Sandalwood Death: A Novel (Chinese Literature Today Book Series)

from side to side. He had not gone without food; for him, lining up for charity gruel had nothing to do with hunger. It was a ritual passed down by earlier generations of executioners. According to the explanation given by his shifu, lining up for a bowl of charity gruel on the eighth day of the twelfth lunar month gave executioners the opportunity to demonstrate to the Buddha that this profession merely provided a livelihood, like begging, and was not undertaken by men who were somehow born to kill other men. Lining up for charity gruel was an acknowledgment of their low standing in society. For executioners in the Bureau of Detentions, meat-stuffed buns were available every day, but this bowl of gruel was a once-a-year affair.
    Zhao Jia considered himself to be the most dignified individual in the long line of men. But there, just beyond several beggars with their swaying heads and panting mouths ahead of him, was a man standing as tall and unmoving as Mt. Tai. He was wearing a black robe and a felt hat and carried a blue bundle under one arm. He had the typical look of a low- or mid-level official in what was known as a “plain water yamen,” one with limited funds and few opportunities to enrich oneself. He would change into his official attire, which was in the bundle under his arm, once he was inside the yamen. But no matter how hard up a Peking official might be, he could always get something from officials from the provinces on their annual treks to the capital on official business. At the very least, he was in line for “ice and coal fees.” But if he was so incorruptible that he refused even that sort of “iron rice bowl” subsistence, his government salary surely made a range of baked goods affordable, so there was no need to line up with beggars and the city poor for a handout of charity gruel at a local temple. He wondered what the man looked like, but was well aware that the capital attracted people of exceptional hidden abilities, that even the crudest inn could be home to a man of special talents, and that a customer at a won-ton stand could easily be a heroic figure. A true man does not reveal his identity; if he does, he’s not a true man. The Tongzhi Emperor, having tired of his imperial harem, ran off to Hanjiatan to cavort with prostitutes, and when he lost his taste for delicacies from the Imperial kitchen, he went to Tianqiao for bowls of soybean milk. How, then, could Zhao Jia be sure what lay behind the man’s purpose in lining up for charity gruel? He could not, so there was no need to go up to take a look. Instinctively the men in line edged forward as the aroma of gruel intensified, pressing the line tighter and tighter, which shortened the distance between Zhao Jia and the man up front. By leaning to the side, he had a view of his profile. But no more than that, since the man kept his eyes straight ahead. All Zhao could see was his somewhat unruly queue and a shirt collar made shiny by unwashed hair. Chilblains dotted the lobes and rims of his fleshy ears, some already oozing pus. Finally the anticipated moment arrived: it was time to hand out the gruel. Slowly the line began to move forward. Curtained carriages drawn by horses and mules and residents of the city with baskets to deliver gruel to friends and families made their way together to the oversized pot from both sides of the line. The alluring aroma grew stronger with each step closer to the pot, and Zhao Jia heard stomachs growling all around. Holding their bowls in hands that were black as coal, the men crouched down by the side of the road or stood against a wall to slurp the contents. The two monks were now leaning over the pot, dipping large, long-handled metal scoops into the gruel and impatiently pouring the contents into one bowl after another; inevitably some dripped to the ground from the scoop or the sides of the bowls, and was immediately lapped up by mangy dogs whose hunger was stronger than the pain from the kicks they received. Now it was the man up front’s turn. Zhao Jia watched as he took a small bowl from under his robe and held it out to the monks, who gave him a curious look. Each of the bowls held out by the others in line seemed larger than the one before, and some could rightly be called basins. He, on the other hand, could cover the lid of his porcelain bowl with one hand. The monks used extraordinary care when they poured gruel into his bowl, filling it to the brim almost as soon as they tipped