The Corpse Reader

14

Cí ran down the stairs shouting his sister’s name. He burst into the little room where the innkeeper slept, tore away the blanket the man was sleeping under, and grabbed him by the throat.

“Where is she?”

“Who?”

“The girl who came in with me! Answer me, or you’re dead!”

“Shh…she’s in there…”

Cí shoved him back down on his bed and rushed into the room the innkeeper had pointed toward. It was unlit, with pieces of broken furniture everywhere. He stumbled through to another room, where a lantern flickered. It was a mess, too, and though it was lit a dim orange, it was difficult to distinguish anything. Suddenly Cí heard labored breathing coming from a corner of the room. Squinting, he was able to make out the shape of a person. He went over and was met by the eyes of a girl peering at him from a filthy face. But it wasn’t Third; Third lay in the girl’s lap, curled up and trembling violently.

He was about to kneel down next to them when something struck him on the back of the head, knocking him unconscious.

Once again, that sensation of heaviness and dark.

He could hardly even clear his throat. He was tied up, and a rag that must have been gagging him had fallen down around his neck. His eyes began to adjust; he could see that the girl was still there and Third was still in her lap. The girl was mopping Third’s sweaty brow. Third coughed.

“She’s OK?”

The girl shook her head.

“Can you untie me?” he said.

“My father says you aren’t to be trusted.”

“You’re his daughter? Gods! Can’t you see she needs her medicine?”

The girl glanced nervously at the door. After gently laying Third down on a mat, she went over to Cí and was about to untie him when the door opened. She jumped back—it was her father, and he had a knife.

He knelt down next to Cí. “Right then, you little shit. What’s all this about the girl being your sister?”

Cí assured him Third was his sister, explained her illness and how he’d gone out to get her some medicine, how when he’d come back and she wasn’t in their room, he’d thought the worst—imagined she’d been taken to some brothel.

“Damnation! That hardly explains why you threatened to kill me!”

“I was out of my mind with worry. Please untie me. I really have to give my sister this medicine. It’s in my bag.”

The innkeeper reached into Cí’s bag.

“Careful, that’s all there is.”

The innkeeper sniffed the medicine, recoiling at the bitter smell.

“And what about the money you had in here? Who did you rob?”

“No one. Those are my savings. And I need every last penny for my sister’s medicine.”

The innkeeper spat.

“Fine,” he said to his daughter. “Untie him.”

As soon as Cí was free, he rushed over to Third, mixed up the powdered root with some water, and gave it to her.

“How are you doing, little one?”

That she smiled, though only weakly, made Cí feel a hundred times better.

The innkeeper would give him back only 300 qián of the money he’d taken while Cí had been unconscious; the rest he was keeping as compensation for his daughter Moon’s looking after Third, for the clothes they’d dressed her in when they found her coughing and soaked in sweat.

The amount seemed too much, but Cí didn’t argue; he knew the man had to look out for his own. Soon, a voice in the entry called the innkeeper away, and Cí tried to talk to Moon, but she seemed reluctant. He took Third in his arms and turned to Moon.

“Would you be able to look after her?”

The girl didn’t seem to understand.

“I need someone to be with her. I’ll pay you.”

Moon appeared curious but didn’t answer. She got up and held the door, gesturing for him to go out now. But as he went past her, she whispered, “See you tomorrow.”

Cí smiled in surprise. “See you tomorrow.”

Cí ran his fingers distractedly over the wound on his leg and watched the light of a gloomy dawn breaking through the cracks in the wall of their room. Though Third’s medicine had helped, it hadn’t lasted long, and she’d coughed much of the night. Cí had saved a bit for the morning, but he had to get more. He woke Third and gave her what was left of the medicine; he told her that Moon would be looking after her and that she had to promise to behave.

“I could help her clean her house,” said Third. “It’s very messy.”

Cí smiled, shouldering his bag. When they went downstairs, they found Moon polishing some copper cups.

“You’re going already?” she said.

“I’ve got to deal with some things. In terms of the money…”

“My father deals with money, and he’s outside at the moment.”

“See you later, then…Third’s had her medicine, so hopefully she’ll be OK. She’s a good girl; she’ll help you if you need her to.” He put his hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Won’t you?”

Third nodded proudly.

“When do you think you’ll be back?” asked Moon.

“Around nightfall, probably. Here,” he added, handing her a few coins. Those are for you—you don’t have to tell your father.”

They bowed to each other, and he left. The innkeeper was just outside the door, dragging a bag of trash. He stopped and looked disdainfully at Cí.

“Leaving, are we?”

“We’re going to stay a bit longer.” He reached in his pocket and, keeping some money aside to put toward more medicine, offered the innkeeper the rest.

“What is this? That room costs more than you look like you’re going to be able to make.”

“Please, I’ll find a way. Give me a couple of days—”

“Right. Have you seen yourself? In your state I doubt you can piss straight!”

Cí took a deep breath. The man had a point, and he had no energy to negotiate a deal. He handed him a few more coins.

“Dearie me. This isn’t enough to get you a tree to sleep under in this city. I’ll give you the room for one night. Tomorrow, you’re out.”

Cí made his way toward the canals in the pouring rain. Judge Feng came to mind. If Feng had been in the city, he’d have helped, but he wasn’t going to be back for months. Work. He had to get some kind of work.

Cí wanted to get a job as a private tutor at the Imperial University. He’d cleaned himself up as best he could, but the most important thing was to obtain the Certificate of Aptitude, which he needed to demonstrate his qualifications and give proof of his parents’ integrity.

When he reached the university’s main entrance, a vast number of students were milling around. He’d forgotten how busy it could get with students lining up for the documents necessary to take exams.

As he moved through the swarm, he noticed how really nothing had changed: the well-ordered paths through the gardens, the administrators’ bamboo huts, the vendors selling boiled rice and tea, the groups of high-class prostitutes with their immaculate makeup and gowns, the police watching out for pickpockets.

Before Cí got very far, though, he saw signs saying that these huts were only for foreigners. Anyone like him, born in a nearby precinct like Fujian, was directed to the vice chancellor’s office.

Cí knew he had no chance with the vice chancellor. The run-in with Kao was on his mind, and the police presence at the university worried him. But what else could he do?

A while back he’d found the gateway of the Palace of Wisdom inspiring and uplifting. Now, though, the dragons adorning the blood-colored gates unsettled him. They seemed to be there to frighten away those who didn’t belong.

He reached the building where the vice chancellor’s office was housed. Cí made his way to the Great Hall on the first floor, where he was greeted by an official with a friendly face.

“Is it for you?” asked the man, when Cí told him the document he needed.

“It is.”

“You studied here?”

“Law, sir.”

“Very well. And do you need a copy of your grades or just the certificate?”

“Both,” said Cí, before providing his details.

“Wait here; I need to speak to someone in another office.”

When the man came back, his face was hardened, and Cí’s immediate thought was that he was going to be turned away. But the official’s severe look seemed less for Cí than for the documents themselves, which he went through several times.

“I’m very sorry,” said the man at last. “I’m not going to be able to give you the certificate. Your grades are excellent, but in terms of your father’s integrity…” He didn’t seem able to bring himself to say more.

“My father? What happened with my father?”

“Read it for yourself. During a routine inspection six months ago, he was…” The man glanced kindly at Cí before going on. “He was found to have embezzled funds. The gravest crime an official can commit. He was on mourning leave at the time, but he still had to be demoted and dismissed.”

Cí trembled as he tried to make sense of the documents. His father…corrupt! That was why he decided not to return to Lin’an. His change of mind, the change in his attitude—it all stemmed from this.

He felt the shame transferring to him; he was dirty, contaminated by his father’s dishonesty. He’d now have to bear all of this. Feeling he might vomit, he fled from the Great Hall, down the magnificent stairs and out.

He stumbled through the gardens, castigating himself for his own stupidity. He had no idea where he was headed, or what to do with himself. He bumped into students and professors as if they were errant statues; he crashed into a bookstall, knocking it over, and when he tried to help pick up the books, the vendor shoved him away while shouting a few choice insults. A police officer made his way over to see what the commotion was, but Cí was able to disappear into the crowd.

Leaving the university grounds, he was nervous he’d be stopped. He made his way to the nearest canal and took a barge toward the trade square. All he had left was 200 qián. Now it was impossible for him to be a tutor. He had to reconsider.

What jobs could he look for? In a market flooded with farmworkers, his legal education would do no good. He didn’t have more skill than any other peasant in any kind of manual work, he wasn’t a member of any guild, and his injuries limited him. He went to a number of shops anyway, asking if there was anything he could do, anything at all, but had no luck.

He arrived at a salt warehouse and asked there. The man in charge looked at Cí as if he were trying to sell him a lame mule. He prodded Cí’s shoulders to see how strong he was, then winked at his assistant and told Cí to stay right there. From the top of a flight of stairs, the man dropped a sack of salt for Cí to lift; he just about managed it, though his ribs felt like they would crack under the weight. When he tried to lift a second sack, he fell flat on his face. The two men burst out laughing and sent Cí on his way.

Cí dragged himself along, trying to keep his spirits from sinking too low. Though he wasn’t in physical pain, he was sure his injuries were preventing him from making a good impression. But he had to keep trying. He checked all kinds of warehouses, businesses, workshops, the docks, even the municipal excrement collection service, but no one was willing to give him a chance.

He wandered to an area outside the city walls. For a while he drifted aimlessly, but then he heard shouting and headed toward the commotion.

A small crowd had gathered beneath a filthy awning; four or five men were holding down a boy who was kicking and screaming. The boy grew more distressed when another man came toward him brandishing a knife.

Cí realized he was witnessing a castration. There were specialist barbers who were charged with “converting” young homeless boys—usually those deemed to be brimming with vitality—into eunuchs for the emperor’s court. Feng had dealt with numerous corpses of boys who had died following the operation—from fever, gangrene, or blood loss. Judging by this particular barber’s appearance and the condition of his implements, everything pointed to the boy’s becoming one of those corpses.

Cí pushed his way to the front of the group. With a better view, he gasped at what he saw.

The barber, a toothless old man reeking of alcohol, had tried to remove the boy’s testicles but had accidentally cut the small penis. Cutting off the penis entirely, which he was now faced with doing, was clearly well beyond this man’s shaky abilities. The child wailed as if he were being split in two, and his weeping mother was begging her son to try and stay still.

Cí went over to the woman, and though it was risky to say anything, he turned to her and said, “Woman, if you let this man continue, your son is bound to die.”

“Get out of here!” shouted the barber, clumsily taking a swipe at Cí with the rusty knife. Cí sidestepped it easily and held the man’s gaze. The barber’s eyes were wild, and Cí figured he’d probably drunk every last penny from his most recent job.

“And you,” the barber said to the whimpering boy, “you’re still a man, right? So stop all that crying.”

The boy tried to comply, but he was in too much pain.

The barber, muttering that it was the boy’s fault for not keeping still, tried to stanch the blood. Because the incision had reached the urethra, he said he’d have to cut deeper. He took a straw compress from his bag of implements and pressed down. Cí shook his head. The barber twisted the penis and testicles together, and the boy shrieked. The barber paid no attention, but instead turned to the boy’s father and asked if he was absolutely sure. It was part of the rite: according to Confucius, not only would the boy become a “non-man,” but also, after death, his soul would never find peace.

The father nodded.

The barber placed a stick between the boy’s teeth and told him to bite down. As soon as he resumed his work, the boy passed out. It wasn’t long before the barber was finished, and he handed the parents their son’s amputated genitalia.

The barber, packing away his things, gave them instructions: As soon as he came to, the boy was to walk around as much as possible for two hours, then rest completely for the following three days. After that, the straw compress could be removed. He’d be able to urinate without any problem; everything would be fine.

As the barber started to leave, Cí stepped out in front of him.

“He still needs looking after.”

The man spat on the ground and sneered.

“The last thing I need is children.”

Cí bit his lip. He was about to reply but was interrupted by sudden cries behind him. Turning around, he saw that the boy lay in a pool of his own blood. And when Cí turned back, the barber had disappeared. Cí went over to try and help, but the boy was half-dead already. And then a pair of police officers arrived. Seeing Cí step back with blood all over his hands, they assumed he was responsible and tried to detain him. Cí dashed into the crowd and made his way to the canal, where he washed his hands and shook his head in disbelief at all that had just happened. He sat and looked up at the sky.

Midday already, and I still have no idea how I’m going to pay for the hostel or Third’s medicine.

Just then, a small cricket clambered onto his shoe. He flicked it off. But as the insect was trying to right itself, Cí remembered the fortune-teller’s proposal.

The thought of it made him nauseous; he hated the idea of making money from his unusual syndrome, but the situation with Third meant he might have to. Maybe it was the only thing of any value about him.

The canal’s dark, turbulent waters made their way toward the river. He thought of throwing himself in, but the picture of Third in his mind held him back.

He jumped to his feet, suddenly decisive. Maybe he was destined to end up dead in the river, but even if that was his fate, he didn’t need to give in so easily. He spat on the ground and headed off in search of Xu.

The fortune-teller wasn’t at the market stalls in the fisherman’s district or at the salting houses, nor was he at the brick market next to the silk shops along the wharves or the Imperial Market. Cí asked everyone and anyone, to no avail. It was as if the earth had swallowed up the fortune-teller and spit out a hundred other tricksters and charlatans in his place.

Cí was ready to give up when he suddenly remembered Xu’s job at the Great Cemetery. He boarded a barge to get there.

On his way to the Fields of Death, he wondered if this was the right thing to do. Why try so hard to stay in Lin’an? His only interest here was in continuing his studies. Perhaps it would be better to flee to a city where no one knew him, and where there weren’t the likes of Kao on his trail. Here he was, though, trying to prolong a dream any idiot could have told him was now unattainable.

How could his father have dishonored the family and condemned him and Third to their current state? The same man who had taught him about honor and being virtuous in society had apparently thieved and betrayed Feng’s trust! It seemed unbelievable, but the man at the university had said the reports were beyond doubt. And Cí had read through them, memorizing the details of each accusation. For all his anger at his father, he still questioned whether his father could have been guilty of such acts.

He opened his eyes with a hard jolt of the barge as it moored clumsily at a jetty on the western lake near the cemetery.

As Cí made his way up the gentle incline to the Fields of Death, he was far from alone. It was a common thing to do at the end of the working week—to join together as a family and honor one’s dead, and many people were walking up the hill. Third came into Cí’s thoughts; the sun was starting to set, and he didn’t know if Moon would have fed his sister, or if Third’s cough had worsened. At the idea of Third going hungry and needing her medicine, Cí quickened his pace. Overtaking a number of people, he reached the huge gate at the cemetery’s entrance. He asked a group of groundspeople if they knew where he could find Xu, but they didn’t, so Cí continued up the hill, to the highest part of the cemetery. The higher he went, the better kept the lawns were, and here in the most exclusive part of the cemetery, there were large gravestones and gardens with family mausoleums. Groups of wealthy families, dressed pristinely in mourning white, made offerings of tea and incense. He saw a gardener by a pavilion that had a sweeping, winglike roof and asked again about Xu. The man pointed up higher, in the direction of the Eternal Mausoleum.

Cí reached a squarish temple swathed in mist. A small man was digging a grave, spitting curses with every shovelful of earth extracted. Seeing Xu, Cí was suddenly nervous. He watched as the man stopped to rest, and then he approached slowly, still unsure that this was a good idea.

Just as Cí considered turning on his heels to go, the fortune-teller looked up and caught his eye. He planted his spade in the earth and straightened up. Then he spat on his hands and shook his head.

“What the hell are you doing here? If you’re after more money, I’ve spent it on women and wine, so you might as well go back to where you came from.”

Cí frowned. “I thought you’d be pleased to see me. You seemed a bit more enthusiastic yesterday.”

“Yesterday? I was drunk yesterday. And now I’ve got work to do.”

“Don’t you remember your offer?”

“Listen. Thanks to you, the whole of Lin’an knows how I worked it with the crickets. I have no idea how I got away this morning. If the others had caught up with me, I’d be in one of these,” he said, pointing to the grave.

“Sorry, but I wasn’t the one cheating people.”

“Ah, right! So what do you call going up against a giant knowing that, even if they cut you in two, it wouldn’t hurt a bit? Damn! Get out of here before you make me get out of this grave and kick you out.”

“But yesterday you wanted me to do it. I’m here to accept your offer. Don’t you get it?”

“Listen, the one who doesn’t get it is you.” The fortune-teller got out of the grave, brandishing the spade. “You don’t get that you’ve made it so I can never go back to the market. You don’t get that word’s spread about your special talent, and now no one’s ever going to bet against you. You don’t get that you’re cursed, you’re bad luck! And most of all, you don’t get that I’ve got work to do!”

Then a voice came from behind them.

“He bothering you, Xu?” An enormous man covered in tattoos had appeared out of nowhere.

“He was just leaving.”

“Well, get on with that grave,” said the man. “Otherwise you’ll be looking for another job.”

The fortune-teller grabbed the spade and began digging again. Cí jumped in beside him.

“What are you up to?” Xu asked.

“Can’t you see?” he said, scooping out earth using his hands. “Helping.”

The fortune-teller looked at him for a moment and sighed.

“Go on, take this,” he said, handing him a hoe.

They dug side by side until the hole was the length of a body and half as deep. Xu worked silently, but when they finished, he sat back on the grave edge, took a dirty flask from his bag, and handed it to Cí.

“Not afraid to drink with someone who’s cursed?” asked Cí.

“Go on. Have a drink, and let’s get out of this damned hole.”

The deceased and his family arrived. At a signal from a man who appeared to be the family elder, Cí helped Xu lower the coffin into the grave. It was almost in place when Cí lost his footing, and the coffin dropped the last couple of feet, its top coming half-open on impact and dirt falling inside.

Cí couldn’t believe it.

Gods in heaven! What else can possibly go wrong?

Cí jumped down into the grave and tried to get the top back on, but the fortune-teller pushed him away. Xu tried moving the coffin himself, but when it fell he’d sprained his finger and could barely use it.

“Get away from him, you idiots!” cried the widow. “Hasn’t he suffered enough?”

With the help of some of the men from the family, Cí and Xu lifted the coffin out. They all went to the mausoleum to repair the coffin and clean the body again. Seeing how swollen Xu’s finger was, Cí took the jasmine-soaked sponge from him and dabbed at the dead man’s muddy shirt. The family members were happy to let him; the general belief was that the bad luck from touching a dead body only affected the person doing the touching.

Cí had dealt with so many dead bodies that he wasn’t superstitious. But as he continued with the sponge, he noticed some marks at the neck.

He turned to the family elder. “Did someone apply makeup to the body?” Cí asked.

The man shook his head, surprised.

“How did he die?”

“Fell off a horse. Broke his neck.”

Cí checked the dead man’s eyelids.

“Mind telling me what you’re up to?” asked Xu. “Why don’t you stop annoying them so we can finish this job?”

But Cí wasn’t listening. He turned back to the elder and said, “Sir, there is no way this man died that way.”

“What—what do you mean?” stuttered the man. “His brother-in-law saw it all.”

“What you said may have happened, but it’s clear that, perhaps after being thrown from a horse, he was also strangled.”

He showed the elder the purple bruises on either side of the neck.

“These were hidden underneath some makeup. Not the best job, either. In any case, these bruises clearly correspond to a pair of powerful hands. Here and here,” he said, pointing to the bruising.

The elder asked if he was sure. Cí said there could be no doubt about it. The family agreed to postpone the burial and go straight to the local magistrate to report the findings.

Cí made a splint for Xu’s finger. When he was done, Xu asked, “Are you crazy or something?”

“Clearly!” Cí said with a laugh.

“Fine! Let’s talk business.”

Cí raised an eyebrow. A short while ago Xu had told him no one would ever bet against him, but now the fortune-teller grinned like a beggar who’d been gifted a palace. Cí didn’t care—his only concern was to obtain a few coins up front so he could pay the innkeeper and get medicine for Third. Night wasn’t far off, and he was growing more and more worried. He told Xu the story of what had happened at the inn, but the man laughed it off.

“Money worries? We’re going to be rich, kid!”

He handed Cí enough money to cover a whole week at the inn. Still chuckling, he took Cí by the hand.

“Now, swear on your honor that you’ll meet me back here tomorrow, first thing.”

Cí counted the money and said that he would.

“Am I going to be fighting?”

“Something far more dangerous, and far better.”