Sandalwood Death (26 page)

Just before nightfall, his son-in-law walked in buoyantly, tossed him a chunk of flatbread, and walked out, still buoyant. His daughter did not return until it was time to light the lamps. In the glow of red candlelight, she appeared to be wild with joy, not at all like a woman who had just killed someone, not even like a woman who had tried but failed to kill someone. She was acting like a woman who had just returned from a wedding banquet. Before he could open his mouth to say anything, she said sternly:

“Dieh, you could not have been more wrong if you had tried. Magistrate Qian is a scholar whose hands are as soft as cotton batting. How could someone like that be a masked thug? If you ask me, you let those whores of yours pour horse piss down your throat, and you went half blind and half mad. I can’t think of any other reason why you would say something so crazy. Think about it: if His Eminence wanted your beard removed, do you really think that he, a high official, would do it himself? Besides, if he wanted your beard gone, he could have made you do it yourself after the contest, couldn’t he? Why go to the trouble of pardoning you? Not only that, but with what you said about him, he could have had you killed on the spot or put you in the local lockup and left you there to die, like so many before you. But instead he challenged you to a contest. Dieh, you have already left your forties and entered your fifties, so you ought to act your age instead of whoring around and womanizing. The way I see it, the old man in the sky sent someone down to remove that beard of yours as a warning, and if you don’t wise up, the next time it will be your head.”

His daughter’s rapid-fire rebuke made Sun Bing break out in a sweat, and he gazed at her, feeling that something was amiss, however serious she might look. The absurdity of it all had him thinking that most of what she’d said sounded nothing like his daughter. She’d become a different person in the space of a single day.

“Meiniang,” he said with a sneer, “what magic has that Qian fellow performed on you?”

“Is that the sort of thing a father says to his daughter?” she replied angrily. “Magistrate Qian is an upright gentleman who would not look cross-eyed at me.” She took a silver ingot out of her pocket and tossed it onto the bed. “He said about you, ‘He’s a damned actor acting like a turtle awaiting an Imperial Edict.’ No proper man acts like that. He is giving you fifty taels of silver to disband the opera troupe and go into business for yourself.”

Burning with indignation, Sun Bing was tempted to throw the silver back to show what a Northeast Gaomi Township man was made of. Instead, once he picked up the ingot, its cold heft made it impossible to let go.

“Daughter,” he said, “this ingot isn’t lead wrapped in tinfoil, is it?”

“What are you talking about, Dieh?” Meiniang’s anger was palpable. “Don’t think I don’t know how you treated Niang. The way you cheated, it’s no wonder she died an angry woman. Then you let our black donkey nearly bite me to death! For that alone I’ll hate you for the rest of my life. But I’m stuck with you. No matter how much I resent you, you’re still my dieh. If there’s only one person in the world who wishes you well, that person will be me. Please, Dieh, take Magistrate Qian’s advice and do what’s right. If you can find the right woman, marry her and live a peaceful life for as long as you have.” And so Sun Bing returned to Northeast Gaomi Township with the silver ingot, a trip characterized by nearly uncontrollable rage one minute and unbearable shame the next. When he met people on the road, he covered his mouth with his sleeve to keep them from seeing his blood-streaked chin. Not long before he arrived home, he stopped alongside the Masang River to take a look at his reflection; looking back at him was a truly ugly face, striped with wrinkles, frosty gray temples, all in all the face of a doddering old man. With a sigh, he scooped up some water to wash his face, no matter how much it hurt, before heading home.

Sun Bing disbanded the opera troupe. Since he’d already had an intimate relationship with Little Peach, an orphan who sang the female leads, he went ahead and married her. They seemed well suited to one another, despite the substantial difference in age. With the silver given by Magistrate Qian, they bought a compound that faced the street, made some modifications, and opened the Sun Family Teashop. In the spring, Little Peach delivered twins, a boy and a girl, which made him deliriously happy. Magistrate Qian sent a congratulatory gift, a pair of silver necklaces, each weighing an ounce. The news spread like a thunderclap through Northeast Gaomi Township. Congratulations arrived from so many township residents that a banquet consisting of forty tables was necessary as an expression of appreciation. In their private conversations, people began referring to Magistrate Qian as Sun Bing’s semi-son-in-law and to Sun Meiniang as a semi-Magistrate. When this talk reached Sun Bing’s ears, he was, of course, mortified, but as time passed, apathy set in. Now that he had a smooth chin, like a wild horse shorn of its mane and tail, he had lost the air of intimidation and was no longer so easy to anger. A nearly permanent scowl was replaced by a gentle, mellow look. Life was good for the new Sun Bing. His face had regained its color, he was at peace with the world, and he had become a country squire.

————

3

————

At mid-morning, customers filled the teashop. Sun Bing, who was wearing only a thin jacket with a towel draped over his shoulder, was sweating as he went from table to table with a long-nosed brass teapot to fill people’s glasses. As a one-time singer of old men’s roles in opera, he had a sonorous voice with a tragic air, a talent he put to use in his business, shouting out orders as he worked, rhythmical and cadenced. He moved quickly and poured with great accuracy, his hands and feet in perfect harmony with a distinct tempo. His ears seemed always to echo with the enchanting sounds of Maoqiang drumbeats, the strumming of a Maoqiang zither, a lute, and flutes:
Lin Chong Flees at Night. Xu Ce Runs to the City Wall. Three Kingdoms Operas: The Wind and Wave Pavilion, Wang Han Borrows Money at Year’s End, Chang Mao Cries over His Cat . . .
As he made his rounds with the teapot, those operas drove out thoughts of his past and concerns for the future, keeping him focused on the joy that his work brought him. A kettle whistled in the yard out back. He ran out to replenish his teapot with boiling water. There his helper, Stone, stood by the fire, ashes in his hair and soot on his face, which made his teeth look snowy white. He reacted to the appearance of the shopkeeper by redoubling his efforts with the bellows beneath a four-burner stove on top of which sat four brass teapots. The fire blazed and crackled as drops of boiling water splashed onto the flames and turned to white, fragrant steam. Little Peach was holding a toddler in each arm, on her way to the Masang Market to take in the sights. The children’s laughing faces were like bright, shiny flowers.

“Bao’er, Yun’er, say hello to Dieh-dieh,” she said to them.

Together they slurred a greeting. Sun Bing set down his teapot, wiped his hands on his sleeves, and picked them up, one in each arm; and as he affectionately touched their tender little faces with his scarred chin, he breathed in their delightful milk smell. They giggled from the tickly feeling, which all but melted his heart, like soft candy, the sweetness reaching a peak before turning slightly sour. Now he moved more quickly and nimbly in the shop; his voice had more of a ring than ever as he responded to his customers. He was all smiles, and even the dullest among them could tell that he was a happy man.

Managing to steal a minute out of the busy morning, he leaned against the counter, lit his pipe, and breathed in deeply. Looking out through the double door, he watched his wife and children mingle with the crowd as they headed to the market.

A rich man with big ears was sitting at the window table. His family name was Zhang, and while he had both a formal name—Haogu—and a style name—Nianzu—everyone called him Second Master. For a man in his early fifties, he had a healthy, ruddy complexion. Perched atop his rounded head was a black satin skullcap into which a rectangular piece of green jade had been sewn. Second Master was Northeast Gaomi Township’s preeminent scholar, a man who had purchased an appointment to the Imperial College. Having traveled south to the Yangtze Valley and north beyond the Great Wall, he told of spending a night with Sai Jinhua, the notorious courtesan of Peking. No one who started a conversation with him ever found him unworthy of bringing it to an end. A regular at the Sun Family Teashop, he monopolized every conversation for as long as he sat there. Picking up his glazed porcelain teacup, he removed the lid with three fingers and made the leaves on top swirl a bit before blowing on the surface and taking a sip.

“Proprietor,” he called out after smacking his lips, “why is this tea so bland? It has hardly any taste.”

After hurriedly knocking the ashes out of his pipe, Sun Bing trotted over and, with a bit of bowing and scraping, said:

“Second Master, it’s the same tea you always drink—the best Dragon Well.”

Second Master took a second sip.

“No, it still lacks taste.”

“Why don’t I make some in a gourd?” Sun Bing said, anxious to please.

“Scorch it ever so slightly.”

Sun ran back behind the counter, where he stuck a silver needle into an opium pill and held it over a bean-oil lantern that burned all day long, turning it round and round. A peculiar odor spread throughout the shop.

After drinking half a cup of the strong, opium-infused tea, Second Master was clearly invigorated. His gaze swept the faces of the other customers like a pair of lively fish, and Sun Bing knew that he was about to launch into one of his voluble monologues. Gaunt, sallow-faced Young Master Wu Da opened his mouth to reveal teeth stained black by tea and tobacco.

“Second Master,” he said, “any news of the railway?”

Second Master put down his teacup, puckered his upper lip, emitted an audible snort, and, having formed a response, declaimed:

“Of course there is. I have told you people about our family friend Jiang Runhua of the Wandong District, the lead editorial writer for the
Globe
, who has installed two teletypes to receive the latest news from Japan and the West. Well, yesterday he received an urgent message that the Old Buddha Cixi received Kaiser Wilhelm’s special envoy in the Longevity Hall of the Summer Palace to discuss the construction of the rail line between Qingdao and Jinan.”

Young Master Wu clapped his hands.

“Second Master,” he said, “don’t tell me, let me guess.”

“Go ahead, guess,” Second Master said. “If you’re right, yours truly will pay for everyone’s tea.”

“Second Master is a forthright man who is unafraid to show his emotions,” Young Master Wu said. “No wonder the people all love him. Here is my guess: Our mass petition worked. They are going to alter the planned route.”

“Glory be! Great news!” muttered an old man with a white beard. “The Old Buddha is wise, truly wise.”

But Second Master shook his head and said with a sigh:

“Sorry, gentlemen, but today you will have to pay for your own tea.”

“They’re not going to change it?” Young Master Wu said, his hackles rising. “Our mass petition was a waste of time, is that it?”

“Your mass petition was probably used by some official as toilet paper,” Second Master said resentfully. “Just who do you think you are? The Old Buddha said, ‘We can alter the course of the Yellow River, but not the course of the Jiaozhou-Jinan rail line.’ ”

Dejection settled over the room, punctuated by long sighs. County Scholar Qu, he with the facial blemish, said:

“Well, then, did the German Kaiser send his envoy to pay restitution for the destruction of our burial grounds?”

“Scholar Qu has finally touched upon something,” Second Master said animatedly. “When the special envoy was led into the Old Buddha’s presence, he prostrated himself three times and kowtowed nine before handing up an account book printed on vellum that could last millennia. ‘The Great Kaiser,’ the envoy said, ‘will under no circumstances do anything to bring harm to the people of Northeast Gaomi Township. We will pay a hundred ounces of silver for every acre of land utilized and two hundred for every gravesite disturbed. A steamship with a load of silver ingots has already been dispatched.’”

The news was met with a moment of stunned silence, then greeted with an uproar.

“Damned liar! They took an acre and a quarter of my land, and gave me eight ounces.”

“They destroyed two of my ancestors’ gravesites, and gave me twelve.”

“Silver? Where is it? I don’t see any silver.”

“What are you all bawling about?” Second Master demanded unhappily as he banged his fist on the table. “All your complaints don’t make a damned bit of difference! Silver? I’ll tell you where it went. It was skimmed away by those crooked interpreters, traitors, and compradors, that’s where!”

“He’s right,” Young Master Wu agreed. “You all know Xiaoqiu, who sells oil fritters in Front Village, don’t you? Well, he worked as an attendant for a man who interpreted for a German engineer for three months, and wound up with half a sack of silver dollars that he picked up off the floor during their nightly card games. As long as you’re involved with the railroad—you can be a bloody tortoise or a bastard turtle—you’ll strike it rich. Let me put it differently: ‘When the train whistle blows, gold in thousands flows.’ ”

“Second Master,” Scholar Qu said tentatively, “does the Old Buddha know any of this?”

“Why ask me?” He wore a scowl. “I’ll just have to go ask someone else.”

His comment was met with forced smiles all around, before the men returned to their tea, slurping loudly.

An awkward silence settled over the room. Second Master cast a furtive look out the door to make sure that no one was outside listening.

“And that’s not the worst of it,” he said softly. “Interested in hearing more?”

Every eye turned to Second Master’s mouth, waiting expectantly.

After looking around the room, he said with a sense of heightened mystery: