Mo Yan - Sandalwood Death

“Nothing dulls a blade like human blood, Excellency. We have to hone it before we use it.”

With a laugh, Liu said:

“By now you and I are old friends, Grandma Zhao. If I fall into your hands one day, I hope this blade is at its sharpest.”

“Excellency…” It was an awkward moment. “You are an upright, incorruptible official, a noble man of great integrity…”

“An upright, incorruptible man deserves to die like anyone else. The slicing death repays nobility and integrity!” Liu sighed before going on. “Let’s say it’s a deal, Grandma Zhao.”

“Excellency…”

Liu Guangdi left the room weaving from side to side, watched by the executioners with tears in their eyes.

As a dozen horns blared their mournful music, the celebrated Six Gentlemen of the Wuxu Reform Movement were lifted down off a dilapidated prison van by a dozen uniformed guards and up onto the elevated execution platform, over which a thick red felt mat had been laid. A fresh layer of dirt had been spread on the ground around the platform. Zhao Jia, the principal “grandma” of the Board of Punishments, was somewhat comforted by the sight of these preparations. He and his apprentice followed the Six Gentlemen onto the platform. The mournful music was persistent and increasingly shrill. The musicians’ foreheads were sweaty; their cheeks had ballooned out. Zhao Jia took a good look at the six distinguished men lined up on the platform, and saw a range of expressions. Tan Sitong’s chin was raised as he looked skyward, a solemn, tragic look on his dark, gaunt face. The face of the young man, Lin Xu, who was next in line, was ghostly white; his thin, bloodless lips quivered. Heavy-set Yang Shenxiu had cocked his square head to one side; drool oozed from his twisted mouth. The delicate features of Kang Guangren were distorted by incessant twitches as he kept wiping tears and snot with his sleeve. Yang Rui, short in stature but full of energy, kept sweeping the area around the platform with his dark eyes, as if hoping to find an old friend amid the spectators. Liu Guangdi, the tallest among them, wore a solemn expression; eyes downcast, he was making a guttural sound.

It was approaching noon. The shadow cast by a fir pole behind the platform was slowly forming a straight line with the pole. It was a brilliant autumn day, with radiant sunshine and a deep blue sky. Sunlight reflecting off the platform mat, the red capes of the official witnesses, the red flags, banners, and umbrella canopies of the honor guard, the officials’ red caps, the red tassels on the soldiers’ helmets, and the red hilt of Generalissimo sent fiery rays of light in all directions. Flocks of doves flew in circles above the execution ground, round and round, filling the air with the whisper of flapping wings and their shrill cries. Throngs of spectators kept a hundred paces away by soldiers craned their necks and stared wide-eyed at the platform, waiting anxiously for the moment to arrive that would excite, sadden, or terrify them.

Zhao Jia was waiting too, waiting impatiently for the supervising official to give the order, so he could do his job and leave the premises. Facing the deeply affecting looks on the six men made him ill at ease. Even though he had smeared his face with chicken blood, which served as a mask of sorts, his nerves were still on edge, and he was actually somewhat self-conscious, as if standing in front of a gaping crowd without his pants. Never before in his long career had he been so unsettled or lost his sense of detachment. In the past, so long as he was wearing red and had chicken blood smeared on his face, his heart was as cold as a black stone at the bottom of a deep lake. He had the vague feeling that while he was putting someone to death, his soul was hibernating in the fissures of the coldest, deepest stone, and that a killing machine bereft of heat and emotion performed the deeds. And so, when the job was over, he could wash his hands and face and be free of any feeling that he had just killed someone. It was all a haze, a sort of half sleep. But on this day he felt as if the hardened mask of chicken blood had been peeled away, like the outer layer of a wall soaked by a rainsquall. His soul squirmed in the fissures of the stone, and a host of emotions—pity, terror, agitation, and more—seeped out like tiny rivulets. When an expert executioner stood on the platform to carry out his somber task, he was expected to show no emotion. If, however, indifference was considered an emotion of sorts, then it was the only one permitted; all others could serve only to ruin a reputation. He did not have the nerve to look at the Six Gentlemen, especially the one-time Board of Punishments Bureau director with whom he had established a unique and genuine friendship—Liu Guangdi. If he were to look into the man’s eyes, in which burned unalloyed rage, his palms would be wet with cold sweat for the first time ever. So he looked up at the doves circling above him. All those flapping wings made him dizzy. The chief official witness—Vice Minister of the Left, His Excellency Gang Yi—squinted up into the sky from his seat at the base of the platform before casting a sideways glance at the Six Gentlemen.

“It’s time,” he said in a shaky voice. “Criminals, on your knees to give thanks for the blessings of the Emperor.”

Like a man who had received absolution, Zhao Jia turned to his apprentice and took from him the unwieldy sword reserved for the decapitation of fourth-ranked officials and higher—Generalissimo. Out of respect for Excellency Liu, he had spent the whole night honing the blade to hair-splitting perfection. After drying his hands with his sleeves, he held his right arm across his chest so that the sword was pointing straight up.

Some of the Six Gentlemen wept; others sighed.

With appropriate decorum, Zhao Jia said:

“Please, gentlemen, take your places.”

Tan Sitong cried out:

“I have the intention to kill thieves, but lack the strength to change the course of events. It is a worthy death, and I have no regrets!”

His last words spoken, he had a coughing fit that turned his face the color of gold paper; his eyes were bloodshot. He then fell to his knees, placed his hands on the platform, and stretched out his neck. His loosened queue spilled across his neck down to the platform.

Lin, Yang, Yang, and Kang knelt beside Tan in utter dejection. Lin Xu sobbed like a mistreated little girl. Kang Guangren wailed loudly and smacked his palms on the platform. Yang Shenxiu also rested his hands on the platform, his eyes darting from one side to the other, but giving no hint as to what he was looking for. Liu Guangdi stood alone, his head held high, refusing to kneel. As he stared at Liu’s tattered boots, Zhao Jia said timidly:

“Your Excellency, please take your place.”

Glaring wide-eyed at the seated Gang Yi, Liu demanded hoarsely:

“Why are we being killed with no trial?”

Lacking the nerve to look at Liu, Gang Yi turned his fat, swarthy face to the side.

“Why are we being killed with no trial?” Liu Guangdi repeated. “Is this a nation bereft of laws?”

“My orders are to supervise the execution, that is all I know. I beg Peicun’s indulgence on this…” Gang Yi’s distress was palpable.

Yang Rui, who was kneeling alongside Liu Guangdi, tugged at his clothing.

“Peicun,” he said, “at this point, what is there to say? Kneel with us. It is what is expected.”

“Great Qing Dynasty!” Liu shouted, drawing the words out as he straightened his clothes, bent his knees, and knelt on the platform. A functionary standing behind the chief witness announced in a loud voice:

“Give thanks for the blessings of Her Royal Highness!”