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

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,