The Corpse Reader

19

Cí cursed his fate again—it built him up only to knock him cruelly back down.

He went back to the grave he’d been digging. He dug and dug until his hands bled. Even then, he didn’t stop.

There was one insurmountable obstacle to Ming’s offer: he wouldn’t have been able to continue taking care of Third.

Ming had made it clear that Cí’s costs would all be covered if he worked in the library, but Cí wouldn’t have been able to afford Third’s medicine, or food or lodging for her. He had asked if he could carry on with his job at the cemetery, for extra money, but Ming said no, he would have to be fully dedicated to his studies.

Night fell and still Cí was digging, but then he remembered he had to get back to Third. He found it impossible to sleep that night. Third was sweating and coughing. He twisted and turned next to her, trying to figure out what to do. She’d had the last of her medicine hours earlier, and he was completely out of money.

Xu had refused to share Ming’s purse with him, claiming that since he’d put the money up, he alone deserved the winnings. Cí couldn’t have hated Xu more.

When morning came and Xu headed out for work, Cí ignored him and spent a few more minutes with Third. Though it was already summer, she couldn’t stop shivering.

“Don’t you dare make her work today,” he spat at the wives as he walked out the door.

As he walked along the port, past the swell of beggars scrabbling for something to eat, Cí realized that enough time had passed for Feng to have returned to Lin’an.

He was running out of options and time. While he knew that his fugitive status could tarnish Feng, he was Cí’s last hope.

Crossing the city by taking one barge after another, he eventually came to the Phoenix area in the south. He passed a few mansions before getting to Feng’s pavilion, a venerable one-story building with gardens in the front and back. Memories came flooding back of happier times spent among those apple trees. But as he got closer, he was shocked. The back garden, previously full of well-tended flowers, was tumbledown and overgrown. He rounded a pond that was now nothing but scattered rocks, and when he climbed the wooden steps they splintered beneath his weight. The house was completely abandoned. He knocked on the door, its bright red paint now dry and peeling. No one answered, so he tried the door and found it unlocked. As he stepped inside, he thought he caught a glimpse of a hunched figure moving through the rooms. A woman?

All the shutters were closed, so it was mostly dark, and as he waited for his eyes to adjust he noticed the strong smell of mold. He went into the empty living room and headed for Feng’s private chambers, dumbfounded by the ghostly layer of cobwebs and dust.

A noise from behind him made him jump. He turned and caught another glimpse of the figure running from one room to another. Grabbing a piece of bamboo, he advanced slowly in the dark. Then he heard a scraping sound just a few steps away and stopped to listen. Suddenly, whoever it was tried to rush past him. He tried to intercept the figure, but it kicked him in the shin and he fell over. As he got up, hands were on him, trying to attack him, but the person was weak, and when he grabbed the hands, the skin was soft and dry.

The figure screeched terrifyingly—yes, a woman. He dragged her toward the window and opened the shutters. In the misty morning light, he saw that it was an old, bony woman dressed in a grubby sack. Her wide-open eyes showed she was just as terrified as he. She pleaded with him not to hit her and swore that she hadn’t stolen anything. He asked what she was doing in Feng’s home, and though at first she didn’t answer, when he shook her by the shoulders she told him she’d been alone there for months.

This was believable; beneath the nest of white hair, her skin showed the ravages of old age and hunger. And her frightened eyes didn’t lie. All of a sudden they opened wider still.

“By the gods!” she said. “Cí! Can it really be you?”

He knew those bright eyes: they were those of Gentle Heart, former head servant in Feng’s house. The dirt and the wrinkles disappeared as he saw the woman he used to know so well. They embraced each other, and she burst into tears.

Cí remembered that toward the end of his time working with Feng, Gentle Heart had started to become senile. But Feng had kept her on, as far as Cí knew. She had still been there when Cí’s grandfather died.

Through her tears she told Cí that she’d left Feng’s service when “that woman” showed up.

“What woman?” asked Cí.

“The evil woman. Beautiful, yes, but she never looked you in the eye.” Gentle Heart gesticulated wildly, as if tracing the woman on the air in front of them. She looked off into the darkness, as if she were still seeing everything that had happened. “She brought new servants. And bad luck.”

“But where have they all gone?”

“It’s just me. I hide away…but sometimes they appear in the dark, and they talk to me…” Once again, her eyes filled with terror. “Who are you? Why are you holding me?” She pushed Cí and backed away.

She turned back into a hunched, delirious bundle of rags. He tried to calm her, but she turned and ran off into the house as if devils were after her.

Poor woman. One foot in the house of spirits.

He tried to find clues to what had happened, but there were only the bits and pieces of rubbish accumulated by Gentle Heart. The place clearly had been abandoned a long while ago. Cí thought it strange that Feng hadn’t said anything the last time they saw each other.

By the time he left, it had started to rain. On his way back to the houseboat there was a downpour, and he had to take cover at the slave market. Under an awning, he grew extremely cold, and desperation took over. His very last option—Feng—had disappeared. Feng could still be on his journey in the North, or he might even have established himself in another city. Cí had no way of knowing. Money for Third’s medicine, work, a place to stay: all were things Cí desperately needed. A group of slaves came by, tied together like livestock. They looked pitiful, but they were no worse off than Cí—at least they had food and shelter.

He had to do something. He knew it might be the worst decision he’d ever made, but he ran through the pouring rain all the way to the Fields of Death.

He found Xu working on a coffin. He didn’t seem surprised to see Cí, and he didn’t stop what he was doing.

“You look like a drowned chicken. Get out of those clothes and come help me with this.”

“I need money,” said Cí.

“Don’t we all!”

“I need it now. Third is so sick…she’s nearing death.”

“I know. It happens—look around!”

Cí grabbed Xu and was about to hit him, but he let him go. Xu brushed himself off and went back to what he’d been doing,

“How much would you pay for me?”

Xu dropped his tools and looked at Cí. Yes, Cí said, he wanted to sell himself as a slave. Xu snorted.

“Ten thousand qián. That’s the best I can do.”

Cí knew he could have bartered with Xu, but he was utterly drained—drained from all the nights listening to Third’s coughing and cries, drained from trying to find solutions. What did it matter now? He was trapped, barely alive. Exhausted. And he accepted Xu’s offer.

Xu got up and went for paper to draw up the contract. He licked the brush and hastily scratched something out, then called to the gardener to come and act as witness. He handed the sheet of paper to Cí to sign.

“It has the essential points. You’ll render me all services, and you’ll belong to me until you die. Here, here. Sign it.”

“The money first.”

“I’ll give it to you at the boat.”

“I’ll sign once I see the money.”

Grudgingly, Xu agreed, then put Cí to work assembling coffins. Xu began singing a song, an accompaniment to the best bit of luck he’d had in years.

They started back to the houseboat halfway through the afternoon.

Xu walked with a spring in his step, singing the same melody over and over. Cí dragged his feet, head bowed, aware that everything he’d ever dreamed of was vanishing. He tried to banish these thoughts by focusing on Third and the hope that now, finally, she could be cured. He’d buy her the best medicine, and she’d grow up to be a beautiful, healthy woman. This was his one remaining dream.

But still, as they came closer to the docks, his mood remained dark.

The houseboat came into sight, and Xu’s wives were on the jetty, screaming at them to hurry. Cí flew toward them, jumped onto the deck, and ducked straight into the little shelter where Third rested when she felt ill. Cí cried out, but he didn’t see her.

He whirled around. At the back of the space, next to a container of fish, lay Third’s small, worn-out body. He covered her with a blanket—quiet, pale, sleeping forevermore.