand, you would have the ultimate round number.’ To which he replied, ‘That, young Li, shows your lack of understanding. In the affairs of the world, perfection is a taboo. Take the moon, for instance. Once it is a perfect circle, the erosion begins. Or fruit on a tree. The moment it is perfectly ripe, it falls to the ground. A degree of deficiency is vital for all things if they are to last. There is no more auspicious number than nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine. Ten thousand is detrimental for the people and for those who govern them. This, my young Li, is a paradox you must work hard to grasp.’ That comment by His Eminence is an arcane truth of boundless import, yet one that I have yet to unlock. He then said to me, ‘Young Li, the number of strands in this official’s beard is known to only three people alive. One is you, I am another, and the third is my wife. You must not breathe a word of it to anyone, for if it were to be revealed, it not only would be a harbinger of bad tidings, but might well spawn a great calamity.’”

Li Wu picked up his glass, drank from it, and then picked at dishes with his chopsticks, clicking his tongue in a display of criticism over the crude array of food. Finally he picked up a bean sprout, which he chewed noisily with his front teeth, like a mouse that lazily grinds its teeth after eating its fill. Master Liu’s son, the father of the new grandson, rushed up with a plate of steaming pig’s-head meat and placed it in front of Li Wu before wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his greasy hand. “We have treated you shamelessly, Uncle Li,” he said. “We are peasants, untrained in the preparation of fine cuisine. Won’t you do us the honor of sampling this?”

Li Wu spat out the bean sprout, which had been stuck between his front teeth, and banged his chopsticks down on the table. Clearly unhappy, he forced himself to speak with laudable forbearance: “Elder nephew Liu,” he said, “your concern is misplaced. Do you really think I am here because of the food? If it were a meal I desired, I could visit any establishment in town and, without a word, be served fine sea cucumbers and abalone, camel’s hoof and bear’s paw, monkey brains and bird’s nest soup, one dish after another. Eating one while sampling another with an eye to the third, that, my boy, is a banquet worthy of the name. And what has your family provided? Some half-cooked bean sprouts, a plate of rotting, pestilential pig’s head, and a decanter of sour millet spirits neither hot nor cold enough. Is this what you call a celebration banquet? It is more like a meal to get rid of stinking actors. No, I have deigned to attend for two reasons: first as a favor to your father, to prop up your family, and second to mix with the local gentry. I am kept so busy that flames shoot out of my ass, and finding this little bit of time has not been easy.”

The elder son of the Liu family could only nod and bow in response to Li Wu’s rebuke, and make a quick, desperate exit when Li paused to cough.

“Master Liu, you are a learned, cultivated man,” Li Wu said. “How could you have raised such an empty-headed turtle?”

None of the embarrassed guests dared make a sound. But Sun Bing, infuriated by what he had witnessed, pulled the plate of pig’s head over in front of him. “Since the eminent Li Wu is used to eating delicacies from land and sea, placing this pig’s head in front of him is clearly meant to sicken him. For those of us who survive on a diet of chaff and coarse greens, this nicely greases our innards and helps us shit!”

That said, without so much as a glance around the table, he began stuffing greasy, dripping chunks of meat into his mouth, one after the other. “Um, good,” he mumbled, “really good, f*cking delicious!”

Li Wu glowered at Sun Bing, who did not so much as look up. Gaining no satisfaction from his angry glare, Li blinked and turned his gaze on the others around the table. With a curl of his lip, he shook his head in the sort of contempt typical of those in high position, the common display of a gentleman in the presence of petty men. The guests, fearful of causing trouble, held out their glasses in a show of respect for Li, who, like a man who dismounts from his mule on a downward slope, emptied his glass, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and, picking up the thread of conversation lost in the remonstrance of the elder Liu son, said:

“Worthy gentlemen, I revealed the secret of the Lord Magistrate’s beard to you only because we are all friends. As the adage goes, ‘While we are not related, we come from the same place.’ Now that you have been let in on the secret, you must keep it inside and let it rot there. Under no circumstances is what I said to leave this room, for if it were to find its way to the ear of His Eminence, my rice bowl would be unalterably smashed. These are things known only to the Magistrate, to the First Lady, and to me. Kindly take heed!”

Clasping his fists together at his chest, Li Wu bowed to each of the guests in turn; they returned the gesture. “You needn’t worry. It is a rare honor for a place like ours to have in its midst a superior man like Elder Li Wu! Our residents, one and all, wait with bated breath to benefit from their association with you. With that in mind, by speaking out of turn, we would be doing injury to ourselves.”

“It is precisely because we are one big family that I am willing to speak my mind.” Li Wu took another drink and then lowered his voice to speak conspiratorially: “His Eminence frequently summons me to his official document room as a conversation partner. We sit across from one another, like brothers, drinking millet spirits, eating dog meat, and chatting about everything under the sun, past and present. Our Magistrate is a man of erudition, familiar with the affairs of the world, and never happier than when he is engaged in such conversations, with a supply of meat and spirits at hand. These talks frequently continue late into the night, so unnerving the Magistrate’s wife that she sends a maidservant to rap on the window and call out, ‘Master, the Mistress says it is getting late; time to take your rest.’ He invariably replies, ‘Meixiang, go back and tell the Mistress not to wait up for me, that our young Li and I have yet to finish our chat.’ I am not in favor with the Mistress, and that is the cause. A few days ago, on my way to the rear hall on an assignment, I met up with her, and as she blocked my way, she said, ‘Aren’t you something, Little Li, keeping the Magistrate up half the night talking about who knows what, to the point that he has even begun to neglect me. You little wretch, do you or do you not deserve a beating?’ Shaken to the core, I stammered, ‘I do, I do!’”

“Elder Brother Li,” Collegian Ma Da interrupted, “none of us here has ever laid eyes on the First Lady, though there is talk that her face is cratered with pockmarks . . .”

“Rubbish! Utter nonsense. Anyone who says that deserves to wind up in the layer of Hell for wayward tongues!” Li Wu was red in the face from anger. “I ask you, Collegian Ma Da, what is that head of yours filled with, soy milk or rice congee? You have been taught in the ‘Zhao Qian Sun Li Zhou Wu Zheng Wang’ of the Hundred Family Surnames and ‘Heaven is black and Earth is yellow, the universe is in chaos,’ from the Book of Changes, so why do you not use your head and consider the august lady’s lineage! Born into a great family, she was a pearl in the hand of a doting father, raised by a nanny and waited on by a household of maidservants. Her quarters are kept in such immaculate condition that a slice of sticky-rice cake dropped to the floor can be retrieved without a speck of dust. How, I ask you, could anyone emerge from such an environment scarred by the unspeakable affliction of smallpox? The only way she would have marks on her face is if you, Collegian Ma, were to scratch it with your fingernails!”

No amount of discipline could have kept the gathered elites from bursting into sidesplitting laughter, and no amount of self-control could have kept Collegian Ma’s face from turning bright red. “Yes, of course,” he said, both to defend and to mock himself. “How could a fairy among mortals possibly have pockmarks? What an ugly, hateful rumor that is!”

Li Wu cast a sideways glance at the nearly empty plate of meat in front of Sun Bing and swallowed a mouthful of saliva. “That His Eminence Qian and I, his subordinate, have a close and cordial relationship goes without saying. He once said to me, ‘Little Li, there is a natural affinity between us. I cannot tell you why, but it seems to me that you and I are of one heart and mind, adjacent lungs, entwined intestines, and overlapping stomachs.”

Sun Bing nearly spat out the food in his mouth along with his derisive snort, and only by stretching out his neck was he able to swallow it down. “What that means to me,” he said, “is that when Magistrate Qian has eaten his fill, you are no longer hungry.”

“Sun Bing!” Li Wu bellowed. “What is that supposed to mean? Aren’t you an actor who plays emperors and kings, ministers and princes, scholars and beauties, praising the virtues of loyalty, piety, benevolence, and righteousness resounding across the heavens, day in and day out? Then how can you be ignorant of what it means to live in civilized society? You have taken for your sole enjoyment the only meat dish on the table, to which the grease on your lips bears testimony. And yet you have the audacity to slander others, you filthy maggot!”

“Now that you have grown tired of your sea cucumber, bird’s nest, camel’s hoof, and bear’s paw,” Sun Bing said with a laugh, “how can you drool over a plate of pork?”

“You are trying to measure the stature of a great man with the yardstick of a petty one! I object not for myself, but for my fellow guests.”

Again Sun Bing laughed. “They have filled their bellies by licking your hot ass, so what need do they have for meat?”

Stung by Sun’s comment, the guests cursed him all at the same time. Unaffected by their anger, he finished what was left of the meat on the plate, then picked up a steamed bun and used it to sop up the gravy. That done, he belched, lit his pipe, and enjoyed a relaxing smoke.

Li Wu shook his head and sighed. “Born of parents, but raised without them, you should be sent into the city by Magistrate Qian to be given fifty lashes!”

“I say we let it go, brother Li Wu,” Collegian Ma Da chimed in. “The ancients have taught us that idle talk is our drink and free chats our meat. Tell us more about Magistrate Qian and the goings-on in the yamen. That will be a sumptuous feast.”

“I’ve lost interest,” Li Wu replied. “What I can say is, the people of Gaomi County are blessed to have Eminence Qian as their wise and caring Magistrate. Given the depth of his talents, how can we residents of such a trifling little county expect to keep him with us? The day will come when our illustrious official will move up and away from us, if for no other reason than the supernatural beard that adorns his chin. He will attain no less an appointment than Provincial Governor, and when the opportunity presents itself, he, like his esteemed father-in-law, Lord Wenzheng, will become a renowned official for whom the sky is the limit, a pillar of the nation a real possibility.”

“When Eminence Qian rises to fame, Li Wu will move up along with him,” Collegian Ma remarked. “That is what is meant by ‘When the moon is bright, a bald man shines, and when the water rises, the ferryboat floats highest.’ Brother Li Wu, a toast from your humble servant. What worries me is that once your career is in ascent, I can imagine how difficult it will be to see you!”

After draining his glass, Li Wu said, “Truth is, for a subordinate, all the fine language in the world can be refined down to a single word: loyalty. If your superior smiles your way, that is no reason to turn up your nose at others, and if he gives you a swift kick, there is no need to bemoan your fate. That does not hold true, however, for men like Magistrate Qian and Lord Wenzheng, who are either heavenly constellations come down to earth or mighty dragons who have returned to the land of mortals, and live in a different universe than us common folk. What, I ask, is Lord Wenzheng? He is a giant python come back to be among us. People have said that he suffered from ringworm, and that when he climbed out of bed each morning, his servants could fill a ladle with the flakes of pale skin on the sheet. But Magistrate Qian took me aside and told me that what they found was snake molt. And what, I ask you, is Magistrate Qian? I’ll tell you, but you must keep it to yourselves. Once, after he and I had talked late into the night, we were so tired we climbed onto the kang in the Western Parlor, curled up, and went to sleep. All of a sudden, I felt something heavy on top of me—I was dreaming that a tiger had its claws in me. I awoke with a fright, and guess what I saw: one of the Magistrate’s legs was draped across my body . . .”

The men around the table held their breath as their faces paled; their eyes were glued to Li Wu’s mouth, into which he emptied yet another glass. “That is when I grasped the truth that the Magistrate’s beard is so lush that, in reality, it is the beard of a tiger.”

Sun Bing knocked the ashes from his pipe on a table leg, then puffed up his cheeks and blew the tar out of the stem. After tucking his pipe away, he grasped his beard with both hands and, with an exaggerated and strikingly artistic stage gesture, flung it to one side. Assuming the articulated cadence of an operatic old man, he intoned:

“Little Li Wu, go back and tell your master for me that the beard on his chin cannot compare with the hair around my prick!”





3




Bright and early the next morning, before all the fatty pork he’d eaten had moved beyond his stomach, Sun Bing was yanked out of bed by four yamen bailiffs and thrown naked to the floor. His bed partner, Little Peach, an actress who took leading lady dan roles, curled up in a corner, wearing only a red belly warmer, and shuddered from fear. In the chaos that followed, the attackers smashed a chamber pot with a misplaced kick, filling the air with the pungent smell of urine and raising welts all over Sun’s body.

“Worthy brothers,” he shouted, “let’s talk this out, what do you say?”

Two of the men picked him up off the floor, twisting his arms behind him, while a third lit a lamp in a wall recess. Sun Bing saw Li Wu’s smirking face in the golden light.

“Li Wu,” he said, “there is no bad blood between us, never has been, so why are you doing this to me?”

Li Wu stepped up, slapped Sun, and then spat in his face.

“You stinking actor,” he said contemptuously, “you’re right, there is no bad blood between you and me. But there is great enmity between you and Magistrate Qian. As his subordinate, I have no choice but to take you into custody, for which I ask your forbearance.”

“What enmity is there between Magistrate Qian and me?”

Li Wu smirked. “Dear brother, you really do have a short memory. Last night you said that the beard on his chin cannot compare with the hair around your prick, if I’m not mistaken.”

Sun Bing rolled his eyes. “That is malicious slander, Li Wu. When did I say something like that? I’d have to be crazy or stupid to utter something as idiotic as that, and I am neither.”

“You may not be crazy or stupid, but greasy pork muddled your mind.”

“Dry shit does not stick to one’s body!”

“Any man worthy of the name stands behind his words and deeds!” Li Wu insisted. “Now, do you want to get dressed, or shall we take you along naked? If you dress, make it snappy. We don’t have time to argue with a stinking actor, for Magistrate Qian is waiting at the yamen to get a look at the hair around your prick!”





4




The bailiffs dragged and pushed Sun Bing into a hall in the county yamen. He was in a bit of a daze, and his body ached and burned from the beatings he’d suffered over the last three days in a jail cell, where he had played host to legions of bedbugs and fleas. During those three days, he had been taken out of his cell and blindfolded six times by guards, who proceeded to beat him with leather whips and clubs until he was banging into walls like a blind donkey. During those three days, he was given one cup of foul water and a single bowl of spoiled rice. Now, at the end of those three days, he was famished and parched, he ached all over, and most of his blood had been sucked dry by the fleas and bedbugs, whose bodies glistened on the walls like buckwheat soaked in oil. He felt that he was on his last legs, that he would not be able to survive three more days. He regretted his impetuous comment, no matter how pleased he’d been with it at the time. He also wished he hadn’t taken the plate of pork all for himself. Now would be a good time to reach up and punish his trouble-making mouth with several vicious slaps. But no sooner had he raised his arm than he saw stars. Sore and stiff, that arm felt like a piece of cold steel. It fell back to his side, a heavy weight, and hung from his shoulder like a yoke.

On that overcast day, the yamen hall was illuminated by a dozen or more thick candles made of mutton tallow, the odor spreading through the hall from the flickering flames. It was a rancid smell that fogged his mind and made him nauseous; something hard seemed to bounce off the walls of his stomach and churn up a vile liquid that rose into his throat and spewed onto the floor. More than ashamed, he experienced remorse. After wiping the muck from his lips and beard, he was about to apologize for vomiting when, suddenly, a resonant, even, practiced “WOO—WAY” emerged from the dark recesses on both sides of the hall, a scary sound that made him jump. What was he supposed to do now? The answer to that question came in the form of bailiffs’ feet buried in the backs of his knees that forced him to kneel on the hard, unforgiving floor as the official made his way into the hall.

Kneeling was actually more comfortable than standing, and the expulsion of the foul contents of his stomach had cleared his mind. Now, he realized, was not the time to whine or display any weakness: any man worthy of the name accepts the consequences of his actions. Even a beheading leaves only a bowl-sized scar. Under the circumstances, the Magistrate would not be in the mood for leniency, so it would do no good to pretend otherwise. He knew he was going to die, so he might as well go out in style; in another twenty years or so, that could find its way into a libretto and keep his good name alive for generations to come. This thought set the blood racing through his veins and his temples throbbing. His dry, thirsty mouth, his empty, hungry stomach, and his bruised, aching body all seemed to bother him less. His eyes watered, bringing the eyeballs to life. His mind was back in working order, as reminders of all the solemn roles he had played and the fervent arias he had sung surged into his head: I clench my teeth and bear up under abuse, for this cursed official I have no use. Inspired by these heroic sentiments, he threw out his chest and raised his head in the mysterious, forbidding surroundings, as the yayi, secure in the power of the office, kept up the din of “WOO—WAY.”

What was the first thing he saw after raising his head off his chest? There, seated stiffly beneath a board inscribed with the words “justice” and “honor,” seated properly amid the aura of brilliant candlelight, seated correctly behind a heavy carved blood-red table, impressive with a ruddy face and long beard, sober and dignified as an idol, was the County Magistrate himself. One look told Sun Bing that he was under the powerful official’s watchful eye, and he had to admit, however grudgingly, that the man had a formidable presence. Li Wu had not painted a false portrait. Most impressive was the beard that tapered down across the man’s chest, each strand as fine as the silken thread of a horse’s tail. Struck by a sense of shame and inferiority, he experienced a spontaneous affinity for the Magistrate, akin to being reunited with a long-lost brother. Brothers come together in a Magistrate’s hall, a scene of nostalgia brings tears to all.

The Magistrate pounded his gavel, the crisp sound reverberating through the hall. Sun Bing tensed, caught unprepared by the sound, and as he looked into the stately visage of the Magistrate, he awoke, as from a dream, to the reality that this was not a staged performance, that the Magistrate was not an old-man actor, and that at this moment, he was not playing a stage role.

“You there, on your knees, tell us your name!”

“Your humble servant is Sun Bing.”

“Home of record?”

“Northeast Township.”

“Age?”

“Forty-five.”

“Occupation?”

“Opera troupe leader.”

“Do you know why you have been brought here?”

“I had too much to drink and was betrayed by my tongue, casting aspersions on His Eminence.”

“Just what were those aspersions?”

“I dare not repeat them.”

“No harm will come to you for repeating them now.”

“I dare not.”

“I order you to do so.”

“I said that the beard on the County Magistrate’s chin cannot compare with the hair around my prick.”

The comment was met with giggles all around. Sun Bing glanced at the Magistrate, who appeared to have found the comment humorous, but only for a moment, as a stern look replaced the evanescent smile.

“Reckless Sun Bing!” His Eminence thundered, pounding his gavel a second time. “What prompted you to subject this official to humiliation?”

“I deserve death . . . I had heard that the Magistrate had grown a fine beard, news that I did not want to hear, so I said something foolish.”

“Is it your desire to compare beards?”

“Your servant is unskilled and lacks talent. But I have always thought that my beard is second to none. When I perform the role of Guan Gong in The Single Sword Meeting, I do not need to wear a false beard.”

The Great River flows east, wave upon wave, from the west floats a little boat, oh so brave. After leaving nine-tiered Dragon Phoenix Tower, we explore the depths of Dragon Lake and Tiger Cave.

“Stand up. Let me see your beard.”

Sun Bing stood up and rocked from side to side, as if riding waves on a sampan.

Pendants and banners flutter looking east to Wu, a tiger loose in a flock of sheep, a fear of Cao not true . . .

“That is indeed a fine beard, but not necessarily finer than mine.”

“Your servant does not yield.”

“How do you propose to compare beards?”

“Water would be my choice.”

“Go on.”

“Your servant’s beard does not float when placed in water, but goes straight to the bottom.”

“Can that be?” The Magistrate stroked his beard and paused for a moment. “What do you propose should you lose?”

“If your servant loses, then his beard will be the hair around the Magistrate’s prick.”

This time the yayi exploded in laughter. The Magistrate slammed his gavel on the table. “Reckless Sun Bing!” he bellowed, “how dare you say such things here!”

“I deserve death.”

“Sun Bing, directing vile epithets toward an official in his hall deserves severe punishment, but in light of your penchant for straight talk and a willingness to accept the consequences of your speech, I shall show mercy and approve the competition. If you win, all your crimes will be expunged. But if you lose, I shall order you to personally pull out every strand of your beard and never grow another. Do you agree?”

“Your servant agrees.”

“The audience is concluded!” The Magistrate stood up and, like a bright, airy breeze, disappeared behind the screen.





5




The battle of the beards was to take place in the spacious courtyard between the yamen’s main and secondary gates. Wanting not to make it too grand an affair, Magistrate Qian invited fewer than twenty of the county’s most renowned members of the local gentry as spectators and witnesses. But word of the battle between His Eminence and Sun Bing spread like wildfire, and by that morning, crowds of commoners had already gathered at the yamen gate, eager to get in on the fun. The earliest arrivals, always awestruck by the power and prestige of the yamen, kept their distance from the site, but as more and more people came, pushes and shoves moved the crowd closer to the gate. Crowds sometimes fall beyond the law. Commoners, who on most days would not dare even to look up as they passed by the yamen gate, now elbowed the gate guards out of the way and spilled into the yard as if a dam had burst. A mass of humanity quickly filled the spacious yard, while even more people arrived to take their place beyond the gate. Adventurous and unruly youngsters went so far as to climb trees and sit on the perimeter wall.

Invited members of the local gentry were seated on catalpa wood benches arranged in a polygonal circle, looking as if they were carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. They were joined by the Judicial Secretary, the Revenue Clerk, and scribes from the Six Boards. Arrayed in a circle behind them were yayi whose job it was to keep the gawkers from surging forward. Smack in the middle of the circle stood two large tubs of clear water. The principals had not yet arrived. Sweaty, oily faces gave evidence of growing anxiety. Young children, like slippery loaches, were wreaking havoc in the crowd with their erratic movements, pressing against the phalanx of yayi and throwing them off balance, like cornstalks bent before a raging flood. Most of the time these men were a ferocious, threatening lot, but on this day they seemed well disposed to the local residents. This strange and unique contest would actually create an unprecedented cordial relationship between the people and those who governed them. Then one of the benches was overturned by the crush of people, sending its occupant, a tall member of the gentry, jumping to safety. He stood there, water pipe in hand, staring cross-eyed at the crowd, his head cocked to the side like a puzzled rooster. Then a fat man with a long white beard fell to the ground, where he began crawling like a rooting pig, managing to get back on his feet only with considerable effort. As he brushed mud off of his silk gown, he filled the air with hoarse curses until his face puffed up like a red mass of dough right out of the oven. One of the yayi was shoved down onto a bench so hard that he injured his ribcage. He screamed like a stuck pig until his fellow yayi rescued him from his misery. The individual in charge of the yayi, Liu Pu, a young man with a gaunt face and dark skin, stood on one of the benches and, in a lilting Sichuan accent, made a friendly announcement:

“Please don’t push and shove, fellow townsmen. Lives are at stake.”

Midway through the morning, the stars of the show made their entrance. Magistrate Qian strode grandly down the steps of the Great Hall and entered the yard through the secondary gate. Bright sunlight lit up his face as he greeted the spectators with a wave of his hand. Smiling broadly, he displayed a mouth full of spotless white teeth. The crowd was moved, but not so that anyone would notice. They did not jump for joy, they did not they shed a tear, and they did not cheer. They were simply overwhelmed by the Magistrate’s presence. They had, of course, heard that he was a handsome man, but few of them had actually laid eyes on him. On this day he was dressed casually, not in his official robes. Since he was hatless, his broad forehead was freshly shaved, the shiny green of a crab shell; his scalp was slicked down with oil, leading to a long, thick braid that fell down the rise in his buttocks and was secured at the end by a jade ornament from which hung a tiny silver bell that tinkled crisply with each move. The venerable official wore a loose white silk robe and thick-soled green cloth shoes with ribs down the middle; his ankles were tied off with silk garters. The trousers under his robe were so baggy that his midsection looked like a giant floating jellyfish. The highlight of his appearance, of course, was the beard that fell from his chin. Ah, but that was no ordinary beard; it was, rather, a strip of black satin lying atop the man’s chest. So bright it was, so shiny, so glossy, and so sleek. The bright shiny glossy sleek beard hanging in front of the Magistrate’s snow-white chest had a comforting, cheery effect on all who saw it. A woman in the crowd was so taken by the sight of the venerable Magistrate, elegant and graceful, like a jade tree standing before a breeze, that her heart melted, as she seemed to float above the ground, her eyes filling with tears. On a drizzly night only months before, she had been captivated by the easy manner of Magistrate Qian, but on that occasion he had been dressed in his official attire and was properly stern, altogether different from the casual look he affected now. If one were to say that the Magistrate existed on an unattainable plane in his official robes, then one must admit that in everyday attire, he was quite approachable. The young woman was none other than Sun Meiniang.

Meiniang threaded her way forward, her unblinking eyes glued to His Eminence, whose every gesture and every look intoxicated her heart and possessed her soul. She cared not if she stepped on someone’s foot, was not bothered if she bumped into people’s shoulders; the angry shouts that followed her fell on deaf ears. Some in the crowd recognized her as the daughter of one of the principals in today’s battle of the beards, the actor Sun Bing, and immediately assumed that she had come to fret over her father’s fate. They generously made space for her to squeeze her way up to the front row behind the ringed field of combat. At last her knee bumped into a hard wooden bench, and she peered between the heads of some yayi. Her heart had already taken flight and landed on His Eminence’s breast, like a pet bird, there to make its nest and raise its young in bone-penetrating warmth.

The radiant sunlight filled the Magistrate’s eyes with incandescent passion. With hands clasped in front of his chest, he bowed to the assembled members of the local gentry, then turned and did the same to the ordinary residents. Saying not a word, he caressed the crowd with a bewitching smile. Sun Meiniang sensed his gaze brushing her face and stopped for a moment—she felt numb all over. All the fluids in her body—tears, mucus, sweat, blood, marrow—flowed out like quicksilver. She now felt as weightless as a spotless white feather, floating in the air, like a dream, like a breeze.

At that moment, two yayi emerged from the fearful lockup east of the yard, leading the way for the tall, once-robust Sun Bing, looking stern and resolute. His face seemed puffier than usual, and there were purple bruises on his neck. But none of that detracted from his spirited demeanor, however forced it might have been. Sun immediately earned the crowd’s respect when he walked up and stood shoulder to shoulder with the County Magistrate. In neither his attire nor the apparent state of his health could he hold a candle to the venerable Magistrate, but his beard was in a class by itself. It looked to be fuller than his opponent’s, but somewhat disheveled and not as glossy. That aside, it was a remarkable specimen of facial hair.

“That is a dignified appearance,” a thin member of the local gentry said confidentially to his fat companion. “He looks exultant. There is nothing ordinary about the man.”

“Not so fast,” the fat man said scornfully. “What is he but a Maoqiang actor!”

The Judicial Secretary, who was to preside over the competition, rose from the bench on which he was sitting, cleared his opium-scarred throat, and announced:

“Honored gentry, county elders, today’s competition is being held in response to a defamatory comment uttered by the unruly citizen Sun Bing against the venerable County Magistrate. For his felonious transgression, Sun Bing deserves to be punished to the fullest extent of the law, but since this constitutes his first offense, the Magistrate has chosen to dispose of the case with compassion. In order to disprove once and for all his defamatory comment, the Magistrate has accepted the miscreant’s challenge to hold a battle of the beards. If Sun emerges the victor, the Magistrate agrees to drop all charges. But if the Magistrate wins the competition, Sun Bing must personally pull out every strand of his beard and never grow another. Is this your understanding, Sun Bing?”

“It is,” Sun Bing said, his head held high. “I am grateful for the Magistrate’s magnanimity!”

The Judicial Secretary then turned to the Magistrate for confirmation, which came in the form of a barely noticeable nod.

“Let the competition begin!” the Secretary announced grandly.

Without further ado, Sun Bing tore off his shirt to reveal lash marks across his shoulders. After curling his queue on top of his head, he tightened his trouser sash, struck a martial pose—legs apart, arms spread—took a deep breath, and concentrated all his strength in his chin. Like magic, his beard began to vibrate, just long enough for each strand to stretch out as straight and rigid as wire. Then, finally, he lifted his chin, keeping his back straight, as he lowered his body and slowly began to immerse his beard in the water.

This elicited no discernible reaction from Magistrate Qian, who stood off to the side with a smile and gently waved the paper fan in his hand as he watched Sun Bing concentrate his strength in his beard. The onlookers, won over by the Magistrate’s graceful bearing, viewed Sun Bing’s performance as artificial and repulsive, on a par with the common scoundrels who spin spears and twirl clubs to draw attention to the fake nostrums they sell. As soon as Sun began immersing his beard in the vat of water, Magistrate Qian snapped his fan shut and tucked it into his wide sleeve. Then, with a slight shift of his body, he took his beard in both hands, moved it away from his chest, and shook it, displaying boundless elegance and grace, and nearly inducing a mortal swoon in Sun Meiniang in the process. He lifted his chin, keeping his back straight, as he lowered his body and slowly began to immerse his beard in the water.

People stood on tiptoe and craned their necks to see how the beards were faring in the water. But no matter how widely they opened their eyes, most were able to see only the Magistrate’s composed, smiling countenance and Sun Bing’s taut, purple face. Not even those a bit closer to the action had a view of how the beards were faring in the water. The sun was too bright, the brown wooden vats too dark.

The Judicial Secretary and Licentiate Shan, who were to judge the contest, walked back and forth between the two vats, comparing and contrasting, their faces brimming with delight. As a gesture to convince the crowd and forestall any objection, the Secretary called out:

“Those of you who want to see for yourself, come closer!”

Sun Meiniang all but leaped over the benches and strode purposefully up to the Magistrate, lowering her head to the level of the tip of his thick queue, where the inward curve of his spine and the fair lobes of his ear were displayed before her eyes. Her lips burned; a greedy desire gnawed at her heart like a little insect. She yearned to bend down and cover the Magistrate’s body with kisses from her pliant lips, but she lacked the courage. A sensation more profound than pain rose up in her heart and sent a scant few teardrops onto the Magistrate’s potent, handsome, well-proportioned neck. She detected a subtle fragrance emanating from the vat, in which she saw every strand of the Magistrate’s beard perfectly vertical in the water, like the root system of a well-tended plant. She hated the idea of leaving the spot beside his vat, but the Judicial Secretary and Licentiate Shan nudged her over to Sun Bing’s vat. There she saw that her father’s beard had also gone straight to the bottom, also like a plant’s root system. But the Secretary pointed to the few white whiskers floating on the surface.

“Do you see what I see, madam?” he said. “Tell everyone exactly what you see. What we say does not count, but what you say does. Go ahead, tell them who has won and who has lost.”

Sun Meiniang faltered. She looked into her dieh’s red face and bloodshot eyes, and in them she saw the ardent hope he placed in her. But then she turned and saw the expressive eyes of the Magistrate, and she felt as if her mouth were sealed by a sticky substance. In the end, thanks to the prodding of the Judicial Secretary and Licentiate Shan, she broke down and sobbed:

“His Eminence has won and my dieh has lost . . .”

Two heads shot up from their respective vats, bringing with them beards dripping with water. They shook them, sending drops spraying in all directions. Their eyes met. Sun Bing, breathing hard, was dumbfounded; His Eminence was smiling, calm and composed.

“Is there anything else you care to say, Sun Bing?” the Magistrate asked with a smile.

Sun’s lips were twitching. He said nothing.

“In accordance with our agreement, Sun Bing, you are obligated to pluck out your beard!

Sun Bing, I say, Sun Bing, you haven’t forgotten, have you? Does your word mean nothing?”

Sun grabbed his beard with both hands, looked up at the sky, and sighed. “All right, I shall pluck out these annoying threads!” With a violent tug, he jerked out a skein of whiskers and flung them to the ground; drops of blood fell from his chin. He grabbed another skein and was about to pull them out as well, when Sun Meiniang fell to her knees before the Magistrate. Her face, lovely as a peach blossom, could soften any heart. With tears in her eyes, she looked up and pleaded in a delicate voice:

“Your Eminence, I beg you to pardon my dieh.”

The Magistrate squinted, a look of amazement on his face, tinged with gladness and, even more obviously, emotion. His lips fluttered. It hardly seemed as if he spoke at all:

“It’s you . . .”

“Stand up, daughter.” Tears spurted from Sun Bing’s eyes. “I do not want you begging from anyone,” he said softly.

Magistrate Qian, momentarily taken aback by this exchange, burst out laughing, and when he had finished, he said:

“Do you think I really wanted Sun Bing to pluck out that beard of his? Even though he came in second best in today’s competition, a beard like his is rarely seen anywhere in the world. I would feel a sense of loss if he were to pluck it out. The goal of this competition was, first, to stamp out his arrogance, and, second, to supply this august assemblage with a bit of entertainment. Sun Bing, I forgive you your transgressions and spare you your beard. Now, go home and sing your operas!”

Sun Bing fell to his knees and kowtowed.

The commoners in attendance sighed with deep emotion.

The local gentry drenched the Magistrate in flattering words.

Sun Meiniang remained kneeling, looking into the face of the venerable Magistrate Qian with rapt concentration.

“Daughter of the Sun family, you have proven your impartiality, and though you are a woman, you have the pluck of a man, a rarity in this world.” Magistrate Qian turned to his revenue clerk and said, “Reward her with an ounce of silver!”