The Corpse Reader

22

By the time Cí woke, the sun was high over the rooftops of Lin’an.

The noise of passersby felt like a thousand lightning bolts piercing his tender brain. He got up gingerly, and when he saw the sign for the Palace of Pleasure above the pile of rubbish he’d slept in, a shiver went through him. Clearly his companions from the previous night had left without him, and he began the walk back to the academy alone.

When he got back, the guard told Cí that Ming had convened the pairs who had carried out the examination, and that they were to present their findings to a committee of professors in the Honorable Debating Hall.

“They began some time ago, but don’t you even think of going in looking like that.”

By the time Cí had washed up, changed clothes, and made it to the hall, it was Gray Fox’s turn to present his findings. Everyone in the room looked at Cí as he came in. He nodded at Gray Fox, but his new friend looked disdainfully away. It must be nerves, thought Cí, taking a seat and avoiding Ming’s disapproving gaze.

Gray Fox was at a lectern in the middle of the hall. Cí’s thinking was still very cloudy, and he hadn’t figured out what he would present, given Ming’s reprimand the day before. Cí rummaged in his bag for the report he’d written in the library. It wasn’t there.

Then he began hearing what he’d written, presented by Gray Fox.

It can’t be.

The extent of Gray Fox’s betrayal became clear. The night out, the friendliness, the confessions about his loneliness—it was nothing but a ruse. How could Cí have trusted him? It felt as if he were being stabbed over and over again as Gray Fox spoke.

By the time he finished—having repeated Cí’s findings word for word, right down to the conclusion about the flask of liquor and even saying that he hadn’t mentioned the metal bar in the ear because of the need to keep his finding secret—Cí had to force himself not to jump up and clobber him. He couldn’t call Gray Fox out, and he had no idea how he’d be able to prove that he himself wasn’t copying Gray Fox. Luckily, the one thing Cí hadn’t written in his report was how he knew Kao had been a sheriff. And that meant, when Ming began quizzing Gray Fox, the student hesitated.

“I…deduced his profession from the fact we were repeatedly told that secrecy was paramount.”

“Deduced?” asked Ming. “Don’t you mean copied?”

Gray Fox’s eyebrows shot up. Cí held his breath.

“I…I don’t know what you mean, sir,” stammered Gray Fox.

“In that case, perhaps Cí could explain.” Ming nodded for Cí to come forward.

Cí did as he was told, folding up and leaving his notes in his bag. Coming to the lectern, he noted the fear in Gray Fox’s eyes. Clearly, Ming suspected something.

“We’re waiting,” said Ming.

“I’m afraid I don’t know exactly what for, sir.”

“You mean, you have no objections?” said Ming.

“No, venerable master.”

“Cí! Don’t play me for a fool. You don’t even have an opinion?”

Cí saw Gray Fox gulp, and he considered his words.

“My opinion is that someone has carried out some excellent work,” he said finally, gesturing to his partner. “The rest of us should all congratulate Gray Fox and carry on working for our goals.” And without waiting to be told, he stepped away from the lectern and, awash with resentment, left the Honorable Debating Hall.

He cursed himself a thousand times for his stupidity, and a thousand more times for his cowardice.

He would happily have beaten Gray Fox to a pulp, but that would only get him expelled. He went to the library to look over his notes for anything he could use to prove Gray Fox’s guilt without jeopardizing himself. Then someone came up from behind, making him jump. It was Ming. Shaking his head, the professor sat down across from him.

“You’re leaving me no option,” he said. “If you don’t tell the truth, I’m going to have no choice but to expel you. What’s going on with you, boy? How could you let him present your findings like that?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Cí, trying to hide his notes in his sleeve.

“What’s that? Hand it over.” He snatched the paper. As he scanned the notes, his face changed. “Exactly as I thought! Gray Fox would never have written a report using those terms. Don’t you think I know his style by now? And yours?” He paused, expecting Cí to answer. “Gods! You’re only here because I trusted you, so now you have to trust me. Tell me what happened. You aren’t on your own in the world, Cí.”

Yes, I am. Alone is exactly what I am.

Cí tried to take the notes back, but Ming held them out of his reach.

He hung his head and said nothing as rage swelled through him. How could he possibly explain that everyone he’d ever trusted had let him down, even his own father?

Over the following days, Cí did his best to avoid both Ming and Gray Fox—no easy task, especially with Gray Fox, given their shared room. Luckily, though, Gray Fox kept his distance, too. They ignored each other when they crossed paths in the hallways; at mealtimes, they sat at separate tables. Cí imagined Gray Fox must have been worrying about some sort of reprisal and would therefore be feeling like a caged animal that might be attacked at any moment.

As for Ming, he hadn’t mentioned the report again, which also disconcerted Cí.

No news didn’t feel at all like good news.

In the evening, after his classes, Cí began working on a document that he led his classmates to believe would prove Gray Fox’s deceit, hoping word would reach his rival. Cí was certain he’d take the bait and succumb to the temptation to steal the notes, just as he’d done with the report.

When the notes were complete, Cí let it be known that he planned to present them to the council the next day; Gray Fox would be exposed. Cí went back to their room and sat waiting.

Not long after, Gray Fox came in. He collapsed on his bed as if exhausted, but Cí could tell he was only pretending to sleep. After a little while Cí got up, put the new set of notes in his bag—rustling them so his rival would know exactly where they were. Then he put his bag in his dresser and left the room.

Ming was out in the passageway, just as Cí had asked him to be.

“I don’t know how I let you talk me into this,” whispered the professor, stepping behind a pillar.

Cí bowed in thanks, then hid behind an adjacent pillar. The light from the only lantern flickered at the far end of the passageway. Moments passed slowly, but then Gray Fox’s head appeared in the doorway; he checked to make sure no one was around and then went back inside, shutting the screen door behind him. Cí and Ming stayed hidden until they heard the dresser creaking open.

“He’s going to do it!” hissed Ming, starting forward.

But Cí shook his head, gesturing for Ming to wait; he counted to ten.

“Now!” shouted Cí.

They burst into the room, catching Gray Fox fishing in Cí’s bag for the notes.

He looked up, startled, and then cursed. “You!” He leaped at Cí, knocking him over. Gray Fox pinned Cí down, and though Cí managed to push him off, Gray Fox punched him in the gut. When Cí didn’t flinch, Gray Fox hit him again and stood up.

“Surprised?” shouted Cí as he jumped up and punched Gray Fox in the face. “Weren’t you trying to get my proof?” He hit him again, splitting his lip. Another blow knocked Gray Fox to the ground. Finally Ming managed to step between them.

Cí staggered, panting, his clothes and hair a mess; Gray Fox groaned, his face covered in blood. Cí couldn’t have cared less; Gray Fox had done plenty to make his life a misery, and he wasn’t going to take it anymore.

The next day, Cí went to watch Gray Fox leave the academy. No one had come to see him off, not even the students who usually hung around with him. There was a retinue waiting for him at the entrance, and their expensive attire was straight out of an imperial celebration. Cí gritted his teeth. Maybe he’d given up the chance of a lifetime, but at least he felt he’d gotten even. To his surprise, Gray Fox smiled when he saw him.

“I suppose you know I’m leaving…”

“Shame,” said Cí, with all the sarcasm he could muster.

Gray Fox grimaced, then bowed, coming close to Cí’s ear.

“Enjoy your studies, and try not to forget me, because I certainly won’t forget you.”

Cí watched scornfully as his rival departed.

That same afternoon, there was a staff meeting to discuss the question of Cí’s expulsion.

A number of the professors were of the mind that, no matter how talented Cí was, nothing could excuse his behavior. His presence reduced the academy’s credibility, and it was costing them money. His latest outburst had jeopardized the generous donation given annually by Gray Fox’s family.

“In fact,” said one of them, “we had to guarantee Gray Fox’s place in the judiciary to avoid losing all of their funding, which would have been a disaster.”

Ming argued Cí’s case. There was ample proof, he said, that Cí was the author of the report Gray Fox had tried to claim as his own. Others pointed out, though, that Cí had accepted his partner’s authority, and that his subsequent lines of argument, and the way in which he had sought to uphold them, were unacceptable. The majority was clearly in favor of Cí’s immediate expulsion.

But Ming was tenacious, and he expressed his conviction that Cí would eventually be more beneficial to the academy than all the grants in the world. He went further, suggesting that to save the academy money, the professors ought to take Cí on as a personal assistant.

A murmur of disapproval went around. One of the more outspoken professors jumped up and said Cí was a charlatan and that Ming’s interest in the boy was anything but professional. Ming just hung his head at this; for quite some time there had been a faction seeking his dismissal. Before he could respond, the eldest member of the committee stood up.

“Such insinuations are entirely inappropriate.” His voice was booming and authoritative. “Professor Ming is director of this academy and a laudable scholar whose scruples are unquestionable. He has always carried out his work impeccably, and any rumors as to his personal tastes, or anything that occurs beyond these walls, are matters for him and his family.”

Tense silence filled the room. Ming requested the floor, and the elder master ceded it to him.

“It isn’t my reputation, but Cí’s, that we’re here to discuss. Since the moment he arrived, he’s worked night and day, he’s carried out the lowest of tasks, and he’s applied himself to his studies with great gusto. In a few months he’s absorbed more knowledge than many of his peers learn in all their years here. He’s rough, he’s impulsive, but he is brimming with a special and rare talent. I agree that his behavior from time to time deserves our disapproval, absolutely, but the boy is also more than deserving of our generosity.”

“He already benefited from our generosity,” pointed out the elder master, “when we let him join the academy.”

Ming turned back to the committee members.

“If you don’t feel you can trust him, place your trust in me.”

Aside from the four professors who were trying to see Ming dismissed, the rest of the committee eventually voted for Cí to stay—under Ming’s strict supervision. They also agreed that the tiniest of infractions from the boy would lead to immediate dismissal of both Cí and Ming.

When Ming informed Cí, he could barely believe it.

Ming said that, from now on, Cí would be his personal assistant. He’d no longer sleep in the dormitory but would move up to Ming’s private apartments, with access to the private library whenever he wanted. He’d continue to attend morning classes, but during the second half of the day he’d assist Ming in his investigations. Cí was overwhelmed; he genuinely couldn’t understand why Ming had such faith in him or why the committee had approved these privileges.

The academy became a kind of paradise for Cí, and afternoons and evenings were the best. This was when he’d go to Ming’s office and immerse himself in the books Ming had recovered from the Faculty of Medicine before its closure. The more he read, though, the more Cí realized how poorly organized the valuable information was. He came up with the idea of systematizing this chaos by compiling new volumes, organized according to ailments.

Ming thought it was a wonderful idea. He presented it to the committee and managed to win funding for the acquisition of more sources and to remunerate Cí.

Cí put his all into the project. To begin with, he compiled and organized information from the medical texts. As the months went by, he began to include some of his own ideas in the new volumes. He’d write at night, after Ming had gone to bed. In the yellowish lantern light, he described how to examine a corpse; in his opinion, an exhaustive contextual understanding was fundamental, but he also argued strongly for perfectionism, even in the smallest tasks. He created a step-by-step procedure, which involved beginning the examination of a corpse at the crown of the head, working down along the cranial sutures, the birth line in the hair, and down the forehead to the eyes—including lifting up and checking under the eyelids, ignoring the idea that the spirit might escape this way. Then one proceeded to the throat; the chest if dealing with a man or the breasts if a woman; the heart area; the uvula and navel; and the pubic region, including the penis, scrotum, and testicles, or the vagina. Finally, the legs and feet and the arms and hands were to be examined, not forgetting the toenails and fingernails. Once the body was turned over, the entirety of the corpse’s back side required an equal amount of care; every part should be pressed on scrupulously to check for marks left by inflammation or beatings.

Ming didn’t quite know how to react when he read the first pages. Much of what Cí had written, especially when it came to the forensic examinations, was clearer and more precise than many of the treatises in the library. And some of the procedures and experiences it detailed were new even to Ming, as were the innovative proposals on the use of surgical implements and the cold box, which Cí had dubbed the “conservation chamber,” one of which he had acquired and modified for the long-term conservation of body organs.

Cí barely saw the other students. Perhaps it was his family’s ghosts that urged him to work himself to the bone, but he didn’t feel he needed much else in his life. He didn’t have any friends, or companions even, but the isolation didn’t bother him. He did his work as best as he could and was hard on himself. He had eyes only for his books, and his heart was set on achieving his dreams.

Ming kept reminding Cí of the importance of legal understanding, too.

“Remember, determining the causes of death won’t be your sole function. What happens if a man is found to have been killed by several other men? Or, even worse, what happens if he dies over the course of a few days? How will you tell if his death was due to the wounds he received or a previous condition?”

While Cí knew how to classify deaths according to the instruments that had caused them, he was surprised when Ming taught him how the time elapsed since death was calculated. Wounds caused by blows from hands or feet would be certain to cause death within a period of ten days, Ming explained. In the case of wounds from any kind of weapon, including bite wounds, the time limit would be set at twenty days. Scalding and burns went up to thirty days, the time also allotted to gouged eyes, split lips, and broken bones.

Ming explained that if the deceased died within the amount of time that corresponded to the type of wound, it was determined to be caused by the wound, but if death came after the prescribed period, it was not due to that wound, and the person who inflicted it could not be accused of murder.

When Cí said he thought it was more sensible to treat each case individually, Ming shook his head.

“We have laws for a reason. Hasn’t your rebellious streak gotten you in enough trouble?”

Cí hung his head to signal he had nothing more to add. But he wasn’t so sure about the laws. Yes, they were surely crafted with good intentions, but the rules had also allowed someone like Gray Fox to become an Imperial official. The thought of it made Cí’s stomach hurt, but he continued with his work, speculating about what exactly had become of Gray Fox.

Winter went by in a flash, but when spring arrived, Cí was in turmoil.

He began waking up from nightmares so vivid he would search for Third in the darkness. He’d then spend the rest of the night trembling, terrified and alone, feeling the absence of his family. Feng came to his mind at points, and he wished he could be under his wing again.

One afternoon he decided to seek solace and company at the Palace of Pleasure.

The girl he chose was kind to him; Cí would even have gone so far as to say she was sweet. Her caresses didn’t avoid his burn marks, and her lips did things he’d barely imagined possible. In exchange for a few qián she gave him brief respite.

He began going back to see the same girl every week. And one cloudy evening as he was leaving, he ran into Gray Fox, who was drinking and being rowdy with a moronic little retinue but who sobered up when he saw Cí. The scar on Gray Fox’s lip from Cí’s punch had altered his face considerably. Cí made a dash for the door, but Gray Fox and the others got there first; they held Cí’s arms as Gray Fox laid into him.

And because he couldn’t feel the blows and didn’t pretend to feel pain, they hit him harder and harder, until he could no longer move.

He woke up at the academy. Ming was mopping his brow with a cool cloth, showing as much care as a mother would show her child. Cí could barely move, and his eyes were swollen almost closed. Blackness swallowed him again. When he woke again, Ming was still with him.

Ming told him he’d been out for three days; a girl who seemed to know Cí had reported his situation. Ming and several students had brought him back to the academy.

“According to her, you were attacked by strangers. At least that’s what I’ve been telling people here.”

Cí tried to get up, but Ming told him to rest. The healer who had been to see him had recommended a couple of weeks’ rest, at least until his fractured ribs were better. Cí’s first thought was that he’d be missing important classes, but Ming told him not to worry and took his hand with all the sweetness of a “flower.”

“What you need now are prayers, not classes,” he said.

Ming cared for Cí through his recovery and praised him for all his hard work. But he reproached him too—his powers of analysis had made him aloof and isolated him from his peers.

At night, Ming’s words, along with the doubts as to his father’s honor, preyed on Cí’s mind. If he really wanted to achieve his dream, he realized, he’d have to purge the ghosts from his heart.

He decided to confess everything to Ming.

When he was able to walk, he went to Ming in his private apartments. His master was shrouded in a cloud of incense smoke as he carried out his nightly prayers, and when he opened his eyes he looked far away, his face waxy and pale. He invited Cí to sit. Cí did, though then he didn’t know where to begin.

“Whatever it is,” Ming said softly, “it must be important if you’ve decided to interrupt my prayers.”

Ming knew how to turn the burnt ends of a branch into a fine brush, just right for the job.

Cí poured out his heart, revealing everything: who he was, where he was from, the strange infirmity that prevented him from feeling pain, his time at the university, his time as assistant to Judge Feng, the deaths of his family members, his solitude. He told Ming about his father’s dishonor. He confessed that he himself was a fugitive, and that the corpse from the prefect’s test had been that of the very sheriff who had been tracking him.

Ming listened impassively, delicately sipping at his steaming tea. He looked as though he’d heard the story a thousand times. When Cí finished, he put his cup down and looked Cí firmly in the eye.

“You’re twenty-two now. A tree must always be held responsible for the fruit it bears, but not the other way around. Nonetheless, I believe that if you look deep in your heart, you’ll find reasons to be proud of your father. I see those reasons in you, in your wisdom, in the way you carry yourself, in your manners.”

“My manners? Since I’ve been back in Lin’an, my life has consisted of farces and lies, one after another—”

“You’re young and ambitious, and that makes you impetuous sometimes, but I don’t see you as heartless. If you were, this remorse, which prevents you from ever sleeping properly, wouldn’t be a factor. And as far as your lies go…” Ming took a sip of his tea. “This might not be good advice, but I would say you just need to learn to lie better.”

Ming got up and made his way to the library, returning with a book Cí recognized only too well.

“A butcher who has memorized the Songxingtong? A gravedigger who, despite having only just arrived in Lin’an, knows where to buy something as rare as cheese? A poor country boy who’s forgotten everything—except for a detailed knowledge of wounds and anatomy?” He looked Cí in the eye. “Did you really think you could fool me, Cí?”

Cí didn’t know what to say.

“I saw something in you. Behind all the lies, I saw the shadow of sadness. Your eyes were innocent and helpless. And you were begging for help.”

That night, for what felt like the first time in his life, Cí slept. But the next day, news came that overwhelmed him.