Antonio Garrido - The Corpse Reader

Ming carried out the introductions. Cí would be living with these students from now on, all of them vying to join the Imperial Judiciary. Mainly they were aristocratic youths, though their long nails and neat haircuts reminded Cí of courtesans more than anything. There were some disdainful looks, but everyone greeted Cí courteously enough—everyone except the student who stood on his own in the corner. When Ming noticed, he called Gray Fox over. The youth with the distinctive gray-streaked hair approached apathetically.

“I see you don’t share your peers’ curiosity,” said Ming.

“I don’t see what there is to be interested in. I’m here to study, not to be seduced by some swindling beggar.”

“Wonderful, dear boy, wonderful…because you’re going to have the chance to observe Cí up close and check exactly how much truth there is in what he does.”

“Me? I don’t understand.”

“You two are going to be roommates. You’ll share books and a bunk.”

“But Master! I can’t live with some peasant!”

“Silence!” spat Ming. “In this academy, money, business, and family influence don’t matter. Obey me and greet Cí, or go and pack your bags!”

Gray Fox bowed his head, but his eyes drilled into Cí. Then he asked for permission to retire. Ming said he could, but as Gray Fox reached the door, Ming had one more thing to say.

“Before you go, you can pick up that licorice you saw fit to spit on the tiles.”

Cí spent the rest of the day finding out about the daily routine at the academy. He’d be up early for classes all morning; then there would be a brief break for lunch followed by debates in the afternoon and evening. After dinner he’d work in the library to pay for his stay. Ming explained that although the university boards had closed the Faculty of Medicine, part of the program was still dedicated to medical knowledge and, specifically, to causes of death. Sometimes they’d go and sit in on judicial assemblies when they examined corpses, and sometimes they’d attend criminal proceedings to learn firsthand about criminal behavior.

“Exams are four times a year. We have to make sure students are advancing as expected. If not, we initiate proceedings for the expulsion of those who aren’t showing themselves worthy of our efforts. Remember,” said Ming, “your place here is entirely provisional.”

“Don’t worry; you won’t catch me acting like some rich kid.”

“Let me give you some advice. Don’t be fooled just because the other students dress well; don’t confuse their appearance with anything like indolence. Yes, they come from elite families, but they also study extremely hard. If you go up against them, I can assure you they’ll shred you like a rabbit.”

Cí acquiesced. Nonetheless, he doubted that the force of the other students’ motivation was anywhere near as strong as his own.

That evening, the academy assembled in the Apricot Room for dinner, which was adorned with exquisite silks depicting landscapes with summerhouses and fruit trees. All the students had already sat down in groups by the time Cí arrived. He looked hungrily at the abundance of soups, fried fish, sauces, and fruits, but when he tried to sit down at a table, the students there shifted so that there wasn’t any space for him. The same happened at the next table, and the next. It didn’t take long for Cí to work out whose orders they were following; there, at the back of the room, he saw Gray Fox, glaring at him with a sarcastic half-smile.

Cí knew that if he backed down, he’d get this sort of treatment for the rest of his time at the academy. He walked over to Gray Fox’s table and, before the students could do what the other tables had done, planted a foot in the empty place. The students on either side shot him ferocious looks, but he squeezed in between them and took the seat. As soon as he did, Gray Fox spoke up.

“You aren’t welcome at this table.”

Cí ignored him. He took some soup and began sipping at the bowl.

“Didn’t you hear?” said Gray Fox, more loudly now.

“Oh, I heard,” said Cí.

“The fact that you don’t know who your father is,” said Gray Fox, “must mean you don’t know who mine is, either.”

Cí put the bowl down, placed his hands on the table and stood up slowly.

“Now you listen to me,” he said in a quiet voice. He had the whole table’s attention. “If you value your tongue, my advice is that you prevent it from ever daring to mention my father again. If you do, you’ll be speaking to the world in sign language from that point on.” Then he sat down and carried on eating as if nothing had happened.

Gray Fox’s face lit up with rage. Without a word, he got up from the table and fled the dining room.

Cí congratulated himself. His opponent had only made a fool of himself in front of everyone. He knew it wouldn’t be their only encounter, but it had been no simple thing to overcome him in public.

By nightfall the tension had increased. The room they were supposed to be sharing was a small cubicle divided by a paper panel. The only privacy to be had was in the small amount of space where the lantern light didn’t fall. There was barely room for the two beds, let alone the two small tables and two wardrobes, their personal possessions, and books. Gray Fox’s side was overflowing with silk robes and a splendid collection of beautifully bound books. Cí’s just had cobwebs. He brushed these aside and placed his father’s book on his shelf. Then he knelt down and, under Gray Fox’s disdainful gaze, prayed for his family. Gray Fox began changing into his night-clothes, and Cí did the same. Though it was hopeless in such a small space, he tried to hide his scars.

They both got into their beds without a word. Cí listened to Gray Fox’s breathing and couldn’t sleep. His head was buzzing—with thoughts of his family and this opportunity, which Gray Fox seemed determined to ruin. How could he quench this animosity between them? Maybe the best thing was to ask Ming’s advice. With this decision, his thoughts calmed and he began to drift off, but then he heard a hiss from his roommate.

“Hey, freak! So this is your secret, eh? You might be clever, but you’re also revolting like a cockroach.” He laughed. “It’s hardly surprising you read bodies, when your own looks like a rotten corpse!”

Cí didn’t answer. He gritted his teeth and tried not to pay attention to the rage bubbling in his stomach. He wrapped himself in his blanket and cursed his disgusting scars and the condition that meant he never felt pain. Gray Fox was right—he was an aberration.

But just before finally dropping off to sleep, he suddenly had the thought that perhaps his burns might present some way of reconciling with Gray Fox. And with that hopeful idea, he was asleep.

Every day, Cí got up earlier than anyone else and stayed up later, going over the day’s lessons long after he finished work at the library. He spent his few moments of free time rereading his father’s copy of the penal code, trying to commit to memory the criminal chapters in particular.

Whenever he could, he accompanied Ming on his hospital visits. There were always many herbalists, acupuncturists, and moxibustion practitioners, but very few surgeons, in spite of the obvious need for them. Confucianism prohibited interventions inside patients’ bodies, and so surgery was permitted only in the most serious cases: open fractures, deep wounds, and amputations. Unlike his colleagues, Ming showed a rare interest in advanced medicine, and he complained bitterly about the closure of the Faculty of Medicine.