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

diagnosis. “What do you prescribe?” I demanded.
    “An immediate infusion of pure ginseng tonic is required!” he said with staunch assurance. “If he is given three bowls of it each day, your humble servant believes he will survive until noon the day after tomorrow. But as an additional precaution, I will prepare three packets of a yin-nourishing concoction that will enhance the effects of the remedy.”
    Without leaving the platform, Su reached into his medicine bag and with three fingers extracted a mixture of weeds and tree bark without recourse to his scale, which he placed on a tiny piece of paper; after repeating the action twice more, he folded them into small packets and turned to us, not sure who to hand them to. In the end, mindful of what he was doing, he placed them in front of me.
    “A half hour after he’s had the ginseng tonic, boil one of these in water and give it to him,” he said softly.
    I dismissed the two physicians with a wave of my hand. They backed out, bent at the waist, manifestly relieved of their onerous responsibility, and fled, not caring where they were headed.
    As I pointed to the mass of crazed flies, I turned to Chen Qiaoshou, the papier-mâché craftsman, and Pockface Zhang the tailor. “I don’t have to tell you what I expect from you, do I?”
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    5
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    By midday, when the sun was blazing down with a vengeance, Chen Qiaoshou and Pockface Zhang had built a sort of cage around Sun Bing, with matting on the top to protect against the sun, matting on three sides, and a curtain made of sheer white gauze in front. It served both to block the scorching sunlight and to keep the voracious flies away. To further lower the temperature inside, Zhao Xiaojia spread a wetted blanket over the top; and in order to lessen the foul smells that attracted the flies, yayi washed the accumulated filth off of the platform with buckets of water. With Zhao Jia’s help, Meiniang emptied a bowl of ginseng into her father’s stomach, and then, half an hour later, followed that with one of Su Zhonghe’s medicinal packets. Sun Bing cooperated with their ministrations, a sign that he planned to live as long as possible. If he’d longed to die, he’d have clamped his mouth shut.
    The emergency treatment worked, as Sun Bing’s condition slowly improved. I could not see his face through the sheer curtain, but his breathing was regular, his body odor less repellent than before. I made my way down off the platform, so tired that I could barely hold my head up and weighed down with an indescribable sadness. I had no reason to be worried. Excellency Yuan’s instructions had been to keep Sun Bing from dying. Now Sun was determined to live on, while Zhao Jia was not about to let him die, and neither was Meiniang. The tonic had infused his body with the strength to go on; exhaustion was no longer his enemy. Go ahead, keep on living. That went for me, too—I was determined to keep on living until my luck ran out.
    With bold confidence, I left the Tongde Academy grounds and walked out onto a street that no longer seemed so familiar, heading straight for a public house. A young waiter rushed eagerly up to me, shouting:
    “We have an honored guest——”
    The rotund proprietor sort of rolled up to me, a smile of manifest puffery on his oily face. I looked down to examine my official garb, which made passing as a common citizen impossible. Besides, even dressed in ordinary clothing, my face was known to everyone in town. Each year on Insect-Waking Day, the beginning of spring, I joined the peasants toiling in the field; on Grave-Sweeping Day, I helped with planting peach trees on the outskirts of town; and on the first and fifteenth of each month, I set up a table in front of the Propagation Hall to read from the classics and instruct the people on the tenets of loyalty, filial piety, benevolence, and righteousness . . . I am a good official, close to the people, and were I to leave office, I am confident that I would be rewarded with a very large umbrella from the masses . . .
    “I welcome the esteemed gentleman to this humble establishment. Your presence brings me great honor . . .” The proprietor was reaching the heights of pedantry. “May I ask your pleasure, sir?”
    “Two bowls of millet spirits and a dog’s leg,” I said.
    “My apologies, Laoye,” the proprietor said unhappily, “but we do not sell dog meat or millet spirits . . .”
    “Why is that? Why would you