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

that happened, rats would disappear from the land north and south of the great river. What a shame that before I could put this grand plan into action, a treacherous individual yanked the beard right off my face. That beard was the symbol of Shifu’s prestige, my courage, my talent, the very soul of Maoqiang. Shifu without a beard is like a cat without whiskers like a rooster without tail feathers like a horse with a shorn tail . . . worthy young brother, Shifu had no choice but to leave the stage and drift through life as the owner of a little teahouse, fated to die with unfulfilled aspirations, something that has bedeviled heroic figures since time immemorial.”
    At this point in my narration, I noted that the Gaomi County Magistrate was shuddering, and that Xiao Shanzi’s eyes were filled with tears.
    “My young protégé, the featured opera in our repertoire is Chang Mao Weeps for a Departed Spirit , my first major creation. It has always been the first performed for each new season. If it is well done, the success of our run that season is ensured; if not, there are bound to be problems down the line. You’ve lived your life in Northeast Gaomi Township. How many times have you seen Chang Mao Weeps for a Departed Spirit ?”
    “I’m not sure, but it must be dozens of times.”
    “Has it ever been the same twice, in your view?”
    “No, Shifu, I always came away with something new,” Xiao Shanzi said dreamily, his thoughts going back in time. “I still remember the first time I saw Chang Mao Weeps for a Departed Spirit . I was just a boy then and wore a cat-skin cap. You played the role of Chang Mao, and when you sang, sparrows dropped out of the trees. But what impressed me most was not your songs. No, it was the big boy who played the role of the cat. He filled the air with cat cries, no two alike, and long before the opera was finished, everyone at the foot of the stage went crazy. We boys ran around, threading our way through the crowd of adults and making cat sounds. Meow meow meow. Three large trees stood at the edge of the square, and we fought to climb them. As a rule, I wasn’t very good at climbing trees, but that day I climbed so nimbly you’d have thought I was a cat. Well, the tree was already filled with real cats. I had no idea when they’d climbed up there, but they joined us in a chorus of loud meows, until the stage and the area around it, sky and ground, were alive with cat cries. Men women adults children real cats pretend cats, all joined together in opening up their throats to release sounds previously unknown to them and began to move in ways they’d never dreamed possible. Eventually they lay spent on the ground, bodies soaked with sweat, faces awash in tears and snot, like empty shells. We cat children fell out of the trees, one after another, like so many black stones. The cats up there floated down to the ground, as if they’d grown webbing between their paws, like flying mice. I still recall the last line of that day’s opera: ‘Cat oh cat oh cat oh cat oh cat, my dear, precious cat . . .’ Shifu, you drew out that last ‘cat,’ making it tumble skyward until it was a hundred feet higher than the tallest poplar tree, taking everyone’s heart into the clouds with it.”
    “My young protégé, you are as capable of singing Chang Mao Weeps for a Departed Spirit as I am.”
    “No, Shifu, but if I could be on the stage with you, I’d like to be the cat boy.”
    I took a long, emotional look at this fine Northeast Township youngster. “My boy, you and I are right now acting out the second signature Maoqiang opera, which we can call Sandalwood Death .”
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    6
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    Tradition dictated that we be brought out to the Main Hall, where a tray with four plates of food, a pot of strong spirits, some flatbreads, and a bunch of leeks were laid out. There was braised pig’s head, a plate of stewed chicken, a fish, and some spicy beef. The flatbreads were bigger than the lid of a wok, the leeks fresh and moist, the spirits steamy hot. Xiao Shanzi and I sat across from each other and smiled. Two Sun Bings, one real and one fake, clinked glasses and then emptied them noisily. Tears spurted from our eyes as the heated spirits worked their way down; we were like members of a loyal brotherhood, impassioned. On Wangxiang tai, the terrace in Hell from which we can see our homes, we will walk hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, and fly up to the ninth heaven on a