Mo Yan - Sandalwood Death

Soon afterward, at a banquet for local worthies, his handsome demeanor and impressive beard were once again the focus of attention for all who were present. The nasal obstruction had cleared up, and Gaomi County’s local specialty, aged millet spirits, and fatty dog meat—the spirits relaxed his muscles and joints and enhanced the flow of blood, while the fatty dog meat improved his looks—made his face glow with conspicuous health and lent increased elegance to his beard. He offered a toast in a cadenced voice, announcing to his elite guests that he was determined to use his office to enrich the lives of the local population. His speech was interrupted frequently by thunderous applause and shouts of approval, and when he had finished, the ovation lasted until the incense sticks had burned halfway down. He then raised his glass to all the skullcaps and goatees at the table. The men’s legs trembled when they stood; their hands shook and their lips quaked as they emptied their glasses. The Magistrate then called their attention to one of the dishes—a head of cabbage a vivid emerald green that gave no sign of being cooked. None of the guests dared touch the spectacular dish with his chopsticks for fear of making a fool of himself. “Worthy gentlemen,” the Magistrate said, “not only is this cabbage fully cooked, it has been stuffed with more than a dozen rare delicacies.” He touched the seemingly unblemished head gently with his chopsticks, and it opened like a flower bud, to reveal a rich, pulpy interior and fill the room with an aroma of great refinement. Most of the honored guests—unsophisticated locals and voracious meat and fish eaters—were ignorant of the more poetic forms of cuisine. But urged on by their illustrious host, they reached out, snagged cabbage leaves with their chopsticks, and put them into their mouths. Approving headshakes and words of praise followed. Elder Xiong, Magistrate Qian’s revenue clerk, who had joined him at the table, wasted no time in introducing the Magistrate’s wife, Gaomi County’s First Lady, to the honored guests: she was the maternal granddaughter of Zeng Guofan—given the posthumous title and name of Lord Wenzheng. She had personally prepared the dish, Emerald Cabbage, the recipe having been passed down by her grandfather, who had created it with his master chef when he served in the capital as Vice President of the Board of Rites. Together they had tried several variants before reaching the perfection they were enjoying today. It embodied the wisdom of a generation of renowned officials. The revered Lord Wenzheng, who had mastered both the pen and the sword, had also been a chef par excellence, second to none. Xiong’s introduction was greeted with even greater applause; tears spilling from the eyes of aging worthies sluiced down through the wrinkles in their cheeks. Snivel hung from the strands of their feeble goatees.

After all around the table had emptied three glasses, the local worthies approached the Magistrate, one at a time, to toast his arrival and sing his praises, each in his own way. And while their comments differed in style if not in elegance, the one constant was a mention of the revered one’s beard. One intoned, “Our esteemed Magistrate is a reincarnation of Guan Yu, a rebirth of Wu Zixu.” Another pronounced that Zhuge Liang had returned in the person of the esteemed Magistrate; the Deva King had descended from heaven. Now, while Qian Ding could tolerate a great deal, this group of toadies was more than he could endure. He could not, of course, refuse to be toasted and was obliged to empty his glass each time, and the more he drank, the further he moved away from his official airs. He chatted energetically, he talked and laughed merrily, he shuffled and gestured, his head was turned by the effusive praise, and he began to display his unrestrained nature as he moved steadily closer to the people.

That day he drank himself into a stupor; his worthy guests, too, lay passed out around the table. It was a banquet that rocked Gaomi County to its core and became a popular topic of conversation far and wide. The Emerald Cabbage gained almost mythical qualities on the people’s tongues. People said that it was a mysterious viand that could not be separated until Magistrate Qian touched it with his chopsticks, at which time it opened like a white lily, with dozens of petals, each tipped with a glistening pearl.

Word quickly spread that the new Magistrate was the grandson-in-law of Lord Wenzheng. Endowed with an imposing presence, he sported a beard worthy of Guan Yu himself. Not only was the Magistrate the epitome of dignity, but his name had appeared high on the list of successful candidates at the Imperial Examination, and he thus joined the circle of Imperial attendants. Brimming with talent, he was a master of eloquence. With an unmatched capacity for spirits, even drunk he retained his poise, like a jade tree standing tall before a wind or a mountain withstanding a spring deluge. Then there was the Magistrate’s wife, descendant of an illustrious family, a woman of matchless beauty and incomparable virtue. Their arrival in Gaomi County promised immense blessings for the people.

Northeast Gaomi Township was home to the leader of the local Maoqiang troupe, Sun Bing, a man who was also endowed with a splendid beard. Maoqiang, otherwise known as Cat Opera, is an operatic genre created and developed in Northeast Gaomi Township. The arias are exquisite, the staging unique, the ambience magical; in short, it is the ideal portrayal of life in the township. Sun Bing was both a reformer and an inheritor of the Maoqiang tradition, a man who enjoyed high prestige among his peers. As a performer of the 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.’”