Mo Yan - Sandalwood Death

That was when I heard someone call out in a booming voice:

“Summoning Zhao Jia—”

I have no recollection of walking into the hall that morning, and recall only the scene of splendor that greeted my eyes once inside, as if a golden dragon and a red phoenix had suddenly materialized. When I was a child, my mother told me that the Emperor was the reincarnation of a golden dragon, and the Empress Dowager the reincarnation of a red phoenix. Terror-stricken, I knelt on the floor, which felt as hot as a newly heated brick bed. I kowtowed and I kowtowed and I kowtowed; it wasn’t until later that I realized how badly I had injured my forehead, which was a bloody mess, like a rotten radish, which must have nauseated the Empress Dowager and Emperor. I deserved a thousand deaths. I was supposed to wish Them long, long lives, but I was so flummoxed by then that my head might as well have been filled with paste. All I could do was kowtow over and over and over.

It must have been a hand grabbing hold of my queue that brought my head banging to a halt. I struggled to keep connecting with the heated floor, but was stopped by a voice behind me:

“No more kowtows. The Old Buddha has asked you a question.”

Peals of laughter erupted up ahead, and I was by then so disoriented that I looked up. And there, in front of my eyes, on a throne sat an old lady whose body radiated light. The words “I deserve death” slipped from my mouth. Seated in front of me was the wise, ageless Empress Dowager, the Old Buddha Herself. A question floated slowly down from on high:

“I asked you, Slay-master, what is your name?”

“Your servant is Zhao Jia.”

“Where are you from?”

“Your servant is from Gaomi County in Shandong Province.”

“How many years have you plied your trade?”

“Forty years.”

“How many people have you put to death?”

“Nine hundred eighty-seven.”

“Ah! You must be a death-dealing demon king!”

“Your servant deserves death.”

“Why should you deserve death? Those whose heads you detached are the ones who deserved death.”

“Yes.”

“I say, Zhao Jia, when you kill someone, are you afraid?”

“I was at first, but no longer.”

“What did you do for Yuan Shikai in Tianjin?”

“Your servant went to Tianjin to carry out a slicing death for Excellency Yuan.”

“You mean carving up a living person so he will suffer before he dies?”

“Yes.”

“The Emperor and I have decided to abolish the slicing death punishment. Are We not expected to initiate reforms? Well, this is one of them. Is that not right, Your Majesty?”

“Yes.” It was a melancholy sound that floated over to me, and when I boldly looked up, I saw someone in a chair to the left and a bit ahead of the Empress Dowager. He was wearing a bright yellow robe, a golden dragon with glittering scales embroidered on the chest, and a tall hat whose centerpiece was a sparkling pearl the size of a hen’s egg. The face beneath that hat was large and as white as fine porcelain. The August Ruler, the Son of Heaven, Emperor of the Great Qing Dynasty. Of course I knew that he had fallen out of favor with the Empress Dowager over the commotion caused by Kang Youwei and his fellow reformers, but that did nothing to alter the fact that He was the Emperor. Long live His Majesty the Emperor, may He live forever and ever! The Emperor said:

“What my august progenitor says is true.”

“Yuan Shikai has said that you desire to return to your native home in retirement.”

The sarcastic tone in the Empress Dowager’s comment was unmistakable, and I felt two of my three souls departing in abject fear. “Your humble servant deserves to die ten thousand deaths,” I said. “Your humble servant is a pig and a dog, and has no right to cause the Old Buddha any concern. But your humble servant is not thinking of himself alone. It is his thought that while an executioner may be demeaned, the work he performs is not, and as such he is a symbol of national power. We are a nation with a thousand laws, but in the end it is we who enforce them. Your humble servant ventures to propose that executioners be included in the personnel ranks of the Board of Punishments with a monthly wage, and hopes for the creation of a retirement system for executioners, who can subsist on a national pension and not be reduced to wandering the streets in poverty. Your humble servant… humble servant hopes as well for the creation of a hereditary system for executioners, so that this ancient profession will be viewed as an honorable one…”

A stately cough by the Empress Dowager sent shivers through me. I stopped talking, went back to kowtows, and said over and over:

“Your humble servant deserves death… humble servant deserves death…”

“What he says is sensible and has merit,” the Empress Dowager said. “No single trade may be excluded from the list of professions. It is said that every profession has its zhuangyuan. Zhao Jia, in my view, you are the zhuangyuan of your profession.”

“By investing me with the designation zhuangyuan of my profession, the Empress Dowager brought me immeasurable glory.” More kowtows.

“Zhao Jia, you have put many people to death on behalf of the Great Qing Empire, which has brought you credit for hard work, if not for good work, and has earned praise from Yuan Shikai and Li Lianying. So I shall break from precedent and award you a grade seven medallion for your cap and allow you to return home in retirement.” The Empress Dowager tossed a ring of sandalwood prayer beads at my feet and said, “Lay down your knife and turn at once to a life of Buddhist contemplation.”

My kowtows continued.

“How about Your Majesty?” she asked. “Should you not reward him with something for all the people he has put to death for us, including those running dogs of yours whose heads he lopped off?”

I sneaked a glance at His Majesty, who, clearly flustered, got to His feet and said:

“We have nothing prepared. What do you suggest We reward him with?”

“I think, maybe,” the Empress Dowager said with a distinct chill, “You should give him the chair You have just vacated!”

Xiaojia sat on the rustling straw mat, leaning against a tent post as the night deepened. He looked like an oversized rabbit, his eyes dim with sleep. Flames in the belly of the stove flickered on his young face, and words that sometimes sounded foolish and sometimes not emerged from his grease-encrusted mouth to find their way into my recollections and my narrative—”Dieh, what does the Emperor look like?”—creating a close link between my recollections and narrative and the scene and situation we faced. “Dieh, does the Empress Dowager have breasts?”—All of a sudden, I smelled something burning in the sesame oil cauldron. With shocking clarity, I realized what was happening. My god, boiling oil is not boiling water! Water cooks something till it is soft; oil can burn it to a crisp! I jumped up off the mat and shouted:

“Come with me, son!”

I bounded over to the cauldron, reached into the oil barehanded—no time to worry about tongs—and fished out the two sandalwood spears, holding them up to a lantern to check them carefully. They had a dark, muted sheen and a powerful fragrance. I saw no singed spots. They burned my hands, so I laid them on a piece of cloth to rub them and turn them over and over, thanking my lucky stars there were no burn marks. The beef, on the other hand, was not so fortunate; I scooped out the burned pieces and threw them away, just as the chief yamen attendant sidled up and asked enigmatically: