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

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