The Corpse Reader

7

Before the night was through, Cí was cursing the storm gods again. Woken by a fresh downpour, he checked to make sure Third was staying dry and then ran to try and save what he’d salvaged, hoping he could sell it. Once he’d put it all under the shelter, he considered the assortment of objects: his father’s books, a stone pillow, a couple of iron cooking pots, some singed woolen blankets, a few pieces of clothing, two sickles with charred handles, and a chipped scythe. The whole lot probably wouldn’t fetch more than 2,000 qián at the market. There was Third’s medicine, too. Plus, a sack of rice, another of tea, a jar of salt, and some smoked ham, all of which his mother had bought for Feng’s stay and were probably worth more than the rest put together. These basics would help them survive while he got organized. He’d found 400 qián in coins and an exchange note worth another 5,000; added to the possessions, it might have been worth a little more than 7,000 qián—about the same as a family of eight would earn in two months. He still couldn’t figure out where the savings had gone.

As the sun came up, he had one last search around. He went through the pieces of wood again, pulled aside the pillars, and looked under a bamboo bed base. Nothing. He laughed in desperation.

Until he found Shang’s body, all he’d had to worry about was getting up early; he’d sulked about having to go out plowing again and spent his time yearning to be back at university. But he’d had a roof over his head and his family around him. Now he had only Third and a few bits of loose change. He kicked a beam and thought about his parents. He hadn’t been able to understand his father recently—always an upright man, possibly a little severe, but honest and far more fair than most people. Cí couldn’t help but feel guilty for having been rebellious and for not returning that night.

Finally, after turning over a nest of cockroaches, he gave up on the search and woke Third. She’d barely opened her eyes when she started asking for their mother. While cutting her a strip of the ham, Cí reminded her about their parents’ long journey.

“They’re still watching over you, so you have to make sure you’re good.”

“But where are they?”

“Up behind those clouds,” he said, looking off into the distance. “Quickly, eat up. Otherwise they’ll get angry. You know what father’s like when he gets angry.”

She nodded and took the meat to chew. “The house is still broken,” she said.

“It was such an old house. The one I’ll build will be new and big. But you’ll have to help me, OK?”

Third swallowed, nodding. As Cí buttoned her jacket, she sang the song their mother had sung every morning.

“Five buttons represent the five virtues that a child should aspire to: sweetness, a good heart, respect, thriftiness, and obedience.”

“That wasn’t mother saying that, was it?” asked Cí.

“She just whispered it in my ear,” said Third.

He smiled and kissed her on the cheek. His thoughts turned to the Rice Man, who he thought might hold the answer to their problems.

Raising 400,000 qián wouldn’t be easy, but during the night Cí had come up with an idea that he thought just might work.

Before heading out, he took the copy of the penal code he’d rescued from the debris and consulted the chapters on capital punishment and the commuting of sentences. Once he understood, he made an offering to his parents—a strip of the ham on an improvised altar. When he finished praying for them, he picked up Third and walked with her on his hip to the Rice Man’s ranch. The Rice Man owned the vast majority of the land around the village.

A well-built man covered in tattoos stood at the entrance to the ranch. He looked distinctly unwelcoming, but when Cí told him what he’d come for, the man led them through the gardens and up to a small pavilion that looked out over the rice fields on the mountainside. An old man was resting on a couch, being fanned by a concubine. He looked at Cí disdainfully, but his attitude changed when the guard announced Cí’s intentions.

“Here to sell Lu’s lands? Well, in that case!” The Rice Man offered Cí a seat on the floor. “I am sorry about your family. But you have to understand, that doesn’t change the facts. This is still a difficult time to be doing business.”

Especially for someone in my position.

Cí bowed in response before sending Third off to feed the ducks. Then he sat, careful to appear relaxed. He was prepared.

“Many people speak of your intelligence,” Cí told the Rice Man. “And I have also heard about your head for business.” The old man nodded vainly in agreement. Cí continued, “Doubtless, you think my situation obliges me to undersell my brother’s properties. But I haven’t come to give anything away for free; I know what I have is valuable.”

The old man leaned back. Would he hear Cí out, or send him for a flogging? Eventually he gestured for Cí to carry on.

“I happen to know that Bao-Pao was trying to make a deal with my brother,” Cí lied. “He has been interested in Lu’s property since long before my brother came to own it.”

“I don’t see how this could be of interest to me,” the old man said with contempt. “I’ve got plenty of land as it is—I’d need to make slaves of the people of ten villages to cultivate what I already have.”

“Clearly. And that’s why I’m here, rather than speaking to Bao-Pao.”

“Boy, get to the point, or I’ll have you thrown out.”

“You have far more land than Bao-Pao. You are richer, but he is still more powerful than you. He’s the sergeant. You, sir, with all due respect, are only a landowner.”

The old man grunted. Cí, sensing he was on the right track, went on.

“Everyone in the village knows of Bao-Pao’s interest in the lands. And that Lu refused to sell, time and again, because of a family enmity.”

“Your brother won the lands one night at the tables. Do you think I don’t know this?”

“And my brother refused to sell them for the same reason as the previous owner: the creek passes through his borders, so there’s irrigation even when there isn’t much rain. You own the lower lands, which are supplied by water from the river, but Bao-Pao’s lands are on the higher slopes, so he has to use the pedal pumps for irrigation.”

“Which he can’t use because they pass through my property. And? I have all my land and plenty of access to water, too. Why would I be interested in your miserable little plot?”

“To stop me from selling to Bao-Pao.”

The Rice Man was silent.

“Think about it. The power he already has, plus how much he’d be able to grow if he had access to Lu’s stream…”

The Rice Man seemed to be trying to think of a comeback. He knew Cí was right. How much it was going to cost him was another matter.

“That property is worth nothing to me, boy. If Bao-Pao wants it, he can be my guest.”

He’s bluffing. Keep going.

“Third!” Cí shouted, getting to his feet. “Leave those ducks, and let’s go!” Turning back to the Rice Man he said, “Fair enough. I suppose it’s to be expected that the sergeant gets his way, and the landowner is powerless to stop him.”

“How dare you!”

Cí didn’t answer. He began making his way down the steps from the pavilion.

“Two hundred thousand qián!” the Rice Man shouted. “I’ll give you two hundred thousand qián for the land.”

“What about four hundred thousand?” asked Cí calmly, stopping and looking back at the Rice Man.

“Are you serious?” the old man sneered. “That land isn’t worth half what I’ve offered; anyone would know that.”

You might know it, but your green-eyed monster doesn’t.

“Bao-Pao has offered three hundred and fifty thousand,” Cí lied again—it was all or nothing now. “The price of getting one up on him will be another fifty thousand on top.”

“No child tells me how much I should pay for a piece of land!” roared the old man.

“As you wish, sir. I’m sure it will make you happy looking out over Bao-Pao’s lands in the future.”

“Three hundred thousand. And if you try and go a grain of rice above that, you’ll be sorry.”

Cí began down the steps again but stopped—300,000 qián was at least one and a half times the worth of Lu’s lands. Turning, he found the Rice Man on the step immediately above him. They both knew it was a good deal.

“One last thing,” said the Rice Man when they had the lease papers in front of them. “You can be sure that I’ll measure the property, down to the very last mu. And I swear, if there is even the tiniest bit missing, you’ll regret it.”

By midmorning Cí was at the market with the objects he’d saved from the house, but getting anything like the 500 qián he needed was going to be difficult. He reached the 500 qián by throwing in the iron pots and the knives, which he had hoped to keep. Hardly anyone in the village could read, so the books were desirable only for burning. In exchange for them, he got the use of an abandoned barn—a place for Third to rest. He kept only the food and his father’s copy of the penal code. After the market, he left Third at the barn and charged her with guarding the ham.

“Watch out for cats! And if anyone comes, scream really loudly.”

Third stood beside the ham and made a face like a ferocious animal. Laughing, Cí promised he’d be back soon. He closed the barn door and set off in the direction of Bao-Pao’s residence.

When he arrived at the annex where the corpses were being kept, he began thinking about the funeral arrangements for his parents. His father’s coffin had been made a long time before, as stipulated by the Book of Rites, the Liji. When people reached their sixties, the coffin and all the objects necessary for a funeral were supposed to be serviced once a year; when they were in their seventies, once every season; in their eighties, once a month; and when they were in their nineties, every day. His father had been sixty-two, but his mother had not reached fifty yet, so Cí would need to have a coffin made for her. He found the carpenter busy speaking with other victims’ families; it was going to cost Cí a lot to get a coffin quickly.

He went over to his parents’ bodies and bowed. They hadn’t been washed, so he scrubbed them down using a bundle of wet straw. He hoped his parents would forgive the fact that he didn’t have candles or incense. He prayed again for their spirits, promising them he’d look after Third. It hit him then that his life would never be the same, and he realized how very alone he was. But he was wasting time—time the Being of Wisdom had given him to negotiate his brother’s release—and after bowing once more to his parents’ corpses, he left the annex and headed out into the overcast day.

A servant led Cí to the magistrate’s private apartments. The magistrate was in the bath, being washed by one of his aides. Cí had never seen such an enormously fat man. When he entered, the magistrate sent his aide away.

“Very punctual—just the kind of person I like to do business with.” He reached out for a tray of rice pastries and offered them to Cí, who declined.

“I’ve come to talk about my brother. Your honor guaranteed me that you would commute the death sentence if I paid the fine—”

“I said I would try. Have you brought the money?”

“But, your honor, you promised—”

“Hold on! Have you got the money or not?” The magistrate got out of the bath, totally naked. Though somewhat embarrassed, Cí refused to be intimidated.

“Three hundred thousand. It’s all I have.” He laid out the notes on top of the rice pastries.

The magistrate counted the money enthusiastically. “We did say four hundred thousand…” He raised an eyebrow but held on to the money.

“But you’ll set him free?”

“Set him free? Don’t make me laugh. We only discussed transferring him to the Sichuan mines.”

Cí grimaced. It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to cheat him, but there was a lot more at stake this time. He managed to appear unruffled.

“Maybe I misheard, but I understood that the money corresponded to the compensation established by the Ransom Scale.”

“The Ransom Scale?” The magistrate feigned surprise. “Please. The scale you refer to has entirely different quantities. Commutation requires twelve thousand ounces of silver, not the pittance you’ve brought.”

Cí was quickly realizing there would be little point in appealing to the magistrate’s good will. Luckily, he’d come prepared. He took some notes from his bag and read them aloud to the magistrate.

“Twelve thousand ounces if the offender is an official in the higher levels of government, up to the fourth echelon; five thousand and four thousand for anyone up to the fourth, fifth, and sixth echelons.” He found himself gaining in confidence as he read. “Two thousand five hundred for anyone in the seventh echelon, as well as inferiors and those with degrees in literature; two thousand for any person with a degree.” He tossed the notes down triumphantly on the rice pastries. “And one thousand two hundred ounces of silver for a normal individual, as in the case of my brother!”

“So!” exclaimed the magistrate. “A legal expert, all of a sudden.”

“Looks like it.” Even Cí was a little surprised at his own forthrightness.

“Your knowledge of numbers, however, is somewhat less impressive, seeing as twelve hundred ounces of silver is worth only eight hundred and fifty thousand qián.”

But Cí kept on. “I knew that. Which is why I also knew you were never going to reduce the sentence. You just came up with a fee you thought I might be able to raise. Tell me, what will your superiors in Jianningfu think about this?”

“Quite the learned little man…” And the magistrate’s tone hardened. “Let’s see, then, since you know so much: Is there any chance that you might also have been involved in your brother’s crime?”

Cí remembered what the magistrate had said about the murder having something to do with ritual magic.

Vermin. This man is pure vermin.

He changed his approach. “My humblest apologies, venerable magistrate—my nerves must have gotten the better of me. It was a bad night. I barely know what I’m saying.” He bowed. “But please allow me to point out that the amount I’ve brought is more than the penal code asks.”

The magistrate covered himself up and began drying the rolls of his belly with a black towel.

“I’ll try and be a little clearer, boy: there is no way your brother’s getting out of this, OK? I should really have had him executed by now, according to the wishes of Shang’s family, so even if I were to send him to Sichuan, that would still be a lot. And what’s more, the only person with the authority to allow such a thing is the emperor himself.”

“I see,” said Cí. “In that case, I’ll take my money back and begin the appeal.”

“Appeal? On what grounds would you appeal? Your brother has confessed, and all the evidence is against him.”

“So you won’t mind if it’s the High Court Tribunal that decides the sentence.”

The magistrate bit his lip. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said the man. “I’ll forget your impertinence today, and you’ll forget we ever had this conversation. I’ll promise to do everything I can.”

“I’m not sure that’s enough,” said Cí. “Either you authorize a commutation, or I’m going to need my money back. I’ll have to take it to your superiors in the province prefecture.”

Suddenly angry, the magistrate looked at Cí as if he were trash.

“Or maybe I just give the order for your brother to have his throat slit? Do you honestly think a little runt like you can come in here, threaten me, and get away with it?”

Now it was Cí’s turn to be worried; this was getting out of hand. Why had he given the money up front?

“Please accept my apologies. I’m sorry if anything I’ve said has offended you, but I really need my money—”

Then there was another voice in the room. “Your money?” And Bao-Pao stepped into view. “You wouldn’t be referring to a sum obtained by selling a lot of land, would you?”

Cí remembered the tattooed guard at the Rice Man’s place. He had thought it strange, at the time, that the guard disappeared. The man obviously had more than one employer.

“Yes.”

“Well then, what you mean to say is my money,” said Bao-Pao menacingly, advancing on Cí. “Or did no one tell you? I altered Lu’s sentence this morning, adding a clause that has to do with the expropriation of property—”

“But…but I’d already sold it.”

“Property, unfortunately, that had already been ceded to me,” said Bao-Pao.

Cí went pale.

Retrieve what you can and get out of here as quickly as possible.

Bao-Pao had joined in to outmaneuver him; if the magistrate had wanted to, he could have had the property confiscated during the judgment, but this way it meant Bao-Pao would end up with both the fine and the property.

Cí shrugged. “It’s only a shame that you didn’t get the second installment as well.”

“What second installment?” Both men were suddenly interested.

“Oh, the Rice Man was extremely keen on the property. He knew how much you both wanted it, so to ensure the sale, he agreed to pay me a second installment. Another three hundred thousand qián. Yes. Once he’d had a check done of the lands and made sure of the legality of the transaction, another three hundred thousand qián. Of course, I’d be more than happy to pass that amount to you both, if you follow through on your promise.”

“Another three hundred thousand?” Bao-Pao was astonished. He must have known that it was far more than the property was really worth, but greed was clearly getting the better of him, too. Then the magistrate stepped forward.

“And when did he say he’d pay you?”

“This afternoon. As soon as I showed him the deed of property—although he also wanted to see a copy of my brother’s sentence to make sure the property doesn’t have any debts, charges, mortgage arrangements, or other concerns attached to it.”

“So, without the expropriation clause.”

“If you want me to bring you that money…”

It took the magistrate only a moment to decide. He called for a scribe and told him to draw up a copy of the original sentence.

“With today’s date,” added Cí.

“Fine,” said the magistrate, signing and handing over the document. “Bring the money, and I promise to release your brother.”

It was obvious to Cí that the magistrate was lying through his teeth. Cí made an effort not to show it.

Cí had to make sure his parents were buried properly. Two of Bao-Pao’s slaves wheeled the coffins to the Mountain of Rest, a nearby burial place planted with bamboo. Cí looked for a spot that would face the sunrise, and where the wind would whisper through the trees. When the last shovelful of earth covered the coffins, Cí knew that his time in the village was over. If things had been different, he might have rebuilt the house, taken work in the fields, gone through the mourning period, and then married Cherry. Maybe after a few years, if children, money, and all life’s considerations had allowed, he might have gone back to Lin’an to take the Imperial exams and find a good husband for Third. But there was nothing left; it was time for him to flee.

He bade farewell to his parents’ bodies and asked for their guidance wherever he went. He pretended to Bao-Pao’s men that he was going to see the Rice Man, but when they could no longer see him, Cí went to the annex where his brother was being held.

Staying well hidden in the undergrowth, he checked to see how many guards there were; though there was only one, he had no idea how was he going to get past him. He had to speak to his brother before he went. For all the evidence against him, something in Cí’s heart told him his brother was no murderer.

He noticed a small window at the back of the annex. He quietly rolled a barrel into position and climbed up on it; the window was too small to fit through, but he peered into the dark interior, and, as his eyes adjusted, he saw a figure curled up in the corner. He was tied up, his clothes bloody, and his face—his tongue had been cut out and there were no eyes in the sockets.

Cí fell off the barrel. His mind roiled with what he’d seen. He stumbled around for a moment, then vomited. There was no way that tortured, broken figure was still alive. There was nothing left of Lu—only the bitterness Cí would always carry.

He had to get out of the village. The Rice Man would be expecting property that wasn’t his anymore, either that or money Cí didn’t have, and neither he nor the magistrate would care about his excuses. He ran to Cherry’s to tell her his plans and ask her to wait until he’d proved his innocence. But her answer was unequivocal: she could never marry a fugitive, let alone someone who had neither property nor work.

“Is this about my brother?” cried Cí through her window lattice. “If that’s it, you don’t have to worry anymore. He’s been punished. Do you hear? He’s dead. Dead!”

He waited, but Cherry didn’t reply. It would be the last time they ever spoke.