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

meal. A man like that comes along once a century, if that. The beggar chief, old Zhu Ba, himself a steely, dauntless figure, followed behind Xiao Shanzi, holding me, a young, beautiful woman, by the hand. We formed a small but potent procession of ancient figures: Zhan Zhao, Judge Bao, his attendants Wang Chao to the left and Ma Han to the right, with Di Long out front and Di Hu in the rear. Zhuge Liang harnessed the east wind but angered Zhou Yu, and there was a perfect match at Dew Drop Monastery.
    Hou Xiaoqi led us into Smithy Lane, and from there into the sandals market, where we followed the contours of a low wall whose shadow concealed us as we trotted along at a crouch, all the way to Lu Family Lane, and from there to the bridge over the Xiaokang River, which flowed like a band of silver. On the far side of the bridge we streamed into Oil Mill Lane, at the end of which we could see the yamen’s high wall directly ahead; the rear garden was on the other side.
    I was breathing hard as I crouched at the base of the wall, my heart pounding. Breathing came more easily for the beggars, whose eyes flashed, even the monkey’s.
    “It’s time,” Zhu Ba said, “get to work.”
    Xiao Lianzi took the rope from around his waist and looped it over a tree limb. Using both hands and feet, he climbed like a monkey—no, better than a monkey—and one-two-three, he was safely in the crotch of the tree, from which he easily dropped onto the top of the wall, and then continued down the other side, where he and his rope vanished from sight. But a moment later, he flung another rope over. Zhu Ba grabbed this one and pulled it toward him, confident that things were going smoothly. He handed the rope to Hou Xiaoqi, who plucked the monkey off his shoulder and sent it flying up into the tree, where it landed spryly on one of the branches, while he himself walked up the wall with the help of the rope, hand over fist, and then grabbed the other rope and disappeared behind the wall. Who was to be next? Zhu Ba pushed me up front. My heart was racing, cold chills ran up and down my spine, and my palms were sweaty. I grabbed hold of the rope, which was cold to the touch, like a snakeskin. I gripped it in both hands, but I’d barely taken two steps when my hands began to ache, my legs felt rubbery, and I was shaking all over. It hadn’t been all that long since I’d climbed that tree without the aid of a rope, but now I couldn’t make it up the wall with one. That other time I’d been nimble as a cat; now I was clumsy as a pig. This was not a case of worrying more about my lover than my dieh, nor was it the new life growing inside me. What was stopping me now were thoughts of what had happened on the other side of that wall the first time. You know the adage: “Get snakebit once, and you’ll fear ropes for three years.” Well, that wall and that tree brought a reminder of being covered in dog filth and going home with a sore backside. But then I heard Zhu Ba say:
    “We’re here to rescue your dieh, not ours!”
    How right he was. These beggars were risking their lives to rescue my dieh. How, then, at this critical juncture, could I run like a coward? And that sparked the return of my courage, as I was reminded of Hua Mulan, who went to war in place of her father, and of the hundred-year-old She Taijun, who rallied the troops for her slain grandson, Yang Zongbao. If there’s dog filth, so be it; if a whip lashes out, let it come. Suffering is the road to respectability; danger is the path to prominence onstage. In order to ensure that my name would live on, I clenched my teeth, stomped my foot, and spat in my hands: rope in hand, feet on the wall, face turned to the moon above. Propped up from behind by some of the beggars, I soared to the top of the wall in less time than it takes to tell, and found myself gazing down at rooftops in the yamen, tiles flickering in the moonlight like fish scales. Hou Xiaoqi stood ready to help me to the ground, so I grabbed hold of the rope hanging from the tree and, closing my eyes and steeling myself, sailed down into the grove of green bamboo.
    My thoughts returned to boudoir frolics with Qian Ding in the Western Parlor, where by standing on the four-poster bed and looking out the window, I could see the splendor of the flower garden out back; the first thing to catch my eye was always that grove of green bamboo. Then my gaze would travel to the tree peonies, Chinese roses, herbaceous