Mo Yan - Sandalwood Death

On that overcast day, the yamen hall was illuminated by a dozen or more thick candles made of mutton tallow, the odor spreading through the hall from the flickering flames. It was a rancid smell that fogged his mind and made him nauseous; something hard seemed to bounce off the walls of his stomach and churn up a vile liquid that rose into his throat and spewed onto the floor. More than ashamed, he experienced remorse. After wiping the muck from his lips and beard, he was about to apologize for vomiting when, suddenly, a resonant, even, practiced “WOO—WAY” emerged from the dark recesses on both sides of the hall, a scary sound that made him jump. What was he supposed to do now? The answer to that question came in the form of bailiffs’ feet buried in the backs of his knees that forced him to kneel on the hard, unforgiving floor as the official made his way into the hall.

Kneeling was actually more comfortable than standing, and the expulsion of the foul contents of his stomach had cleared his mind. Now, he realized, was not the time to whine or display any weakness: any man worthy of the name accepts the consequences of his actions. Even a beheading leaves only a bowl-sized scar. Under the circumstances, the Magistrate would not be in the mood for leniency, so it would do no good to pretend otherwise. He knew he was going to die, so he might as well go out in style; in another twenty years or so, that could find its way into a libretto and keep his good name alive for generations to come. This thought set the blood racing through his veins and his temples throbbing. His dry, thirsty mouth, his empty, hungry stomach, and his bruised, aching body all seemed to bother him less. His eyes watered, bringing the eyeballs to life. His mind was back in working order, as reminders of all the solemn roles he had played and the fervent arias he had sung surged into his head: I clench my teeth and bear up under abuse, for this cursed official I have no use. Inspired by these heroic sentiments, he threw out his chest and raised his head in the mysterious, forbidding surroundings, as the yayi, secure in the power of the office, kept up the din of “WOO—WAY.”

What was the first thing he saw after raising his head off his chest? There, seated stiffly beneath a board inscribed with the words “justice” and “honor,” seated properly amid the aura of brilliant candlelight, seated correctly behind a heavy carved blood-red table, impressive with a ruddy face and long beard, sober and dignified as an idol, was the County Magistrate himself. One look told Sun Bing that he was under the powerful official’s watchful eye, and he had to admit, however grudgingly, that the man had a formidable presence. Li Wu had not painted a false portrait. Most impressive was the beard that tapered down across the man’s chest, each strand as fine as the silken thread of a horse’s tail. Struck by a sense of shame and inferiority, he experienced a spontaneous affinity for the Magistrate, akin to being reunited with a long-lost brother. Brothers come together in a Magistrate’s hall, a scene of nostalgia brings tears to all .

The Magistrate pounded his gavel, the crisp sound reverberating through the hall. Sun Bing tensed, caught unprepared by the sound, and as he looked into the stately visage of the Magistrate, he awoke, as from a dream, to the reality that this was not a staged performance, that the Magistrate was not an old-man actor, and that at this moment, he was not playing a stage role.

“You there, on your knees, tell us your name!”

“Your humble servant is Sun Bing.”

“Home of record?”

“Northeast Township.”

“Age?”

“Forty-five.”

“Occupation?”

“Opera troupe leader.”

“Do you know why you have been brought here?”

“I had too much to drink and was betrayed by my tongue, casting aspersions on His Eminence.”

“Just what were those aspersions?”

“I dare not repeat them.”

“No harm will come to you for repeating them now.”

“I dare not.”

“I order you to do so.”

“I said that the beard on the County Magistrate’s chin cannot compare with the hair around my prick.”

The comment was met with giggles all around. Sun Bing glanced at the Magistrate, who appeared to have found the comment humorous, but only for a moment, as a stern look replaced the evanescent smile.

“Reckless Sun Bing!” His Eminence thundered, pounding his gavel a second time. “What prompted you to subject this official to humiliation?”

“I deserve death… I had heard that the Magistrate had grown a fine beard, news that I did not want to hear, so I said something foolish.”

“Is it your desire to compare beards?”

“Your servant is unskilled and lacks talent. But I have always thought that my beard is second to none. When I perform the role of Guan Gong in The Single Sword Meeting , I do not need to wear a false beard.”

The Great River flows east, wave upon wave, from the west floats a little boat, oh so brave. After leaving nine-tiered Dragon Phoenix Tower, we explore the depths of Dragon Lake and Tiger Cave.

“Stand up. Let me see your beard.”

Sun Bing stood up and rocked from side to side, as if riding waves on a sampan.

Pendants and banners flutter looking east to Wu, a tiger loose in a flock of sheep, a fear of Cao not true…

“That is indeed a fine beard, but not necessarily finer than mine.”

“Your servant does not yield.”

“How do you propose to compare beards?”

“Water would be my choice.”

“Go on.”

“Your servant’s beard does not float when placed in water, but goes straight to the bottom.”

“Can that be?” The Magistrate stroked his beard and paused for a moment. “What do you propose should you lose?”

“If your servant loses, then his beard will be the hair around the Magistrate’s prick.”

This time the yayi exploded in laughter. The Magistrate slammed his gavel on the table. “Reckless Sun Bing!” he bellowed, “how dare you say such things here!”

“I deserve death.”

“Sun Bing, directing vile epithets toward an official in his hall deserves severe punishment, but in light of your penchant for straight talk and a willingness to accept the consequences of your speech, I shall show mercy and approve the competition. If you win, all your crimes will be expunged. But if you lose, I shall order you to personally pull out every strand of your beard and never grow another. Do you agree?”

“Your servant agrees.”

“The audience is concluded!” The Magistrate stood up and, like a bright, airy breeze, disappeared behind the screen.

The battle of the beards was to take place in the spacious courtyard between the yamen’s main and secondary gates. Wanting not to make it too grand an affair, Magistrate Qian invited fewer than twenty of the county’s most renowned members of the local gentry as spectators and witnesses. But word of the battle between His Eminence and Sun Bing spread like wildfire, and by that morning, crowds of commoners had already gathered at the yamen gate, eager to get in on the fun. The earliest arrivals, always awestruck by the power and prestige of the yamen, kept their distance from the site, but as more and more people came, pushes and shoves moved the crowd closer to the gate. Crowds sometimes fall beyond the law. Commoners, who on most days would not dare even to look up as they passed by the yamen gate, now elbowed the gate guards out of the way and spilled into the yard as if a dam had burst. A mass of humanity quickly filled the spacious yard, while even more people arrived to take their place beyond the gate. Adventurous and unruly youngsters went so far as to climb trees and sit on the perimeter wall.