Sandalwood Death

———— 1 ————

The chief yamen attendant, Song Three, only yesterday a browbeating toady who took advantage of his favored position, a universally feared man whom people called Third Master, today stood at my door with an ingratiating smile. A petty servant who only the day before had stood tall and proud was now bent nearly double. You young men, in more than forty years, there is nothing I did not see in the capital, men and affairs, and I tell you that shitty little functionaries are all like that. If one from this county were to be the exception, then Gaomi would be outside the Great Qing Empire’s sphere of influence. He bowed deeply at my door and sputtered:

“Old… old… sir, if it please you, shall we carry in what you requested?”

I curled my lip and smiled inwardly. I knew that the “old” dripping from that dog’s mouth was intended to be followed by “master,” but clearly I was not his master. I think he wanted to be familiar by calling me Old Zhao, but I was sitting in a chair bestowed upon me by the Emperor Himself. Having no choice, he had to settle for “old sir.” A wily son of a bitch. With an almost imperceptible wave of my hand, I said, “Bring everything in.”

Mimicking a stage voice, he announced loudly:

“Bring the old gentleman’s things inside!”

Like a line of black ants, the yayi entered the compound carrying everything I had requested from Excellency Yuan. Each item was presented at the door for my approval:

A purple sandalwood stake five feet long and five fen wide, like the metal spike used by the Tang general Qin Shubao. The absolutely indispensable item.

A large white rooster with a black comb, legs tied with a strip of red cloth, which lay in the arms of a fair-faced yayi like a bawling, unhappy baby boy. A rare breed, one of which they had managed to find somewhere in Gaomi County.

New leather straps that still gave off the pungent smell of tanning salt, light blue in color, as if grass-stained.

Two wooden mallets with a reddish luster that had been used in an oil mill as far back, perhaps, as the reign of the Kangxi Emperor, two centuries before. Made from date-wood knots and in constant contact with oil, they had by now drunk their fill and were heavier than their metal counterparts. But they were nonetheless wood and not metal, and thus more yielding. Hardness with a bit of give was what I had specified.

Two extra-large baskets, each filled with a hundred jin of the finest white rice. The unique fragrance and blue tinge were proof that it had come from Tengzhou Prefecture, which produced rice of a quality unmatched anywhere in Gaomi County.

Two hundred jin of flour packed in four gunnysacks stamped with the Tonghe Refined Flour Mill trademark.

A basket of red-shelled eggs, one of which, a first egg, was stained by real blood. Just seeing it evoked the image of a little red-faced hen straining to lay her first egg.

A sizeable cut of beef on a large platter, the sinews in the meat seemingly still vibrating.

An enormous cauldron, carried by two men, big enough to cook a whole cow.

Song Three was carrying half a jin of ginseng under his clothes. He took it out and handed it to me. Even through the paper wrapper, the bitter smell of fine ginseng was strong.

“Old sir,” Song Three said as his face lit up, “your humble servant personally visited the herbal shop and kept his eye on Qin Seven, that wily old fox, as he opened a catalpa cabinet with three locks and selected this ginseng from a blue and white porcelain jar. ‘If it’s not the real thing,’ he said, ‘you can twist my head right off my shoulders.’ This is prized ginseng. Just by carrying it next to me this little while and smelling its fragrance, your humble servant grew light on his feet, sharp-eyed and clear-headed; I felt like I was becoming an immortal. Just think what eating it could do!”

I peeled back the paper wrapping and counted the gnarled brown roots whose necks were tied together with a red string: one, two, three… five… eight altogether, each as thick as a chopstick at the top and as thin as a bean stalk at the end, from which a beard of fine hairs fluttered in the slightest breeze. Half a jin? I don’t believe it. I gave the man a cold glare. Well, the bastard bent at the waist and, with an unctuous smile, said softly:

“Nothing gets past the gentleman’s eyes. These eight roots only weigh four liang, not eight, but that is all Qin Seven had in his shop. He said you could boil them in water, pour the liquid into a dead man’s mouth, and he’d jump out of his coffin—do you think, sir…”

I waved him off without saying a word. What was I supposed to say? Chief yayi like him are craftier than demons and sneakier than a monkey. He got down on one knee to pay his respects. That, he thought, made up for the shortage. The swine was getting away with at least fifty liang of silver from the ginseng alone. But then he took a small chunk of silver out from under his clothes and said:

“This, old squire, is what your humble servant was given to buy pork, but it occurred to me that one does not fertilize another’s field, and since you have someone here in your home who slaughters pigs, why go elsewhere? This should be yours.”

Now, I knew that this little bit of silver was worth far less than what he had skimmed from the ginseng, but I thanked him anyway. “You put a great deal of thought into this,” I said, “so take the silver and divide it among your fellow yayi as a little bonus.”

“We thank the old squire!” He bowed again, as did the men who had come with him.

Money talks! A tiny bit of silver had that bastard calling me “old squire” instead of the vapid “sir.” If I’d given him a gold ingot, he’d be down on all fours, banging his head on the ground and calling me Daddy! Again I waved my hand, this time for him to get up, and without a trace of emotion, as if commanding a dog, said: “Go now. You and your men take all these things to the execution site, where you are to set up a big cook stove. Dump the sesame oil into the cauldron, fill the belly of the stove with kindling, and light it. Then set up a smaller stove for stewing the beef. After that, put up a mat shed near the stoves, place a vat inside, and fill it with water—be sure it’s fresh drinking water. And ready an earthen pot for herbal medicine along with a hollow horn used to medicate livestock. Carpet the ground in the shed with a thick layer of this year’s dry wheat straw. Then I want you personally to carry in my chair—you know its background, I take it. That master of yours and the Provincial Governor, Excellency Yuan, both got down on their knees and performed the rite of three bows and nine kowtows in front of it, so be very careful. If you so much as knock off a chip of paint, Excellency Yuan will skin you like a dog. Everything I’ve told you must be ready precisely at noon. If you are missing anything, go see your laoye.” The man bowed and proclaimed loudly:

“It will be as you say, Laoye.”

After they left, I checked off the remaining objects in the yard again: the sandalwood stake—the single most important item—would require much painstaking work, but nothing I would let those bastards watch, not with their unclean eyes, for that would spoil the effect. Nor would I let them hold the rooster, not with their dirty hands, for that would sap its power. I shut the gate; two armed yayi were posted to keep people out. Apparently our Magistrate Qian had seen to everything. Of course, I knew it was all for Excellency Yuan’s benefit. Oh, how he hated me, but my gums still bled from losing two teeth, and to teach the dog a lesson I needed to let him know who he was dealing with. I must not demean myself. I was not putting on airs or throwing my weight around, flaunting the fact that I had been favored by gifts from the Empress Dowager and the Emperor. And this assuredly was not a case of abusing public power to avenge a personal slight. It was a matter of national honor. Since I had been chosen to end the life of a man whose shocking criminal acts had gained worldwide attention, an extravagant display was both proper and necessary. The extravagance would belong not to me, but to the Great Qing Empire. Being laughed at by foreigners could not be tolerated.

Damn you, von Ketteler, I know you Europeans have used wooden stakes on people, but that is simply nailing someone to a crossbar and leaving him to die. I am going to let you see what a real punishment is like, one that is so exquisite, so refined, that the name alone reveals its resounding elegance: sandal—wood—death, a term with a rough exterior but an aesthetic core, displaying the patina and aura of antiquity. It is a form of punishment beyond the imagination of any European. Out on the street, my neighbors, all hopelessly rustic and shortsighted, craned their necks to get a peek into my yard. The looks on their faces revealed envy and admiration. Attracted by wealth, they were blind to the dangers that lay behind it, and my son was no less wooly-headed than they, though his muddled mind had its endearing qualities. Hearing my shifu tell how he had dismembered the woman with skin like pure snow had brought an end to my sexual life. Not even the lascivious women of the capital’s infamous Eight Lanes, who oozed lust, had the power to arouse me. At some point—when I cannot say—my beard stopped growing, and I was reminded of Grandma Yu: “My sons,” he said, “people in our profession are like palace eunuchs: Their potency has been excised with a knife, but their desire lives on. Our physical maleness remains intact, but our hearts have been purged of desire.” Grandma Yu said that when the day comes that the sight of a woman has no effect on you, when even the thought does not cross your mind, you are on the verge of becoming a totally accomplished executioner. Some decades ago, when I came home from an assignment and went to bed, a hint of potency remained, and I somehow sired a foolish but not totally worthless offspring, something hard to imagine, on the order of producing a stalk of sorghum from a fried seed. The reason I tried so hard to retire and return to my native home was that I had a son to return to, someone I wanted to train to become the Great Qing Empire’s next preeminent executioner. The Empress Dowager Herself once said that every profession has its zhuangyuan. I was one, and my son would follow in my footsteps. My daughter-in-law was a spirited woman who kept Qian Ding’s bed warm and subjected me to humiliation. But heaven has eyes, and saw to it that my qinjia fell into my hands. I laughed as I said to her: “Daughter-in-law, I must show him some favor, since we are related. All these things you see here are for him.”

She glared at me, eyes wide open, mouth agape, face pale with fright, unable to say a word in response. My son, who was crouching in front of the rooster, cackled as he asked:

“Will we be able to keep this rooster, Dieh?”

“Yes, we can keep it.”

“How about all this rice and flour and meat?”

“Yes, we can keep it all.”

“Ha-ha…”

He laughed happily. That son of mine may have looked like a fool, but knowing the value of good things kept him from being one. “All this will be ours to keep, son, but we have a job to do for the nation. Tomorrow at this time will be our moment to shine.”

“Are you really going to kill my dieh?” my daughter-in-law asked piteously. A face that had always been radiant and sleek seemed suddenly covered by a coat of rust.

“That is his good fortune!”

“How do you plan to kill him?”

“With a sandalwood stake.”

“Swine…” Her shouts were eerie. “You bastard…”

She yanked open the gate and burst out of the compound, swaying her hips.

I sent the crazed young woman off with a resounding comment: “Dear daughter-in-law, I am going to see that your dieh’s name will live forever, that his legend will become the stuff of grand opera, just you wait and see!”

———— 2 ————

I told my son to shut the gate as I placed the length of sandalwood on top of the flesh-and-blood-stained slaughtering rack, and had him fetch a saw, which I used to cut the wood in two lengthwise. Saw teeth biting into the wood produced the harsh, ear-piercing sound of metal on metal; sparks flew from the blade, which was too hot to touch, and a strange burning odor assailed my nose. Picking up a plane, I then painstakingly shaved the two halves into stakes with blunted tips and tapered edges, slightly rounded, like the leaves of a chive plant. Once that was done, I used sandpaper, coarse at first, then fine, turning the stakes over and over as I worked, until they shone like mirrors. True, I had never carried out a sandalwood execution, but I knew instinctively that success in this epochal event lay in the quality of the instrument. A job of this magnitude required meticulous preparation, something I had learned from Grandma Yu. The sanding alone took me half the day—a sharp ax makes the best kindling, or, as the adage goes, “The best work requires the finest tools.” I had no sooner sanded the two treasures to perfection than a yayi knocked at the gate to report that Gaomi County Magistrate Qian Ding’s workers had erected something called an Ascension Platform on the parade ground in front of the Tongde Academy in the center of town, one that adhered to my specifications and was sure to become the stuff of legend for a century or more. The mat shed I had requested was also in place, and sesame oil was churning in the large cauldron, while beef stewed in its smaller companion. I sniffed the air, and there it was, the heavy fragrance of sesame oil and meat carried on the autumn wind.

After running out early in the morning, my son’s wife still had not returned. I could understand what was troubling her—it was, after all, her dieh who was to be executed, and she had to be experiencing emotional, even physical, pain because of it. But where could she have gone? To plead her case with her gandieh, Magistrate Qian? Maybe, but my dear daughter-in-law, your gandieh is like a clay bodhisattva who must worry about its own survival while crossing the river. I do not intend to curse him by predicting that the day your dieh breathes his last will also see his downfall.

I changed into a new set of official clothes: a black robe cinched with a red sash, a red felt cap with red tassels, and black leather boots. There is truth in the adage that “People are known by their clothes, horses by their saddles.” With new clothes, I was no longer an ordinary man. With a grin, my son asked me:

“What are we going to do, Dieh, sing Maoqiang opera?”

Maoqiang? Songs from your idiotic dog opera, maybe! I cursed inwardly. Talking to him was a waste of time, so I simply told him to get out of his greasy clothes, which were stained with pig fat and dog blood. Guess what he said to me.

“Close your eyes, Dieh, don’t look. That’s what she tells me to do when she changes clothes.”

Keeping my eyes slitted, I watched him take off his clothes. He had a coarse, ugly body, and that thing drooping above his scrotum was an obviously useless appendage.

Yet in his high-topped, soft-soled black leather boots, red waist sash, and red-tasseled cap, his size gave him a formidable, martial appearance. But then he made a face, tugged at his ear, and scratched his cheek, and he was just another monkey in human form.

With the two stakes over my shoulders, I told him to pick up the rooster and follow me out the gate on our way to the Tongde Academy. The streets were lined with would-be spectators, men and women, young and old, all standing wide-eyed and open-mouthed, like fish sucking air above water. With my head up and my chest thrown out, I appeared to be oblivious to their presence, though in fact I saw everything out of the corner of my eye. My son, on the other hand, kept looking right and left and greeting the crowds with a foolish grin, as the rooster struggled to get free, squawking frantically. The dull-witted people gaped as we passed. Xiaojia was stupid, all right, but the people were worse. The show hasn’t even begun, you clods, and if that’s how you look now, what are you going to be like tomorrow during the grand performance? It’s your good fortune to have a man like me in your midst. The finest play ever staged cannot compete with the spectacle of an execution, and no execution on earth can begin to compare with the sandalwood death. And where in China will you find another executioner talented enough to kill a man with it? With me in your midst, you will be treated to a show the likes of which no one has ever seen, nor likely ever will again. If that is not good fortune, what is? I ask you, if that is not good fortune, what is?

Old Zhao Jia walks with his stakes and says with respect to the gathered fold, I carry the law of the nation in my arms; it is weightier than gold. I call out to my son to pick up the pace and stop gawking like a fool. Tomorrow we will show them who we are, like carp transformed into dragons so bold. Three steps instead of two, two steps outpacing one, strides faster than a shooting star—the Tongde Academy awaits.

We look up, ahead is the parade ground, flat and even, its sand white and cold. An opera stage on one side, where Pear Garden actors will come to play. Kings and princes, generals and ministers, heroes and warriors, scholars and beauties, three religions and nine schools of thought… all brought together like a running-horse lantern of old.

There, in front of the stage, the County Magistrate has erected an Ascension Platform, fronted by soldiers, our presence to behold. Black and red batons on the shoulders of some, broadswords in the hands of others. In front of the platform, a mat shed secured with rush rises behind a cauldron in which sesame oil churns. Fellow countrymen, the grand opera is about to begin, the story to be told!

———— 3 ————

I tied the rooster to a shed post. The creature cocked its head and looked up at me, its eyes the color of yellow gold, sparkling and blinding bright. I turned to my son. “Xiaojia,” I said, “knead some dough with fresh water.” He cocked his head to look at me, gawking like the rooster.

“What for?”

“Do as I say, and don’t ask questions.”

I studied the shed while he was kneading the dough. The front was open, the back closed. It stood opposite the opera stage. Perfect, just the way I wanted it. The floor was laid well enough, with a gold-colored rush mat on top of the noisy layer of wheat stalks. New wheat, new rush, both exuding a fresh aroma. My sandalwood chair had been placed in the center of the tent, enticing my backside to sit in it. I went first to the cauldron, where I dropped the two spear-shaped stakes into the fragrant oil. They sank straight to the bottom, with only the squared-off butt ends floating to the top and breaking the surface. Ideally they should cook for three days and nights, but I did not have three days. A day and a night would work, since sandalwood this smooth would soak up little blood even without being cooked in oil. Fate has smiled on you, Qinjia, by allowing this to be the instrument of your death. I sat in my chair and looked up at the red sun setting in the west, ushering in dusk. The Ascension Platform, built of thick red pine, had a gloomy appearance in the twilight and exuded the aura of death, like a great frowning idol. I could not fault the County Magistrate’s preparations; the platform, encircled in mist and hooded by somber clouds, fairly epitomized the solemnity of the occasion. Magistrate Qian, you should take your rightful place in the Board of Public Works as a supervisor of grand projects. Your talents are hopelessly stifled in piddling little Gaomi County. Sun Bing, Qinjia, you too are one of Northeast Gaomi Township’s outstanding individuals, and though I do not like you, I cannot deny that you are a dragon among men, or perhaps a phoenix; it would be a crime for you not to die in spectacular fashion. Anything less than the sandalwood death, and this Ascension Platform would not be worthy of you. Sun Bing, your cultivation in a previous life has brought you the good fortune of falling into my hands, for I will immortalize your name and make you a hero for the ages.

“Dieh,” my son said excitedly from behind me with a platter of dough the size of a millstone, “the dough is ready.”

Believe it or not, he had used up the entire sack of flour. But no harm done, since we would expend a great deal of energy tomorrow, and would need plenty of nourishment to get through the day. I twisted off a chunk of dough, rolled it between my hands, and pulled it into a long strip, which I dropped into the oil. It rolled and twisted in the churning oil like an eel fighting to stay alive. With a clap of his hands, my son jumped up and down.

“Fried fritter!” he shouted. “It’s a fried fritter!”

Together we dumped a steady stream of dough twists into the oil. They sank to the bottom, but quickly floated to the top and tumbled in the space between the sandalwood spears. I was frying them in the same oil so the essence of grain would attach to the wood. I knew that these stakes would enter Sun Bing’s grain passage and travel up through his body, and that the grain coating would be beneficial. The aroma of frying fritters spread—they were done, so I fished them out with a pair of tongs. “Eat one, son.” With his back to the mat shed, he started in on the lip-burning fritter; his bulging cheeks showed how happy he was. I picked one up and took a bite, slowly savoring its unique sandalwood taste and its Buddhist aura. I had stopped eating meat after receiving the string of prayer beads from the Old Buddha Herself. Kindling blazing beneath the stove crackled and spit; the oil in the cauldron bubbled and popped. After eating several of the fritters, I went to work cutting the slab of beef into fist-sized chunks and tossing them into the oil. I did that so the essence of meat would overlay that of grain and soften the wood even more. All this I was doing for Qinjia! My son moved up close and muttered:

“I want some meat, Dieh.”

“Son,” I said affectionately, “this is not for us. In a while you can have some from the small cauldron. Once the punishment is administered to your Maoqiang-singing gongdieh, you can eat the meat and he’ll drink the broth.”

Just then the crafty chief yamen attendant, Song Three, came up and asked what I wanted him to do next, slavishly bowing and scraping as if I were a powerful official. Naturally, I had to assume the proper air, so I coughed importantly and said:

“Nothing more. Preparing the stakes is all there is to do today, and that is my job, not yours, so you may leave and do whatever you are supposed to do.”

“Your humble servant may not leave.” The words slithered out of his oily mouth like loaches. “We dare not leave.”

“Has His Eminence your master the County Magistrate told you to stay?”

“Not His Eminence, but His Excellency Governor Yuan, who ordered us to stay for your protection. You have become a living treasure, sir.”

He stuck out his paw, picked up an oil fritter, and stuffed it into his mouth. As I stared at his greasy lips, I said silently: I am not the treasure, you bastards; it is that which I carry with me. I reached under my clothes and took out the sandalwood prayer beads given to me by the wise and august Empress Dowager Cixi, and began fingering them, closing my eyes and striking the calming pose of a meditating monk to keep those bastards from knowing what was on my mind. I could have crushed them into pulp without their ever guessing what I was thinking.

———— 4 ————

After completing the slicing death on the brave Qian Xiongfei, I picked up my tools and, along with my apprentices, planned to return overnight to Peking. People say that one should avoid crowded, hectic places and not linger where disputes arise. With our belongings on our backs, we were about to set out when our way was blocked by one of Excellency Yuan’s most loyal retainers, a fierce-looking man who gazed up into the sky and said:

“Do not leave, Slay-master. Excellency Yuan wants to see you.”

After getting my apprentices settled in a tiny inn, I fell in behind the retainer. We passed through a series of sentry posts before I was kneeling in front of Excellency Yuan. Sweat dripped from my back, and I was out of breath. I banged my head loudly on the floor, managing between kowtows to sneak a look at his corpulent image. Over the previous twenty-three years, as I well knew, thousands of high officials and talented individuals had passed in front of the great man’s eyes like a running-horse lantern, so what chance was there that he would remember someone as insignificant as me? But I remembered him, remembered him well. Twenty-three years earlier, as a handsome young man who could not even grow a moustache, he had spent much of his time in the yamen with his uncle, Yuan Baoheng, Vice President of the Board of Punishments. Bristling at his enforced idleness, he had come to the Eastern Compound, where we executioners lived, and struck up a conversation with me. Excellency, you were fascinated by our profession—putting people to death—and said to Grandma Yu, who was still healthy and active, “Take me on as your apprentice, Grandma!” Seized with terror at the request, Grandma Yu said, “Young scion, are you toying with us?” With a straight face, Excellency, you replied, “I am serious. Great men appear in chaotic times, and if the seal of authority is beyond their reach, the knife is not!”

“You did your job well, Grandma Zhao.” The great man’s comment brought my reveries to an abrupt end. His words seemed to come from the depths of a bell, like deeply moving chimes.

I admit that I had carried out my duty in a manner that did nothing to undermine the Board of Punishment’s reputation, and I was confident that I was the only person in the Great Qing Empire who could have performed the slicing death to such a high standard. But that was not the attitude I could assume in the presence of Excellency Yuan. I might be a man of little importance, but I knew that Excellency Yuan, who commanded an elite modern army, was a prominent figure in the Imperial Court. “It was not an effort I can be proud of,” I said humbly, “and I can only beg forgiveness for disappointing Your Excellency.”

“Grandma Zhao, you sound like an educated man.”

“I respectfully confess that Excellency Yuan’s humble servant can neither read nor write.”

“I see,” he said with a smile. Then he abruptly switched to his native Hunan dialect, as if swapping his official clothing for a jacket of homespun cloth: “If you raise a dog in an official yamen, in ten years it will speak like a classical scholar.”

“A wise comment, Excellency. In the Board of Punishments I am a dog.”

Excellency Yuan laughed lustily at my remark.

“Well spoken,” he said once he had finished laughing. “It takes a good man to humble himself! You are a dog in the Board of Punishments, and I am a dog at the Imperial Court.”

“Your humble servant does not deserve to be mentioned in the same breath as Your Excellency… gold-inlaid jade, while I am nothing but a cobblestone…”

“Zhao Jia, how shall I thank you for helping me accomplish something so important?”

“Your humble servant is a dog raised by the nation; Your Excellency is a pillar of the state, whom I am obliged to serve.”

“I find nothing wrong in what you say, but I wish to reward you nonetheless.” He turned to his attendant. “See Grandma Zhao off to the capital with a hundred liang of silver.”

I got down on my knees and thanked him with a resounding kowtow.

“Your humble servant will never forget Excellency Yuan’s generosity,” I said, “but I cannot accept your gift of silver.”

“Why is that?” he said coldly. “Is it too little?”

“Your humble servant has never in his life received a hundred liang of silver,” I said after a second loud kowtow, “and I dare not take it now. By bestowing the honor of bringing me to Tianjin to carry out his orders, Excellency Yuan has enhanced my status in the Board of Punishments, and I fear that taking Excellency’s silver could shorten my allotted time on earth.

Excellency Yuan grew pensive.

“Grandma Zhao,” he said after a moment, “this was a difficult assignment.”

Once again I responded first with a kowtow.

“Excellency, I was thrilled to do it. I am indeed fortunate to have had the opportunity to put my talents to work for the Imperial Court.”

“What would you say if I asked you to stay on as a member of my criminal affairs unit, Zhao Jia?”

“I would not dare decline to be so favored by Your Excellency. I have worked in the Board of Punishments for more than forty years, and have put to death a total of nine hundred eighty-seven criminals, not counting those executions in which I assisted. I have been so favored by the nation that I should spare no effort to continue working until I am stopped by death or old age. But ever since the execution of Tan Sitong and his five fellow criminals, I have been bothered by a wrist that is sometimes so sore I cannot even use chopsticks. I have been hoping to return home and beg Your Excellency to seek permission from the Board of Punishments on my behalf.”

He merely laughed grimly. I did not know what to make of that.

“Excellency, your humble servant deserves death. I am a low-class nobody who is unworthy of inclusion in any of the lower nine trades. I am a dog if I leave and a dog if I stay, and I have no business troubling any of my superiors. And yet I can boldly assert that while I am a man of demeaned status, the work I perform is not, and as such I am a symbol of national power. We are a nation with a thousand laws, but in the end it is I who enforce them. My apprentices and I have no annual stipend and no monthly wage, and must rely upon the sale of our victims’ cured flesh as a medical restorative. I have accumulated no savings after more than forty years in the Board of Punishments. It is my hope that the Board will give me a settling-in allowance so that I will not have to wander the streets destitute. I venture to ask for fair treatment for my brethren in the profession by including executioners in the personnel ranks of the Board of Punishments with a monthly wage. I ask this not just for myself, but for all of us. As I see it, executioners will be indispensable for as long as the nation exists. This is a parlous age, with a host of criminals among official ranks and legions of robbers and bandits on the loose, the precise moment in time when skillful executioners are most in demand. With unforgivable audacity, I implore Excellency Yuan to grant this humble request.”

I followed my bold statement with a series of resounding kowtows, then remained on my knees and waited with sly glimpses to see how he would react. He stroked his dark moustache, with the calm look of a man deep in thought. Suddenly he laughed.

“Grandma Zhao, there is more to you than a lethal hand. Your mouth is nearly as lethal!”

“I deserve death, but I have spoken the truth. Only because I know that Excellency is a man of great wisdom and uncommon magnanimity have I had the audacity to make the request.”

“Zhao Jia,” Excellency Yuan said, suddenly lowering his voice in an aura of mystery, “do you still recognize me?”

“For someone as impressive and dignified as His Excellency, a single glance can last a lifetime.”

“I do not mean now; I am talking about twenty-three years ago, when my uncle was Left Vice President of the Board of Punishments and I was a frequent visitor to the yamen when I had some free time. You had not met me then, had you?”

With bad eyes and a poor memory, I truly had not known who he was. But I did know Yuan Baoheng, Excellency Yuan, who had bestowed favors on me at the time.

“Truth is, how could I not recognize such a distinguished appearance? Back then, Excellency Yuan, you were a mischievous youngster. Your uncle wanted you to take up studies and make your name as a civil service scholar. But you were not scholar material, and you never missed an opportunity to come to the Eastern Compound to spend time with us. Once you gained an understanding of our rules and traditions, you talked Grandma Yu into letting you put on a set of executioner’s clothing without telling your uncle, then you smeared your smooth, round face with rooster blood and went with us to the marketplace for the execution of a criminal who had impudently hunted a rabbit near the Imperial Mausoleum and disturbed the sleep of deceased emperors. I pulled the criminal’s queue to expose his neck while you raised your sword and, with no change of expression and a steady hand, needed but one chop to separate him from his head. When it was all over, your uncle learned what you had done and slapped you in front of us. We were so terrified we fell to our knees and banged our heads on the floor as if we were crushing cloves of garlic. ‘You miserable wretch,’ your uncle exploded, ‘how dare you do something like that!’ But you leaped to your own defense: ‘Do not be angry, revered uncle; killing someone during a crime is a heinous offense, but killing someone who has committed a crime is an act of patriotism. Your unworthy nephew is determined to make his name on the battlefield, and the reason I assumed the appearance today was to fortify my courage for the future.’ Your uncle continued to rage, but we all knew that he was looking at you with increased respect…”

“Old Zhao, you are too smart a man,” a smiling Excellency Yuan said, “not to recognize me. You are afraid I will blame you for what happened. In truth, I do not regard what happened as anything to be ashamed of. Back when I was studying with my uncle in the Board of Punishments, I read up on the executioner’s trade and benefited greatly from it. Going with you to execute that criminal was a rare and unforgettable experience that has had a major impact on my life, and I have summoned you here today to thank you.”

I responded with more kowtows and expressions of gratitude.

“Get up,” Excellency Yuan said. “Go back to Peking and wait there, quite possibly for welcome news.”

———— 5 ————

News of the Tianjin executions and the informal audience with Yuan Shikai created ripples of excitement in the Board of Punishments compound. My fellow tradesmen gave me curious looks, a mixture of envy and admiration. Even mid-level bureau officials, the various vice directors who came to work carrying their official clothing in a bundle, nodded silent greetings that told me that these graduates of the Imperial Examination had begun to see me in a different light. I would be lying if I said this displeased me, but I refused to let it go to my head. A lifetime in the yamen had taught me that the ocean is deeper than a pond and that flames are hotter than cinders. I did not have to be told that the tallest tree stands beneath the heavens, the tallest man is dwarfed by a mountain, and the brawniest slave obeys his master. On my second day back in the capital, the Board’s Vice President, Excellency Tie, summoned me to his document room, where the Deputy Director of the Bureau of Detentions, Eminence Sun, was in attendance. Excellency Tie grilled me about the Tianjin executions, wanting to know even the smallest detail. I answered all his questions. He then asked about the New Army’s military preparedness at Small Station, including a description of the soldiers’ uniforms, even the colors. How was the weather there, what was the state of the Hai River… Finally, when there was nothing more to ask, he asked how Excellency Yuan looked and felt. “He is fine,” I said, “a nice ruddy complexion, and a voice like a brass bell. I personally watched him eat half a dozen eggs, a large steamed bun, and a full bowl of porridge in one sitting.” Excellency Tie glanced at Eminence Sun and said with a sigh: “He is in his prime; his future is assured.” Eminence Sun added: “With Yuan Shikai’s military background, it is natural to have a hardy appetite.” Encouraged by what I saw in Excellency Tie’s eyes, I decided to offer up a blatant falsehood: “His Excellency asked me to pass on his best wishes,” I said. “Indeed?” Excellency Tie said excitedly. I nodded to assure him. “It is worth mentioning that Excellency Yuan and I are related. His great-uncle Yuan Jiasan’s second concubine’s niece is the wife of my father’s younger brother!” “I seem to recall that Excellency Yuan mentioned that once.” “Family connections like that are not that important!” Excellency Tie said. “Grandma Zhao, your success at the Tianjin executions has burnished the reputation of the Board of Punishments. Grand Secretary Wang has expressed his satisfaction, and I have summoned you here today to reward you. I hope that this will not lead to arrogance and rash behavior, and that you will continue to work for the nation to the best of your ability.” “Excellency,” I said, “ever since returning from Tianjin, I have been bothered by a sore wrist, and I…” Excellency Tie interrupted me: “The Court has initiated a series of reforms that may well mean the abolishment of such cruel punishments as the slicing death and cleaving a criminal in two. I am afraid that Grandma Zhao may become a hero denied a place to demonstrate his skills. Eminence Sun,” he said as he stood up, “give Zhao Jia ten liang of silver from your Bureau of Detentions funds and charge it to the Board, on Grand Secretary Wang’s authority.” I fell to my knees and kowtowed before backing out of the hall bent at the waist; I saw a cloud spread across Tie’s face, in contrast to the genial look he’d worn while bragging about his family connection to Excellency Yuan. High officials were subject to mercurial mood changes, but I was familiar enough with their temperament to not let that bother me.

The new year had barely begun, and the second lunar month was already upon us. The weeping willows lining the stream beside Board of Punishments Avenue were beginning to turn green, and the crows perching on the scholar trees in the compound were getting livelier by the day, and yet there was no sign of the welcome news Excellency Yuan had promised. The ten liang of silver from Excellency Tie could not have been what he was referring to, could it? No, of course not. Not when I had turned down his offer of a hundred liang. How could ten liang of silver be considered welcome news? I was convinced that he was not in the habit of jesting. He and I had formed an amicable relationship, and he would not string me along, like someone who teases a dog with an air-filled bladder.

On the second night of the new month, Deputy Director Sun brought word that I was to rise by the fourth watch the next morning, bathe, eat a light breakfast that included nothing that dispersed internal heat—no spicy foods such as ginger or garlic—dress in new clothes, and carry no sharp instruments. I was to appear at the Bureau of Detentions by the fifth watch and wait for him. I considered asking what this was all about, but one look at his long, somber face convinced me to hold my tongue. I had a premonition that Excellency Yuan’s welcome news awaited. But never in my wildest imagination could I have anticipated that I was about to be received in a solemn audience by Her Royal Highness, the Empress Dowager Cixi—may She live forever—and His Imperial Majesty, the ageless Emperor!

The third watch had just been announced, and I was too tense to sleep, so I got out of bed, lit a lantern, smoked a pipe, and told the nephews to boil some water. Filled with excitement, they clambered out of bed bright-eyed and spoke in hushed tones. First Aunt assisted me into a large tub to bathe, Second Aunt dried me off, and Third Aunt helped me get dressed. We had rescued this youngster, with his fair complexion and nicely chiseled features, a boy who managed everything he touched with clever assurance, from the life of a beggar, and he treated me like a filial son. The joy he felt flowed from his eyes. All my apprentices enjoyed a shared sense of joy that morning. When auspicious things happened to their shifu, they reaped benefits, and I could see that their good feelings were heartfelt, with no hint of pretense.

“Don’t be too quick to celebrate,” I said, “for we do not know whether this news is good or bad.”

“It’s good,” Third Aunt insisted. “I know it is!”

“Your shifu is getting on in years,” I said with a sigh, “and the slightest slip could cost him his head…”

“That cannot happen,” First Aunt said. “Old ginger is the spiciest. Besides, Grandma carried out an execution on the Palace grounds decades ago.”

I had assumed that another Palace eunuch had committed a crime and that I was being summoned to carry out his execution. But I could not dismiss the feeling that something was different. Back when I was apprenticed to Grandma Yu and assigned the responsibility of putting Little Insect to death with Yama’s Hoop, the Palace had spelled out our duties well ahead of time and had said nothing about bathing or eating a modest breakfast beforehand. But if this was not about plying my trade, what possible reason could there be for summoning an executioner? Could it be… could it be my turn to go on the chopping block? In a state of agitation, I ate half a meat-stuffed wheat cake, brushed my teeth with roasted salt, and rinsed my mouth with fresh water. I walked outside, where I saw that the constellation Orion had moved a bit to the west, though the fourth watch had not yet been announced—it was still early. So I engaged my apprentices in conversation until I heard a rooster’s crow. “Better early than late,” I said. “Let’s go.” So, escorted by my apprentices, I arrived at the entrance to the Bureau of Detentions.

Though the weather in the capital on that early day of the second month was still quite cold, I wore only a lined jacket under my official clothes in order not to appear frail. But my teeth chattered under the onslaught of the chilled early morning winds, and I instinctively tucked my neck down into my shoulders. There was a sudden change in the sky, which turned pitch-black and seemed to light up the stars. We waited an hour, until the fifth watch was announced, when the sky turned a fish-belly gray and the city and its outskirts began to stir. The city gate creaked open to welcome in water wagons that groaned under their heavy loads. Then a horse-drawn carriage rumbled quickly into the compound, preceded by a pair of servants carrying red lanterns, the shades stamped with the black character “TIE,” which told us that Excellency Tie had arrived. The servants pulled back the protective curtain to allow Excellency Tie, a fur coat over his shoulders, to step down. His servants moved the carriage to the side of the road as His Excellency walked my way with faltering steps. I greeted him with a respectful salute. He coughed, spat out a mouthful of phlegm, and looked me over.

“Old Zhao,” he said, “limitless blessings have been bestowed on you.”

“I am unworthy and can only throw myself at Your Excellency’s feet.”

“Once you are inside, answer with care, saying only what is expected of you.” His eyes sparkled in the dim light.

“I understand.”

“You others may leave now,” he said to my apprentices. “Rare good fortune has arrived for your shifu.”

My apprentices departed, leaving only me and Excellency Tie standing in front of the Bureau of Detentions. His servants stayed with the carriage, lanterns now extinguished. I heard the sound of horses eating feed in the darkness; its fragrance carried all the way over to me—it was, I detected, a mix of fried soybeans and rice straw.

“Excellency, what do you want me to…”

“Keep your mouth shut,” he said coldly. “If I were you, I would not say a word except in response to questions by the Empress Dowager or the Emperor.”

Could it really be…

When I stepped out of the small, canopied palanquin carried by two eunuchs, a slightly hunchbacked eunuch in a loose tan robe nodded enigmatically to me. I fell in behind him and passed through a maze of gardens and corridors, finally arriving in front of a hall that seemed to reach the heavens. By then the sun had climbed into the sky, its redness sending rays of morning sunlight in all directions. I sneaked a look around me, and saw that magnificent linked buildings in resplendent golds and greens surrounded me, as if ringed by a prairie fire. The eunuch pointed to the ground at my feet; I was standing on green bricks that shone like the bottom of a scrubbed frying pan. I looked up, hoping to see in his face a sign that would tell me what he meant, but the old fellow had already turned away from me, and all I could see was his back as he stood respectfully, arms at his sides, and I realized that he wanted me to wait where I was. By then I knew precisely what awaited me—Excellency Yuan’s welcome news. The next thing I saw was a progression of high officials in red caps backing out of the hall, heads down and bent at the waist. They wore somber looks and looked out of breath; oily drops of perspiration dotted some of their faces, and the sight made my heart race wildly. My legs trembled, and my palms were sweaty despite the cold. I did not know whether what awaited me was good fortune or ill, but if I’d had the chance, I’d have slunk out of there as fast as possible and taken refuge in my little room, where I could quell my fears with a decanter of fine spirits. But now that I was here, that was out of the question.

A eunuch whose face glowed beneath his red cap emerged through an enormous doorway that I dared not even glance at; he gestured to the old eunuch who had brought me there. The man’s large face was as radiant as a Buddhist treasure, and though no one has ever told me who he was, I suspect it was the Chief Eunuch, Li Lianying. He and my confidant, Excellency Yuan, were sworn brothers, and it was all but certain that it was he who had arranged my audience with his benefactress, the Empress Dowager. I stood there like a fool, my mind a blank, until the hunchbacked old eunuch tugged my sleeve and said softly: “Move! They are summoning you!”

That was when I heard someone call out in a booming voice:

“Summoning Zhao Jia—”

I have no recollection of walking into the hall that morning, and recall only the scene of splendor that greeted my eyes once inside, as if a golden dragon and a red phoenix had suddenly materialized. When I was a child, my mother told me that the Emperor was the reincarnation of a golden dragon, and the Empress Dowager the reincarnation of a red phoenix. Terror-stricken, I knelt on the floor, which felt as hot as a newly heated brick bed. I kowtowed and I kowtowed and I kowtowed; it wasn’t until later that I realized how badly I had injured my forehead, which was a bloody mess, like a rotten radish, which must have nauseated the Empress Dowager and Emperor. I deserved a thousand deaths. I was supposed to wish Them long, long lives, but I was so flummoxed by then that my head might as well have been filled with paste. All I could do was kowtow over and over and over.

It must have been a hand grabbing hold of my queue that brought my head banging to a halt. I struggled to keep connecting with the heated floor, but was stopped by a voice behind me:

“No more kowtows. The Old Buddha has asked you a question.”

Peals of laughter erupted up ahead, and I was by then so disoriented that I looked up. And there, in front of my eyes, on a throne sat an old lady whose body radiated light. The words “I deserve death” slipped from my mouth. Seated in front of me was the wise, ageless Empress Dowager, the Old Buddha Herself. A question floated slowly down from on high:

“I asked you, Slay-master, what is your name?”

“Your servant is Zhao Jia.”

“Where are you from?”

“Your servant is from Gaomi County in Shandong Province.”

“How many years have you plied your trade?”

“Forty years.”

“How many people have you put to death?”

“Nine hundred eighty-seven.”

“Ah! You must be a death-dealing demon king!”

“Your servant deserves death.”

“Why should you deserve death? Those whose heads you detached are the ones who deserved death.”

“Yes.”

“I say, Zhao Jia, when you kill someone, are you afraid?”

“I was at first, but no longer.”

“What did you do for Yuan Shikai in Tianjin?”

“Your servant went to Tianjin to carry out a slicing death for Excellency Yuan.”

“You mean carving up a living person so he will suffer before he dies?”

“Yes.”

“The Emperor and I have decided to abolish the slicing death punishment. Are We not expected to initiate reforms? Well, this is one of them. Is that not right, Your Majesty?”

“Yes.” It was a melancholy sound that floated over to me, and when I boldly looked up, I saw someone in a chair to the left and a bit ahead of the Empress Dowager. He was wearing a bright yellow robe, a golden dragon with glittering scales embroidered on the chest, and a tall hat whose centerpiece was a sparkling pearl the size of a hen’s egg. The face beneath that hat was large and as white as fine porcelain. The August Ruler, the Son of Heaven, Emperor of the Great Qing Dynasty. Of course I knew that he had fallen out of favor with the Empress Dowager over the commotion caused by Kang Youwei and his fellow reformers, but that did nothing to alter the fact that He was the Emperor. Long live His Majesty the Emperor, may He live forever and ever! The Emperor said:

“What my august progenitor says is true.”

“Yuan Shikai has said that you desire to return to your native home in retirement.”

The sarcastic tone in the Empress Dowager’s comment was unmistakable, and I felt two of my three souls departing in abject fear. “Your humble servant deserves to die ten thousand deaths,” I said. “Your humble servant is a pig and a dog, and has no right to cause the Old Buddha any concern. But your humble servant is not thinking of himself alone. It is his thought that while an executioner may be demeaned, the work he performs is not, and as such he is a symbol of national power. We are a nation with a thousand laws, but in the end it is we who enforce them. Your humble servant ventures to propose that executioners be included in the personnel ranks of the Board of Punishments with a monthly wage, and hopes for the creation of a retirement system for executioners, who can subsist on a national pension and not be reduced to wandering the streets in poverty. Your humble servant… humble servant hopes as well for the creation of a hereditary system for executioners, so that this ancient profession will be viewed as an honorable one…”

A stately cough by the Empress Dowager sent shivers through me. I stopped talking, went back to kowtows, and said over and over:

“Your humble servant deserves death… humble servant deserves death…”

“What he says is sensible and has merit,” the Empress Dowager said. “No single trade may be excluded from the list of professions. It is said that every profession has its zhuangyuan. Zhao Jia, in my view, you are the zhuangyuan of your profession.”

“By investing me with the designation zhuangyuan of my profession, the Empress Dowager brought me immeasurable glory.” More kowtows.

“Zhao Jia, you have put many people to death on behalf of the Great Qing Empire, which has brought you credit for hard work, if not for good work, and has earned praise from Yuan Shikai and Li Lianying. So I shall break from precedent and award you a grade seven medallion for your cap and allow you to return home in retirement.” The Empress Dowager tossed a ring of sandalwood prayer beads at my feet and said, “Lay down your knife and turn at once to a life of Buddhist contemplation.”

My kowtows continued.

“How about Your Majesty?” she asked. “Should you not reward him with something for all the people he has put to death for us, including those running dogs of yours whose heads he lopped off?”

I sneaked a glance at His Majesty, who, clearly flustered, got to His feet and said:

“We have nothing prepared. What do you suggest We reward him with?”

“I think, maybe,” the Empress Dowager said with a distinct chill, “You should give him the chair You have just vacated!”

———— 6 ————

Xiaojia sat on the rustling straw mat, leaning against a tent post as the night deepened. He looked like an oversized rabbit, his eyes dim with sleep. Flames in the belly of the stove flickered on his young face, and words that sometimes sounded foolish and sometimes not emerged from his grease-encrusted mouth to find their way into my recollections and my narrative—”Dieh, what does the Emperor look like?”—creating a close link between my recollections and narrative and the scene and situation we faced. “Dieh, does the Empress Dowager have breasts?”—All of a sudden, I smelled something burning in the sesame oil cauldron. With shocking clarity, I realized what was happening. My god, boiling oil is not boiling water! Water cooks something till it is soft; oil can burn it to a crisp! I jumped up off the mat and shouted:

“Come with me, son!”

I bounded over to the cauldron, reached into the oil barehanded—no time to worry about tongs—and fished out the two sandalwood spears, holding them up to a lantern to check them carefully. They had a dark, muted sheen and a powerful fragrance. I saw no singed spots. They burned my hands, so I laid them on a piece of cloth to rub them and turn them over and over, thanking my lucky stars there were no burn marks. The beef, on the other hand, was not so fortunate; I scooped out the burned pieces and threw them away, just as the chief yamen attendant sidled up and asked enigmatically:

“Something wrong, Laoye?”

“No.”

“That’s good.”

“Old Song,” my son cut in, “my dad is a grade seven official, so I am not afraid of you people anymore! If you harass me in the future, I’ll see that a bullet has your name on it.” My son pointed a finger at Song’s head. “Pow! There go your brains!”

“Young Brother Xiaojia, when did I ever harass you?” Song Three said inscrutably. “Even if your father were not a grade seven official, I would never think of making things difficult for you. If your wife were to utter a single word against me to Magistrate Qian, I would be kicked out of the yamen.”

“Don’t you know he’s not quite right, you foolish man?”

I could see a number of yayi standing in the shadows of the stage and the Ascension Platform. I lowered the fire under the cauldron and added oil. Then I carefully put my precious spears back into the cauldron, reminding myself, Pay attention, Old Zhao. Wild geese leave behind their cry; men leave behind a name. You need only carry out this sandalwood execution with perfection to live up to your designation as the zhuangyuan of executioners. If you fail, your name will die with you.

I draped the Empress Dowager’s sandalwood prayer beads around my neck, got up out of the Emperor’s chair, and looked heavenward, where a scattering of stars twinkled and the moon, like a silver platter, was rising in the east. That extraordinary brightness put me on edge, as if something monumental were about to happen, a feeling that persisted until it occurred to me that it was the fourteenth day of the eighth month and that the next day, the fifteenth, was the Mid-Autumn Festival, a day for families to come together. How lucky you are, Sun Bing, that Excellency Yuan has chosen that auspicious day for you to receive your punishment! In the light of the flames beneath the cauldron and the bright moonlight above, I watched the two sandalwood spears tumble in the oil like a pair of angry black snakes. I picked one out of the oil with a white cloth—taking care not to damage it—unimaginably sleek, it glistened with beads of oil that flowed to the tip and then formed liquid threads that fell silently back into the cauldron, where they coagulated and exuded a pleasant scorched aroma. It felt heavier in my hand now that it had absorbed so much fragrant oil; it was no longer the same piece of wood, but had taken on the characteristics of a hard, slippery, and exquisite instrument of death.

While I was taking solitary pleasure in admiring the spear, Song Three sneaked up behind me and said in a spiteful tone: “Laoye, why are you taking such pains simply to impale the man?”

I looked askance at him and snorted disdainfully. How could he understand what I was doing? He was good only for flaunting the power of his superior to oppress and extort money from the common people.

“You really ought to go home and get a good night’s sleep and leave these trivial matters to us.” Tailing along behind me, he added: “That son of a bitch Sun Bing is no one to take lightly. He’s skillful and courageous, a man of substance who refuses to blame others for his actions. It was his misfortune to have been born in Gaomi, an insignificant little place that gave him no room to put his talents to good use.” Song Three was clearly trying to ingratiate himself with me. “You have been away for many years, Laoye, and there is much about your qinjia that you do not know. He and I were friends for many years, so close that I can tell you how many moles he has on his you-know-what.”

I had seen too many people like this fellow—toadies and bullies who know how to say what you want to hear, whoever you are, man or demon—but I was in no mood to expose him for what he was, not then; allowing him to carry on behind me served a purpose.

“Sun Bing is a man of extraordinary talents. Words flow from his mouth as if written by a scholar, and he is endowed with a flawless memory. If only he knew how to read and write, he could be a capped scholar ten times over. Some years back,” Song Three continued, “when Old Qin’s mother died, they asked Sun Bing’s troupe to perform in the mourning hall. Qin and Sun were good friends—Qin’s mother was Sun’s ganniang—and Sun sang the funeral passages with deep emotion. But it was more than that—not only did his singing break the hearts of the filial descendants, they heard a pounding sound emerge from the coffin itself; the gathered descendants and people who had dropped by out of curiosity nearly died of fright, their faces a ghostly white. Isn’t that what’s called shocking the dead back to life? Well, Sun Bing walked up to his ganniang’s bier, opened the lid in grand fashion, and the old lady sat up, light streaming from her eyes, like a pair of lanterns tearing through the dark curtain of night. Then Sun Bing sang these lines: ‘When I call out Ganniang, listen carefully as your son sings “Chang Mao Wails at the Bier.” If you have not lived enough, get up and live some more. If you have, then when my song is finished, fly to heaven, away from here.’ Sun Bing kept changing roles, from the sheng to the dan, weeping one moment and laughing the next, interspersed with all sorts of cat cries, turning the bier into a living, lively opera stage. All the filial descendants put aside their grief, while the casual spectators forgot that an old lady, just brought back from the dead, was sitting up in her coffin, listening to the performance. When Sun Bing sang the final high note, which hung in the air like the tail of a kite, Old Lady Qin slowly closed her eyes, released a contented sigh, and fell back into her coffin like a toppled wall. That is the story of how Sun Bing sang someone back from the dead. And there is more: he can also sing the living to death. Old Lady Qin is the only person he ever sang back from the dead, but the bastard has sung more living people to death than there are stars in the sky.” While he was spouting his story, Song Three sidled over to the cauldron, reached in, and snatched a piece of beef. “This beef of yours,” he said with an impudent smile, “has a wonderful flavor—”

Before he could finish what he was going to say, I saw the bastard straighten up as something erupted on his head and he tumbled into the cauldron of boiling oil. While my eyes were riveted on the scene in front of me, my ears pounded from the explosion of bone, and my nose was assailed by the smell of gunpowder merging with the sesame-enhanced smell of sandalwood. I knew immediately what had happened: someone had fired a shot in ambush, one meant for me. The greedy Song Three had been my unwitting stand-in.

———— 1 ————

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

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

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

“Meow~~meow~~meow~~”

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

“Li-ge-long-ge li-ge-long-ge long~~”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Light a candle!” he commanded.

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

“Have a seat.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded abashedly.

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

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

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

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

———— 2 ————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Commence.”

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

“Commence, son.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thank Shifu for giving me this opportunity!”

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

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

“How many teeth did Sun Bing lose?”

“Two, according to Fourth Master.”

“Are you sure that’s what he said?”

“I’m sure, Eighth Master.”

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

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

“Wait—” Zhu Ba cried out.

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

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

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

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

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

———— 3 ————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Master Four clamped his hand over his mouth.

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

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

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

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

“Stay in line; careful with that water!”

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

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

We heard Yuan Shikai respond with a command:

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

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

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

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

“What about Sun Bing?”

“Chained to a stone.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With a sarcastic little laugh, she said:

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

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

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

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

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

Just then a flurry of footsteps sounded outside the door.

“The Magistrate is here,” someone whispered.

The First Lady burst into tears.

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

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

———— 4 ————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That is for you to decide.”

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

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

“I thank Your Ladyship.”

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

How was I supposed to respond to that?

“How old are you?”

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

“I understand that you are pregnant.”

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

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

“Yes, I can.”

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

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

———— 5 ————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cry was echoed by others in the crowd:

“Have mercy—”

“Have mercy—”

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

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

Meow meow, meow meow, my heart was breaking…

———— 1 ————

Zhu Ba clamped his vise-like hands around my throat until I saw stars, my ears rang, my eyes bulged, and my temples throbbed… I knew my life was ebbing fast. But no, I cannot die like this; to have the life choked out of me by Zhu Ba would be a travesty. Alive I must be heroic, and I will be defiant unto death. Brother Zhu Ba, Sun Bing knows why you are doing this, that you are afraid of my being impaled on the stake. You are afraid that I will not be able to endure the punishment and will cry for my father and mother. You are afraid that the moment will come when both a speedy death and a life worth living are denied me. And so you plan to foil the Germans’ scheme by leaving them only my corpse. Take your hands away, Brother Zhu Ba, for killing me this way will ruin my good name. You should know that my resistance to the Germans has been only partially realized; if I shy from my goal now, it will be like a tigerhead start and a snake-tail finish, a cowardly abandonment. I look forward to walking proudly down the street singing a Maoqiang aria, to live like a warrior and die as a martyr. I want to stand tall and shout my militancy; I want to be the agent of a popular awakening and the cause of crippling fear among the foreign devils. Only moments before death claimed me, I suddenly knew what I had to do: I first clawed at my would-be killer’s eyes with both hands and then kneed him in the groin. Something hot and wet dripped down my body as the hands fell away, freeing my neck from danger.

As bright moonlight streamed down, I saw that Zhu Ba and I were surrounded by Imperial Guards, their faces bloated like inflated pig bladders. A couple of those pig bladders came up, grabbed me by the arms, and dragged me away, and as my vision cleared, I saw my old friend, the beggar Zhu Ba, lying crumpled on the ground and twitching uncontrollably. Gobs of foul-smelling blue matter were oozing from his head, and I realized that he hadn’t let go because of my struggle, but because he had been clubbed.

I was immediately bundled by a clutch of shouting men through the secondary gate, past the Exhortation Memorial Arch, and deposited on a platform in front of the Main Hall. I looked up, and was nearly blinded by the array of lanterns that lit up the interior of the hall while others, hung high from the eaves, threw the placard bearing the official title of Yuan Shikai into sharp relief. The Gaomi County formal hall lanterns had been moved to the sides. The soldiers carried me inside and flung me onto the stone kneeling bench. By propping my hands on the floor, I managed to stand up on wobbly legs, but only long enough for a soldier to kick me behind the knee and send me back to the stone bench. Again using my hands, I moved my legs out in front to use the bench as a chair. I refused to kneel.

Once I was in a comfortable sitting position, I looked up and laid eyes on the moon-shaped, oily face of Yuan Shikai and the long, gaunt face of the German von Ketteler. Magistrate Qian Ding was standing to the side, bent at the waist, his back arched, looking both pathetic and anxious.

“You, down there, villain.” It was Yuan Shikai’s voice. “State your name!”

“Ha-ha, ha-ha…” My laughter rang through the hall. “Excellency Yuan’s eyesight does not serve him well,” I said. “With pride I shall tell you who I am. I am the leader of the resistance against German aggression, once known as Sun Bing, but I have been anointed the great spirit Yue Fei, carrying the posthumous name of Wumu. I suffered cruelly when imprisoned in the Pavilion of Wind and Waves!”

“Bring the lanterns closer!” Yuan Shikai demanded.

Several lanterns materialized in front of my face.

“Magistrate Qian, what is going on here?” Yuan Shikai said icily.

Qian Ding rushed up, flicked his sleeves, and lifted the hem of his robe so he could get down on one knee.

“Excellency, your humble servant personally went to the condemned cells, where I found Sun Bing chained to the bandit’s stone.”

“Then who is this?”

The Magistrate rushed up and stood in front of me to get a closer look with the aid of the lanterns. His eyes flashed like will-o’-the-wisps. I thrust out my chin, parted my lips, and said:

“Take a good look, Eminence Qian. This is a chin you ought to recognize. There was a time when it sprouted a beard so grand that each strand stayed perfectly straight even when immersed in water. And in this mouth there were once two perfect rows of teeth so tough they could bite through bone and leave marks in iron. It was you who personally yanked out the hairs of that beard, and von Ketteler who knocked out my teeth with the butt of his pistol.”

“Well, if you are Sun Bing, then who is the Sun Bing in the cell?” Qian Ding asked. “Don’t tell me you can be in two places at the same time.”

“I cannot be in two places at the same time. It’s you who are blind.”

“Guards, sentries, be on your toes. Bolt the main doors and search the grounds,” Yuan Shikai commanded his men. “Bring every one of those villains to me, dead or alive.” Regardless of rank or station, they swarmed out of the hall. “And you, County Magistrate, take someone with you to the condemned cells and bring that Sun Bing here to me. I want to see for myself which is the true Sun Bing and which is a fake.”

Hardly any time passed before the soldiers returned with the corpses of four beggars and one monkey. Actually, four corpses is not quite accurate, for a gurgling sound rumbled in the throat of Zhu Ba and bloody drool formed in the shape of chrysanthemum blossoms around his mouth. I was no more than three feet away, close enough to see light streaming from his still-open eyes. It stabbed straight to my heart. Old Zhu Ba, we have been friends, more like brothers, for twenty years. I still recall how I brought my Maoqiang troupe to perform in town, and you invited me to drink three cups with you in the Temple of the Matriarch. You were obsessed with Maoqiang opera, and had already committed great portions of fine operas to memory. You had a voice like a gander, which imparted a unique quality to your singing. No one sang the old-man parts any better than you. Surges of emotion unsettle my heart when I recall the old days, my brother, and favorite lines of opera want to spill from within. I was about to burst into an operatic aria when I heard the commotion outside the hall.

The clanking of chains made its way into the hall, as Xiao Shanzi appeared in the custody of a clutch of yayi. He was wearing a ripped white robe and was shackled hand and foot. Dried blood stained his skin and clothing; his lips were cut and torn, and he was missing three teeth. Flames seemed to shoot from his eyes… his every step, his every move, his every gesture, were just like mine, though he had one more missing tooth than I. I was secretly shocked, seeing what a spectacular production Zhu Ba had put together. If not for that extra missing tooth, I’m sure my own mother could not have told us apart.

“Excellency,” the Magistrate came forward to report, “your humble servant has brought the foremost criminal Sun Bing to the hall.”

I watched as Yuan Shikai and von Ketteler gaped in wide-eyed amazement.

Xiao Shanzi stood straight, head up, and gave them a foolish grin.

“Insolent criminal,” Yuan Shikai thundered, “why are you not on your knees?”

“I am the great Song General,” Xiao Shanzi replied fervently in imitation of my voice. “I bow down before heaven and earth, I kneel at the feet of my parents, but nothing can make me fall to my knees in front of barbarians and mangy dogs.”

He was a natural, an actor with an ideal voice. Back when Zhu Ba had invited me to teach opera to the beggars in the Temple of the Matriarch, few of them could boast of much talent. In fact, he alone had the necessary adaptability, able to immediately grasp the essentials. I taught him to sing The Hongmen Banquet and In Pursuit of Han Xin, which he learned well, with perfect pitch and a splendid stage appearance; it was as if he were made for them. I tried to get him to join the troupe, but Zhu Ba wanted to keep him around to take over the leadership after his death.

“Good Brother Shanzi,” I said, saluting him with cupped hands, “you have been well since last we met?”

“Good Brother Shanzi,” he repeated my greeting, “you have been well since last we met?” His shackles clanked when he brought his hands together to return my salute.

How absurd, utterly preposterous that was, a performance of the true and false Monkey King there in the middle of the Great Hall!

“On your knees, condemned prisoner,” Yuan Shikai demanded majestically, “and answer my question!”

“I am like bamboo in the wind, which will break before it bends, like the mountain jade that will shatter before it is taken whole.”

“Kneel!”

“Kill me, take my head, do as you please, but I will not kneel!”

“Put him on his knees!” Yuan ordered, by now nearly apoplectic.

The yayi pounced on Xiao Shanzi like wild beasts, grabbed him by the arms, and forced him to his knees. But the minute they took their hands away, he shifted his legs out in front, just as I had done. Now we were sitting side by side. I grimaced; so did he. I glared; he did too. I said, “Shanzi, you are a scoundrel.” He said, “Shanzi, you are a scoundrel.” We were like performers in a comic skit, one aping the other, with the surprising effect of taking the edge off of Yuan Shikai’s anger. He actually chuckled, while von Ketteler, who was sitting right beside him, laughed like an idiot.

“In all my years as an official, I thought I had seen every type of bizarre behavior possible. But this is the first time I’ve watched two people vying to be a condemned prisoner. Gaomi Magistrate, you are a wise and worldly man,” Yuan said sarcastically. “Explain to me what has just happened.”

“Your humble servant is a man of little learning,” Qian Ding said in a reverential tone, “and requires guidance from above.”

“Then tell me which of the two people sitting on the floor is the true Sun Bing.”

Qian Ding walked up to us and looked first at one and then at the other. The look in his eyes said he was having trouble making up his mind, but I knew that this official, cleverer than a monkey, was able to tell the real Sun Bing from the fake at first glance. So why the hesitant look? Could it be as simple as trying to protect the father of his lover? Was it possible that he would willingly let a beggar suffer the sandalwood death in my stead?

The Magistrate studied the two of us for a long moment before turning to report to Yuan Shikai:

“Excellency, my eyesight is poor, and I truly cannot tell them apart.”

“Look closer.”

The Magistrate put his face right up next to us. He shook his head.

“I still cannot tell, Excellency.”

“Look at their mouths.”

“They are both missing teeth.”

“Do you see a difference?”

“One is missing three teeth, the other is missing two.”

“How many teeth is Sun Bing missing?”

“Your humble servant cannot recall.”

“The dog bastard von Ketteler knocked out three of my teeth with the butt of his pistol,” Xiao Shanzi eagerly volunteered.

“No,” I corrected him forcefully, “von Ketteler knocked out two of my teeth.”

“Gaomi Magistrate, you should remember how many of Sun Bing’s teeth were knocked out.”

“Your humble servant truly cannot recall, Excellency.”

“So you are telling me that you cannot tell the real from the fake, is that it?”

“My eyesight is poor, and I truly cannot tell them apart.”

“Well, then, if even the local Magistrate cannot tell them apart, there is no need to keep trying,” Yuan Shikai said with a wave of his hand. “Lock them both up in condemned cells. Tomorrow they will both have a date with a sandalwood stake. Gaomi Magistrate, tonight you will watch over them. If there is a problem with either one, it will be on your head.”

“Your humble servant will do his best…” The Magistrate bowed deeply, and I saw that the back of his robe was wet from perspiration. Nothing remained of his erstwhile poise and proud demeanor.

“This switch could not have taken place without the assistance of someone in the yamen,” Yuan Shikai said, having seen the obvious. “I want the jailer and all those assigned guard duties at the condemned cells here first thing tomorrow to answer some serious questions!”

———— 2 ————

Before Yuan’s soldiers could carry out his order, the jailer had hanged himself in the Prison God Temple. Yayi dragged his corpse out of the compound like a dead dog and deposited it alongside those of Zhu Ba, Hou Xiaoqi, and the others. While soldiers were dragging me over to the condemned cells, I saw executioners cutting off the dead beggars’ heads on someone’s orders. Sick at heart, I experienced intense feelings of remorse. Maybe, I thought, I’ve been wrong; maybe I should have done what Zhu Ba wanted me to do, which was to quietly slip away and foil the scheming collaboration between Yuan Shikai and von Ketteler. I’d wanted to render a great service, to leave a good name for posterity, and to have been loyal, trustworthy, merciful, and benevolent, but I wound up causing the deaths of so many. Enough; no more such thoughts. I’ll cast away all that has tormented me and somehow make it through the night, waiting for the light of tomorrow.

The County Magistrate had his men chain Xiao Shanzi and me to the same bandit’s stone and light three candles inside the cell and a row of lanterns outside. He moved a chair up and sat just beyond the door. Through the tiny window I saw seven or eight yayi assembled behind him and an array of soldiers behind them. The fire in the mess hall kitchen had been put out, but the air was still thick with smoke, and it was getting worse.

The fourth watch was sounded.

Roosters crowed, some near, some far, and lantern light dimmed; the candles in the cell had burned down halfway. The County Magistrate was still in his chair, head slumped down on his chest, like a wheat stalk weighted down after a frost, seemingly neither dead nor alive. I knew he was in a perilous situation, that even if he didn’t lose his head over what had happened, his days as an official were over. Ah, Qian Ding, what happened to that hard-drinking, poem-writing man you once were? County Magistrate, oh, County Magistrate, mortal enemies are bound to meet; my death tomorrow will erase all debts of gratitude and enmity.

Xiao Shanzi, Xiao Shanzi, whom I count as my protégé, by disfiguring your own face and taking another’s place in jail, you have earned a place in the annals of history for your incorruptible loyalty. Why did you adamantly insist that you are Sun Bing? Had you told the truth, you would have lost your head, but how much easier that would be than suffering the sandalwood death!

“Worthy brother, why did you do what you did?” I asked him softly.

“Shifu,” he replied in an even softer voice, “if I had taken the easy way out by letting them lop off my head, wouldn’t I have lost three teeth for nothing?”

“But have you given any thought to the sandalwood death?”

“Shifu, we beggars are hard on ourselves from the moment we’re born. On the day Master Zhu Ba took me on as his disciple, he made me stab myself with a knife. I have trained myself in the ruse of self-injury, and I have trained myself in taking a knife to the head. There are blessings in this world not meant for beggars, but no suffering we do not endure. I urge Shifu to disavow his claim to be Sun Bing; let them punish you with a quick death, and allow your young brother to take the punishment meant for you. By letting me suffer the sandalwood death in your place, it will be your good name that gains the credit.”

“Since your mind is made up,” I said, “then let us crash the Gates of Hell arm in arm. We will show them the meaning of a heroic death and give those foreign devils and treacherous officials a taste of Gaomi courage!”

“Shifu, daybreak is still a ways off,” Xiao Shanzi said. “While you have the chance, won’t you tell me about the origins of Maoqiang opera?”

“Yes, Shanzi, I will. My good young protégé, there is an adage that goes, ‘When death looms, a person can speak only good.’ As your shifu, I will relate for you the history of Maoqiang opera, from its beginnings up to the present.

———— 3 ————

“It is told that during the reign of the Yongzheng Emperor, in the eighteenth century, a truly remarkable man by the name of Chang Mao was born in Northeast Gaomi Township. Single and childless, he had but one companion, a black cat. A crockery mender by trade, he walked the streets and alleys from dawn to dusk carrying his tools and his cat in baskets on a shoulder pole, stopping to mend people’s cracked and broken crockery. He was very good at his trade and, as a man of fine character, was well liked by all. One day, at the funeral of a friend, as he stood before the gravesite, sadness welled up inside him as he thought back to how decently this friend had treated him, and he was moved to pour out his grief in a voice with such lush qualities that the family of the deceased stopped crying and everyone within earshot fell silent. Listening with rapt concentration, they were amazed to discover that a crockery mender had such an affecting voice.

“This was a seminal moment in the history of Maoqiang opera. Chang Mao’s sung recitation surpassed women’s cries of anguish and men’s dry-eyed wails. He brought solace to the grief-stricken and entertainment to the uninvolved, launching a revolution in traditional funeral expressions of bereavement and giving rise to a new era with fresh sights and sounds. It was like a Buddhist devotee laying eyes on the Land of Ultimate Bliss, with celestial flowers raining down, or someone covered in dirt slipping into a bath to wash away the grime, then drinking a pot of hot tea to force sweat out of every pore. And the talk began, how Chang Mao was more than a fine mender of crockery, that he had a voice that resounded like a brass bell, an unrivaled memory, and the gift of eloquence. As time went on, more and more grieving families requested his attendance at graveside ceremonies, asking him to appease the souls of the departed and lessen the sorrows of the survivors. Understandably, at first he declined the requests. Why in the world would he offer vocal laments at the gravesite of a total stranger? No, he’d say the first time, and the second. But the third invitation was always difficult to turn down—did not Liu Bei manage to get Zhuge Liang to his cottage the third time he asked? Besides, they would be fellow townsmen, tied together one way or another, people you could not help meeting from time to time, and in a hundred years or so, everyone would be related anyway. So if he could not do something for the sake of the living, he ought to do it for the departed. Seeing a dead man is like encountering a tiger; seeing a dead tiger is like meeting up with a lamb. The dead are noble, the living worthless. So he went. Once, twice, a third time… and he was always treated as an honored guest, warmly welcomed by all. Human waste spoils a tree’s roots; spirits and good food intoxicate a man’s heart. How could a lowly crockery mender not be moved by such expansive treatment? And so he put his heart into what he was asked to do. A honed knife is sharp; a practiced skill is perfected. Each funeral gave him an opportunity to whet his skills, until finally his artistry was unmatched. In order to introduce something new into his art, he called upon the wisest man in town, Ma Daguan, to whom he apprenticed himself as a student of tales, ancient and new. Then each morning he went alone to the riverbank to practice his singing voice.

“The first to ask Chang Mao to sing at funerals were humble families, but once word of his artistry began to spread, well-to-do families sought his services as well. During those days in Northeast Gaomi Township, any burial ceremony in which he participated became a grand event. People came from miles around, bringing with them the elderly and the very young. And the ceremonies in which he did not participate? However lavish the procession or plentiful the sacrificial offerings might be—banners and pendants blotting out the sun, forests of food and rivers of liquor—the turnout would be sparse. The day finally arrived when Chang Mao laid down his pole and mending tools for the last time and began life as a master bereavement singer.

“People spoke of a local family of bereavement singers in the Confucian homeland whose womenfolk had fine voices. But their specialty was to assume the roles of surviving family members of the deceased to wail and howl songs of piteous sorrow, and bore no resemblance to Chang Mao’s performances. Why compare those bereavement singers to our Patriarch? Because many decades ago, a rumor spread that the founder of our tradition had set out on the path of bereavement singing inspired by Confucian singers. So I made a special trip to Qufu, the birthplace of Confucius, and found that women who sang bereavements still existed there, but that their songs had few lines, mostly “Oh, heaven! Oh, earth!” Our Patriarch’s artistry went far beyond that. Comparing those women to him is like equating heaven with earth or a pheasant with a phoenix.

“Our Patriarch improvised at gravesites, weaving the life of the deceased into his lyrics. He had a quick wit and a brilliant tongue, rhyming in all the right places, colloquial and easy to understand, but soaring with literary grace. His lines of sorrow were essentially a funeral elegy. As demands to meet his listeners’ expectations intensified, he no longer limited his recitations to the life and virtues of the deceased, but introduced philosophical views of life in general. And Maoqiang opera was born.”

At that point in my narration, I turned to see the Magistrate, who was sitting outside the condemned cells, cocking his ear as if listening to what I was saying. Go ahead, listen. I want you to hear. If you don’t have an ear for Maoqiang, you’ll never truly understand Northeast Gaomi Township. Ignorance of its history means you cannot comprehend what is in the hearts of its residents. So I raised my voice even though my throat burned and my tongue ached.

“I said at the beginning that our Patriarch had a cat, a very clever cat, much like the Red Rabbit steed the Three Kingdoms hero Guan Yu rode. He loved that cat, and the cat loved him back. He never went anywhere without it. When he sang a graveside elegy, that cat would sit on the ground in front of him, listening intently, and when the sorrowful climax was reached, it joined in with a doleful howl of its own. The Patriarch’s voice stood out among his peers; the cat’s howls were themselves incomparable. Owing to the shared intimacy, people of the day took to calling him “Chang the Cat,” since the word for cat—mao—sounded the same as his name.

“Even now, there is a popular ditty in Northeast Gaomi Township that goes——

“Better to hear Chang Mao screech than listen to the Master teach,” Xiao Shanzi said with deep emotion.

“Well, one day the cat died; how it died is unclear. One version ascribes it to old age. Another insists that it was poisoned by an out-of town-actor who was envious of the Patriarch’s talent. There is even a version in which the cat was strangled by a vengeful woman who was rebuffed by the Patriarch in her desire to become his wife. Whatever the truth, the cat did die, an event that so traumatized our Patriarch that he held the cat in his arms and cried for three days and nights, interspersing his wails with songs of bereavement, until blood leaked from his eyes.

“After overcoming the worst of his grief, the Patriarch fashioned two items of cat clothing from the skins of wild animals. The smaller of the two, made from the pelt of a feral cat, he wore on his head for daily use—ears rising from each side, tail hanging down past the nape of his neck alongside his modest queue. The larger item, made from the skins of a dozen or more cats, was a ceremonial robe, trailing a long cat’s tail behind him; he wore it thereafter when he performed graveside bereavements.

“The death of his companion initiated a major change in the Patriarch’s singing style. Before that, cheerful banter had been woven into his songs; now forlorn strains dominated from start to finish. There was also a change in his singing style, for now the desolate contents were dotted with dulcet or melancholy or bleak cat cries that changed constantly, like a series of interludes. The new style not only has survived to this day, but has become the central feature of Maoqiang opera.”

“Meow—— Meow—” On an impulse, Xiao Shanzi interrupted my narration with a pair of cat cries pregnant with nostalgia.

“After the death of his cat, our Patriarch adopted the walking and speaking style of a cat, as if possessed by the spirit of his dead companion. He and his cat had become one. Even his eyes underwent a change: slitted during the day, they glowed in the darkness of night. Then one day the Patriarch died, and a legend was born that he turned into a large cat on his deathbed, but with wings that grew from his shoulders and carried him through the window and onto the limb of a giant tree. From there he flew straight to the moon.

“The vocation of bereavement singing died with the Patriarch, but his melodic, heartbreaking elegies never stopped swirling in the hearts of our people.”

———— 4 ————

“Later, during the nineteenth-century reigns of the Jiaqing and Daoguang emperors, small family troupes mimicked the vocal offerings of the Patriarch in performances, usually consisting of a male singer, echoed by his wife, and complemented by their child, dressed in a cat costume, who supplied the feline cries. When the opportunity arose, they sang funeral elegies for rich families—by then, ‘bereavement laments’ had become ‘bereavement songs’—but most of the time they put on public performances at open markets. Husband and wife sang and acted out their parts while their child moved cat-like, making a variety of feline sounds as he circled the crowd with his donations basket. Short performances were the order of the day, including such favorites as Lan Shuilian Sells Water, A Widow Weeps at a Gravesite, and Third Sister Wang Misses Her Husband. In reality, these performances were a form of begging. Maoqiang actors are cousins to professional beggars, and that is how you became my protégé.”

“Shifu speaks the truth,” Xiao Shanzi said.

“That was how things stood for several generations. Musical instruments were not used in the Maoqiang of those days, and there was no staging. It was operatic but not yet opera. Besides the small family troupes I spoke of a moment ago, there were peasants who made up musical interludes during leisure periods, accompanied by gongs used for peddling candy and clappers used by bean curd peddlers, singing them for themselves in cellars where straw sandals were made or on heated brick beds in their own homes, all to dispel loneliness and ease a life of suffering. Those gongs and clappers were the forerunners of today’s Maoqiang instruments.

“I was young and clever back then—I’m not boasting—and I had the finest voice in all of Northeast Gaomi Township’s eighteen villages. I began to gain a reputation when I joined my voice with others. People—locals at first, then outsiders—came to listen, and when the cellars and brick beds could no longer accommodate them all, we moved into yards and onto threshing grounds. People could be seated when they sang in those cellars and on brick beds, but not in open spaces, where movement was required. But then movement in ordinary clothing did not feel natural, so costumes were required. But then costumes and unadorned faces did not produce the right effect, so singers painted their faces. Costumes and painted faces needed something more—instruments more varied than gongs and clappers. Ragtag troupes from other counties gave performances in town, including the “Donkey Opera” specialists from Southern Shandong, who rode their animals onto the stage. There were also the southern Jiao County “Gliders,” whose ending note of each sentence glided from high to low, like sledding down a mountain slope. Actors in one so-called “rooster troupe” from the Henan-Shandong border area ended each line with a sort of hiccup, the sound a rooster makes at the end of its crow. All these troupes came with instrumental accompaniment, for the most part huqin, dizi, suonas, and laba—fiddles, flutes, woodwinds, and horns. The visitors played their instruments at our performances, and the effects were more impressive than those with singing alone. But I am so competitive, I’ve never been satisfied with someone else’s brainchild. By this time our opera was already known as Maoqiang, and I was thinking that if I wanted to create a unique opera form, it had to be all about cats. And so I invented an instrument called the mao hu—the cat fiddle. With that instrument, Maoqiang had found its place.

“My instrument was bigger than other fiddles; it had four strings and a double bow, which produced fascinating compound notes. Their fiddles were snakeskin-covered; for ours we used tanned cat skins. Their fiddles were good for ordinary tones, while ours could produce cat cries dog yelps donkey brays horse whinnies baby bawls maiden giggles rooster crows hen cackles—there wasn’t a sound on earth that our fiddles could not reproduce. The cat fiddle put Maoqiang opera on the map, and ragtag troupes found no place in Northeast Gaomi Township after that.

“I followed my invention of the cat fiddle with another—the cat drum, a small drum made of cat skin. I also came up with a dozen facial designs: happy cats, angry cats, treacherous cats, loyal cats, affectionate cats, resentful cats, hateful cats, unsightly cats… would it be an exaggeration to say that without Sun Bing, today there would be no Maoqiang opera?”

“Again Shifu speaks the truth,” Xiao Shanzi said.

“Of course I am not the opera’s Patriarch. That was Chang Mao. If Maoqiang were a tree, then Chang Mao would be our roots.”

———— 5 ————

“Worthy young brother, which operas did I teach you to sing all those years ago?”

“The Hongmen Banquet, Shifu,” Xiao Shanzi replied softly, “and In Pursuit of Han Xin.”

“Ah, those, both stolen—by me—from other operas. You probably are unaware that Shifu played bit roles with at least ten opera troupes in other counties in order to poach bits of their performances. My desire to learn opera took me down south, out of Shanxi, across the Yangtze, and into Guangxi and Guangdong. There isn’t an opera anywhere that Shifu cannot perform, and no role that Shifu cannot act. Like a bumblebee, I have taken nectar from all the operatic flowers to create the fine honey of Maoqiang opera.”

“Shifu, you are a miraculous talent!”

“Your shifu once had a grand desire to take Maoqiang opera to Peking at least one time before he died and perform for the Emperor and the Empress Dowager. I wanted it to become a national dramatic form. Once that happened, rats would disappear from the land north and south of the great river. What a shame that before I could put this grand plan into action, a treacherous individual yanked the beard right off my face. That beard was the symbol of Shifu’s prestige, my courage, my talent, the very soul of Maoqiang. Shifu without a beard is like a cat without whiskers like a rooster without tail feathers like a horse with a shorn tail… worthy young brother, Shifu had no choice but to leave the stage and drift through life as the owner of a little teahouse, fated to die with unfulfilled aspirations, something that has bedeviled heroic figures since time immemorial.”

At this point in my narration, I noted that the Gaomi County Magistrate was shuddering, and that Xiao Shanzi’s eyes were filled with tears.

“My young protégé, the featured opera in our repertoire is Chang Mao Weeps for a Departed Spirit, my first major creation. It has always been the first performed for each new season. If it is well done, the success of our run that season is ensured; if not, there are bound to be problems down the line. You’ve lived your life in Northeast Gaomi Township. How many times have you seen Chang Mao Weeps for a Departed Spirit?”

“I’m not sure, but it must be dozens of times.”

“Has it ever been the same twice, in your view?”

“No, Shifu, I always came away with something new,” Xiao Shanzi said dreamily, his thoughts going back in time. “I still remember the first time I saw Chang Mao Weeps for a Departed Spirit. I was just a boy then and wore a cat-skin cap. You played the role of Chang Mao, and when you sang, sparrows dropped out of the trees. But what impressed me most was not your songs. No, it was the big boy who played the role of the cat. He filled the air with cat cries, no two alike, and long before the opera was finished, everyone at the foot of the stage went crazy. We boys ran around, threading our way through the crowd of adults and making cat sounds. Meow meow meow. Three large trees stood at the edge of the square, and we fought to climb them. As a rule, I wasn’t very good at climbing trees, but that day I climbed so nimbly you’d have thought I was a cat. Well, the tree was already filled with real cats. I had no idea when they’d climbed up there, but they joined us in a chorus of loud meows, until the stage and the area around it, sky and ground, were alive with cat cries. Men women adults children real cats pretend cats, all joined together in opening up their throats to release sounds previously unknown to them and began to move in ways they’d never dreamed possible. Eventually they lay spent on the ground, bodies soaked with sweat, faces awash in tears and snot, like empty shells. We cat children fell out of the trees, one after another, like so many black stones. The cats up there floated down to the ground, as if they’d grown webbing between their paws, like flying mice. I still recall the last line of that day’s opera: ‘Cat oh cat oh cat oh cat oh cat, my dear, precious cat…’ Shifu, you drew out that last ‘cat,’ making it tumble skyward until it was a hundred feet higher than the tallest poplar tree, taking everyone’s heart into the clouds with it.”

“My young protégé, you are as capable of singing Chang Mao Weeps for a Departed Spirit as I am.”

“No, Shifu, but if I could be on the stage with you, I’d like to be the cat boy.”

I took a long, emotional look at this fine Northeast Township youngster. “My boy, you and I are right now acting out the second signature Maoqiang opera, which we can call Sandalwood Death.”

———— 6 ————

Tradition dictated that we be brought out to the Main Hall, where a tray with four plates of food, a pot of strong spirits, some flatbreads, and a bunch of leeks were laid out. There was braised pig’s head, a plate of stewed chicken, a fish, and some spicy beef. The flatbreads were bigger than the lid of a wok, the leeks fresh and moist, the spirits steamy hot. Xiao Shanzi and I sat across from each other and smiled. Two Sun Bings, one real and one fake, clinked glasses and then emptied them noisily. Tears spurted from our eyes as the heated spirits worked their way down; we were like members of a loyal brotherhood, impassioned. On Wangxiang tai, the terrace in Hell from which we can see our homes, we will walk hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, and fly up to the ninth heaven on a rainbow. So we feasted, swallowing the food nearly whole, since we were missing so many teeth. As we looked death calmly in the face, fearless and exuberant, a grand and solemn opera had begun. The prison van turned onto the main street, lined by jostling crowds. What actors want most is an audience bristling with feverish anticipation, and there is no more solemn, stirring moment in life than being taken to the execution ground. I, Sun Bing, had acted on the stage for thirty years, but this was going to be my finest day ever.

I saw light glinting off the tips of bayonets up front and shiny red- and blue-tasseled caps behind. My fellow townspeople’s eyes flashed on both sides of the street. Many of the country squires’ beards quivered, and many women’s eyes were wet with tears; many children stood with their mouths agape, slobber running down their chins. Suddenly, hidden there among all those women was my daughter, Meiniang, and I experienced a sadness that nearly made me weep. A true man can spill blood but not tears; he must not sacrifice his manly virtues for the love of family.

As the van’s wooden wheels rumbled down the cobblestone street, the harsh sunlight made my scalp itch. The clang of a gong leading the way was carried on an early fall breeze, and as I looked up into the azure sky, I experienced a sense of desolation. The blue sky and white clouds turned my thoughts to the puffy white clouds reflected in the crystal-clear waters of the Masang River. I had carried water from that river for customers who arrived from all corners. I thought of Little Peach, my wonderful wife, and of my two delightful children. My loathing for the Germans, whose railroad had destroyed the feng shui of our Northeast Gaomi Township, knew no bounds. Grievous thoughts made my throat itch, and I raised my voice in tribute to my fellow villagers and townspeople:

I travel amid shouting crowds, unafraid~~I wear a python-and-dragon robe, my hat of gold threads made. I swagger, my waist cinched by a belt of jade~~look at those pigs and dogs, who dares step on my heel in this parade~~

I had only managed those few lines before the teeming crowds along the street roared their delight—“Bravo!” Xiao Shanzi, my good protégé, did not miss a beat, chiming in with cat cries, each slightly different~~Meow meow meow~~adding a veneer of luster to my singing.

Look up at swirling winds of gold, then farther down lush trees behold~~a martyr’s spirit, I raise the flag of rebellion, as commanded on high, to preserve China’s rivers and mountains, and not allow a foreign railroad our land to enfold~~I have eaten the dragon’s liver and the phoenix’s brain, fiery spirits and ambrosia drink have made me bold~~

Meow meow meow~~

My fine young protégé filled in the gaps with his cries…

There were tears in my fellow villagers’ eyes, but then, starting with the children, they echoed Xiao Shanzi’s cat cries. It must have sounded as if all the cats in the world had come together at this place.

As my song and my fellow villagers’ cries swirled in the air together, I saw that the color had left Yuan Shikai and von Ketteler’s faces, and that the frightened soldiers, foreign devils included, were ashen-faced, as if confronted by mortal enemies. Sun Bing could now die with no regrets, in the wake of this spectacular operatic moment!

Good, wonderful, bravo, fellow townsmen do not fret——fret fret fret, all you traitors, be on your guard——watch watch watch, our people rise in rebellion——go go go, go tear up those tracks——die die die, die a good death——fire fire fire, flames reach into the sky——finish finish finish, finished not yet——demand demand demand, a cry for justice be met——

Meow meow meow meow~~

Mew~~

———— 1 ————

Brilliant reds greeted me when I opened my eyes—Hey! Where’s the fire? Heh-heh, there’s no fire. The sun had come out. The bed of wheat straw was alive with insects that bit me all over. Half-cooked oil fritters lay heavily in my stomach all night long, and I could not stop breaking wind. I could see that Dieh was no longer a panther, just my dieh, a mystical dieh who sat primly in the sandalwood Dragon Chair given to him by His Majesty the Emperor, fingering his string of sandalwood prayer beads. There were times when I wanted to sit in that chair just to see how it felt, but Dieh said no. “Not just anyone can sit in this chair,” he said. “If you don’t have a dragon bunghole, you’ll get up with hemorrhoids.” Liar! If Dieh had a dragon bunghole, how could his son not have one? If he did and his son didn’t, then the dieh wouldn’t be the dieh and the son wouldn’t be the son. So there! I was used to hearing people say “A dragon begets a dragon, a phoenix begets a phoenix, and when a rat is born, it digs a hole.” So Dieh was sitting in his chair, half his face red, the other half white, eyes barely open, lips seeming to quiver, all sort of dreamlike.

“Dieh,” I said, “please let me sit in that chair just for a moment before they get here.”

“No,” he said, pulling a long face, “not yet.”

“Then when?”

“After we’ve completed the important task ahead of us.” The expression on his face had not changed, and I knew that was intentional. He was very, very fond of me, a boy everyone was drawn to. How could he not be? I went up behind him, wrapped my arms around his neck, and touched the back of his head with my chin. “Since you won’t let me sit in the Dragon Chair,” I said, “then tell me a Peking story before they get here.”

“I do that every single day,” he said, seemingly annoyed. “How many stories do you think there are?”

I knew his annoyance was just an act. Dieh enjoyed nothing more than telling me Peking stories. “Please, Dieh,” I said. “If you don’t have any new stories, tell me one of the old ones.”

“What’s so appealing about the old stories?” he said. “Have you never heard the adage ‘Repeat something three times, and not even the dogs will listen’?”

“I’ll listen even if the dogs won’t,” I said.

“What am I going to do with you, my boy?” He looked up at the sun. “We have a little time,” he said finally. “I’ll tell you a story about Guo Mao, how’s that?”

———— 2 ————

I have not forgotten a single story my dieh told me, not one of the hundred and forty-one. Each of them is packed away in my head, which has lots of drawers, like those cabinets in herbal pharmacies. Every story has a drawer of its own, and there are still lots of drawers left over. I started pulling out drawers, and found that none of them held a story about Guo Mao. Happy? I was thrilled! A new story! I pulled out the hundred and forty-second drawer, into which I would put the story of Guo Mao.

“During the Xianfeng reign in the mid-nineteenth century, a father and son showed up in Tianqiao. The father’s name was Guo Mao, or Guo the Cat. His son’s name was Xiaomao, or Kitten. Both father and son were accomplished mimics. Do you know what that is? It’s someone who uses his mouth to imitate all the different sounds in the world.”

“Could they imitate the cry of a cat?”

“Children mustn’t interrupt when grownups are talking! Anyway, father and son quickly gained a reputation as street performers in Tianqiao. When I heard about them, I sneaked over to Tianqiao, without telling Grandma Yu, and joined the crowd milling at the square. I was pretty small back then, and skinny, and I had no trouble squeezing my way up front, where I saw a boy sitting on a stool, holding a hat. I got there just in time for the performance to begin: a rooster crows behind a dark curtain, a sound that’s immediately echoed by dozens of roosters, near and far, some of them squeaky attempts by young birds still with fledgling feathers. The squawks are accompanied by the thup-thup of flapping wings. Then an old woman tells her husband and son that it is time to get up. The old man coughs, spits, lights his pipe, and bangs the bowl against the side of the heated bed. The boy snores on until she forces him to get out of bed, which he does, muttering and yawning noisily as he gets dressed. A door opens, and the boy goes outside to pee before fetching water to wash up. The old woman starts a fire in the stove with the help of a bellows, while the old man and the boy go out to the pigsty to catch one of the pigs, a noisy process. The pig crashes through the gate and starts running around in the yard, where it knocks over a water bucket and smashes a bedpan. Then it bursts into a henhouse, producing an uproar of squawks from the terrified chickens, several of which flap their way up onto a wall. The boy grabs the squealing pig by a hind leg and is joined by his father, who takes hold of the other hind leg and helps him pull the animal out of the henhouse. But its head is caught, which its shrill complaints vividly attest. In the end they tie its legs with a rope and carry it over to the slaughtering rack. The pig fights to get free. The boy whacks it over the head with a club. Agonizing squeals follow. Then the boy sharpens a knife on a whetstone, while his father drags over a clay basin to catch the blood. The boy buries the knife in the pig’s neck. The stuck pig squeals. Blood spurts, first onto the ground, then into the basin. After this, the woman brings out a tub of hot water, and the three of them busily debristle the animal. That done, the boy opens the pig’s belly and scoops out the internal organs. A dog comes up, steals a length of intestine, and runs off. The old woman curses the dog, managing a hit or two before it’s out of range. The man and his son hang the butchered meat on a rack. Customers come up to buy cuts of pork. There are older women, older men, young women, and children. After selling off the meat, father and son count their money before the family of three enjoy a meal of slurpy porridge… all of a sudden, the dark curtain parted and all anyone saw was a scrawny old man sitting on a stool. He was rewarded with enthusiastic applause. Then the boy got down off his stool and passed the hat. Coins rained down into the cap, except for those that landed on the ground. Your dieh saw it with his own eyes and did not make up any of it. The old adage holds true: ‘Every trade has its zhuangyuan.’”

———— 3 ————

Now that he had told his story, Dieh sat quietly with his eyes shut. But I was too enraptured to want to extract myself from the tale. It was yet another story about a boy and his father, and I could not help feeling that all his stories about a boy and his father were really about me and him. Dieh was the mimic, Guo Mao, and I was the boy who walked through the crowd, hat in hand—Meow meow~~mew~~

My dieh had performed countless executions in the capital to audiences of thousands, people who were drawn to his unparalleled skill, and it seemed to me that I could actually see tears in the people’s eyes. Wouldn’t it have been wonderful if I’d been there with Dieh at the time, hat in hand, a cat cap on my head, collecting donations from onlookers? While I was collecting money, I’d be practicing my cat cries~~meow meow~~and how wonderful that would be! Just think about all the money I’d get! I tell you, Dieh, why did you wait so long to come home and introduce yourself to your son? You could have taken me to the capital with you. If I’d been at your side ever since I was a boy, by now I’d be a man-slaying zhuangyuan…

When my dieh first showed up in town, people took me aside and whispered, “Xiaojia, your dieh isn’t human.” “What is he, then?” “He’s a ghost that has taken over a corpse and brought it back to life. Think about it, Xiaojia, before your mother died, did she ever say you had a father? No? Of course not. So your mother said nothing about a father on her deathbed, and then he shows up, like he’d dropped out of the sky or popped up out of the ground. What could he possibly be except a ghost?”

“Go fuck yourself!” Meow meow. I rushed those tongue-wagging bastards with a cleaver. I went without a dieh for more than twenty years, and now, by some miracle, I suddenly have one, and you people have the nerve to say not only that is he not my dieh, but that he’s a ghost. You’re as brazen as rats that’ll lick a cat’s ass. I raised my cleaver and ran at them. Meow meow. With one swing of my cleaver I could chop them in two, from their heads all the way down to their heels. My dieh said that particular chop is called the “big cleave,” and today I’m going to use it on any son of a bitch who has the guts to say my dieh isn’t really my dieh. Well, they nearly shit their pants when they saw the look of rage on my face, and could not get out of there fast enough. Meow meow, watch out, you bunch of long-tailed rats. Provoke my dieh, and you’re asking for trouble. The same goes for me. Meow meow. Come give it a try if you don’t believe me, any of you. My dieh is an executioner who sits in the Emperor’s chair. His Majesty gave him leave to report an execution after it had been carried out, to kill without constraints, man or dog. And when I take my place, knife in hand, at my dieh’s side, I can kill a man as easily as I can butcher a pig or a dog.

I pleaded with Dieh to tell me another story. He said:

“Quit dawdling and get things ready. I don’t want you rushing around when it’s time to do our job.”

I knew that a spectacle was planned for today—spectacles always made for happy days for Dieh and me—and that there would be plenty of time later for stories. Good food needs to be savored. Once the sandalwood death was successfully carried out, Dieh would be in a good mood, and there’d be nothing holding him back from spitting out all the stories he held inside, for my ears alone. I walked out behind the shed to relieve myself—numbers one and two—and took a look around while I was at it. The opera stage and Ascension Platform were there, and I watched a flock of wild pigeons, their wings flapping loudly, fly past in the bright sunlight. The parade ground was surrounded: soldier, wooden post, soldier, wooden post. A dozen cannons hunkered down at the field’s edge. People called them turtle cannons, I called them dog cannons. Turtle cannons, dog cannons, slick and smooth, loud barks, green moss on the turtles’ shells, dogs’ bodies covered with fur, meow meow.

I retraced my steps to the front of the shed, itching for something to do. I needed a job of some sort. By this time on most days, I’d already have slaughtered the day’s pigs and dogs and hung the carcasses on the a rack, letting the smell of fresh meat join the birds in the sky. Customers would be lined up in front of the shop, while I stood at the butcher block, cleaver in hand to chop off a hunk of the still-warm fatty meat, giving my customers the exact amount they asked for, not an ounce more or an ounce less. They’d give me a thumbs-up. “Xiaojia,” they’d say, “you’re quite the man!” I didn’t need them to tell me that. But this was the first time I was to be part of a spectacle with Dieh, one that was a lot more important than butchering pigs. But what about all those customers? What do we do? Sorry, folks, I guess you’ll have to be vegetarians for a day.

I was getting bored now that there were no more stories, so I went up to the stove, where the fire had gone out. There were no ripples on the surface of the glistening oil. It was no longer a cauldron of oil, but a mirror, a big bronze mirror, brighter than my wife’s mirror at home, and so clear that I could count the whiskers on my face. There were dried stains in the mud in front of the stove and on the stand—Song Three’s blood. And those weren’t the only places his blood had landed; some had splattered into the cauldron. Was that why the oil had such a bright sheen? After this business of the sandalwood death is done with, I’m going to move this cauldron into the yard back home and let my wife see her face in it, but only if she refrains from mistreating my dieh. Last night I was half asleep when I heard a loud pop. Song Three’s head was buried in the churning oil, and before they could pull it out, it was about half cooked. I got a kick out of that. Meow meow.

That was good shooting. Who did it? My dieh didn’t know, and the government soldiers who started looking the moment they heard the shot didn’t know. I’m the only one who knew. Gaomi County could boast only two marksmen that good. One was the rabbit hunter Niu Qing; the other was County Magistrate Qian Ding. Niu Qing had one eye—the left one. He’d lost his right one when his gun blew up in his face. A distinct improvement in his marksmanship followed the accident. He mastered the skill of shooting rabbits on the run. If he raised his fowling piece, a rabbit would be on its way to the netherworld. Niu Qing was a good friend of mine. My good friend. The other marksman was the venerable Qian Ding, our County Magistrate. Once, when I was in the Great Northern Wilderness hunting for herbal medicine for my wife’s illness, I saw Qian Ding, with his attendants Chunsheng and Liu Pu, out hunting. Chunsheng and Liu Pu were on donkeys driving rabbits out of the bushes so the Magistrate, sitting astride his horse, could draw his pistol and, seemingly without aiming, send a rabbit flying up into the air to land with a thud—dead.

From where I hid in the brush, not daring to make a sound, I could hear Chunsheng praise the Magistrate to the skies with words like “crack shot,” while Liu Pu sat in the saddle, head down, a blank look on his face that gave away nothing of what he was thinking. My wife once told me that the Magistrate’s loyal follower, Liu Pu, was Qian Ding’s wife’s ganerzi, and the son of some big shot. He was, she said, a wise and talented man. I refused to believe her. What talented man would serve as somebody’s lackey? A talented man would be like my dieh, who lifted up his sword, smeared his face with blood, and—thwack thwack thwack thwack thwack thwack, six heads rolled on the ground.

The Magistrate was no marksman, was how I saw it, just a lucky shot, like a blind cat bumping into a dead rat. He’d probably miss the next. Well, as if he knew what I was thinking, he pointed his pistol into the air and brought down a bird. A dead bird, like a black stone, plopped down right next to me. Would you believe it! A superhuman marksman, meow meow. The Magistrate’s hunting dog came bounding over to me. I stood up with the dead bird, its body heat burning my hand. The dog leaped and jumped up and down, barking the whole time. Now, I’m not afraid of dogs; dogs are afraid of me. Every dog in Gaomi County runs away with its tail between its legs, yelping like crazy, when it sees me coming. Dogs’ fear of me proves how much I take after my dieh, a panther. The Magistrate’s dog looked mean, but I could tell from its bark that it was expecting to be backed up by its master to make me think it wasn’t afraid. Me, Gaomi County’s King of Hell for dogs! The dog’s barks brought Chunsheng and Liu Pu riding up from two sides. I was a stranger to Liu Pu, but Chunsheng was a friend of mine. He’d often visited the shop, where he was treated to cut-rate food and drink. “What are you doing here, Xiaojia?” he asked. “Searching for herbal stuff,” I said. “My wife is sick, and she sent me out to find some heartbreak grass with red roots and green leaves. Know where I can find any? If so, tell me, and hurry, because she’s in a bad way.” By then the Magistrate had ridden up and was giving me the once-over with a pitiless look in his eyes. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What is your name?” He sputtered when I didn’t answer. When I was still a little boy, my mother told me to act dumb in the presence of an official. “He’s Dog-Meat Xishi’s husband,” Chunsheng whispered, “a borderline idiot.” Well, fuck you, Chunsheng! I felt like saying. I was just saying how you were a friend of mine, and that’s no way for a friend to talk. Would a real friend say that his friend is a borderline idiot? Meow meow, fuck you! Who are you calling a borderline idiot? If that’s what I am, then you’re a total idiot.

When Niu Qing pulled the trigger, only buckshot came out of the barrel. But the Magistrate fired a single bullet each time he pulled the trigger. A neat little hole dotted Song Three’s head, and if that doesn’t prove it was the Magistrate, I don’t know what does. But then why would the Magistrate want to kill Song Three? Oh, now I get it. Song Three, you must have stolen money from the Magistrate, something most people would not dare to do. Stealing from the Magistrate was signing your own death warrant. Most of the time you pranced around the yamen like a big shot and refused to even acknowledge my presence. You refused to settle up the five strings of cash you owed the shop, and I didn’t have the nerve to ask you for it. Well, things worked out in the end. We’re out the money, but you’re out for good. Now, which was more important, your money or your life? Your life, of course, so take your unpaid debt and talk it over with the King of Hell.

———— 4 ————

Government troops were swarming our way even as the sound of gunfire hung in the air. They dragged the top half of Song Three’s body out of the oil. His head reeked of sesame oil, which dripped along with his blood back into the cauldron. It looked like a newly fried hawthorn berry. Meow meow. The soldiers laid him out on the ground, where his legs, a thread of life still in them, twitched uncontrollably, evoking the image of a half-dead chicken. The soldiers stared wide-eyed at the soon-to-be corpse, not knowing what to do. One of their officers rushed up and bundled my dieh and me into the shed, then turned to look in the direction from which the bullet had come and fired his weapon. I’d never had a rifle fire that close to me, a foreign rifle, at that—I’d heard it was a German weapon whose bullets could penetrate a wall at over a thousand yards. The other soldiers took his lead and fired at the same spot. Smoke emerged from their muzzles when they stopped shooting, and the smell of gunpowder engulfed us, like New Year’s, when firecrackers are set off. “Go after him!” the officer commanded. Meow meow. The soldiers took off running, whooping and hollering. If Dieh hadn’t grabbed me by the arm, I’d have taken out after them to watch the fun! Those morons, I was thinking, what do they think they’re going to find? By the time you dragged Song Three out of the boiling oil, the Magistrate was already back in the yamen, thanks to his spirited horse, a Red Rabbit thoroughbred. With its sleek red coat, it looked like a fiery red blur when it galloped at high speed, faster and faster, filling the air with a whistling sound. The animal, which had once belonged to Master Guan Yu, did not eat hay. When it was hungry, it ate a mouthful of fresh dirt, and when it was thirsty, it drank the wind. Or so Dieh told me. He also said that instead of Red Rabbit, it ought to be called an earth-eating or wind-drinking thoroughbred, because those traits described the animal’s essence. It was a fine animal, a rare treasure, and I wondered whether I would ever own such a horse. If that happened one day, I’d let my dieh be its first rider. He’d probably want that privilege to be mine, but I’d insist. As a filial son, I always let him have the best. The most filial son in Gaomi County, the most filial son in Laizhou Prefecture, the most filial son in Shandong Province, the most filial son in all of the Great Qing Empire! Meow meow.

After searching the area, the soldiers started heading back in twos and threes.

“Grandma Zhao,” the officer said, “Excellency Yuan asks you to please remain inside the shed from now on. It’s for your protection.”

Dieh merely grinned in response. Several dozen soldiers quickly surrounded the shed, meow meow, as if we were treasures to be protected. The officer blew out the candle and moved the two of us out of the moonlight. Then he asked my dieh if the sandalwood stakes in the cauldron were ready. “More or less,” Dieh replied. So the officer removed the kindling under the stove and dumped it in water. I love the smell of charred wood, so I breathed in deeply. In the darkness I heard Dieh say, either to me or to himself:

“Heaven’s will, it was heaven’s will. A sacrifice to the sandalwood stakes!”

“What did you say, Dieh?”

“Go to sleep, son. Tomorrow is our big day.”

“Would you like me to massage your back, Dieh?”

“No.”

“Scratch your back?”

“Go to sleep!” he said, starting to get annoyed.

Meow meow.

“Go to sleep.”

———— 5 ————

Once the sun was up, the cordon of government soldiers around the shed was replaced by a contingent of German soldiers that ringed the parade ground, facing out. Once they were in place, another contingent, this time of government troops, moved in and took up positions around the parade ground, but facing in. Finally, six government troops and six German soldiers marched in and took their positions: one at each corner of the shed, one at each corner of the Ascension Platform, and four in front of the opera stage. Two of the four men at our shed were foreign; the other two were Yuan’s troops. They all had their backs to the shed, standing at attention, as if competing to see who could stand the straightest. Meow meow, straight as an arrow.

As he fingered his prayer beads, Dieh looked like a meditating old monk, Amita Buddha. Amita Buddha, my wife said that a lot. My eyes, like awls, bored into Dieh’s hands. Meow meow, they were uncommon hands; the Great Qing Empire’s hands, the nation’s hands, the hands of the venerable Empress Dowager Cixi and the ageless Emperor. My dieh’s were the hands They used to kill anyone They wanted dead. If the Empress Dowager said to my dieh: “Slaymaster, go kill someone for Me,” my dieh would say, “As you wish!” If the ageless Emperor said: “Slay-master, go kill someone for Me,” my dieh would say, “As you wish!” My dieh had wonderful hands. Still, they were a pair of little birds; in motion, they were like feathers. Meow meow. I still remember how my wife once said to me, “Your dieh’s hands are abnormally small,” and as I looked at those hands, I couldn’t help feeling that he was somehow not an ordinary human being. If not a ghost, he had to be an immortal. On pain of death, you would never believe that those hands were capable of killing a thousand people. Hands like his belonged to a midwife. Where I come from, we call a midwife an auspicious grandma. Auspicious Grandma, Grandma Auspicious, ah-ya-ah, and I suddenly understood why people in the capital referred to him as Grandma. He was a midwife. But then again, midwives are all women, and my dieh is a man. Or is he? Of course he is; I’ve seen his little pecker when I bathed him. It’s like a little frozen green carrot, heh-heh… What are you laughing at? Heh-heh, a little carrot… Idiot son. Meow meow, can men really be midwives? Wouldn’t a male midwife be a laughingstock? And wouldn’t he have a clear view of a woman’s privates? And wouldn’t that be all her menfolk needed to beat him to death? I didn’t know what to think, and the harder I tried, the more confused I became. To hell with it. Who’s got time to waste on stuff like that?

My dieh’s eyes snapped open; he draped his prayer beads around his neck, stood up, and went to check the cauldron of oil. I could see our upside-down reflections in the oil. The surface was brighter than a mirror, and so clear I could see every pore in our faces. Dieh lifted one of the sandalwood stakes out, breaking the smooth surface and turning my reflection into the long face of a goat. What a shock! All along, my true form has been that of a goat, with a pair of horns. Meow meow. What a disappointment. Dieh’s true form is a black panther, the County Magistrate is a white tiger, my wife is a white snake, and me? I’m a bearded goat. A goat! What kind of animal is that! I didn’t want to be a damned goat! Dieh examined the stake in the sunlight, like a master blacksmith examining a newly forged sword. Bright threads of oil dripped back into the cauldron, creating little eddies on the surface of the slightly gummy oil. He waited till the last of the oil had dripped from the stake before taking out a piece of white silk and wiping the stake dry. The silk quickly absorbed all the oil residue. Dieh laid the silk on the cauldron stand, then held the stake in two hands—one on the butt, the other on the tip—and tried to bend it. I detected a slight arch when he did that; it returned to its original shape as soon as he loosened his grip. After placing the stake on the cauldron stand, he lifted out the second stake, first letting all the oil drip off, then wiping it dry with the silk, and tried to bend it. As before, when he loosened his grip, it returned to its original shape. A look of satisfaction spread across his face. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him so happy, and it affected me the same way, meow meow. What a wonderful thing, the sandalwood death, for it made my dieh happy, meow meow.

Dieh carried the two sandalwood stakes into the shed and laid them on a small table. He then knelt on the straw mat and bowed down to pay his respects, as if an invisible apparition were ensconced behind the table. His obeisance completed, he got up and sat in his chair, shielding his eyes with his hand as he gazed heavenward. The sun had begun its climb in the morning sky; normally by this time I’d have sold off all that day’s fresh pork, and it would be time to slaughter dogs. Having noted the sun’s progress, without looking at me, Dieh said:

“You can kill the rooster, son!”

Meow meow~~mew~~

———— 6 ————

My heart soared when Dieh said that! Meow meow meow, Dieh, dear Dieh, my dear dieh! My seemingly unending wait was over, and the long-delayed moment of excitement had arrived. I selected a razor-sharp paring knife from the knife hamper and showed it to Dieh. He nodded. Then I went up to the rooster, which began flapping its wings; its tail feathers jerked up, and out came a puddle of white excrement. On most mornings at this time, it would be perched on the wall at home crowing loudly, but today it was tied to a post. With the knife held between my teeth, I reached down and grabbed it by its wings and held its legs down with my foot. Dieh had told me this rooster was for its blood, not for eating, so I placed a black bowl under its neck to catch the blood. The rooster, burning hot, was struggling to free its head from my hand. I squeezed hard. Behave yourself, damn it, how am I supposed to do this if you don’t behave yourself? Pigs are stronger than you, dogs meaner, and they don’t scare me, so what makes a rooster think it can scare me? Fuck you. I plucked its neck clean, stretched it taut, and made a pass with my knife. The skin parted. No blood appeared at first, which made me nervous, because Dieh had said that if you kill a rooster prior to an execution and it doesn’t bleed, things will not go well that day. I made a second cut, and this time it worked: purplish blood gushed from the wound, like the stream a young boy makes when he gets up after a good night’s sleep. Splash splash, meow meow. More blood spurted than the bowl could take, and some of it spilled over the side. “There, Dieh,” I said as I tossed the limp bird to the ground, “that does it.” With a broad smile, he waved me over and told me to get down on my knees. Then he plunged both hands into the blood, almost as if he expected them to drink it up. Dieh’s hands come equipped with mouths, I was thinking, and can drink blood. He smiled.

“Close your eyes, son,” he said.

I closed them, as he said. I am an obedient child. Wrapping my arms around his legs, I banged my forehead into his knees and sputtered: Meow meow… “Dieh Dieh Dieh Dieh…”

Dieh clasped my head between his knees.

“Raise your head, son,” he said.

So I did, and I was looking into his impressive face. I am an obedient child. Before I had a dieh, I obeyed my wife, but after that I obeyed my dieh. That thought reminded me of my wife, whom I hadn’t seen for a day and a half. Where had she gotten to? Meow meow… Dieh rubbed his blood-soaked hands all over my face, sending a stench much worse than pig’s blood into my nostrils. I hated the idea of having my face smeared with rooster blood, but Dieh had the final word on that. If I didn’t obey him, he’d send me into the yamen to be paddled, five ten fifteen twenty swats from a big wooden paddle that would leave me with a bloody behind. Meow meow. Dieh plunged his hands back into the bowl and smeared more blood over my face. Including my ears. Whether he meant to or not, he got some of it in my eyes, and—ouch!—that stung, meow meow. It also blurred my vision, veiling everything in a red haze. With a mew mew I complained, “Dieh, Dieh, you’re blinding me.” I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands and mewed loudly. Everything got brighter the more I rubbed, until the light itself was blinding. Oh, no, that’s bad, meow meow, the magical tiger whisker was working again, meow meow, no more Dieh, in front of me now was a panther. It was standing on its hind legs and dipping its front paws in the blood bowl, staining them red with pearls of blood dripping from the black fur, making it look like the paws were injured. He reached up and smeared blood all over the coarse fur of his face, turning it red as a cockscomb. I was well aware that Dieh’s true form was a panther, so that was nothing to make a fuss over. But I didn’t want the power of that tiger whisker to last and last—just a little while would be plenty. But its power this time wouldn’t fade away, meow meow, and what would it take for things to return to normal? No matter how upset I was, there was nothing I could do about it. I was torn between worries and happiness. Worries over my strange inability to see human beings, happiness over the knowledge that no one but me had the ability to see people’s true forms. I took a look around, taking in all of Yuan’s government troops and the German soldiers standing guard over the parade ground—long-tailed wolves, dogs with hairless tails, plus a few raccoons and other animals. There was even one that looked like a cross between a wolf and a dog; its uniform identified it as a junior officer. It was probably the offspring of a wolf-dog mating. I gave it a name: lobo-dog. It was sneakier than a wolf and meaner than a dog; anything it bit was doomed, meow meow.

After using up all the blood in the bowl on his face and front paws, my panther dieh focused his bright black eyes on me and treated me to a barely perceptible smile, lips parted just enough to show his yellow teeth. Even though the change in his appearance was enormous, the expressions and mannerisms were unmistakably Dieh’s. I returned his smile, meow meow. He swaggered over to the purplish-red chair; his tail made his pants stand up in back. He sat down and narrowed his eyes, looking perfectly serene. I surveyed the area around us, yawned, mewed once, and sat on a board next to him, within view of the slanting shadow of the Ascension Platform on the ground. As I stroked Dieh’s tail, he stuck out his rough tongue and began licking the hair on my head. Mew, I wheezed just before falling asleep.

I was awakened by raucous noise, meow meow, a mixture of horns and trumpets and gongs and Western drums, and all of it punctuated by the low rumble of cannon fire. I saw that the shadow cast by the Ascension Platform was much shorter than before and that blinding lights were making their way onto the parade ground from the street. At some point the green tarpaulins covering the cannons on the edge of the parade ground had been removed to reveal the weapons’ blue steel. Four wolfhounds behind each of the cannons were in motion, and even though they were quite a ways away, the hair on their bodies did not escape my sharp eyes. The barrels of the cannons were like turtles’ necks, recoiling back into their shells each time a shell was spat out, followed by puffs of white smoke. The wolfhounds moved like puppets behind the cannons, comical little figures. My eyes began to sting badly, and it only took a moment’s thought to realize that I was sweating. I wiped my face with my sleeve; it came away red. That was nothing to worry about, but the scene in front of me had changed again. My dieh no longer wore the face of a panther, but his body was still that of a panther, and his pants rose up behind him because of the tail. Then the heads of the soldiers standing guard were once again human, sitting atop wolfhounds’ bodies. It was a comforting sight, and it made me feel better, knowing I was still living in the world of humans. And yet the look on Dieh’s face puzzled me, since it didn’t look especially human. But he was still my dieh, and when he licked my head, I moaned with pleasure, mew~~

A palanquin covered in blue wool was part of the contingent emerging onto the parade ground, preceded by wild animals with human heads, all carrying banners and gongs and umbrellas and fans. The chair was carried by horses with human heads and humans with horse heads, plus a few humans with cow heads. A thoroughbred horse trailed the palanquin, a bizarre wolf-headed human in the saddle, and I knew that was the German Plenipotentiary from Qingdao, Clemens von Ketteler. I’d heard that my gongdieh had shot the man’s first horse out from under him with a shotgun, so the one he was riding now he’d probably taken from one of his subordinates. More horses preceded a prison van that held a pair of cages. I thought the sandalwood death was reserved for my gongdieh alone. Why two cages? A long procession spread out behind the prison van, flanked by crowds of local residents. What I actually saw was a sea of hairy skulls, but I knew they were local residents. I was secretly thinking of someone, someone I tried to spot among all those dark heads. Do I need to say who that person was? No. I was searching for my wife. I hadn’t seen her since my dieh had sent her racing fearfully out of the house yesterday morning. I had no idea if she’d eaten or drunk anything, and though she was a white snake, she was a good white snake, like Bai Suzhen, the heroine of The Legend of the White Snake. She was Bai Suzhen, and I was her lover, Xu Xian. But who was the Green Snake Demon and who was the sorcerer Fa Hai? Of course. Yuan Shikai was Fa Hai. My eyes lit up. I see her, I see her! She’s standing with a bunch of women! Her flat white head is raised, her purple tongue flicks in and out, she’s slithering this way. Meow meow, I felt like crying out, but my dieh’s panther eyes were fixed on me.

“Son,” he said, “stop looking around!”

———— 7 ————

After three bursts of cannon fire, the official in charge of the execution announced loudly to Yuan Shikai and von Ketteler, who had taken seats in the center of the stage:

“Your humble servant, Gaomi County, respectfully reports to His Excellency the Governor that the midday hour has arrived, and the Imperial prisoner Sun Bing has been identified as the condemned. The executioners are in place and await instructions from His Honor!”

Yuan Shikai, seated on the stage, stuck his turtle neck out from under his shell, which looked like a pot lid and gave his official robe the look of an oilpaper umbrella, the very umbrella that Xu Xian had given to the White and Green Snakes. But how had that umbrella wound up on Yuan Shikai’s body? Oh, it’s not an umbrella, it’s a turtle shell. How wonderful that a turtle would be a high official, meow meow. Turtle Yuan stretched his neck toward the mouth of Gray Wolf von Ketteler and sputtered something in turtle-wolf talk; then he took a red command flag from one of his subordinates and swung it in a hard downward chop. This was no meaningless demonstration: like a knife cutting through a tangle of jute or slicing through a cake of bean curd, it was a deft and resolute action, proof that this turtle had reached profound Taoist attainments. This was no ordinary turtle; no, it was exceptional, for official status of this magnitude was beyond the reach of an ordinary reptile. Of course, he was still no match for my dieh. When the official in charge saw Excellency Yuan drop the little red flag, he sprang into action, growing half an inch in height; rays of light, green in color, surged from his eyes, menacing enough to frighten anybody. His tiger whiskers twitched; he bared his fangs. He looked good to me. Drawing on the power of his throat, he announced loudly:

“It is time——let the execution begin——”

His body shrank back to normal as soon as the proclamation ended, and his whiskers retreated to his cheeks. You don’t have to reveal your identity. I know you’re Qian Ding. That may be an official’s cap resting on your tiger head and a red robe girding your body, and while you may be able to hide your tail under your clothes, I knew it was you as soon as I heard you speak. His proclamation ended, he stood beside the execution stand, bent at the waist, his back arched, as his face slowly regained its human form; drenched in perspiration, it made for a pitiful sight. Three more thunderous blasts from the dozen cannons shook the ground. Now that it was nearly time to join Dieh in our spectacle, I took one last look around. There were, I saw, throngs of people surrounding the parade ground—men and women, young and old, some in their true form, others having reverted to their human form, and others still in the midst of changing from one to the other—half human, half beast. At that distance I couldn’t tell Zhang Three from Li Four, whether pigs or dogs or cows or sheep, nothing but a swarm of heads, big and small, all awash in sunlight. Feeling a surge of pride, I threw out my chest and raised my chin, meow meow, and then looked down at the new ritualistic clothes I was wearing: a black Buddhist robe with a vestment over my left shoulder, a wide red sash with long tassels around my waist, black trousers tied at the ankles, and high deerskin boots. I couldn’t see the hat with a circular crown that rested on my head, of course, but everybody else could. My face and ears were smeared with a layer of rooster blood, which had dried and begun to crack, making my skin feel funny. But no matter how it felt, it had to be done, since it was a tradition handed down by our ancestors. My dieh often said that traditions are the essence of any endeavor. Because the dried blood on his face had begun to crack, in my eyes he was looking more and more human—now a half man–half panther dieh. His paws were becoming hands, and his face was changing, but he still had the ears of a panther: thin and nearly transparent, they stuck up in the air and were topped by bristly hairs. Dieh reached out to straighten my clothes and said softly:

“Don’t be afraid, son. Just do as your dieh taught you, courageously. It is time for father and son to show what we can do!”

“I’m not afraid, Dieh!”

Dieh looked at me with tenderness in his eyes.

“You are a good son!”

Dieh Dieh Dieh Dieh, do you know that people say the County Magistrate and I are in the same pot fighting over a ladle…

———— 8 ————

I noticed right away that there were two cages on the prison van, with a Sun Bing in each of them. Two cages, two Sun Bings. At first glance they looked identical; but a closer look revealed significant differences. The true form of one was a big black bear, the other a big black pig. My wife’s father was too heroic a character to be a pig, so he had to be the bear. The eighty-third story my dieh told me was about a fight between a black bear and a tiger. In the story, the bear and the tiger always fought to a draw, until finally the tiger won. The bear lost not because it was an inferior fighter, but because it was too practical an animal. After each fight, the tiger went hunting for food—pheasants, gazelles, or rabbits—and went to drink from a mountain stream. But there was no food or drink for the bear, which angrily dug up trees on the battlefield, since it never felt there was enough space. Once the tiger had eaten and drunk its fill, it returned to start the fight all over. Eventually, the bear, its strength sapped, was beaten, and the tiger was anointed king of the beasts. I could also tell which of the two was my gongdieh by the look in his eyes. Sun Bing’s eyes were bright and lively, and when they settled on something, they seemed to emit sparks. The fake Sun Bing’s eyes were dark, his gaze evasive, sort of fearful. The fake Sun Bing looked familiar somehow, and it didn’t take much thought to figure out that he was Xiao Shanzi, a member of the beggar community, Zhu Ba’s right-hand man. Each year, on the fourteenth day of the eighth month, Beggars’ Day, a pair of chili peppers hung from his ears in his role as a matchmaker. Now he’d assumed the role of my gongdieh. What did the fool think he was doing?

My dieh had seen that there were two criminals even before I had, but he’d witnessed so much in his life that one more criminal, or ten for that matter, had no effect on him. I overheard him say under his breath:

“I’m glad I prepared an extra stake.”

My dieh was a man of foresight, a modern-day Zhuge Liang.

Who would be first? First impale the real criminal or the imposter? I tried to find the answer in my dieh’s face. But his gaze was glued to the face of the official in charge of the execution, Qian Ding, who was returning the look, though his gaze was clouded, sort of like a blind man. The look in Qian Ding’s eyes told my dieh that he was seeing nothing. It was up to my dieh to choose the first to be impaled. So he turned his eyes to the two criminals in front of him. The eyes of the fake Sun Bing were unfocused. Those of the real Sun Bing emitted a strong, steady gaze. He nodded to my dieh and said loudly:

“You are well, I assume, Qinjia!”

My dieh responded with a smile and a respectful bow with his fists closed over his chest.

“A joyous day for you, Qinjia!” he replied.

“For both of us,” my gongdieh said jubilantly.

“Who first, you or him?”

“Do you really need to ask?” my gongdieh replied forthrightly. “As they say, ‘Relatives tend to favor each other.’”

Dieh said nothing in response; he merely smiled and nodded. But then, as if a sheet of paper had been removed, his smile gave way to a face the color of pig iron. He turned to the prisoner’s escorts.

“Unlock the shackles!” he ordered.

Unsure of what to do, they looked around, as if waiting for a command from someone. My dieh repeated himself, impatiently:

“Unlock the shackles!”

One of them stepped up and, with trembling hands, unlocked my gongdieh’s chains. Now freed, he moved his arms around to limber them up, eyed the instruments of execution, and, as if this was the moment he’d waited for, strode confidently up to the pine plank, which was considerably narrower than his body, and lay down on his belly.

The plank, which Dieh had commissioned from the county’s finest carpenter, was as slick as glass. It had been placed across a hog-butchering rack that I’d used for more than a decade. By now the wood, saturated with pig’s blood, was as heavy as a bar of iron. It had required four strapping yayi to carry it over from our yard, forced to take ten or more breaks along the way. From where he lay on the wooden plank, my gongdieh turned his head toward us and asked modestly:

“Like this, Qinjia?”

Ignoring the question, my dieh reached under the stand to retrieve the leather strap we’d readied. He handed it to me.

About time, I was thinking. I snatched the strap out of Dieh’s hand and began to tie up my gongdieh just the way I’d practiced it. My gongdieh was not pleased.

“You must not think much of me, worthy son-in-law,” he said.

My dieh, who was watching my every move from right beside me, reached down to retie a knot I’d bungled. My gongdieh huffed and puffed to show his displeasure at being tied down. He was overdoing it, I thought; so did my dieh, who had to remind the man sternly:

“Don’t be so stubborn, Qinjia. I’m not sure you will be in control of your body when this trial of strength and will commences.”

But my gongdieh’s complaints kept coming, even after I’d strapped him down tightly on the wooden plank. Dieh tried to slip his finger between the strap and the man—he couldn’t. That was how he wanted it, and he nodded to show he was satisfied.

“Begin,” he said softly.

I went over to the knife hamper and removed the knife I’d used on the rooster a short while ago. With it I sliced open my gongdieh’s pants to expose his buttocks. After laying the oil-saturated mallet next to my hand, Dieh selected the sandalwood stake that seemed the smoothest, and wiped it down with an oilcloth. Taking a position to the left of my gongdieh, he held the stake in both hands and placed the pointed end, which was as round as a calamus leaf, at a spot just below my gongdieh’s tailbone, as he continued to complain, loudly and obstinately, interspersed with snippets of Maoqiang opera, as if what was about to happen was of no concern to him. But I could tell from the slight tremors in his voice and the twitching of his calf muscles that deep down he was tense and fearful. My dieh, who by then had stopped conversing with my gongdieh, held the stake tightly; I saw a serene expression on his red face as he raised his head and gave me an encouraging, expectant look. His affection toward me was plain to see, meow meow, and I knew there wasn’t a better dieh anywhere in the world. How lucky I was to have such a wonderful dieh, meow meow, and that was all made possible by my mother’s lifelong devotion to the Buddhist way. Dieh signaled with his chin for me to begin. So I spat in my hands, leaned to one side and took a step backward, and dug in my heels until I was anchored like a stake in the ground.

I picked up the mallet and gave the butt end of the sandalwood stake a light tap to see how it felt. Meow meow, not bad, no trouble at all. Now the real pounding began, neither fast nor slow, and I watched as my pounding drove the stake into my gongdieh’s body, inch by inch. The sound it made wasn’t heavy——beng——beng——beng——meow meow——not even loud enough to cover the sound of my gongdieh’s heavy breathing.

As the stake penetrated more deeply, my gongdieh’s body began to shake; despite the fact that he was strapped down so tightly he couldn’t move, every muscle in his body convulsed, causing even the heavy plank under him to move violently. But I kept pounding——beng——beng——beng——keeping in mind my dieh’s instructions: “Son, you must use only half the strength in your arm.”

I saw my gongdieh’s head shake uncontrollably. He seemed to be stretching his neck out of shape. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’d never have believed that a man could do that to his neck. Fiercely stretching it out——stretch——stretch——stretch——as far as it would go, until, like a leather strap about to snap in two, his head looked like it was on the verge of separating itself from his body. Then his neck snapped back with incredible force, until it completely disappeared, as if his head were growing straight out of his shoulders.

beng——beng——beng——

Meow meow——

My gongdieh’s body was heating up; his clothes were drenched with sweat. Whenever he raised his head, I saw rivulets of sweat coursing down from his damp hair, sweat that was a sticky yellow, like rice soup straight from the pot; and when he turned his head toward me, I saw how puffy his face had gotten, looking like a bronze-colored basin. His sunken eyes reminded me of those butchered pigs I puffed up before skinning them, meow meow, just like the hollow eyes of a puffed-up pig.

pa——pa——pa——

Meow…

The sandalwood stake was nearly halfway in——meow… sweet-smelling sandalwood… meow… Up to this point, my gongdieh had not uttered a sound. The look on Dieh’s face showed his admiration toward the man. Long before we began, Dieh and I had striven to anticipate every situation that might arise during the execution. Dieh’s greatest fear was that my gongdieh would fill the air with wild shrieks and howls that would unnerve me, a neophyte, at my first execution, and that I’d start doing things wrong, like driving the stake too hard and damaging the internal organs. To keep that from happening, he’d wrapped a pair of date pits in cotton, ready to stuff into my ears if his fears were borne out. But my gongdieh still hadn’t made a sound, except for heavy breathing that was louder and huskier than any I’d ever heard from a buffalo pulling a plow. He did not bellow in pain, nor did he weep or beg for mercy.

pa——pa——pa——

Meow…

Dieh was sweating, too, something he never did, meow, and I noticed a slight tremor in his hands as he continued guiding the stake. He was getting anxious; the look in his eyes made that clear, and that worried me. Meow, Sun Bing clenching his teeth and refusing to cry out was not something we’d hoped for. We’d gotten used to shrieks of pain when we experimented on that pig, and in more than ten years of slaughtering pigs, there had only been one mute, and that animal had nearly been my undoing. For weeks I’d suffered nightmares in which the pig looked at me and sneered. Cry out, gongdieh, I beg you to cry out! Meow meow, but not a sound. My wrist was getting sore, my legs were weakening, my head felt swollen, my eyes were failing me and had begun to sting from invading sweat; the stench of dried rooster blood was making me nauseous. A panther’s head had replaced Dieh’s human head, and black fur now covered those lovely hands. Black fur also grew on my gongdieh, whose head, which kept rising and falling, was now that of a huge bear. His body had grown dramatically, as had his strength, while the leather strap holding him down was stretched thin and brittle, ready to snap. That was when my hand slipped. Carelessly, I hit Dieh’s paw instead of the butt end of the stake; with an audible moan, he dropped his hand. I swung again, harder this time. The stake flew out of Dieh’s hands and arched upward. The tip obviously went somewhere it wasn’t supposed to, injuring something inside Sun Bing and sending a stream of blood running down the length of the stake. A shriek erupted from Sun Bing’s mouth, meow meow, more hideous than I’d heard from any of the pigs I’d slaughtered. Sparks flew from Dieh’s eyes.

“Careful!” he said under his breath.

I wiped my face with my sleeve and took several deep breaths. In the midst of howls that got louder and louder, I began to calm down. My wrist was no longer sore, my legs were strong again, my head was no longer swollen, and my vision returned, meow. Dieh had regained his human face, and my gongdieh no longer had the head of a bear. Pumping myself up as my strength surged back, I recommenced pounding the stake:

beng——beng——beng——

Meow meow——

There was no stopping Sun Bing’s howls now, shrieks that drowned out all other sounds. The stake was back in the right position, guided by Dieh as it inched its way deeper into him, between his vital organs and his backbone…

Ow——oh——ahh——yeow——

Meow meow mew——

Disturbing sounds emerged from inside his body, like cats in heat. What was that? I wondered. Are my ears deceiving me? Strange strange really strange, there are cats in the stomach of my wife’s father. I was on the verge of losing my concentration again, but before that happened, I received calm assurances from Dieh. The louder Sun Bing screamed, the more comforted I was by the smile on Dieh’s face. Even his eyes, which had narrowed to a slit, were smiling. He looked like a man who was enjoying a leisurely smoke and listening to opera, not someone inflicting the cruelest form of punishment on a man, meow meow…

The stake finally broke through Sun Bing’s skin just above his shoulders, making a small tent of his collar. My dieh’s original idea was to have the stake emerge from Sun Bing’s mouth, but for someone who had sung opera all his life, a stake through the mouth would have ended that possibility, so he decided to have it emerge from between his shoulder blades. I laid down the oily mallet, picked up my knife, and cut open the collar of his shirt. Dieh signaled me to keep pounding, so I picked up the mallet and swung it another ten or fifteen times, meow meow, until the same length of stake impaling Sun Bing was visible top and bottom. Sun Bing’s howls continued without weakening. Dieh examined the points of entry and exit, in each of which a trickle of blood had stuck to the wood. A contented look spread across his face. I heard him breathe a huge sigh of relief. I did the same, I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

Meow…

———— 9 ————

Under Dieh’s direction, four yayi lifted the pine plank, with my gongdieh on it, off the rack and carried it carefully up the Ascension Platform, which was taller than the rooftop of any house in town. The platform was next to the shed, connected by a long, gently sloping ramp of rough wood and some logs to make it easy to negotiate. And yet the four strong men were sweating profusely, leaving damp footprints on the wood as they climbed. Sun Bing, who was strapped tightly to the plank, was still howling, but he was losing his voice, and his energy level was dropping fast. Dieh and I followed the men up the ramp to the spacious top of the platform, whose new flooring smelled refreshingly of pinesap. A three-foot-long crossbar of white wood had been attached to a spot just below the top of a thick pine pole that had been erected in the center of the platform, creating a frame that looked like the cross I’d seen at the Seventh-day Adventist Church.

The yayi gently laid down the plank to which Sun Bing was attached and retreated to the side to await further instructions. Dieh told me to cut the leather straps holding Sun Bing to the plank. His body immediately expanded, and his limbs flailed wildly, but that was the only movement the stake would allow. So as not to completely sap what strength he had left and, at the same time, to protect against injury to his internal organs, with me looking on, Dieh had the yayi pick Sun Bing up and tie his legs to the dark pole and his hands to the crossbar. He was now standing upright in the center of the platform, but only his head enjoyed freedom of movement. Out came the curses:

“Fuck your old granny, von Ketteler——fuck your old granny, Yuan Shikai——fuck your old granny, Qian Ding——fuck your old granny, Zhao Jia——fuck your old granny——ow——!”

Black blood streamed from his mouth and ran down onto his chest.

Meow meow…

———— 10 ————

Before walking down off the platform, I took a look around, and my heart suddenly seemed to contract, so violently was I having trouble breathing, meow…

All four sides of the parade ground were packed with people, bright sunlight glinting off their heads. The only reason for that, I knew, was that all those heads were wet with sweat. Sun Bing’s curses merged with the pigeons soaring above us and spread out in all directions, like waves rushing to the shore. Soldiers—foreign troops and Yuan’s government troops—stood as motionless as posts amid the crush of local residents. There was someone on my mind at that moment, meow, know who that was? I searched among the onlookers. Found her! Two burly women were gripping my wife by the arms, and a tall woman was holding her tightly around the waist to keep her from taking even one step forward; she could only leap backward. I heard her cry out in agony, a knife-edged sound as sharp and as oily green as a bamboo leaf.

My wife’s wails threw my mind into upheaval. There was no denying that my feelings toward her had decreased after Dieh came into my life, but I’d had strong feelings toward her before that. She used to let me suck on her breasts even during the daytime, a thought that got an immediate response from my little pecker. Meow meow, I recalled how she said: “Go on, go to your dieh, go ahead and die in your dieh’s room!” When I wouldn’t move, she kicked me… memories of my wife’s virtues brought a soreness to my eyes and an ache to my nose, meow meow, I was nearly in tears. I started to run down the ramp, intent on going straight to my wife, so I could feel her breasts again and smell her. I’d give her the remainder of a malt candy Dieh had given to me that was still in my pocket. But a small heated hand grabbed hold of my wrist; I knew it was Dieh without having to look. He pulled me over to the pig-slaughtering rack, where another criminal awaited, along with an oil-steeped sandalwood stake that emitted a strong sesame aroma. Dieh got his message across without having to say a word; his hand said it all. Then his words pounded against my eardrums: “Son, you are doing something too important to let your thoughts run wild. You mustn’t cast aside the nation and the Imperial Court over a woman. I cannot let you commit a capital offense like that. Dieh has told you many times that once our faces are smeared with the blood of a white rooster, men in our line of work are no longer people, and the suffering of the human world is none of our concern. We are tools in the employ of the Emperor, visible, corporal manifestations of the law. How could you even think of giving your wife that piece of candy under these circumstances? Even if I said it was all right, Yuan Shikai and von Ketteler would not permit it. Take a good long look at the impressive figures sitting on the stage where your wife’s father once performed, and tell me if either one of them looks any less fierce than a tiger or a wolf.”

I looked over at the stage, where Yuan Shikai and von Ketteler sat stony-faced, pinpoints of green light boring down on me from both pairs of eyes. Quickly lowering my head, I followed Dieh back to the stand. Wife of mine, I muttered under my breath, stop crying. After all, that father of yours isn’t much of a dieh. Didn’t you say he once let a donkey bite you on the head? That sandalwood stake has him pinned to a post, and that’s a fact. If he’d been a good dieh, like mine, then you’d be right to cry if he was pinned by the stake. But don’t cry over one like Sun Bing. You probably think he’s in agony. Well, you’re wrong. This is the moment of his greatest glory. He and my dieh were celebrating that a while ago, meow meow.

Qian Ding was rooted to the spot, staring at something, though I knew he saw nothing. For someone supposedly in charge of the execution, he hadn’t done a damn thing and was worse than useless. Better to let Dieh and me do our job without waiting for him to give orders. Since the prison van had brought us two Sun Bings, we were required to inflict the sandalwood death on both of them. The real Sun Bing was already up on the Ascension Platform, thanks to us, and while I could see on Dieh’s face a bit of unhappiness over minor mistakes during the process, overall he was pleased. With one success behind us, it was time to move to the next, and it would be another assured success. Two yayi carried the pine plank no longer needed for Sun Bing down from the platform and laid it across the slaughtering rack. My dieh turned to the man watching over the fake Sun Bing and said in a casual manner:

“Unlock the shackles.”

The man removed the heavy chains from the fake Sun Bing’s body, but unlike the real Sun Bing, who had immediately straightened up, this one slumped helplessly to the ground like a wax-softened candle. His face was ashen, his lips as pale as torn paper window covering. Only the whites of his eyes showed, a pair of tiny moth eggs. He was dragged up to the slaughtering rack, and when they let go of him, he crumpled to the ground like a pile of mud.

My dieh told them to lift him onto the plank atop the slaughtering rack, where he lay flat on his belly, twitching uncontrollably. Dieh signaled for me to strap him down, which I managed to do expertly. Then, without waiting to be told, I cut open his trousers with my paring knife; but when I pulled them back to expose his backside——Aiya! Would you believe it!——a horrible stench rose up from the bastard’s crotch——he’d shit his pants!

Dieh frowned as he placed the sandalwood stake just below the fake Sun Bing’s tailbone; I picked up my oily mallet and stepped forward. But before I could raise it for the first strike, an even more disgusting smell assaulted me. I threw down the mallet and backed off, holding my nose, like a dog assailed by the rotten smell of a skunk. Dieh called out in a stern, deep voice:

“Come back here, Xiaojia!”

The summons reawakened my sense of responsibility; I stopped backing up and, in a roundabout fashion, headed toward him. The fake Sun Bing’s insides were probably a pile of mush by now. Normal excrement didn’t smell that scary bad. Now what? Dieh was still holding the stake in place, waiting for me to start pounding, while I was wondering what would come out of his backside once the stake entered his body. Dieh had emphasized over and over the importance of what we were doing that day, and I knew I’d have to put that mallet to use even if he fired bullets out of his ass. Truth is, the smell that emerged from his asshole was worse than bullets could possibly have been. I took a tentative step forward despite the vomit rising into my throat. Show me some mercy, Dieh! If you make me follow through with this execution, I’m afraid I’ll die of suffocation before the stake pokes out from between his shoulders.

Well, the heavens came to my rescue. At that crucial moment, Yuan Shikai, who looked like he was about to fall asleep up on the stage, ordered that Xiao Shanzi, originally sentenced to die by the sandalwood death, be beheaded instead. Dieh wasted no time tossing the sandalwood stake to one side; holding his breath and scowling, he unsheathed the sword at the waist of the nearest yayi, took several quick steps, looking more energetic than his years, raised the sword, and created a shining downward arc; before anyone could so much as blink, the head of the real Xiao Shanzi, the fake Sun Bing, lay on the ground beneath the slaughtering rack.

Meow——

———— 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.

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…”