Antonio Garrido - The Corpse Reader

Xu had some expertise when it came to the dead. He knew how to figure out how bruises might have come about and how to discern what job a person had done. He’d developed a familiarity with corpses though years working at the cemetery and helping with cremations at the Buddhist monastery; he’d even worked at one time as a gravedigger at the prisons in Sichuan, where torture and death were commonplace. He had much of the practical experience Cí lacked.

“Did I see executions there!” he bragged. “Proper killings they were—none of this kid stuff. If prisoners’ families didn’t bring them food, neither did the government.”

Of course, this reminded Cí of Lu’s awful death. It was some comfort to know it probably wouldn’t have been any better for him if he had survived and made it to Sichuan.

Cí, as hungry for knowledge as ever, tried to glean as much information from Xu as he could, but he also had to study if he was to stand a chance with the Imperial exams. As winter approached, he mentioned to Xu that he wanted to buy more books.

“Fine by me,” said Xu. “But it comes out of your wages.”

Even though the price of food and medicine was rising, Cí still had ample money to keep Third fed and medicated. He could get the books, but after working such long days he didn’t have much time to study.

Spring came to Lin’an, and Cí had become calmer and more confident in his work. He could immediately identify the purplish bruising from a blunt instrument; he could distinguish the smell of rotting flesh from the sweeter smell of gangrene; his fingers were more proficient in finding hard spots beneath skin tissue, the little ulcers of a rope burn on someone’s neck, the tenderness of old age, moxibustion burns, even the tiny scars made by acupuncture needles.

He was feeling more and more sure of himself.

And that was his big mistake.

On a rainy day in April, a large retinue of well-dressed nobles made their way up the cemetery hill carrying a coffin. Two servants came ahead of them to ask Xu about determining the cause of death. The man, who had been an official in the War Ministry, had died following a long illness, but its cause was unclear, and they wanted to know if the death could have been avoided.

Xu negotiated a price and fetched Cí from the grave he was working to repair. Cí’s clothes were filthy and he wanted time to change, but Xu told him they had to hurry and that he should get his mask and come immediately. Cí realized the gloves he’d been using to hide his scarred hands were covered in mud.

And I left the other pair on the houseboat.

He couldn’t afford to let himself be identified by his scars.

“You know I can’t do it without the gloves,” he said.

“Damn it, Cí. Hide them—put them up your ass for all I care. You could do it with your hands tied behind your back nowadays.”

He should have said no, but his increased confidence led him to agree. From what Xu had told him, Cí figured old age would probably be the cause of death, which would eliminate the need for much examination. He put the mask on in the pavilion and went out to receive the cortege while keeping his hands tucked into his sleeves. He took one look at the corpse and knew a stroke had killed the man.

Fine. We’ll just do our routine.

He bowed to the retinue and approached the coffin. The neck was swollen, the wrinkled face was peaceful, and the funeral outfit smelled of incense and sandalwood. There was nothing out of the ordinary. He didn’t need to handle the body. All the family wanted was something specific, and that was what he’d give them. Making sure his hands were well hidden, he pretended to examine the face, neck, and ears, passing his sleeves across them.

“Death by stroke,” he announced finally.

The family members bowed in thanks, and Cí bowed back. Straightforward. But as he withdrew, there was a shout behind him.

“Take him!”

Before he knew it, two men had grabbed him and a third was searching him.

“What is it?” asked Cí, struggling.

“Where is it?” one of them said. “Where have you put it?”

“We saw the way you were hiding your hands under your sleeves,” said another. “Thief!”

Cí looked to Xu for help, but Xu was keeping his distance, looking out for himself as always. His captors demanded he give back the pearl brooch he’d stolen. Of course, he hadn’t stolen it, but Cí knew they wouldn’t believe anything he said. They stripped him naked and found nothing—still they weren’t satisfied. They threw his clothes in his face and told him to cover himself.

“You’d better tell us where it is; otherwise you’re getting a beating.”

A boy had already been sent into town to report him to the authorities, but the rest of the family didn’t seem willing to wait. The two men twisted Cí’s arms behind him.

“I didn’t take anything! I barely even touched him!”

A punch to the stomach doubled him over. He gasped for air.

“Give it back. Or you’re dead.”

Another man approached with a noosed rope. Cí cried out, “It’s a mistake. I haven’t taken anything!” He felt a knot being tied around his throat. Then an imperious voice boomed out.

“Let him go!”

The men took their hands off Cí as the head of the family stepped forward.

“You don’t know how sorry I am,” said the man, bowing remorsefully. “I just found it in the coffin. It must have fallen off in transit.”

Cí said nothing. He dusted himself off and walked away.

That night he lay on the roof of the houseboat and meditated on the incident, which was a reminder that he was walking a fine line in this work. The slightest slip—even paying more attention to hiding the burns on his hands than anything else—could mean serious trouble.

Not a good day. Soon it would be the New Year, and he’d turn twenty-one. The violence felt like a bad omen.

Two days later, things went from bad to worse.

He and Xu were polishing a coffin in the Eternal Mausoleum when they heard a strange murmuring outside. At first Cí attributed it to the man who hummed incessantly when he raked the leaves. Soon, though, he realized the sounds were coming from dogs. His hair stood on end; his last encounter with a dog had been with Sheriff Kao’s hound, and people didn’t typically bring dogs into the cemetery. He hurried over to the door and peeked out.

Kao was heading up the hill with a bloodhound. Instinctively, Cí crouched down.

“I need your help!” he implored Xu. “The man who’s coming—go and stall him for me. I need to figure out what to do.”

Xu looked outside. “A sheriff! You in some kind of trouble?”

“No! Just don’t let him know I’m here.”

“And what about the dog?”

“Please, Xu, I’m begging you!”

Xu went outside just as Kao reached the mausoleum entrance. Xu stood back as Kao restrained the dog.

“Lovely animal,” he said, shutting the door behind him and bowing. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“I suppose so,” growled Kao. “Are you the man they call the fortune-teller?”

“Yes, Xu is my name.”

“A couple of days ago a robbery was reported. Do you know anything about it? They said a brooch was stolen here in the cemetery.”

“Oh, that! Let me see…Yes, it was all a big misunderstanding. There was a family, prickly they were, and they thought we’d taken a brooch from a corpse. But it was found—it had just fallen into the coffin. That was all.”