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

old-man role, playing respected old men, he was never in need of a stage beard, since none could match the natural appeal of his own. As luck would have it, upon the birth of his grandson, the township’s richest man, Master Liu, hosted a celebration banquet, to which Sun Bing was invited. Also in attendance was a yamen clerk by the name of Li Wu, who sat at the head of a table in a pompous demonstration of his stature, and proceeded to sing the praises of the County Magistrate, from his eloquence to his every action, from his interests to his favorite activities. But the climactic note was sounded in his tribute to the Magistrate’s impressive beard.
    Now, even though Li Wu was on leave from his post, on this occasion he was dressed in full formal attire, minus only his baton of authority. Gesticulating dramatically and blustering nonstop, he so intimidated the other guests, all decent, simple men, that they could only gape in stupefaction, the meal in front of them forgotten. With ears pricked, they listened wide-eyed to the man’s voluble outbursts as he slung slobber into the air. Sun Bing, a man of the world, had been to many places and seen many things, and had Li Wu not been present, Sun would have been the center of attention. But Li was present, and since everyone knew that he was in attendance to the County Magistrate, Sun was ignored. He could only drink alone to drown his melancholy, casting disdainful looks and snorts of derision in the direction of the despicable lackey. No one noticed, and in the eyes of Li Wu, Sun might as well not have been at the table at all, so intent was he on elaborately extolling the virtues of the Magistrate’s beard.
    “Among ordinary mortals, no more than a thousand strands make up the finest beard. But can you guess how many strands His Eminence’s superb specimen contains? Ha ha, I see you are stumped. I am not surprised. Last month I accompanied His Eminence on a tour to observe the people’s mood, and engaged him in a conversation. ‘Young Li,’ he said to me, ‘how many strands do you think are in this official’s beard?’ ‘I dare not presume to guess, Your Eminence,’ I replied. ‘I am not surprised,’ he remarked. ‘Well, I shall tell you. This official’s beard is comprised of nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine strands! One short of ten thousand! The First Lady performed the calculation.’ How, I asked, was the calculation of such a beard accomplished? ‘The First Lady is as finely meticulous as a human hair and endowed with surpassing intelligence. By counting one hundred strands at a time and tying them off with a silk thread, she accomplished the feat. She could not possibly be wrong.’ ‘Your Eminence,’ I said, ‘if you grew but one more strand, you would have the ultimate round number.’ To which he replied, ‘That, young Li, shows your lack of understanding. In the affairs of the world, perfection is a taboo. Take the moon, for instance. Once it is a perfect circle, the erosion begins. Or fruit on a tree. The moment it is perfectly ripe, it falls to the ground. A degree of deficiency is vital for all things if they are to last. There is no more auspicious number than nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine. Ten thousand is detrimental for the people and for those who govern them. This, my young Li, is a paradox you must work hard to grasp.’ That comment by His Eminence is an arcane truth of boundless import, yet one that I have yet to unlock. He then said to me, ‘Young Li, the number of strands in this official’s beard is known to only three people alive. One is you, I am another, and the third is my wife. You must not breathe a word of it to anyone, for if it were to be revealed, it not only would be a harbinger of bad tidings, but might well spawn a great calamity.’”
    Li Wu picked up his glass, drank from it, and then picked at dishes with his chopsticks, clicking his tongue in a display of criticism over the crude array of food. Finally he picked up a bean sprout, which he chewed noisily with his front teeth, like a mouse that lazily grinds its teeth after eating its fill. Master Liu’s son, the father of the new grandson, rushed up with a plate of steaming pig’s-head meat and placed it in front of Li Wu before wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his greasy hand. “We have treated you shamelessly, Uncle Li,” he said. “We are peasants, untrained in the preparation of fine cuisine. Won’t you do us