Mo Yan - Sandalwood Death

He stood up and walked around the table, oblivious to the bruising bump on his leg when he skirted the corner of the desk. He could not take his eyes off hers. She filled his heart, leaving room for nothing else, like a butterfly-to-be imprisoned by the thin skin of its cocoon. His eyes were moist, his breathing labored. He stretched out his arms, opening up to her, stopping just before they met. Their eyes never wavered, despite the tears filling them. Their strength was gathering, the heat was rising, until finally they were in each other’s arms, though who had made the first move would always remain a mystery. They were quickly entwined, like a pair of snakes, investing all their strength in the embrace. They stopped breathing at the same moment; their joints cracked noisily. Lips drew closer and were frozen together. Their eyes closed in the midst of a frenzy of activity by hot lips and searching tongues. Rivers roiled, seas churned; you swallow me, I devour you, lips began to melt from the heat… afterward, flowing water formed a channel, ripe melons fell from the vine, and no power on earth could stand in their way. There in broad daylight, amid the solemnity of a document room, absent an ivory bed and a conjugal quilt, he and she shed their cocoons and emerged with natural beauty as they achieved immortality.

On the Chinese lunar calendar, March 2, 1900, was the second day of the second month in the twenty-sixth year of the Great Qing Guangxu Emperor. According to legend, that date is when the hibernating dragon lifts its head. After that day, spring sunlight begins to raise the temperature on the ground, and it is nearly time to take the oxen out into the fields to begin the plowing. For the citizens of Northeast Gaomi Township’s Masang Town, who themselves had emerged from a sort of winter hibernation, it was time to crowd into the marketplace, whether or not they had business there. Those with no money to spend strolled around the area taking in the sights and watching a bit of street opera; those lucky enough to have money enjoyed buns fresh from the oven, passed the time in teashops, or enjoyed glasses of sorghum spirits. It was a bright, sunny day that year, with a slight breeze from the north, a typical early spring day when the chill of winter gives way to the warmth of spring. Fashion-conscious young women changed out of their bulky winter clothes into unlined jackets that showed off their curves.

Early in the morning, the proprietor of the Sun Family Teashop, Sun Bing, climbed up one side of the steep riverbank with his carrying pole and down the other to the Masang River, where he stepped onto the wooden pier to fill his buckets with fresh, clean water for the day’s business. He saw that the last of the river ice had melted overnight, replaced by ripples on the surface of the blue-green water, from which a chilled vapor rose into the air.

The year before had seen its problems—an arid spring and a soggy autumn—but since the area had been spared hailstorms and locusts, it could not be considered an especially bad year. As evidence of his solicitude for the people’s well being, Magistrate Qian had reported a flood to his superiors, which had led to a fifty percent reduction in taxes for all of Northeast Gaomi Township—making their lives even better than in years with good harvests. To show their gratitude, the residents contributed to the purchase of a people’s umbrella and chose Sun Bing to present this token of respect to the Magistrate. He did everything possible to decline the request, so the people simply dumped the umbrella in his teashop.

Left with no choice, Sun Bing carried the people’s umbrella to the county yamen to present it to the Magistrate. It would be his first time back since losing his beard, and as he walked down the street, though he was not sure if what he felt was shame or anger or sadness, a painful chin, hot ears, and sweaty palms were proof of something. When he met people he knew, his cheeks reddened before a word of greeting was exchanged, for no matter what they said, he detected a mocking tone and a note of derision. Worst of all, he could find no valid excuse to react with anger.

After entering the yamen compound, he was led by a yayi to the official reception hall, where he deposited the umbrella and turned to leave, just as the sound of Magistrate Qian’s booming laughter was carried in on the air. Qian walked in wearing a short jacket over his long gown, a red tasseled cap on his head and a white fan in his hand. He looked and acted every bit the part of an impressive County Magistrate. He strode forward, hand outstretched, and said cordially:

“Ah, Sun Bing, a competition has formed a true bond between us.”

The gamut of emotions—sweet, sour, bitter, hot, and salty—crowded Sun Bing’s feelings as he gazed at the beautiful beard adorning Qian Ding’s chin and thought back to the beard he had once sported, only to be replaced by an ugly, mangy-looking pitted chin. He had prepared a biting comment, but was able only to sputter, “Your humble servant has been deputized by the people of Northeast Township to present Your Eminence with this umbrella…” He opened the red umbrella to display the signatures of the official’s subjects and held it up for him to see.

“My, my,” Qian Ding uttered, clearly touched by the gesture. “How can I, a man with few talents and no virtue, accept such a grand honor? I am unworthy, truly unworthy…”

Qian Ding’s expression of humility had a relaxing effect on Sun Bing, who straightened up and said, “If Your Honor has no further instructions, your humble servant will take his leave.”

“As a representative of the good people who have honored me with this umbrella, you cannot simply leave. Chunsheng!” he shouted.

Chunsheng rushed in and bowed. “What can I do for Your Eminence?”

“Have the kitchen prepare a grand banquet,” Qian Ding commanded, “and while you’re at it, have my correspondence secretary deliver invitations to the banquet to senior members of the local gentry.”

It was indeed a grand banquet, at which the Magistrate personally poured spirits for his guests, who took turns proposing toasts and, in the process, getting Sun Bing roaring drunk, too drunk to stand. The grudge he had carried in his heart and an indescribable sense of awkwardness vanished without a trace. So when he was lugged outside, he burst into song, a line from a Maoqiang opera:

In Peach Blossom Palace a king alone is hidden, as thoughts of the fair maiden Zhao come to him unbidden…

Over the year just passed, residents of Northeast Gaomi Township had felt good about things in general; but it had not been a year without troubling concerns, and foremost among them was that teams of German civil engineers had begun laying track for a rail line from Qingdao to Jinan, which would run through Gaomi Township. News of the impending construction had been in the wind for years, but had not been taken seriously. Not, that is, until the year before, when the rail bed had reached their borders. This, they all felt, was serious. All one had to do was stand on the Masang River levee to see that the rail bed had already come out of the southeast and lay across the flat open country like a turf dragon. The Germans had erected a construction shed and material storehouse to the rear of Masang Town, in the vicinity of the new rail bed, which looked from a distance like a pair of enormous ships.

After returning with his buckets of water, Sun Bing put down his carrying pole and told his newly hired helper, a youngster called Stone, to boil the water while he went out front to clean off the tables, chairs, and benches, wash the teapots and cups, and open the door to the street. That done, he sat behind the counter and enjoyed a smoke as he waited for customers.