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

lackeys, and taking three German soldiers hostage. After stripping the soldiers naked and tying them to scholar trees, they sprayed their faces with urine. Then they burned the wooden construction signs, dug up the tracks and dumped them into the river, and carried the railroad ties home to build pigsties. They also burned the shed to the ground.
    At the height of my arc, above the public wall, I could see the warren of houses in town; I also saw the cobblestone street in front of the yamen and rows of tiled buildings in my gandieh’s official compound. I saw his four-man palanquin being carried out through the ceremonial gate, led by a black-clad yayi in a red cap who banged a gong to clear the way. He was followed by two rows of yayi dressed the same way, carrying tall poles with banners of his official insignia, sunshades, and fans. Two sword-bearing guards walked directly ahead of the chair, holding the shafts with one hand. The procession behind the chair included the secretaries of the six bureaus and personal servants. Three long and one short clangs of the gong were followed by impressive shouts; the palanquin barriers moved with swift, nimble steps, as if their legs had springs. The chair rose and fell rhythmically, like a boat tossed on ocean swells.
    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