Antonio Garrido - The Corpse Reader

“Now,” he growled, “let’s hear this little story about magnets one more time.”

Cí hated swindlers, but he hated violent people even more. Moreover, this man seemed perfectly prepared to take his money.

“This is between us,” said Cí obstinately, even though the giant had him by the neck.

“The devil with both of you!” said the giant, flinging them against an old lattice screen, which broke into pieces.

As Cí struggled to his feet, the giant got astride the fortune-teller and began choking him. Cí leaped on the giant and punched him in the back, but it was like punching a brick wall. The giant threw him back toward the screen. Cí tasted blood on his lips.

The other patrons gathered around, eager for a fight. They started laying bets.

“Hundred-to-one odds on the giant,” announced a young man who appointed himself deposit taker.

“Put me down for two hundred!”

“A thousand!”

“Two thousand if he kills him!”

Cí knew that none of these wolves would help him; his life was in serious danger, and running wasn’t an option. Aside from his injured calf, he was surrounded, and the giant was on his feet, looking down at Cí as if he were a cockroach there to be stomped on. The giant spat on his hands and encouraged the crowd. Suddenly, Third popped into Cí’s mind, and he decided what to do.

“Well,” said Cí, “it won’t be the first time I’ve smacked a woman down.”

“What?” roared the giant. He swiped at Cí, who managed to hop out of the way, causing the giant to stumble.

“I’ll bet you’re more girl than man.”

“I’m going to rip out your guts and feed them to you!” Again the giant swiped at Cí, and again Cí dodged him.

“You’re worried about an injured man beating you. Bring us some knives!” Cí shouted.

“It’s your own grave you’re digging!” the giant sputtered as he grabbed someone’s gourd of liquor and downed it. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he brandished one of the knives that had been brought from the kitchen.

Cí checked his. It was razor sharp.

“What about a bet on the little guy?” called the boy taking bets. “Come on! I have to cover the bets. He moves quick…he might survive one attack.”

Laughter went around.

“ I’ll bet on me,” said Cí, to everyone’s amazement. “Eight hundred qián !” he said, staring directly at the fortune-teller.

The fortune-teller looked amazed, too. But after a moment, he nodded his assent. He rooted around for the money, and gave it to the taker.

“Fine,” said the deposit holder. “Anyone else? No? OK…Strip to the waist and get ready to fight!”

The giant smirked, then winked and bragged to someone in the crowd about how he was going to crush Cí. He dramatically removed his robes, revealing an alarmingly muscular torso, and then took a bowl of oil and poured it over his chest for greater effect.

“Shit yourself, have you?” said the giant.

Cí didn’t answer. With a ritual air, he placed his belongings in a neat pile. Knowing what he was about to do, he emanated calm. He took off his five-button tunic, and there—from waist to neck and all along his arms—was the thick tangle of scars for all to see. Proof of some atrocity. A stupefied murmur went around. Even the giant looked stunned.

“Ready!” said the taker, and a roar went up.

“Before we start,” yelled Cí, and the noise died down, “I want to offer this man the chance to save his life.”

“Save it for the grave!” said the giant.

“You’d be better off listening,” he said. “Or do you think someone with these scars would be easy to kill? I take no pleasure in executing my opponents. How about the Dragon Challenge instead?”

The giant blinked. The Dragon Challenge would put them on more even footing, but not many people dared take it on: it required having a pattern cut into oneself with a knife. The cut had to be both deep and long. And the first to cry out was the loser.

“I’ll do mine right over my heart,” said Cí, hoping to get the crowd on his side.

“You must think I’m stupid! Why would I want to be cut when I can crush you without suffering a single scratch?”

“Yes, yes—I don’t blame you.” Turning to the crowd, Cí raised his voice. “I’ve come across plenty of cowards just like you before!”

The giant could see from the people’s expressions what was at stake. If he turned down the challenge, his manliness would be in doubt.

“Fine, shrimp. But you’re gonna be swallowing your words along with your teeth.”

It was the bravado Cí had expected.

Another cheer went up.

Cí set out the rules: “The cuts start at the nipple, trace the outside in loops, carry on outward, going deeper all the time. We only stop when one of us cries out.”

“Agreed,” said the giant. “On one condition.” He looked at each person in the crowd, savoring the moment.

“Whoever wins gets to sink his knife into the other’s heart.”

13

“Ten thousand qián on the boy!”

Everyone, Cí included, turned around in astonishment to see who was placing this bet.

A murmur went around: “He’s mad! He’ll lose it all!”

But the fortune-teller wasn’t deterred. He took a bill from his wallet. The youth taking the deposits checked the bill’s authenticity. Once the amount was matched by other bettors, he struck a gong, signaling the preparation for the duel.

Cí and the giant stood a few feet apart, facing each other. The two cooks marked the knife blades to indicate how deep they should sink them. The giant, eyeing his blade as if it were a snake and he had to work out how venomous it was, drained the last of his liquor. He slammed the gourd down and ordered another.

Then the cooks painted on the combatants’ bodies the pattern their knives had to follow. The cook who was painting on Cí trembled when his brush crossed over a particularly thick scar.

Cí shut his eyes and prayed for the spirits to protect him. He’d taken part in a Dragon Challenge three years earlier. He’d won then, but it had nearly cost him his life. He knew there was a chance now that his lung could be punctured long before his opponent, with his thick layers of muscle and fat, was seriously injured. But in his mind it was still worth it: Third needed him to be victorious.

And so it began.

Cí swallowed. He didn’t feel the incision, but watched the blood bubbling out of his chest, dripping down his belly and onto his legs. While pain wasn’t an issue, the tricky part was staying calm: the slightest jolt and he’d lose the bet. He took slow, even breaths as the tip of the knife sliced through his skin.

He watched the other cook cut the giant, who flinched, but his sardonic smile showed Cí he was a serious opponent. The longer it went on, the closer death came.

The grooves grew increasingly deep, parting fat and flesh, beginning to slice the muscles and fascia. Cí feigned pain. The giant’s mouth was jammed shut, the strain in his jaw and neck apparent. He kept his enraged, pained eyes locked on Cí.

Looking down, Cí saw that the knifepoint had stopped directly over his heart. The cook had pushed too hard and hit a rib, and the knife was caught between it and the tough scar tissue. Seeing this, the giant seemed to think victory was almost his, and he shouted for yet another drink. Cí told his cook to continue—if he stopped for too long, that also could be taken as defeat.