My gaze carried beyond the town, to the northeast, where the German-built rail line was crawling our way from Qingdao like an elongated insect with a crushed head, trying to squirm forward. A swarm of men on fields bursting with early spring green sprouts waved multicolored banners, heading for the railroad tracks. At the time, I did not know that my dieh was leading the rebellion; if I had, I would not have been so self-indulgent on the swing set. I watched as black smoke billowed from spots along the tracks, like dark trees on the move. Thudding sounds came on the wind.
My gandieh’s procession drew ever nearer to the city’s South Gate. The sound of the gong grew crisper by the minute, the shouted commands clearer. Banners hung low in the drizzle, like bloody dog pelts. I saw beads of sweat on the carriers’ faces and heard their labored breathing. People lined the street, heads bowed, afraid to make a sound or a false move. Even the notoriously vicious dog that belonged to Provincial Scholar Lu knew better than to bark. Anyone could see that my gandieh was a more intimidating presence than Mt. Tai, since even animals shied away from him. The buildup of heat in my heart was like a stove warming a decanter of wine. My dearest, thoughts of you have entered the marrow of my bones; you are steeping in a decanter of wine. I stood tall on the swing seat to give him an unobstructed view of my figure when he looked through the parted curtain.
From my perch I could see the black-haired mob—a ground-hugging cloud of humanity—though at that distance they all—man or woman, young or old—looked alike. I have to admit that the waving banners dazzled my eyes. You were all yelling and shouting—truth is, I couldn’t hear any of you, but I’d have been surprised if you weren’t shouting. My dieh was an opera singer, a second-generation Maoqiang Patriarch. Maoqiang had emerged from the masses as a minor form of popular drama, and prospered thanks to my dieh: it traveled north to Laizhou, south to Jiaozhou, west to Qingzhou, and east to Dengzhou. In all, it gained popularity in eighteen counties. When Sun Bing sang, women wept. He was always ready to shout something, so how could he not shout with such a martial following? This was too good a scene to miss. I pushed harder to get a better look. The nitwits on the ground, who assumed that I was merely putting on a show, were dancing joyously, all of them, dizzy with the thought that I was doing it for them. I was wearing only a thin garment that day, yet I was sweating—my gandieh liked to say that my sweat smelled of rose petals—and I knew that those two little darlings on my chest were in full view. With my bottom sticking out in back and my breasts jutting out in front, I gave those lecherous little devils an eyeful. Cool breezes found their way under my clothes and made little eddies in my armpits. There was a mixture of sounds—of wind and rain, of peach blossoms opening and drooping heavily with rainwater. Shouts from the yayi, the urgent cries of the metal rings, the hawking of peddlers, and the lowing of calves formed a chorus. It had turned into a lively Qingming Festival, a flourishing third day of the third month. White-haired old women burned spirit money in an ancient cemetery in the southwest corner; dust devils curled the smoke straight up, little white arboreal columns that merged with the stand of dark trees. My gandieh’s procession finally passed through South Gate and immediately caught the attention of the gawking crowd below. “His Eminence the County Magistrate is coming!” someone shouted. As the procession made a full turn around the parade ground, the yayi perked up, throwing out their chests and sucking in their guts, eyes staring straight ahead. Gandieh, I see your feathered cap through the gaps in your bamboo curtain, and I see your square, ruddy face. You have a long beard, so straight and wiry-stiff it will not float if immersed in water. That beard is what binds our hearts together, the red silk thread cast down by the man in the moon. If not for your and my father’s beards, where would you have found such a sweet melon as me?
Once the yayi had paraded their prestige, which, in truth, came from you, they set the palanquin down at the edge of the parade ground. Flowers bloomed in profusion on peach trees bordering the ground, producing a fine pink mist in the drizzle. A yayi with a sword on his hip parted the curtain to let you emerge from the palanquin. You straightened your feathered hat, shook the wide sleeves of your official robe, clasped your hands, brought them up to your chest, and bowed to us all.
“Local elders,” he said in a booming voice, “citizens, a joyous holiday to you!”
That was just an act. I thought back to when you and I were frolicking in the Western Parlor, and could barely keep from laughing out loud. But when I thought of all you had suffered this spring, I was on the verge of tears. I stopped swinging and, steadying myself with the ropes, stood still on the seat. My lips were pursed, my eyes moist, my heart assailed by waves of emotion—bitter, acrid, sour, and sweet—as I watched my gandieh put on a show for the monkeys.
“In this county we have long promoted the planting of trees,” he said, “especially peach trees——”
His lackey from the Southern Society, Junior Officer Li, cried out:
“His Eminence sets an example for us all; he is first in all things. On this drizzly Qingming day, he has come to plant a peach tree to bring blessings to the common people . . .”
My gandieh greeted this interruption with a stern look at Li, then continued:
“Citizens, go back to your homes and plant peach trees, in front and in back, and on the borders of your fields. Citizens, as the poet reminds us, ‘Spend less time meddling in others’ affairs and idling in the marketplace, and more on reading good books and planting trees.’ In fewer than ten years, Gaomi County will enjoy wonderful days. The poem also says, ‘Thousands of trees with peach-red flowers, the people sing and dance, celebrating world peace.’ ”
After intoning the lines of poetry, he picked up a shovel and began to dig. Just as his shovel hit a buried rock and sent sparks flying, Chunsheng, who hardly ever left his side, rolled up to him like a dirt clod and fell frantically to one reverent knee.
“Laoye,” he said breathlessly, “it’s bad, really bad.”
“Bad?” my gandieh demanded. “What’s bad?”
“The unruly citizens of Northeast Township are in revolt!”
Without a word, my gandieh dropped the shovel, shook his sleeves, and climbed back into his palanquin. The bearers picked it up and ran with it on their shoulders, followed by a contingent of yayi, who stumbled along like a pack of homeless curs.
Gripped by ineffable dejection, I watched the procession head away from me. Gandieh, you have ruined a perfectly good holiday. Listlessly I alighted from my perch and walked into the clamorous crowd, where I was manhandled by little imps as I tried to decide whether to lose myself in the grove of peach trees and all those flowers or go home and prepare some dog meat. Before I could make up my mind, Xiaojia, my dullard husband, strode vigorously up to me, his face beet red, eyes wide, lips trembling.
“My, my dieh,” he stammered, “my dieh is back . . .”
Strange, strange, how very strange: a gongdieh has dropped into our laps. I thought your dieh was long dead. Hasn’t it been more than twenty years since you heard from him?
Xiaojia was sweating profusely. “He, he’s back,” he stammered. “He’s really back.”
————
6
————
Together with Xiaojia I sped toward home, and was soon gasping for breath. “How could a dieh just show up out of nowhere?” I asked. “He’s probably looking for a handout.” But I wanted to see what sort of goblin had just entered my life. If he was all right, well and good. But if he had a mind to upset me, or tried anything funny, I would break his legs and deliver him to the yamen, where, guilty or not, he’d get two hundred strokes with a paddle, leaving his backside bloody and covered with his own filth. Then we’d see if he dared pass himself off as somebody’s dieh. Xiaojia stopped everyone we met along the way to say enigmatically:
“My dieh is back.”
And when it was obvious that they could make no sense of what he was talking about, he raised his voice:
“I have a dieh!”
Before we’d reached home, I spotted a horse-drawn carriage outside our front gate and a swarm of curious neighbors, including top-knotted youngsters who were threading their way in and out of the crowd. The horse was a young, dark red, overfed stallion. The accumulated dirt and grime on the vehicle gave ample evidence of the distance it had traveled. I received the strangest looks when the people spotted me, their eyes flashing like graveyard will-o’-the-wisps. Aunty Wu, who owned a general store, greeted me with a false display of good wishes:
“Congratulations!” she said. “’Fortunate people live a life of ease; the wretched among us spend their life on their knees,’ as the adage has it. The god of wealth favors the rich, that’s for sure. You were already the envy of others, and now heaven has sent you a super-rich gongdieh. Good Mrs. Zhao, a nice big porker has landed at your door, while your stable is crowded with horses and mules. You are blessed, truly blessed!”
I glared at the woman, with her piss pot of a mouth, and said, “Aunty Wu, does that mouth of yours ever stop spouting gibberish? If your family is short a dieh, you can have this one. I certainly don’t cherish him.”
“Do you mean it?” she said, with a false laugh.
“Yes, and anyone who doesn’t take me up on it is the product of a horse-humping donkey!”
Angered by the argument, Xiaojia put a stop to it:
“I’ll screw the life out of any woman who tries to take my dieh away!”
Aunty Wu’s flat face turned bright red. Known in the neighborhood as an inveterate gossip and rumormonger, she knew all about my dealings with Magistrate Qian, and was so full of sour jealousy that her teeth itched. After being humiliated by me and cursed by Xiaojia until her bunghole itched, she stormed off in a huff, muttering to herself. I walked up the stone steps and turned back to the crowd. “Come on in, good neighbors, for a really good look. If you don’t want to, then get your dung beetle asses out of here and stop being so damned nosy!” Soundly embarrassed, they left. I knew they spoke of me in glowing terms to my face and gnashed their teeth, cursing me, behind my back. They’d have liked nothing better than to see me singing in the street to fill my belly. Appealing to their better instincts and treating them with courtesy was a waste of time.
Once inside the yard, I commented loudly, “I wonder which heavenly spirit has dropped into our world? Let’s see, maybe I can broaden my mind.” This was no time to be genteel. I needed to give him a firm warning, whether he was a real gongdieh or not, to let him know who he was dealing with and to keep him from trying to lord it over me in the future. A gaunt old man with a scrawny queue was bent over carefully dusting a purple sandalwood armchair with gold inlay and a silk pad. The wood was so highly polished and dust-free I could have seen my reflection in it. He straightened up slowly when he heard my blustery entrance, turned, and sized me up coolly. Mother dear! His sunken, furtive eyes were colder than the steel of Xiaojia’s butcher knife. My husband stumbled across the yard and, with a foolish laugh, said ingratiatingly:
“This is my wife, Dieh. Niang made the match for me.”
Without even looking at me, the old wretch emitted a throaty, indecipherable noise.
Just then, the carriage driver, who had eaten a big meal and washed it down at Wang Sheng’s restaurant across the way, walked into the yard to say goodbye. The old wretch handed him a silver certificate and gestured politely to show his gratitude.
“Have a safe trip, driver,” he said in fine-sounding cadence.
Well, the old wretch spoke the standard Peking dialect! Like Magistrate Qian. When the driver saw the amount printed on the bill, his scrunched-up little face blossomed like a flower. He bowed deeply, not once but three times, and repeated rapidly:
“Thank you, sir, thank you, sir, thank you, sir . . .”
So, old wretch, you have an interesting background! None but a rich man hands out money that freely, and those bulges inside your jacket must hide wads more. Certificates worth a thousand ounces? Maybe even ten thousand! All right, then. Anyone with breasts can be my niang, and anyone with money can be my dieh. I got down on my hands and knees to kowtow with a good, loud banging of my head.
“Your obedient daughter-in-law respectfully welcomes the father of her husband!” I intoned in a stage voice.
Xiaojia could not follow my lead fast enough. He banged his head on the ground but said nothing, for he was too busy chortling.
The old wretch, thrown off balance by my excessive show of courtesy, reached out—I was struck dumb by the sight of his hands; what strange hands they were—as if he wanted to help me to my feet. But he did not; nor did he assist his son. He just said:
“No need for that. After all, we’re family.”
Stung by the snub, I stood up, and so did Xiaojia. The old wretch reached under his jacket, which made my heart race in wild anticipation of being rewarded with a handful of silver certificates. It seemed to take him forever to find what he was looking for, but he finally produced a small jade-green object, which he held out to me.
“I don’t have much to give you on this, our first meeting,” he said. “So take this little bauble.”
As I accepted the gift, I parroted his earlier comment: “There’s no need to give me anything. After all, we’re family.” It felt heavy in my hand, but supple and smooth, and it was so green I couldn’t help but like it. In all the years I’d slept with Magistrate Qian, I’d received much cultural nurturing, until I no longer considered myself to be a vulgar person, so I knew at once that this was no common gift, but I had no idea what it was.
Xiaojia clicked his tongue and gazed mournfully at his father, who merely smiled.
“Head down!” he commanded.
Xiaojia complied without a whimper. The old wretch hung a glistening silver pendant on a red string around his son’s neck. Xiaojia showed it off to me, but when I saw that it was a longevity talisman, I couldn’t help but curl my lip. Why, the old wretch treats his son like an infant on his hundredth day.
Sometime later, I showed my first-meeting gift to my gandieh, who recognized it as an archery thumb guard, one carved from the finest jade. More valuable than gold, such a prized object was something that only members of the Imperial family and the nobility could afford. With his left hand on my breast, he held the thumb guard in his right and said admiringly, “This is wonderful, truly wonderful.” When I told him he could have it, he replied, “No, this is yours. ‘A superior man does not take someone’s prized object.’” “But why would a woman consider an archery thumb guard a prized object?” I said. In an uncharacteristically prudish tone, he waved me off. “Do you want it or don’t you?” I asked him. “If you don’t, I’ll smash it to pieces.” “Aiya, my little treasure,” he blurted out, “don’t you dare. I’ll take it, I’ll take it!” He slipped it over his thumb and held it out, so engrossed in looking at it that he forgot the important business of fondling my breast. But later, he draped a red string with a jade bodhisattva around my neck. I took an immediate liking to that, a woman’s gift. I tugged on his beard. “Thank you, my fine gandieh.” He laid me down and started riding me like a horse. “Meiniang,” he gasped, “Meiniang, I’m going to find out everything I can about this gongdieh of yours . . .”
————
7
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With his gloomy, grim laughter as a backdrop, dizzying whiffs of sandalwood abruptly emerged from my gongdieh’s armchair, and the prayer beads in his hand and made my heart flutter. He was unmoved by my dieh’s plight, and my flirtatious moves were wasted on him. He stood up on shaky legs and tossed away the prayer beads that virtually never left his hand, star-like flashes of light bursting from his eyes, a sign that something had either pleased him or struck fear in his heart. Those demonic small hands of his reached out to me as he muttered something under his breath, a look of deep anxiety in his eyes. The ferocity of his gaze was gone, completely gone.
“Wash my hands,” he pleaded, “I need to wa
sh my hands . . .”
I ladled cold water from the vat into our brass basin and watched as he thrust his hands into it. A hissing sound escaped from between his lips, but he gave no hint of what that meant. His hands were as red as hot cinders, his delicate fingers curling inward like the feet of a young red-legged rooster. I was struck by the image of fingers of molten metal, underscored by the sizzle of the water in the basin, which had begun to bubble and steam. I had never seen anything like it, and did not expect to ever see it again. Immersing his feverish hands in cold water obviously brought soothing comfort to him, since he seemed to sag and go limp all over; his eyes were slitted, and every intake of air whistled through his teeth. The way he held his breath each time was the sign of an opium addiction, the sort of otherworldly languor that only an old donkey like him could manage. It all seemed quite sinister, and unexpected. He was, it was now clear, the embodiment of an evil spirit, a worrisome old degenerate.
Once his self-indulgence had run its course, he took his red hands out of the water and returned to his chair without drying them off. Now, however, instead of shutting his eyes, he kept them wide open and fixed on his hands to watch drops of water slide down his fingers to the ground. He was relaxed almost to the point of lethargy, physically spent but luxuriantly content . . . like my gandieh when he climbs off my body . . .
That was before I knew that he was a renowned executioner, and when all I could think about were the silver certificates tucked into his clothes. “Gongdieh, I said in as solicitous a tone as I could manage, “it seems I’ve made you comfortable. Well, I expect my dieh’s life to end either tonight or tomorrow morning, and given our family connection, won’t you help me think of something? Mull that over while I go inside and prepare a bowl of congee with forbidden rice and pig’s blood.”