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

With a sweep of the arm to cover her face with her sleeve, she ran out through the Third Hall gate into Dai Family Lane and wailed at the top of her lungs.
    Meiniang returned home utterly distraught, only to have Xiaojia cling to her in search of the sweets. She shoved him away and went into the house, where she flung herself down on the kang and wept piteously. Xiaojia, who had followed her inside, stood beside the kang and cried along with her. She rolled over, sat up, grabbed the whiskbroom, and began lashing her feet. Frightened out of his wits, he stayed her hand. Then, looking up into his ugly, stupid face, she said, “Xiaojia, get a knife and cut my feet down to size.”
    ————
    3
    ————
    The First Lady’s tiny feet were like a bucket of ice water that cleared Meiniang’s head, for a few days at least. But after encountering the Magistrate three times, especially that one time when he had looked at her with infinite concern and emotion, the scenes of their encounters waged a staunch resistance against those tiny feet. In the end, their image grew increasingly murky, while the look of tenderness in the Magistrate’s eyes and his elegant features gained increasing clarity. Magistrate Qian filled the void in her mind. If she stared at a tree, it flickered and swayed until it was transformed into Magistrate Qian. If she spotted a dog’s tail, it shook and wagged until it was turned into Magistrate Qian’s thick queue. If she was stoking a fire in the stove, the flames danced and cavorted until Magistrate Qian’s smiling face appeared before her. She bumped into walls when she was out walking. She cut her fingers when she was chopping meat and felt no pain. She burned a whole pot of dog meat without noticing the smell. Whatever she laid eyes on became Magistrate Qian or some part of him. When she closed her eyes, she felt Magistrate Qian come and lie down beside her. She could feel his rough beard prickle her soft, dainty skin. She dreamed of Magistrate Qian touching that skin every night, and her nocturnal screams frequently sent her husband rolling off the bed. She developed a sickly pallor and lost weight at a perilous rate; but her eyes shone and were continuously moist. For some strange reason, she suffered from hoarseness, releasing the sort of guttural, husky laughter that is unique to women in whom passion burns hot. She knew she had a severe case of lovesickness, and was aware of how frightful an affliction it could be. The only way a lovesick woman can survive is to share a bed with the man over whom she obsesses. Absent that, her veins will dry up, she will be consumptive, and once she begins spitting up blood, she will wither away and die. Meiniang had reached the point where home could no longer contain her. Things that had once interested or pleased her, like earning money or admiring a flower garden, now seemed insipid and meaningless. Fine spirits lay flavorless on her tongue; lovely flowers turned ghostly white in her eyes. Carrying a bamboo basket that held a dog’s leg, she passed in front of the county yamen three times a day, hoping for an accidental meeting with the Magistrate, and if that was not to be, she would be content to spot the green woolen curtain of his palanquin. But Magistrate Qian was like a giant turtle hiding in deep water, leaving no trace of his existence. Her hoarse, wanton laughter as she passed by the yamen gate so enticed the gate guards that they rubbed their ears and scratched their cheeks in anxious delight. Oh, how she would have liked to shout deep into the compound, purging her heart of pent-up lustful thoughts, loud enough for Magistrate Qian to hear. But she could only mutter under her breath:
    “My dear . . . my darling . . . thoughts of you are killing me . . . be merciful . . . take pity on me . . . The County Magistrate is an immortal peach, the embodiment of manly might! I fall in love with an image that after three lifetimes still burns bright. I long to make it mine, but the best fruit is at an unreachable height, behind a leaf and out of sight. Your willing slave looks up to see your face, she thinks of you day and night. But her love you do not requite. I salivate hungrily as I shake the tree with all my might, and if the peach will not fall, the tree . . .”
    In her heart, that monologue, sizzling with passion, quickly evolved into a Maoqiang aria of infatuation, which, as she intoned it over and over, brought a glow to her face