Mo Yan - Sandalwood Death

“Something wrong, Laoye?”

“No.”

“That’s good.”

“Old Song,” my son cut in, “my dad is a grade seven official, so I am not afraid of you people anymore! If you harass me in the future, I’ll see that a bullet has your name on it.” My son pointed a finger at Song’s head. “Pow! There go your brains!”

“Young Brother Xiaojia, when did I ever harass you?” Song Three said inscrutably. “Even if your father were not a grade seven official, I would never think of making things difficult for you. If your wife were to utter a single word against me to Magistrate Qian, I would be kicked out of the yamen.”

“Don’t you know he’s not quite right, you foolish man?”

I could see a number of yayi standing in the shadows of the stage and the Ascension Platform. I lowered the fire under the cauldron and added oil. Then I carefully put my precious spears back into the cauldron, reminding myself, Pay attention, Old Zhao. Wild geese leave behind their cry; men leave behind a name. You need only carry out this sandalwood execution with perfection to live up to your designation as the zhuangyuan of executioners. If you fail, your name will die with you.

I draped the Empress Dowager’s sandalwood prayer beads around my neck, got up out of the Emperor’s chair, and looked heavenward, where a scattering of stars twinkled and the moon, like a silver platter, was rising in the east. That extraordinary brightness put me on edge, as if something monumental were about to happen, a feeling that persisted until it occurred to me that it was the fourteenth day of the eighth month and that the next day, the fifteenth, was the Mid-Autumn Festival, a day for families to come together. How lucky you are, Sun Bing, that Excellency Yuan has chosen that auspicious day for you to receive your punishment! In the light of the flames beneath the cauldron and the bright moonlight above, I watched the two sandalwood spears tumble in the oil like a pair of angry black snakes. I picked one out of the oil with a white cloth—taking care not to damage it—unimaginably sleek, it glistened with beads of oil that flowed to the tip and then formed liquid threads that fell silently back into the cauldron, where they coagulated and exuded a pleasant scorched aroma. It felt heavier in my hand now that it had absorbed so much fragrant oil; it was no longer the same piece of wood, but had taken on the characteristics of a hard, slippery, and exquisite instrument of death.

While I was taking solitary pleasure in admiring the spear, Song Three sneaked up behind me and said in a spiteful tone: “Laoye, why are you taking such pains simply to impale the man?”

I looked askance at him and snorted disdainfully. How could he understand what I was doing? He was good only for flaunting the power of his superior to oppress and extort money from the common people.

“You really ought to go home and get a good night’s sleep and leave these trivial matters to us.” Tailing along behind me, he added: “That son of a bitch Sun Bing is no one to take lightly. He’s skillful and courageous, a man of substance who refuses to blame others for his actions. It was his misfortune to have been born in Gaomi, an insignificant little place that gave him no room to put his talents to good use.” Song Three was clearly trying to ingratiate himself with me. “You have been away for many years, Laoye, and there is much about your qinjia that you do not know. He and I were friends for many years, so close that I can tell you how many moles he has on his you-know-what.”

I had seen too many people like this fellow—toadies and bullies who know how to say what you want to hear, whoever you are, man or demon—but I was in no mood to expose him for what he was, not then; allowing him to carry on behind me served a purpose.

“Sun Bing is a man of extraordinary talents. Words flow from his mouth as if written by a scholar, and he is endowed with a flawless memory. If only he knew how to read and write, he could be a capped scholar ten times over. Some years back,” Song Three continued, “when Old Qin’s mother died, they asked Sun Bing’s troupe to perform in the mourning hall. Qin and Sun were good friends—Qin’s mother was Sun’s ganniang—and Sun sang the funeral passages with deep emotion. But it was more than that—not only did his singing break the hearts of the filial descendants, they heard a pounding sound emerge from the coffin itself; the gathered descendants and people who had dropped by out of curiosity nearly died of fright, their faces a ghostly white. Isn’t that what’s called shocking the dead back to life? Well, Sun Bing walked up to his ganniang’s bier, opened the lid in grand fashion, and the old lady sat up, light streaming from her eyes, like a pair of lanterns tearing through the dark curtain of night. Then Sun Bing sang these lines: ‘When I call out Ganniang, listen carefully as your son sings “Chang Mao Wails at the Bier.” If you have not lived enough, get up and live some more. If you have, then when my song is finished, fly to heaven, away from here.’ Sun Bing kept changing roles, from the sheng to the dan, weeping one moment and laughing the next, interspersed with all sorts of cat cries, turning the bier into a living, lively opera stage. All the filial descendants put aside their grief, while the casual spectators forgot that an old lady, just brought back from the dead, was sitting up in her coffin, listening to the performance. When Sun Bing sang the final high note, which hung in the air like the tail of a kite, Old Lady Qin slowly closed her eyes, released a contented sigh, and fell back into her coffin like a toppled wall. That is the story of how Sun Bing sang someone back from the dead. And there is more: he can also sing the living to death. Old Lady Qin is the only person he ever sang back from the dead, but the bastard has sung more living people to death than there are stars in the sky.” While he was spouting his story, Song Three sidled over to the cauldron, reached in, and snatched a piece of beef. “This beef of yours,” he said with an impudent smile, “has a wonderful flavor—”

Before he could finish what he was going to say, I saw the bastard straighten up as something erupted on his head and he tumbled into the cauldron of boiling oil. While my eyes were riveted on the scene in front of me, my ears pounded from the explosion of bone, and my nose was assailed by the smell of gunpowder merging with the sesame-enhanced smell of sandalwood. I knew immediately what had happened: someone had fired a shot in ambush, one meant for me. The greedy Song Three had been my unwitting stand-in.