A stately cough by the Empress Dowager sent shivers through me. I stopped talking, went back to kowtows, and said over and over:
“Your humble servant deserves death . . . humble servant deserves death . . .”
“What he says is sensible and has merit,” the Empress Dowager said. “No single trade may be excluded from the list of professions. It is said that every profession has its zhuangyuan. Zhao Jia, in my view, you are the zhuangyuan of your profession.”
“By investing me with the designation zhuangyuan of my profession, the Empress Dowager brought me immeasurable glory.” More kowtows.
“Zhao Jia, you have put many people to death on behalf of the Great Qing Empire, which has brought you credit for hard work, if not for good work, and has earned praise from Yuan Shikai and Li Lianying. So I shall break from precedent and award you a grade seven medallion for your cap and allow you to return home in retirement.” The Empress Dowager tossed a ring of sandalwood prayer beads at my feet and said, “Lay down your knife and turn at once to a life of Buddhist contemplation.”
My kowtows continued.
“How about Your Majesty?” she asked. “Should you not reward him with something for all the people he has put to death for us, including those running dogs of yours whose heads he lopped off?”
I sneaked a glance at His Majesty, who, clearly flustered, got to His feet and said:
“We have nothing prepared. What do you suggest We reward him with?”
“I think, maybe,” the Empress Dowager said with a distinct chill, “You should give him the chair You have just vacated!”
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6
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When I listened to my dieh-dieh relate history, my heart sang. Dieh-dieh, Dieh-dieh, you are wonderful, for the Imperial audience you had. Xiaojia wants to be an executioner, to learn the trade from his dad . . .
—Maoqiang Sandalwood Death. A father and son duet
Xiaojia sat on the rustling straw mat, leaning against a tent post as the night deepened. He looked like an oversized rabbit, his eyes dim with sleep. Flames in the belly of the stove flickered on his young face, and words that sometimes sounded foolish and sometimes not emerged from his grease-encrusted mouth to find their way into my recollections and my narrative—”Dieh, what does the Emperor look like?”—creating a close link between my recollections and narrative and the scene and situation we faced. “Dieh, does the Empress Dowager have breasts?”—All of a sudden, I smelled something burning in the sesame oil cauldron. With shocking clarity, I realized what was happening. My god, boiling oil is not boiling water! Water cooks something till it is soft; oil can burn it to a crisp! I jumped up off the mat and shouted:
“Come with me, son!”
I bounded over to the cauldron, reached into the oil barehanded—no time to worry about tongs—and fished out the two sandalwood spears, holding them up to a lantern to check them carefully. They had a dark, muted sheen and a powerful fragrance. I saw no singed spots. They burned my hands, so I laid them on a piece of cloth to rub them and turn them over and over, thanking my lucky stars there were no burn marks. The beef, on the other hand, was not so fortunate; I scooped out the burned pieces and threw them away, just as the chief yamen attendant sidled up and asked enigmatically:
“Something wrong, Laoye?”
“No.”
“That’s good.”
“Old Song,” my son cut in, “my dad is a grade seven official, so I am not afraid of you people anymore! If you harass me in the future, I’ll see that a bullet has your name on it.” My son pointed a finger at Song’s head. “Pow! There go your brains!”
“Young Brother Xiaojia, when did I ever harass you?” Song Three said inscrutably. “Even if your father were not a grade seven official, I would never think of making things difficult for you. If your wife were to utter a single word against me to Magistrate Qian, I would be kicked out of the yamen.”
“Don’t you know he’s not quite right, you foolish man?”
I could see a number of yayi standing in the shadows of the stage and the Ascension Platform. I lowered the fire under the cauldron and added oil. Then I carefully put my precious spears back into the cauldron, reminding myself, Pay attention, Old Zhao. Wild geese leave behind their cry; men leave behind a name. You need only carry out this sandalwood execution with perfection to live up to your designation as the zhuangyuan of executioners. If you fail, your name will die with you.
I draped the Empress Dowager’s sandalwood prayer beads around my neck, got up out of the Emperor’s chair, and looked heavenward, where a scattering of stars twinkled and the moon, like a silver platter, was rising in the east. That extraordinary brightness put me on edge, as if something monumental were about to happen, a feeling that persisted until it occurred to me that it was the fourteenth day of the eighth month and that the next day, the fifteenth, was the Mid-Autumn Festival, a day for families to come together. How lucky you are, Sun Bing, that Excellency Yuan has chosen that auspicious day for you to receive your punishment! In the light of the flames beneath the cauldron and the bright moonlight above, I watched the two sandalwood spears tumble in the oil like a pair of angry black snakes. I picked one out of the oil with a white cloth—taking care not to damage it—unimaginably sleek, it glistened with beads of oil that flowed to the tip and then formed liquid threads that fell silently back into the cauldron, where they coagulated and exuded a pleasant scorched aroma. It felt heavier in my hand now that it had absorbed so much fragrant oil; it was no longer the same piece of wood, but had taken on the characteristics of a hard, slippery, and exquisite instrument of death.
While I was taking solitary pleasure in admiring the spear, Song Three sneaked up behind me and said in a spiteful tone: “Laoye, why are you taking such pains simply to impale the man?”
I looked askance at him and snorted disdainfully. How could he understand what I was doing? He was good only for flaunting the power of his superior to oppress and extort money from the common people.
“You really ought to go home and get a good night’s sleep and leave these trivial matters to us.” Tailing along behind me, he added: “That son of a bitch Sun Bing is no one to take lightly. He’s skillful and courageous, a man of substance who refuses to blame others for his actions. It was his misfortune to have been born in Gaomi, an insignificant little place that gave him no room to put his talents to good use.” Song Three was clearly trying to ingratiate himself with me. “You have been away for many years, Laoye, and there is much about your qinjia that you do not know. He and I were friends for many years, so close that I can tell you how many moles he has on his you-know-what.”
I had seen too many people like this fellow—toadies and bullies who know how to say what you want to hear, whoever you are, man or demon—but I was in no mood to expose him for what he was, not then; allowing him to carry on behind me served a purpose.
“Sun Bing is a man of extraordinary talents. Words flow from his mouth as if written by a scholar, and he is endowed with a flawless memory. If only he knew how to read and write, he could be a capped scholar ten times over. Some years back,” Song Three continued, “when Old Qin’s mother died, they asked Sun Bing’s troupe to perform in the mourning hall. Qin and Sun were good friends—Qin’s mother was Sun’s ganniang—and Sun sang the funeral passages with deep emotion. But it was more than that—not only did his singing break the hearts of the filial descendants, they heard a pounding sound emerge from the coffin itself; the gathered descendants and people who had dropped by out of curiosity nearly died of fright, their faces a ghostly white. Isn’t that what’s called shocking the dead back to life? Well, Sun Bing walked up to his ganniang’s bier, opened the lid in grand fashion, and the old lady sat up, light streaming from her eyes, like a pair of lanterns tearing through the dark curtain of night. Then Sun Bing sang these lines: ‘When I call out Ganniang, listen carefully as your son sings “Chang Mao Wails at the Bier.” If you have not lived
enough, get up and live some more. If you have, then when my song is finished, fly to heaven, away from here.’ Sun Bing kept changing roles, from the sheng to the dan, weeping one moment and laughing the next, interspersed with all sorts of cat cries, turning the bier into a living, lively opera stage. All the filial descendants put aside their grief, while the casual spectators forgot that an old lady, just brought back from the dead, was sitting up in her coffin, listening to the performance. When Sun Bing sang the final high note, which hung in the air like the tail of a kite, Old Lady Qin slowly closed her eyes, released a contented sigh, and fell back into her coffin like a toppled wall. That is the story of how Sun Bing sang someone back from the dead. And there is more: he can also sing the living to death. Old Lady Qin is the only person he ever sang back from the dead, but the bastard has sung more living people to death than there are stars in the sky.” While he was spouting his story, Song Three sidled over to the cauldron, reached in, and snatched a piece of beef. “This beef of yours,” he said with an impudent smile, “has a wonderful flavor—”
Before he could finish what he was going to say, I saw the bastard straighten up as something erupted on his head and he tumbled into the cauldron of boiling oil. While my eyes were riveted on the scene in front of me, my ears pounded from the explosion of bone, and my nose was assailed by the smell of gunpowder merging with the sesame-enhanced smell of sandalwood. I knew immediately what had happened: someone had fired a shot in ambush, one meant for me. The greedy Song Three had been my unwitting stand-in.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Meiniang’s Grievance
Dieh, oh, Dieh, Zhao Jia says he will impale you on a sandalwood stake, and Meiniang has nearly lost her mind. She flies to the county yamen to appeal to Qian Ding, but the gate is shut, guarded by soldiers malign. To the left, Yuan Shikai’s Imperial Guards, to the right, von Ketteler’s German troops, standing heads high, chests out, Mauser rifles aligned. I step forward; those German devils and Chinese soldiers glare with eyes big and round as brass bells, their ferocious snarls meant to keep me out. My heart pounds, my legs tremble, I fall. With wings on my shoulders, I could not enter the yamen, for these are powerful, strong-willed soldiers, not bumbling militiamen, those friends of mine. They have enjoyed my company, and the iron railing would come down by letting them have their way, I opined. But the Germans are hard-hearted, the Imperial Guards an impressive cadre, and if I break for the gate, the holes in my body would be of their design. In the distance stand the lockup and Main Hall, both with roofs of green. My tears fall—tin tin tine tine. I think of my dieh suffering in his prison cell, and of our kinship. I think of how you taught me to sing an opera feline, trained me to be an acrobat and martial artist. I followed you from village to town, from temple to shrine, singing in roles female, major and minor, to Little Peach, all truly divine. On mutton buns and beef noodles, flatbreads fresh from the oven we dined. My dieh’s cowardice purged from my mind, his virtues of a heroic kind. To save his life, his daughter to bold action is resigned. Calling up nerves of steel, I rush the gate, leaving shouts of protest far behind.
—Maoqiang Sandalwood Death. A soliloquy
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1
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A crowd of people in vivid dress, faces painted all the colors of the rainbow, some tall and some short, emerged from Rouge Lane, southwest of the county yamen. The leader had powdered his face the white of a handsome young actor and painted his lips the bright red of a ghost of someone hanged. His upper body was covered in a red satin unlined robe (almost certainly appropriated from a corpse) that fell below his knees and revealed a pair of greasy black legs and bare feet. A live monkey was perched on his shoulder, enjoying its bumpy ride as the man hopped along, brass gong in hand. He was none other than Hou Xiaoqi of the beggar troupe. After three beats of the gong—clang clang clang—he sang a line from a Maoqiang opera:
“Beggars celebrate a festival in their own wretched way, ah~~”
He had the ideal voice for opera, with a unique lingering quality that made his listeners wonder whether they should laugh or cry. After he’d sung his last note, the other beggars responded with cat cries:
“Meow~~meow~~meow~~”
Then a few of the younger beggars imitated a cat fiddle as a prelude to a new aria:
“Li-ge-long-ge li-ge-long-ge long~~”
When they had finished the prelude, my throat began to itch, but this was not a day for me to sing. On the other hand, it certainly was for Hou Xiaoqi. Melancholy affects people everywhere, rulers and subjects, at least to some degree. Except for beggars. Hou Xiaoqi began anew:
“With boots on my head and a cap on my feet, come hear my topsy-turvy song~~meow~~meow~~Mother goes into mourning when her son gets married, a Magistrate travels afoot while in a chair we are carried~~meow~~meow~~a rat chases a cat that is harried, snow falls in midsummer and a city is buried~~meow~~meow~~”
A thought broke through the fog in my head that tomorrow was the fifteenth day of the eighth month, which meant that today, the fourteenth, was Beggars’ Day, celebrated throughout Gaomi County. On this day each year, beggars from all over the county parade three times past the official yamen. They sing Maoqiang opera the first time and perform acrobatics the next. On their third pass, they untie sacks from around their waists and, first on the south side of the avenue, then on the north, they approach women, young and old, standing in their doorways, to fill their sacks from proffered gourds and bowls, some with various grains, others with uncooked rice, and others still with rice noodles. When they come to our door each year, I dump greasy brass coins from a bamboo tube into a chipped ladle in the hands of a crafty little beggar who opens his throat to let loose a cry of gratitude: “Thank you, Ganniang, for that tip!” All those greedy eyes then turn to me, and I know what they want! But I cock my head, curl my lip, and flash a smile, letting my eyes sweep the crowd, getting a rise out of all those monkeys, which turn somersaults to the screaming delight of the children behind them and the onlookers lining the street. My husband, Xiaojia, takes greater pleasure in this festive day than the beggars themselves. He gets up bright and early and, without stopping to slaughter pigs or butcher dogs, falls in behind the parading beggars, dancing for joy, singing along with them one minute and making cat cries the next. Lacking the voice to sing Maoqiang, Xiaojia has a talent for cat cries, sounding like a tomcat one minute and a tabby the next, then a tomcat calling out to a tabby and a tabby calling out to her kittens, and finally lost kittens crying for their mother, this last call bringing tears to the eyes of anyone within earshot, like an orphan who longs for her mother.
Niang! How tragic you died so young, leaving your daughter to suffer torment alone. But your early passing spared you from the paralyzing anxiety and crippling fear for which my dieh must atone . . . I watched the contingent of beggars swagger past the imposing array of soldiers. Hou Xiaoqi’s voice does not crack; the beggars’ cat cries never waver. On the fourteenth day of the eighth month, beggars rule the roost in Gaomi County, and even my gandieh’s loyalists must quietly make way for their procession. Beggars carry a rattan chair over their heads with Zhu Ba, the reprobate. He has worn a tall red-paper hat and a yellow satin dragon robe of late. For a pauper, a commoner, or a minor bureaucrat to dress like that would have been a crime, one that would likely cost them their life. But Zhu Ba had license to overstep all authority, for the beggars had created their own kingdom, and freely did as they pleased. But this year there was a new twist: they escorted an empty chair—Zhu Ba was nowhere to be seen. Where had he gone? Why is he not sitting imperiously in his Dragon Chair? Glory as great as an official in the top-tier range. Meiniang hears her heart skip a beat. The beggars this year, I think, are acting strange.
I, Meiniang, born and raised in Gaomi, came to the county town as a bride in my late teens. Before that, I sang Maoqiang opera in my father’s troupe, performing in all nine villages and eight hamlets. I’d come often to the county town, which seem
ed like a big place to me, and I have a vague recollection of my father teaching opera to the town’s beggars. I was still young then and wore my hair like a boy, which is what people thought I was. Actors and beggars, my father said, are alike. Beggars are no different than actors; actors are the same as beggars. Which is why beggars and I came together naturally. And why I saw nothing unusual in a beggars’ parade. But those German soldiers from Qingdao and the Imperial Guards from Jinan had never seen such a sight. They slapped the butts of their rifles, ready to confront the enemy, and then stood wide-eyed—some eyes round, some slanted—gawking at the bizarre, raucous assemblage of approaching humanity. But when the procession drew near, they loosened their grip on their weapons as odd, scrunched-up expressions crept onto their faces. Those of the Imperial Guards weren’t nearly as comical as those on the faces of the German soldiers, since they at least were familiar with the tunes emerging from Hou Xiaoqi’s mouth. To the Germans it was gibberish, all but the obvious cat cries mixed with lyrics. I knew they were wondering why all those people were yowling like cats. And while their attention was riveted on the parade of beggars, they forgot about the one person who wanted to storm the yamen gate—me. My brain was engaged. The moment had arrived, and I’d have been a fool to let it pass. Turn the gourd upside down, and the oil spills out. When opportunity falls into your lap, do not stand up. For me it was trying to catch fish in muddy water, frying beans in a hot skillet, adding salt to boiling oil. The chaos on the street was Meiniang’s invitation to dash through the gate. Meiniang would crash the yamen gate to free her dieh from his prison cell. Though she be smashed like an egg against steel, her tale as a martyred daughter the people would tell. I waited for the chance, my mind made up. Hou Xiaoqi’s gong rang out louder and louder; his topsy-turvy tune was getting increasingly dreary, and the cat-criers were holding out just fine, filling the air with their exaggerated yowls as they made faces at the soldiers and guards. When the procession got to where I was standing, as if on a signal, the beggars pulled cat skins out from under their clothes; large head-to-tail skins were draped over their shoulders, and smaller ones went on their heads. This unexpected, stupefying turn of events stunned the guards. I’d never get a better chance, so I stepped to the side and slipped between the German soldiers and the Imperial Guards, heading for the yamen gate. Momentarily dumbstruck, they quickly came to their senses and blocked my way with bayonets. But I would not be denied—the worst they could do was kill me—I was going into that yamen, bayonets or not. But at that critical moment, two powerful beggars pulled out of the procession, grabbed me by the arms, and dragged me back. I made a show of struggling to break free and run toward the bayonets, but a half-hearted one. Though not afraid to die, I was in no rush to do so now. I wouldn’t be able to close my eyes in death without seeing Qian Ding one last time. Truth is, I was like a poor donkey trying to walk down a flight of steps. With eerie shouts, the beggars surrounded me, and before I knew it, I was sitting in the rattan chair tied to a pair of bamboo poles. I fought to get down, but four strapping, grunting beggars hoisted the poles onto their shoulders, and I was up in the air, rising and falling with the motion of the chair beneath me. I felt a sudden sadness; tears filled my eyes. But that made the beggars happier, as their leader, Hou Xiaoqi, beat a frantic tattoo on his gong and raised his voice higher than ever: