Antonio Garrido: The Corpse Reader

Cí followed the judge to an annex where his personal assistant, a silent man with traces of Mongol in him, kept watch. Sergeant Bao-Pao was inside, along with Shang’s widow and sons—and Shang’s corpse. Seeing it, Cí couldn’t help but retch. The family had positioned it on a wooden chair as if Shang were still alive, the body upright and the head stitched to the neck with reeds. Despite the fact he had been washed, perfumed, and dressed, he still resembled a bloody scarecrow. Judge Feng paid his respects to the family and asked their permission to inspect the body, which the eldest son granted.

“Remember what you have to do?” Feng asked Cí as he approached the body.

Cí remembered perfectly well. He took a sheet of paper, an inkstone, and his best brush from his bag. Then he sat on the floor next to the corpse. Feng, commenting that it was unfortunate they’d already washed the corpse, came closer and began his work.

“I, Judge Feng, in this, the twenty-second moon of the month of the Lotus, in the second year of the era of Kaixi and the fourteenth of the reign of our beloved Ningzong, Heaven’s Son and honored emperor of the Tsong dynasty, with the relevant family authorization, undertake the preliminary investigation, auxiliary to that which should be carried out no less than four hours after the notice of death to the magistrate of the Jianningfu Prefecture. In the presence of Cheng Li, the deceased’s eldest son; the widow, Mrs. Li; and the two other male children, Ze and Xin; as well as Bao-Pao, the local sergeant; and my assistant Cí as witness.”

Cí noted down the dictation, repeating out loud each of Feng’s words.

Feng continued, “The deceased, name Shang Li, son and grandson of Li. According to his eldest son, fifty-eight years of age at the time of death. Accountant, farmworker, carpenter. Last seen the day before yesterday, midday, having attended to his work in Bao-Pao’s warehouse, where we are now. His son declares that the deceased did not appear to have been ill, showed only the normal signs of aging, and had no known enemies.”

Feng looked over to the son, who confirmed the facts, and then Feng asked Cí to recite his notes.

“Due to an oversight by his family,” continued Feng disapprovingly, “the body has already been washed and clothed. They have confirmed that when it was brought to them, the body had no wounds other than the large cut that separated the head from the body—undoubtedly the cause of death. The mouth is exaggeratedly wide open, and”—he tried, unsuccessfully, to shut it—“there is rigidity in the jaw.”

“Aren’t you going to undress it?” Cí asked, surprised.

“That won’t be necessary,” Feng said, pointing to the neck cut and waiting for Cí to answer.

“Double cut?” suggested Cí.

“Double cut, the same as with pigs when they’re bled out…”

Cí leaned forward to look at the wound. At the front, where the Adam’s apple would have been, there was a clean, horizontal notch. Then the cut grew wider and showed teeth marks like those of a slaughterhouse handsaw. He was about to say something when Feng asked him to relate the circumstances in which he had found the body. Cí did so with as much detail as he could remember. When he finished, the judge gave him a severe look.

“And the cloth?”

“The cloth?”

How could I have forgotten?

“You disappoint me, Cí, something you never used to do.” The judge was quiet for a moment. “As you should already know, the open mouth is not that of someone crying out for help or in pain; if it had been either, the mouth would have shut with the loosening of the muscles that follows death. An object must have been introduced into the mouth before or immediately following the death and must have remained there until the muscles seized up. With respect to the type of object, I presume—noticing the bloody threads still between the teeth—we are talking about some kind of linen cloth.”

The reproach hurt Cí. A year earlier he would never have made that sort of mistake, but he was out of practice. He rummaged in his jacket pocket.

“I meant to give it to you,” he apologized, handing over the carefully folded piece of material.

Now it was Feng’s turn to examine it carefully; the material was gray, stained with dried blood, and about the size of a head scarf. The judge tagged it as evidence.

“Conclude the notes and put my stamp on it. Then make a copy for the magistrate when he comes.”

Feng bid farewell to the others and left the annex. It was raining again. Cí hurried after him and caught up just as they reached the Bao-Pao residence.

“The documents…” stammered Cí.

“Leave them over there on the night table.”

“Judge Feng, I—”

“Don’t worry yourself, Cí. When I was your age I couldn’t tell the difference between a murder by crossbow and one by hanging.”

Cí felt sure the judge was only saying this to make him feel better.

He watched the judge as he organized his certificates. Cí wanted to have even half Feng’s wisdom, decency, and knowledge. He wanted Feng as his teacher again, but there was no chance of that as long as he was trapped in this village. He had no idea how to get out. When Feng put the last piece of paper away, Cí asked about his father’s taking his old job back, but the judge shook his head resignedly.

“That’s between your father and me.”

Cí moved hesitantly among Feng’s possessions. “We talked about it last night and he told me…The thing is, I thought we’d be coming back to Lin’an, but…”

Cí was on the edge of tears. The older man took a deep breath and placed a hand on Cí’s shoulder. “Cí, I don’t know if I should tell you this—”

“Please.”

“All right, but you must promise to keep it to yourself.” Cí nodded, and Feng collapsed into a chair. “I only made this trip on account of your family. Your father wrote to me a few months ago communicating his intention to take up his post again, but now that I’ve made the trip to see him, he won’t hear of it. I tried to insist; I offered him a comfortable job with a good wage; I even offered him a house in the capital. But he refused, and I have no idea why.”

“Why can’t you take me, though? If it’s about forgetting the cloth, I promise I’ll work hard. I’ll work myself to the bone if I have to; I won’t shame you again! I—”

“Truly, Cí, the problem is not you. You know how highly I think of you. You’re loyal, and I’d be more than pleased to have you back as my assistant. I said the same to your father; I talked about your prospects. He won’t budge. I’m truly sorry.”

Cí didn’t know what to say.

There was a clap of thunder in the distance. Feng slapped Cí on the back.

“I had big plans for you, Cí. I even reserved you a place at the university.”

“Imperial University?” Cí was wide-eyed; this was his dream.

“Your father didn’t tell you? I thought he would have.”

Cí thought his legs might collapse. He felt utterly cheated.

3

Judge Feng was needed to help interrogate some of the village residents, so he and Cí agreed to meet again after lunch. Cí wanted to visit Cherry, but he needed his father’s permission if he was going to miss work.

Before he went into the house, Cí commended himself to the gods and then entered without knocking. Startled by Cí’s return, his father dropped some documents, which he quickly gathered from the floor and put in a red lacquer chest.

“Shouldn’t you be out plowing?” he asked angrily, shoving the chest under a bed.