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

leaving your daughter to suffer torment alone. But your early passing spared you from the paralyzing anxiety and crippling fear for which my dieh must atone . . . I watched the contingent of beggars swagger past the imposing array of soldiers. Hou Xiaoqi’s voice does not crack; the beggars’ cat cries never waver . On the fourteenth day of the eighth month, beggars rule the roost in Gaomi County, and even my gandieh’s loyalists must quietly make way for their procession. Beggars carry a rattan chair over their heads with Zhu Ba, the reprobate. He has worn a tall red-paper hat and a yellow satin dragon robe of late . For a pauper, a commoner, or a minor bureaucrat to dress like that would have been a crime, one that would likely cost them their life. But Zhu Ba had license to overstep all authority, for the beggars had created their own kingdom, and freely did as they pleased. But this year there was a new twist: they escorted an empty chair—Zhu Ba was nowhere to be seen. Where had he gone? Why is he not sitting imperiously in his Dragon Chair? Glory as great as an official in the top-tier range. Meiniang hears her heart skip a beat. The beggars this year, I think, are acting strange.
    I, Meiniang, born and raised in Gaomi, came to the county town as a bride in my late teens. Before that, I sang Maoqiang opera in my father’s troupe, performing in all nine villages and eight hamlets. I’d come often to the county town, which seemed like a big place to me, and I have a vague recollection of my father teaching opera to the town’s beggars. I was still young then and wore my hair like a boy, which is what people thought I was. Actors and beggars, my father said, are alike. Beggars are no different than actors; actors are the same as beggars. Which is why beggars and I came together naturally. And why I saw nothing unusual in a beggars’ parade. But those German soldiers from Qingdao and the Imperial Guards from Jinan had never seen such a sight. They slapped the butts of their rifles, ready to confront the enemy, and then stood wide-eyed—some eyes round, some slanted—gawking at the bizarre, raucous assemblage of approaching humanity. But when the procession drew near, they loosened their grip on their weapons as odd, scrunched-up expressions crept onto their faces. Those of the Imperial Guards weren’t nearly as comical as those on the faces of the German soldiers, since they at least were familiar with the tunes emerging from Hou Xiaoqi’s mouth. To the Germans it was gibberish, all but the obvious cat cries mixed with lyrics. I knew they were wondering why all those people were yowling like cats. And while their attention was riveted on the parade of beggars, they forgot about the one person who wanted to storm the yamen gate—me. My brain was engaged. The moment had arrived, and I’d have been a fool to let it pass. Turn the gourd upside down, and the oil spills out. When opportunity falls into your lap, do not stand up. For me it was trying to catch fish in muddy water, frying beans in a hot skillet, adding salt to boiling oil. The chaos on the street was Meiniang’s invitation to dash through the gate. Meiniang would crash the yamen gate to free her dieh from his prison cell. Though she be smashed like an egg against steel, her tale as a martyred daughter the people would tell. I waited for the chance, my mind made up. Hou Xiaoqi’s gong rang out louder and louder; his topsy-turvy tune was getting increasingly dreary, and the cat-criers were holding out just fine, filling the air with their exaggerated yowls as they made faces at the soldiers and guards. When the procession got to where I was standing, as if on a signal, the beggars pulled cat skins out from under their clothes; large head-to-tail skins were draped over their shoulders, and smaller ones went on their heads. This unexpected, stupefying turn of events stunned the guards. I’d never get a better chance, so I stepped to the side and slipped between the German soldiers and the Imperial Guards, heading for the yamen gate. Momentarily dumbstruck, they quickly came to their senses and blocked my way with bayonets. But I would not be denied—the worst they could do was kill me—I was going into that yamen, bayonets or not. But at that critical moment, two powerful beggars pulled out of the procession, grabbed me by the arms, and dragged me back. I made a show of struggling to break free and run toward the bayonets, but a half-hearted