Sandalwood Death (25 page)

Her heart began to race, her mouth was dry, and her knees went weak when she stepped into the Second Hall compound. The young clerk leading the way stopped and pointed with his pursed lips to the document room. She turned to thank him, but he had already left her side and returned to his courtyard. As she stood in front of the high carved and latticed door, she took a deep breath to settle the turmoil in her heart. Blasts of the heavy fragrance of lilac emerging from the Budgetary Office area behind the Second Hall made her restless. She touched up the curls at her ears, straightened the red velvet flower tucked behind one of them, then ran her hand down over her jacket, from the slanted collar to the hem. When she gently opened the door, a green curtain embroidered with two silver egrets blocked her way, and in that instant the blood seemed to race uncontrollably through her body, as the image of the intimate pair of white egrets she’d seen kissing on the pond leaped into her head. She had to bite her lip to keep from crying out, and was mystified by her inability to tell whether the turmoil she was experiencing was caused by love or by hate, by resentment or by injustice. What she did know was that her chest felt as if it might explode. With difficulty, she took several steps backward and rested her head against the coolness of the wall.

By clenching her teeth, in time she was able to calm the rough seas inside. She returned to the door, where she heard the faint rustle of pages in a book being turned and the clink of a lid as it was placed on a teacup. When that was followed by a light cough, her throat clamped shut and she could hardly breathe. It was his cough, a cough by the man of her dreams, but also the cough of a bitter enemy, the man who had yanked out every hair of her father’s beard, a man with a benevolent exterior but a cruel nature. She was reminded of the humiliation stemming from her unrequited love and of Aunty Lü’s advice, plus the filthy remedy she had consumed. You thug, now I know why I have come. I fooled myself into believing that I wanted to avenge my father, but in fact, the sickness is in my bones and cannot be cured, not in this life. I have come for release, though I know he could never give a passing glance to the big-footed wife of a butcher. If I throw myself at him, he will only push me away. For me there is no hope and no salvation, so I will let you watch me die, or maybe I will watch you die and then follow you by my own hand.

In order to find the courage to break through the curtain before her, she had to intensify her hatred. But that sense was like nothing so much as willow catkins lifted into the air by a spring breeze—rootless and insubstantial, powerless to keep from being blown out of existence by even the slightest breath of air. The bouquet of lilac dulled her mind and unsettled her heart, just as a faint whistle rose from the other side of the curtain, like the melodious twitter of a bird. The idea that an eminent personage such as the County Magistrate was capable of whistling like a frivolous young man caught her by surprise. A cool breezed seemed to caress her, raising gooseflesh and opening a seam in her mind. Heavenly Laoye, if I don’t do something fast, my courage will desert me altogether. She needed an immediate change of plans. Reaching into her basket, she took out the knife, intending to rush into the room and stab him in the heart before turning the knife on herself. Their blood would flow together. Steeling herself, she tore open the curtain, took one step, and was in the document room; the egrets on the embroidered curtain fell back into place to cut the two of them off from the outside world.

The document room’s broad writing desk, the writing implements atop it, the scrolls of calligraphy hanging on the walls, a flower rack in the corner, the flower pots on it, and the flowers and plants in them were illuminated by sunlight streaming in through the latticed window; it all slowly entered her consciousness once the intense emotions had peaked and were beginning to retreat. When she’d first parted the curtain, the only thing that had entered the curtain of her vision was the Magistrate. Casually dressed in a baggy robe, he was leaning back in an armchair with his white-stockinged feet on the table. Startled by her entrance, he took his feet down, a look of astonishment frozen on his face. He sat up, laid down the book he was reading, and stared at her.

“You . . .”

Then two pairs of eyes were riveted to each other, as if linked by red threads that quickly became entangled. An invisible rope seemed to bind her tightly, and she hadn’t an ounce of strength to struggle against it. The basket over her arm and the knife in her hand clattered to the brick floor. Light glinted off the knife. She did not see it; neither did he. The cooked dog’s legs gave off a mouth-watering aroma. She did not smell it; neither did he. Hot tears gurgled from her eyes and wetted her face as well as the front of her jacket. She’d put on a lotus-colored satin top whose sleeves, collar, and hem were all embroidered with pea-green floral piping. The high collar enhanced her long, delicate, fair neck. Her haughty breasts cried out from under her jacket, and her slightly reddened face looked like a dew-covered pink lotus—fragile, tender, timid, abashed. Magistrate Qian was profoundly moved. This beautiful woman, who seemed to have fallen out of the sky, was like a lover who had returned after a long absence.

He stood up and walked around the table, oblivious to the bruising bump on his leg when he skirted the corner of the desk. He could not take his eyes off hers. She filled his heart, leaving room for nothing else, like a butterfly-to-be imprisoned by the thin skin of its cocoon. His eyes were moist, his breathing labored. He stretched out his arms, opening up to her, stopping just before they met. Their eyes never wavered, despite the tears filling them. Their strength was gathering, the heat was rising, until finally they were in each other’s arms, though who had made the first move would always remain a mystery. They were quickly entwined, like a pair of snakes, investing all their strength in the embrace. They stopped breathing at the same moment; their joints cracked noisily. Lips drew closer and were frozen together. Their eyes closed in the midst of a frenzy of activity by hot lips and searching tongues. Rivers roiled, seas churned; you swallow me, I devour you, lips began to melt from the heat . . . afterward, flowing water formed a channel, ripe melons fell from the vine, and no power on earth could stand in their way. There in broad daylight, amid the solemnity of a document room, absent an ivory bed and a conjugal quilt, he and she shed their cocoons and emerged with natural beauty as they achieved immortality.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

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1

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On the Chinese lunar calendar, March 2, 1900, was the second day of the second month in the twenty-sixth year of the Great Qing Guangxu Emperor. According to legend, that date is when the hibernating dragon lifts its head. After that day, spring sunlight begins to raise the temperature on the ground, and it is nearly time to take the oxen out into the fields to begin the plowing. For the citizens of Northeast Gaomi Township’s Masang Town, who themselves had emerged from a sort of winter hibernation, it was time to crowd into the marketplace, whether or not they had business there. Those with no money to spend strolled around the area taking in the sights and watching a bit of street opera; those lucky enough to have money enjoyed buns fresh from the oven, passed the time in teashops, or enjoyed glasses of sorghum spirits. It was a bright, sunny day that year, with a slight breeze from the north, a typical early spring day when the chill of winter gives way to the warmth of spring. Fashion-conscious young women changed out of their bulky winter clothes into unlined jackets that showed off their curves.

Early in the morning, the proprietor of the Sun Family Teashop, Sun Bing, climbed up one side of the steep riverbank with his carrying pole and down the other to the Masang River, where he stepped onto the wooden pier to fill his buckets with fresh, clean water for the day’s business. He saw that the last of the river ice had melted overnight, replaced by ripples on the surface of the blue-green water, from which a chilled vapor rose into the air.

The year before had seen its problems—an arid spring and a soggy autumn—but since the area had been spared hailstorms and locusts, it could not be considered an especially bad year. As evidence of his solicitude for the people’s well being, Magistrate Qian had reported a flood to his superiors, which had led to a fifty percent reduction in taxes for all of Northeast Gaomi Township—making their lives even better than in years with good harvests. To show their gratitude, the residents contributed to the purchase of a people’s umbrella and chose Sun Bing to present this token of respect to the Magistrate. He did everything possible to decline the request, so the people simply dumped the umbrella in his teashop.

Left with no choice, Sun Bing carried the people’s umbrella to the county yamen to present it to the Magistrate. It would be his first time back since losing his beard, and as he walked down the street, though he was not sure if what he felt was shame or anger or sadness, a painful chin, hot ears, and sweaty palms were proof of something. When he met people he knew, his cheeks reddened before a word of greeting was exchanged, for no matter what they said, he detected a mocking tone and a note of derision. Worst of all, he could find no valid excuse to react with anger.

After entering the yamen compound, he was led by a yayi to the official reception hall, where he deposited the umbrella and turned to leave, just as the sound of Magistrate Qian’s booming laughter was carried in on the air. Qian walked in wearing a short jacket over his long gown, a red tasseled cap on his head and a white fan in his hand. He looked and acted every bit the part of an impressive County Magistrate. He strode forward, hand outstretched, and said cordially:

“Ah, Sun Bing, a competition has formed a true bond between us.”

The gamut of emotions—sweet, sour, bitter, hot, and salty—crowded Sun Bing’s feelings as he gazed at the beautiful beard adorning Qian Ding’s chin and thought back to the beard he had once sported, only to be replaced by an ugly, mangy-looking pitted chin. He had prepared a biting comment, but was able only to sputter, “Your humble servant has been deputized by the people of Northeast Township to present Your Eminence with this umbrella . . .” He opened the red umbrella to display the signatures of the official’s subjects and held it up for him to see.

“My, my,” Qian Ding uttered, clearly touched by the gesture. “How can I, a man with few talents and no virtue, accept such a grand honor? I am unworthy, truly unworthy . . .”

Qian Ding’s expression of humility had a relaxing effect on Sun Bing, who straightened up and said, “If Your Honor has no further instructions, your humble servant will take his leave.”

“As a representative of the good people who have honored me with this umbrella, you cannot simply leave. Chunsheng!” he shouted.

Chunsheng rushed in and bowed. “What can I do for Your Eminence?”

“Have the kitchen prepare a grand banquet,” Qian Ding commanded, “and while you’re at it, have my correspondence secretary deliver invitations to the banquet to senior members of the local gentry.”

It was indeed a grand banquet, at which the Magistrate personally poured spirits for his guests, who took turns proposing toasts and, in the process, getting Sun Bing roaring drunk, too drunk to stand. The grudge he had carried in his heart and an indescribable sense of awkwardness vanished without a trace. So when he was lugged outside, he burst into song, a line from a Maoqiang opera:

In Peach Blossom Palace a king alone is hidden, as thoughts of the fair maiden Zhao come to him unbidden . . .

Over the year just passed, residents of Northeast Gaomi Township had felt good about things in general; but it had not been a year without troubling concerns, and foremost among them was that teams of German civil engineers had begun laying track for a rail line from Qingdao to Jinan, which would run through Gaomi Township. News of the impending construction had been in the wind for years, but had not been taken seriously. Not, that is, until the year before, when the rail bed had reached their borders. This, they all felt, was serious. All one had to do was stand on the Masang River levee to see that the rail bed had already come out of the southeast and lay across the flat open country like a turf dragon. The Germans had erected a construction shed and material storehouse to the rear of Masang Town, in the vicinity of the new rail bed, which looked from a distance like a pair of enormous ships.

After returning with his buckets of water, Sun Bing put down his carrying pole and told his newly hired helper, a youngster called Stone, to boil the water while he went out front to clean off the tables, chairs, and benches, wash the teapots and cups, and open the door to the street. That done, he sat behind the counter and enjoyed a smoke as he waited for customers.

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2

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The forcible loss of Sun Bing’s beard had introduced profound changes in his life.

He lay in bed that morning staring up at the rope hanging from the rafters, waiting to hear whether or not his daughter had been successful in her intended assassination. He was ready at a moment’s notice to take his own life, for he knew that however the attempt turned out, he was not likely to avoid implication, which would mean imprisonment—again. He knew the horrors of the county lockup from his earlier experience, and would kill himself before going back there.

He stayed in bed the whole day, awake most of the time and sleeping the rest, or lying somewhere between the two, and at those times the image of that thug seemed to fall out of the moonlit sky straight into his head. Big and tall, he had powerful legs and moved like a black cat, quick and nimble. Sun Bing had been walking down the narrow cobblestone lane that ran from Ten Fragrances Tower to the Cao Family Inn; the stones beneath his feet turned a watery bright in the moonlight, as he dragged a long shadow behind him. His legs were rubbery, his head foggy, thanks to his drinking and whoring at Ten Fragrances Tower, so when the man in black suddenly appeared in front of him, he thought he was seeing things. But the man’s chilling laughter quickly cleared his head. He instinctively dug out the few coins he had in his pocket and tossed them to the ground in front of him. As the coins clinked on the stone-paved road, he slurred the words “Friend, my name is Sun Bing; I’m a poor Maoqiang actor from Northeast Gaomi Township. I just spent all my money on a bit of debauchery, but come see me where I live someday, and I’ll sing a whole play for you.” The man in black did not even look at the coins on the ground. Instead, he pressed closer and closer, so close that Sun Bing felt a chill emanating from the man’s body. He was clear-headed enough to realize that he was face to face, not with a run-of-the-mill mugger who wanted money, but with someone intent on harming him. His mind spun like a carousel as he scrolled through his potential enemies and backed up slowly, all the way to a corner formed by a pair of walls, out of the moonlight. The man in black, however, remained in the light, silvery rays reflecting off his body. Though his face was masked, the outlines of his face were discernible, and the loose black sack that hung from his chin down past his chest flashed into Sun Bing’s field of vision, a sight that opened up a crack in his mind to let in the light of understanding; the image of the County Magistrate seemed to emerge from the cocoon of black clothing. A sense of terror was abruptly replaced by loathing and contempt. “So, it’s His Eminence,” he said disdainfully. More chilling laughter was the response of the man in black as he took hold of the loose sack and shook it, as if to confirm the accuracy of Sun Bing’s conjecture. “So tell me, Your Eminence,” Sun Bing said, “what do you want from me?” He clenched his fists in readiness to engage the County Magistrate, who was disguised as a man of the night. But before a punch was thrown, his chin felt as if the skin had been ripped off, and he saw that the man was holding a handful of his beard. With a screech, Sun Bing rushed at his attacker. Half a lifetime of singing opera had taught him how to execute a somersault and perform tumbling acts, and although these were only play-acting martial moves, in a fight with a scholar they were more than adequate. Sun Bing’s anger stoked his fighting spirit as he moved into the moonlight to accost the man in black. But before his first punch landed, Sun Bing was lying flat on his back, his head reverberating from thudding against the stones in the lane; he lost consciousness from the excruciating pain, and when he came to, the man in black was standing over him, his foot planted on Sun Bing’s chest. He had trouble breathing. “Your Eminence,” he said with difficulty, “didn’t you already pardon me? Then why . . .” More chilling laughter, but not a word in response. He reached down and grabbed Sun’s beard, yanked hard, and pulled most of it out of his chin. Sun Bing screamed in agony. The man in black tossed the beard away, picked up a stone, and stuffed it into Sun’s mouth. Then, with amazing skill and strength, he jerked out the remaining whiskers. By the time Sun Bing struggled to his feet, the man in black was gone, and if not for the searing pain in his chin and the back of his head, he’d have thought it had all been a dream. But there was also the stone that filled his mouth, which he removed with his fingers and immediately burst into tears. He looked down on the ground, and there, in the moonlight, he saw the remnants of his beard on the cobblestones, like clumps of water grass, still twitching sadly.