Antonio Garrido - The Corpse Reader

“I bought it from some ruffian at the market. When you and I met at the cemetery, I thought I recognized you, but I couldn’t place you. But I went to the book market last week, as I do every week, and this unique edition caught my eye—it stood out at what was a fairly insalubrious stall. I had a feeling you’d show up here sooner or later, so I bought it.” He frowned and put a hand to his temple, meditating on what to say next. “Dear boy. I have a feeling I might regret this, but in spite of your lies, the offer still stands.” He picked up the book. “There’s no doubt in my mind that you have exceptional qualities. It would be such a shame for them to be…dissolved among the mediocrity. If you are truly willing to do as you’re told…” He handed Cí the book. “Here. It’s yours.”

Trembling, Cí took the book. He found it difficult to comprehend what was happening. Ming might know about his father, but he didn’t seem to know about Kao. He got down on his knees to thank Ming, but Ming told him to get up.

“Don’t thank me now. Now is when your work begins.”

“You won’t regret it, sir.”

“I hope not, boy. I hope not.”

Cí met his classmates-to-be in the Honorable Debating Hall, the lavish auditorium where debates were held and exams were taken. When there was a new student, it was traditional to give the professors and students an opportunity to meet him and express any concerns about his entering the academy. Standing in front of what seemed like hundreds and hundreds of piercing gazes, Cí tried to stay calm.

The room was silent as Professor Ming entered, bowed to the other professors and the students in the room, and then took his place at a podium. He related the story of the encounter in the cemetery, the meeting that had allowed him to witness Cí’s talents. He referred to Cí as the Corpse Reader and defined his practice as “an unfathomable mix of sorcery and erudition.” Ming said that perhaps with training and study—stressing the perhaps —the boy might shine. These were his reasons for inviting Cí to join the academy.

When the professor was asked about the applicant’s origins, Cí was surprised to hear Ming recount the story about his memory loss and his last few years as a butcher and gravedigger.

Then Cí was invited to the podium. He looked around in vain for a friendly face. There were only cold glares. He was asked about his knowledge of the classics, about law, and about what he knew of poetry. A wiry professor with bushy eyebrows led the comments.

“Our colleague, Professor Ming, was clearly dazzled by your reading of the corpse. He has heaped praise on you. And I don’t blame him; it can often be difficult to distinguish the brilliance of gold from the radiance of base metal. It seems that the accuracy of your examination and predictions have led Ming to think you’re some kind of visionary, and that qualifies you to stand alongside those of us who have spent our lives studying the arts. None of this surprises me. Ming’s passion for bodily organs is well known.

“But what you have to understand is that to solve crimes and bring justice to the dead, it takes much more than merely knowing who committed a crime and how . Truth lies in motivation —what could motivate a man to commit crimes?—and an understanding of people’s preoccupations, their situations. Their reasons are not to be found in wounds and entrails. They are to be found through an understanding of art and literature.”

The professor had a point, but his absolute contempt for medicine was too much. There was some truth in what he said, but if a judge couldn’t distinguish a natural death from a murder in the first place, how on earth could justice ever be done? Cí considered how best to express his opinion.

“Honorable professor, I’m not here to win a battle. I can’t possibly hope to prevail with the little that I know, nor compare my knowledge with that of the masters and students here. I only want to learn. Knowledge itself knows no limits, no compartmentalizing. Nor does it know prejudice. If you allow me to join the academy, I swear I will give everything to my studies, even leaving aside the question of wounds and entrails if I have to.”

A pudgy professor with a pinched mouth raised his hand to speak. His breathing was heavy, and the few steps he took to come forward left him out of breath. He crossed his hands over his belly as he considered Cí for a few long moments.

“It seems that you tarnished this institution’s honor yesterday, bursting in here like a savage. It brings to mind a saying about a man: ‘Yes, he might be a thief, but he’s also a wonderful flutist.’ Do you know what my reply to that is? ‘Fine. He might be a wonderful flutist, but first and foremost he’s a thief.’” The professor licked his lips and scratched his greasy hair. “What part of this truth do you embody? That of the man who disobeys rules but reads bodies, or he who reads bodies but disobeys rules? Further, can you tell me why we should accept a vagabond like you into the empire’s most respectable academy?”

These questions surprised and worried Cí. He’d thought that, since Ming was the director of the academy, his opinion would prevail. Given the circumstances, though, he decided to change his approach.

“Venerable master,” he said, bowing. “I beg your forgiveness of my unacceptable behavior yesterday. It came out of feeling powerless and desperate. I know this is no excuse, and that the most important thing is for me to demonstrate that I’m worthy of your confidence. So, first, I must ask for your indulgence; I’m a country boy, and I’m eager to learn. Isn’t that what the academy is about? If I already knew all the rules, if I didn’t have the thirst for knowledge, why would I want to study? And how could I then avoid the things that make me imperfect?

“This is the greatest opportunity I’ve ever had. I promise you, I swear, I won’t let you down.”

The pudgy professor took a couple of wheezy breaths; then, nodding, he went slowly back to his place, giving the floor to the last professor. The old, stooped man with dim eyes asked Cí why he had accepted Ming’s invitation.

“Because it’s my dream.”

The old professor shook his head. “Is that all? There was a man who dreamed of flying to the heavens, but after throwing himself off a cliff, he ended up a pile of broken bones on the rocks.”

Cí looked in the old man’s eyes. “When we want something we’ve seen, all we have to do is reach out for it. But when we want something we’ve only dreamed of, it’s our heart we have to stretch.”

“Are you sure? Sometimes our dreams lead us to fall—”

“Possibly. But if our ancestors hadn’t dreamed of better things, we’d still be dressing in rags. My father said to me once”—Cí’s voice quavered at this—“if I was striving to build a palace in the clouds, not to bother. That was clearly where I was meant to be. All I should do is try to build the foundations.”

“Your father? How strange! Ming said you’d lost your memory.”

Cí bit his lip and his eyes moistened.

“That’s the single memory I have.”

The auditorium was swarming with students whispering in excited circles. What was the Corpse Reader’s full name? What was the secret that meant he didn’t have to go through the usual selection process? Some talked about him as a sorcerer; others said he’d learned his skills in a slaughterhouse. But one student kept himself apart and didn’t join in the discussions. When Cí came in with Professor Ming, Gray Fox spat his piece of licorice on the floor and, casting Cí a poisonous look, moved farther away.