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

outside and said to the yayi:
    “Are you aware of the fact that my wife and Magistrate Qian enjoy a close relationship?”
    “You foolish boy,” his dieh said, shaking his head in exasperation before fixing his gaze on me.
    I watched as the smirking yayi pushed Xiaojia to the side, hands on the hilts of their swords, resolute and ruthless in their determination as they rushed into the room where we were talking.
    My gongdieh opened his eyes a crack, barely wide enough for two chilling rays to escape and smother the two men with contempt. Then he turned his gaze to the wall and ignored the intruders.
    After a quick exchange of looks that seemed to bespeak their embarrassment, one of them said officiously, “Are you Zhao Jia?”
    He appeared to be asleep.
    “My dieh is getting on in years and doesn’t hear so well,” Xiaojia said breathlessly. “Ask him again, but louder.”
    So the fellow tried again:
    “Zhao Jia,” he said more forcefully, “we are here by order of the County Magistrate to have you visit him in the yamen.”
    “You go back and tell your Eminence Qian,” he replied unhurriedly, without looking at them, “that Zhao Jia has weak legs and aching feet and cannot answer the summons.”
    That prompted another quick exchange of looks, followed by an audible snigger from one of the men. But he turned serious and, with a display of biting sarcasm, said:
    “Maybe His Eminence ought to send his palanquin for you.”
    “I think that would be best.”
    This was met with an outburst of laughter.
    “All right, fine,” they said. “You wait here for His Eminence to come in his palanquin.”
    They turned and walked out, still laughing, and by the time they were in the yard, their laughter was uncontrollable.
    Xiaojia followed them into the yard and said proudly:
    “My dieh is really something, don’t you think? Everyone else is afraid of you, but not him.”
    One look at Xiaojia set them off laughing again, this time so hard that they weaved their way out the gate. I could hear them out on the street. I knew why they were laughing, and so did my gongdieh.
    But not Xiaojia, who came back inside and asked, clearly puzzled:
    “Why were they laughing, Dieh? Did they drink a crazy old woman’s piss? Baldy Huang once told me that if you drink a crazy old woman’s piss, you can laugh yourself crazy. That must be what they did. The question is, which crazy old woman’s piss did they drink?”
    The wretch replied, but for my benefit, not his son’s:
    “Son,” he said, “a man must not underestimate himself. That is something your dieh learned late in life. Even if the Gaomi County Magistrate is a member of the Tiger group, someone who passed the Imperial Examination with distinction, what is he but a grade five County Magistrate whose hat bears the crystal symbol of office in front and a one-eyed peacock feather in back? Even though his wife is the maternal granddaughter of Zeng Guofan, a dead prefect is no match for a live rat. Your dieh has never held official rank, but the number of red-capped heads he has lopped off could fill two large wicker baskets. So, for that matter, could the heads of nobles and aristocrats!”
    Xiaojia stood there with a foolish grin on his face, his teeth showing, likely not understanding what his father had just said. But I did, every word of it. I’d learned a great deal in my years with Magistrate Qian, and my gongdieh’s brief monologue nearly froze my heart and raised gooseflesh on my arms. I’m sure my face must have been ghostly white. Rumors about my gongdieh had been swirling around town for months and had naturally reached my ears. Having somehow found a cache of hidden courage, I asked:
    “Is that really what you did, Gongdieh?”
    He fixed his hawk-like gaze on me and said, one slow word at a time, as if spitting out steel pellets, “Every—trade—has—its—master, its zhuangyuan! Know who said that?”
    “It’s a well-known popular adage.”
    “No,” he said. “One person said that to me. Know who it was?”
    I shook my head.
    He got up out of his chair, prayer beads in his hands—once more the stifling aroma of sandalwood spread through the room. His gaunt face had a somber, golden glow. Arrogantly, reverently, gratefully, he said:
    “The Empress Dowager Cixi Herself!”

C HAPTER T WO

Zhao Jia’s Ravings
The adage has it: By the Northern Dipper one is born, by the Southern Dipper a person dies; people follow the Kingly Way, wind blows