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

academy. He was tall and trim and had bushy eyebrows, big eyes, and white, even teeth. A man of enviable self-discipline, he neither smoked nor drank nor gambled nor whored around. Always vigilant and a wizard with a gun, he was highly prized by Yuan Shikai himself. He rode up that day on a snow-white stallion, the creases in his uniform as sharp as knives, his riding boots shined to a high gloss, a pair of gold-handled pistols holstered on his leather belt. A contingent of sixty warhorses fanned out behind him like a swallowtail, with elite young military guards in the saddles, each armed with German thirteen-shot repeater rifles. Extremely fit, they kept their eyes focused straight ahead, and though there was a bit of a scripted look about the detachment, they managed to inspire awe in anyone who laid eyes on them.
    It was nearly noon, and there was still no sight of the steamboat carrying Excellency Yuan. No fishing boats were visible anywhere on the Hai River, whose broad vista was broken only by flocks of seagulls that occasionally dipped down just above the waves. Since it was late autumn, the trees were bare, all but the oaks and maples, on which a smattering of vivid red or golden yellow leaves remained, bringing a bit of color to both banks of the river, a bright spot in an otherwise bleak panorama. Gloomy patches of cloud cover hung above the river, over which damp winds blew in from the northeast, carrying the rank, salty smell of the Bohai Sea. The horses were getting restless, swishing their tails, kicking out their rear hooves, and snorting. Qian Xiongfei’s mount kept turning its head back to nip at its rider’s knee. When Qian stole a look at the senior officers around him, he saw how their faces had darkened as the cold, damp late autumn winds bored through their uniforms and chilled them to the bone. Drops of snivel hung from the tip of Xu Shichang’s nose; Zhang Xun was yawning, which made his eyes water; and Duan Qirui was rocking back and forth in the saddle, looking perilously close to toppling off his horse. The term “sorry sight” perfectly described the delegation. Qian, who held his fellow officials in contempt, was ashamed to be counted among them. He was no less weary than they, but he, at least, valued his responsibility to maintain the proper military bearing. The best way to pass the time in the midst of the boredom of waiting was to let his thoughts roam wherever they desired. To the observer, his gaze was focused on the wide river before him, but what played out before his eyes were episodes from his past.
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    Little Xizi, Little Xizi! That sound, so touchingly intimate, buzzed in his ears, near one moment and far the next, like a game of hide-and-seek. Youthful visions of playing tag with his older brother danced in front of his eyes. As they chased one another through the fields of their village, the image of his brother slowly expanded, growing taller and wider, while he hopped and jumped, grabbing at the shiny queue flying just out of reach. Even when he touched it with his finger, it nimbly flicked away, like a black dragon’s tail. Anxious and frustrated, he stomped his foot and burst into tears; his brother stopped and spun around. And in that brief moment, a youngster without a single whisker on his chin was transformed into a court official with an impressive beard. The next recollection that crowded into his head was of the quarrel he’d had with his brother before leaving for Japan. His brother had been opposed to his abandoning his studies for the Imperial Civil Service Examination. He had responded by saying that the examination produced an army of walking corpses, so angering his brother that he pounded his fist on the table, spilling most of the tea in their cups. “How dare you be so arrogant!” scolded his brother, his impressive beard quivering as anger undermined his stately bearing. But only for a moment, as that wrath was replaced by a desolate sense of self-mockery. “If that is so,” his brother had said, “then generations of sages and heroes have been nothing but walking corpses. That includes Wen Tianxiang, whom you revere, and even the great Tang poet Lu You. Zeng Guofan, Li Hongzhang, and Zhang Zhidong, officials in the present dynasty, are all walking corpses. Poor ignorant specimens like your brother are zombies that cannot even walk.” “That is not what I meant, Elder Brother.” “Then what did you mean?”