Mo Yan - Sandalwood Death

The young soldier and the alluring young maiden were swept to the back of the stage, as if blown there by a strong gust of wind, and their place was taken by Justice Cat in full cat regalia, his arrival announced by a drumroll and the clang of a gong. He first made several quick rounds of the stage before sitting down in the center and launching into a cadenced narration:

“I, Sun Bing, am Chief Cat, a Maoqiang actor who once led a troupe to perform in villages far and wide. My repertoire includes forty-eight operas that bring to life emperors and kings, generals and ministers that through history abide. In my middle years I offended the County Magistrate, who then plucked out my beard though his identity he did hide. My acting days ended, I relinquished my troupe to make a living selling tea, in my native home to reside. Little Peach, who bore me a son and a daughter, was a loving and dutiful wife, true and tried. But loathsome foreign devils invaded our land to build a railroad and savage our feng shui. A traitorous bully made off with my darling children while others made sport in the square with my wife, whose calamitous results cannot be denied. I have wept sobbed cried wailed myself sick~~from hatred loathing abhorrence repulsion my heart has died~~”

Justice Cat intoned his tragic song with fervor, rising and falling like a stormy sea, while arrayed behind him was a cohort of armed cat actors whose outrage spilled over into the audience, triggering a reaction of meow calls and angry foot stomping, rocking the Academy grounds and raising clouds of dust. My unease rose with it, as an inauspicious cloud gradually enshrouded the site. Liu Pu insistently whispered a warning into my ear, sending chills up and down my spine. Yet I felt helpless in the face of the incendiary mood among the actors and their spellbound audience; it was like trying to rein in a runaway horse with one hand, or to put out a raging fire with a ladle. Things had reached the point where I could trust only to Providence, give the proverbial horse free rein.

I retreated to a spot in front of the shed to watch with detachment. Up on the Ascension Platform, Zhao Jia was standing to one side of the protective cage, quietly watching with a sandalwood peg in his hand. Sun Bing’s moans were drowned out by the clamor below the stage, but I knew that he was still alive and as well as could be expected, that his spirit was as high as ever. A popular legend has it that if a Gaomi resident who is on the verge of dying while away from home hears the strains of Maoqiang opera outside his door, he will leap bright-eyed out of his deathbed. Sun Bing, though you have been subjected to a punishment worse than death, seeing this performance and listening to these arias—for your benefit—is surely the opportunity of a lifetime. I turned my gaze to the crowd, searching for the idiot son of the Zhao family, and I found him, saw him sitting atop one of the opera stage posts, adding his calls of meow to those of the crowd. Slowly he slid down the post, but as soon as his feet hit the ground, he shinnied back up, cat-like. I then searched for Meiniang of the Sun family, and I found her, saw her, her hair in disarray as she beat on the back of a yayi with a stick. When this revelry would end, I could not say, but as I looked into the sky to check the time, I saw that a dark cloud had blotted out the sun.

Twenty or more armed German soldiers emerged from the encampment on the Academy grounds. Oh, no! A silent cry escaped from my mouth. This was going to end badly. I rushed up to stop their advance, placing myself directly in front of a junior officer armed with a pistol, eager to clarify the situation to him. Worthy… officer, that’s what I’ll call you, you bastard. Well, the worthy officer, whose eyes were the color of green onions, said something I couldn’t understand and shoved me out of his way.

The soldiers quick-stepped up to the Ascension Platform and stomped heavily up the wooden ramp, which bent under weight it was never intended to sustain; the platform began to sway. “Stop,” I shouted to the actors on the opera stage and the viewers beneath it. “Stop—Stop—” But my voice was too weak to carry, like throwing a cotton ball at a stone wall.

The soldiers lined up in tight ranks and fixed their eyes on the opera stage, where a fierce battle was being played out. Actors in the roles of cats were trading blows with actors dressed up as tigers and wolves. Justice Cat, seated in the center of the stage, was providing the musical accompaniment to the action in a powerful voice that seemed to reach the sky. This was yet another unique characteristic of Maoqiang opera: sung arias accompanying fighting scenes, from start to finish, their contents often bearing no relevance to the action; as a result, staged fights in the context of an opera actually served as a background for the talents of a principal singer.

Ai yo, Dieh, ai yo, Niang~~ai yo my little son done wrong~~he scratched my itch with his cute little hand~~waiting to grow up big and strong~~his life cut short, now the ghosts among~~two lines of bloody tears as I sing my song~~

Meow meow~~meow meow~~

I looked up at the soldiers, pleading with my eyes; my nose began to ache. “You up there, German soldiers, I’m told that you have opera back home, a place with its own customs and mores, and I ask you to compare those with theirs, and contrast their number with yours. Do not consider the actions onstage to be a provocation, and do not confuse them with the anti-German army led by Sun Bing, even though his men also painted their faces and dressed in stage costumes. You are witnessing pure theatrics, performed by a troupe of actors, and while it may appear manic, it is a common feature of the Maoqiang repertoire, and the actors are merely following long-established traditions. They act to memorialize those who have passed on to ease them into heaven, and they act to bring peace to those about to die. This performance is for Sun Bing, the inheritor of the Maoqiang mantle of Patriarch, for it was in his hands that Maoqiang reached the magnificent level of achievement you see before you today. They are performing for Sun Bing the way a cup of the finest spirits is given to a dying distiller, as a thoughtful gesture and an expression of humanity. German soldiers, lay down your Mausers, I beg you in the name of compassion and reason. You must not kill any more of my subjects. A river of blood has already flowed in Northeast Gaomi Township, and the once-bustling Masang Township is now a wasteland. You have fathers and mothers back home and hearts that beat in your chests; they are not made of iron or steel, are they? Can it be that in your hearts we Chinese are nothing but soulless pigs and dogs? You have Chinese blood on your hands, and I believe you must be visited by terrible dreams at night. Lay down your weapons, lay them down.” I ran up to the platform.

“Do not open fire!” I shouted.

Unfortunately, my shout sounded like an order to fire, which they did, seemingly ripping a dozen holes in the sky with the cracks of their rifles, whose muzzles released puffs of smoke, like white snakes that slithered upward before beginning to break up. The pungent odor of gunpowder burned the inside of my nose and struck my mind with mixed feelings of grief and joy. Why grief? I didn’t know. Why joy? I didn’t know that, either. By then hot tears blurred my vision, and through those tears I watched as a dozen blurry red bullets escaped from the German soldiers’ rifles and spun their way forward slowly, very slowly, almost hesitantly, reluctantly, irresolutely, as if wanting to turn away or fly up into the sky or bury themselves in the ground, as if wanting to stop their momentum or to slow down time or to wait till after the actors on the stage had run for cover before completing their split-second journey, as if they were tied to the German rifles by an invisible thread that was pulling them back. Kind-hearted bullets good and decent bullets mild and gentle bullets compassionate bullets Buddhist bullets, slow down to give my people a chance to fall to the ground before you reach your targets. You don’t want their blood to stain your bodies, you chaste and holy bullets! But those ignorant citizens on the stage were not only oblivious to the need to fall to the ground to avoid your arrival, they actually seemed to be waiting in welcome anticipation. When the hot, fiery red shells penetrated their bodies, some reacted by throwing their arms in the air in what looked like an attempt to pull leaves off of trees; some fell to the ground and grabbed their bellies with both hands, fresh blood seeping out between their fingers. In the center of the stage, Justice Cat was thrown backward, along with his chair, the interrupted strains of his song caught in his throat. The first volley cut down most of the actors on the stage. Zhao Xiaojia slid down his post, cast a dazed look all around until he realized what was going on, wrapped his arms around his head, and ran behind the stage, shouting: