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

thoughts. Large numbers of the spectators were slipping quietly away; roadside peddlers scampered to pack up and leave: the risks of hanging around even a minute longer were too great. Shops on both sides of the broad avenue shut their doors—for inventory, the signs said—in the middle of the day. The gray avenue was suddenly broader and emptier than it had been, clearing the way for a strong wind to send dead leaves and scraps of paper tumbling and swirling in from the north. A small pack of dirty mutts that had taken refuge in one of the lanes set up a chorus of barks.
    A blurry image of his family performing a drama at center stage in front of a large audience took shape in his head. Probing rays beheld them from cracks in shop doors, from neighborhood windows, and from many dark, gloomy places. His wife stood there shivering in the cold wind, holding both children in her arms and looking pitifully up at her husband, silently pleading for his forgiveness and understanding. Both children buried their faces in the folds of her jacket, like terror-stricken fledglings so worried about their heads that they left their backsides exposed. He felt as if his heart had been gouged out of his body. His suffering was immeasurable. His eyes burned, his nose ached, and a sense of impending tragedy was born. He kicked the twitching German’s foot. “You can goddamn stop playing dead!” he cursed and then looked up at the converging gazes and said loudly, “You all saw what happened here today. If the authorities come to investigate, please, whoever you are, tell them what you saw; do that for me, please.” With his hands clasped in front, he made a turn around the square. “I am the one who killed him,” he said. “I will take full responsibility and not implicate any of you, I promise you that!”
    As he swept his children up in his arms, he told his wife to hold on to his jacket for the slow walk home. A blast of cold air sent chills up his spine; his sweat-soaked shirt scraped against his skin like armor.
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    6
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    Bright and early the next morning, he opened the shop and began the day as always by wiping down the tables and chairs. His helper, Stone, was out back pumping the bellows with all his might to keep the water boiling. Four brass teapots steam-whistled on the stove. But even after the sun came up over the eastern horizon, not a single customer had stepped inside. The street in front was cold, cheerless, and deserted. Gusts of chilled wind blew leaves past his door. His wife held tight to the twins’ hands and stuck to him wherever he went, flashes of sheer terror emanating from her eyes. He patted each of the children on the head and said with a light-hearted laugh:
    “Go back inside, there’s nothing to be afraid of. It was all their doing, taking advantage of a good and decent woman. They’re the ones who deserve to lose their heads.”
    He knew he was saying that to calm himself as well, since the hand holding the cleaning rag was shaking. Eventually, he managed to get his wife to go out back, so he could sit alone in the shop, tap a beat on a table, and sing a Maoqiang aria:
    She is home and far away, who will watch over her, I cannot say. What will happen to me, good or ill, and will she survive to live another day? Ha! Fear squeezes sweat from my feverish body, let this all end well, I pray . . .
    The song ended, the dam burst, and a lifetime of opera tunes poured out of him. The more he sang, the sadder he became, and the more despondent. Two lines of tears snaked down his cheeks and onto his naked chin.
    The residents of Masang Township all quietly listened to Sun Bing’s songs that day.
    And so he sang, all that day, till sunset, when the blood-red rays of a dying sun shone down on the willow trees lining the river, where flocks of sparrows perched in the airy canopy of the highest tree to announce the day’s end, as if sending him a sign. He closed up the shop and sat at the window, club in hand, after ripping off the paper covering so he could see everything that was happening outside. Stone brought him a bowl of cooked dry millet. The first bite stuck in his throat, and he erupted in a series of hacking coughs that sent kernels of millet shooting out of his nose like buckshot.
    “Youngster,” he said to Stone, “I am in big trouble. Sooner or later the Germans will be here to exact revenge, so get out of here while you can.”
    “I’m not going anywhere,