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

liquor vat.
    That was the moment everything became clear. The official witness to the execution was not my uncle, nor were the executioners or any of the soldiers. My uncle was the man whose head had just been lopped off.
    That night I went looking for a willow tree with a low-hanging branch, and when I found it, I took the sash from around my waist, made a noose, tossed it over the branch, and stuck my head in. Dieh was dead, and so was Niang; and now my uncle, the only family member I had left, had just been beheaded. There wasn’t another soul in this world I could turn to. Ending my life now was the only answer. But at the very moment I was about to rub noses with King Yama of the Underworld, a huge hand grabbed me by the seat of my pants.
    It was the man who had just beheaded my uncle.
    He took me to a restaurant called The Casserole, where he ordered a plate of bean curd and fish heads. While I was eating—just me—he sat watching me. He didn’t even touch the tea the waiter had brought him. When I finished with a loud belch, he said:
    “I was your uncle’s good friend, and if you are willing, you can be my apprentice.”
    The impressive image he’d created earlier that day reappeared: standing tall and unmoving, then quickly turning slightly to the right, his right arm circling the air like a crescent moon, and swish —my uncle’s head was raised high in the air, accompanied by his scream of innocence . . . your grandmother’s voice sounded again in my ear, but now it was uncommonly gentle, and the sense of gratitude she felt was clear and sustaining.
    “My dear son,” she said, “get down on your knees and kowtow to your shifu.”
    I did that, and with tears in my eyes, though if you want to know the truth, my uncle’s death meant nothing to me. I was concerned only about myself. The cause of those hot tears was the realization that my daydream was about to come true. I wanted nothing more than to become a man who could lop off someone’s head without blinking. Those two men’s carriage and icy demeanor lit up my dreams.
    Son, your dieh’s shifu was the man I’ve mentioned to you hundreds of times—Grandma Yu. He later told me that he had been sworn brothers with my jailer uncle, who had committed a capital crime, and that it had been his good fortune to die by his hand. Swish , faster than the wind. Grandma said that when his sword severed my uncle’s head, he heard it say:
    “That is my nephew, Elder Brother. Watch over him for me!”

C HAPTER T HREE

Xiaojia’s Foolish Talk
My name is Zhao, Zhao Xiaojia. I get up early with a laugh, ha-ha. (Damned fool, aha!) In my dream last night, I saw a white tiger at our house. Wearing a red jacket, tail standing up in the air. (Ha-ha-ha.) Big tail big tail big tail. White Tiger sat across from me, mouth open, white fangs, a great big maw. Big white fangs big white fangs big white fangs. (Ha-ha-ha.) Do you plan to eat me, White Tiger? There are more fat pigs and fat sheep than I can eat, White Tiger said, so why eat you raw? If you’re not going to eat me, why have you come to the house of my Pa? Zhao Xiaojia, White Tiger said, listen to me. I hear you are obsessed with a desire for tiger’s whiskers. So I’ve brought some for you to pluck from my jaw. (Ha-ha-ha, a damned fool, aha!)
    — Maoqiang Sandalwood Death. A child’s aria
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    Meow, meow , I learned how to sound like a cat before I could talk. My niang said that the longest whisker on a tiger is precious, and that anyone who owns one can carry it on his body and see a person’s true form. All living humans, she said, are reincarnations of animals. If a person gets one of those precious whiskers, what he sees is not people. On the street, in alleyways, in taverns, in a public bath, what he sees are oxen, horses, dogs, cats, and the like. Meow, meow . There was once a man, Niang said, who traveled east of the Shanhai Pass, where he killed a tiger to get one of those precious whiskers. He was afraid of losing it, so he wrapped it in three outer and three inner layers, then sewed it into the lining of his padded jacket. When he returned home, his mother asked him, “Did you make your fortune during all those years you were away up north, son?” “My fortune? No,” he said proudly, “but I did lay my hands on a rare treasure.” He reached inside his jacket, tore open the lining, and removed the bundle, which he unwrapped to show her the whisker. But when