Mo Yan - Sandalwood Death

Also part of the delegation was the most promising member of the Right Imperial Guard in terms of moral character and knowledge, the captain of Yuan Shikai’s mounted guard, Qian Xiongfei. Qian was among the first delegation of students sent to study in Japan, where he graduated from a military academy. He was tall and trim and had bushy eyebrows, big eyes, and white, even teeth. A man of enviable self-discipline, he neither smoked nor drank nor gambled nor whored around. Always vigilant and a wizard with a gun, he was highly prized by Yuan Shikai himself. He rode up that day on a snow-white stallion, the creases in his uniform as sharp as knives, his riding boots shined to a high gloss, a pair of gold-handled pistols holstered on his leather belt. A contingent of sixty warhorses fanned out behind him like a swallowtail, with elite young military guards in the saddles, each armed with German thirteen-shot repeater rifles. Extremely fit, they kept their eyes focused straight ahead, and though there was a bit of a scripted look about the detachment, they managed to inspire awe in anyone who laid eyes on them.

It was nearly noon, and there was still no sight of the steamboat carrying Excellency Yuan. No fishing boats were visible anywhere on the Hai River, whose broad vista was broken only by flocks of seagulls that occasionally dipped down just above the waves. Since it was late autumn, the trees were bare, all but the oaks and maples, on which a smattering of vivid red or golden yellow leaves remained, bringing a bit of color to both banks of the river, a bright spot in an otherwise bleak panorama. Gloomy patches of cloud cover hung above the river, over which damp winds blew in from the northeast, carrying the rank, salty smell of the Bohai Sea. The horses were getting restless, swishing their tails, kicking out their rear hooves, and snorting. Qian Xiongfei’s mount kept turning its head back to nip at its rider’s knee. When Qian stole a look at the senior officers around him, he saw how their faces had darkened as the cold, damp late autumn winds bored through their uniforms and chilled them to the bone. Drops of snivel hung from the tip of Xu Shichang’s nose; Zhang Xun was yawning, which made his eyes water; and Duan Qirui was rocking back and forth in the saddle, looking perilously close to toppling off his horse. The term “sorry sight” perfectly described the delegation. Qian, who held his fellow officials in contempt, was ashamed to be counted among them. He was no less weary than they, but he, at least, valued his responsibility to maintain the proper military bearing. The best way to pass the time in the midst of the boredom of waiting was to let his thoughts roam wherever they desired. To the observer, his gaze was focused on the wide river before him, but what played out before his eyes were episodes from his past.

Little Xizi, Little Xizi! That sound, so touchingly intimate, buzzed in his ears, near one moment and far the next, like a game of hide-and-seek. Youthful visions of playing tag with his older brother danced in front of his eyes. As they chased one another through the fields of their village, the image of his brother slowly expanded, growing taller and wider, while he hopped and jumped, grabbing at the shiny queue flying just out of reach. Even when he touched it with his finger, it nimbly flicked away, like a black dragon’s tail. Anxious and frustrated, he stomped his foot and burst into tears; his brother stopped and spun around. And in that brief moment, a youngster without a single whisker on his chin was transformed into a court official with an impressive beard. The next recollection that crowded into his head was of the quarrel he’d had with his brother before leaving for Japan. His brother had been opposed to his abandoning his studies for the Imperial Civil Service Examination. He had responded by saying that the examination produced an army of walking corpses, so angering his brother that he pounded his fist on the table, spilling most of the tea in their cups. “How dare you be so arrogant!” scolded his brother, his impressive beard quivering as anger undermined his stately bearing. But only for a moment, as that wrath was replaced by a desolate sense of self-mockery. “If that is so,” his brother had said, “then generations of sages and heroes have been nothing but walking corpses. That includes Wen Tianxiang, whom you revere, and even the great Tang poet Lu You. Zeng Guofan, Li Hongzhang, and Zhang Zhidong, officials in the present dynasty, are all walking corpses. Poor ignorant specimens like your brother are zombies that cannot even walk.” “That is not what I meant, Elder Brother.” “Then what did you mean?” “I meant that if China is going to move forward, the Imperial Civil Service Examination must be discarded and replaced by modern schools, and the ossified eight-part essay must give way to forms of scientific education. Fresh water must flow into this filthy, stagnant lake. China has to change, or she will surely perish. And the tactics required to effect the needed changes must be borrowed from the barbarians. I have made up my mind to go, so do not try to stop me, Elder Brother.” His brother could only sigh. “A man’s aspirations are unique to him, and no amount of coercion can change that. But I, your ignorant Elder Brother, believe that only by being tempered in the examination hall can one lay claim to dignity and prestige. All others are imposters who may achieve high office, but will never earn the respect of others.” “Brother,” he had replied, “troubled times demand a martial spirit—a civil ethos is reserved for days of peace and tranquility. Our family has had the good fortune of boasting one metropolitan scholar: you. We do not need more. So let me go take up studies in the martial realm.” His brother sighed again. “Metropolitan Scholar,” he said, “an empty label and nothing more. You carry a bundle of clothes to work in an unimportant yamen with little chance to benefit monetarily and are reduced to eating half a duck’s egg mixed into plain rice…” “If that is so, then why does my own brother want me to follow the same dead-end path?” With a dry laugh, his brother said, “The deep-rooted notion of a walking corpse…”

The winds were getting stronger; the river was beset by gray waves. He was reminded of his return trip on the Pusan Maru and thought back to Kang Youwei’s letter of introduction to gain him an audience with Yuan Shikai…

The town of Small Station in autumn; golden tassels on rice paddies as far as the eye could see gave off an intoxicating fragrance. Before his audience with Excellency Yuan in Shanxi, he had already quietly surveyed the area around Small Station for two days, secretly taking note of everything with the eye of a trained observer. He noted, for instance, that the soldiers of the New Army who took the parade ground every day carried themselves with military bearing, were armed with modern weapons, marched with precision, and made a fine impression, everything that the corrupt, inept old army was not. To know what a general is like, one need only look at his troops, and he held Excellency Yuan in the highest regard before he’d even met him.

Yuan’s official quarters, which were only a couple of arrow shots from camp, were protected by four swarthy guards the size of small pagodas who stood at the arched gateway. They wore leather boots, leggings, and leather cartridge belts, and carried German breech-loading rifles whose barrels were the blue color of swallows’ wings. He handed Kang Youwei’s introduction letter to the gatekeeper, who took it inside.

It was mealtime for Excellency Yuan, who was waited on by two beautiful attendants.