Sandalwood Death (53 page)

“Beggars celebrate a festival in their own wretched way, ah~~”

He had the ideal voice for opera, with a unique lingering quality that made his listeners wonder whether they should laugh or cry. After he’d sung his last note, the other beggars responded with cat cries:

“Meow~~meow~~meow~~”

Then a few of the younger beggars imitated a cat fiddle as a prelude to a new aria:

“Li-ge-long-ge li-ge-long-ge long~~”

When they had finished the prelude, my throat began to itch, but this was not a day for me to sing. On the other hand, it certainly was for Hou Xiaoqi. Melancholy affects people everywhere, rulers and subjects, at least to some degree. Except for beggars. Hou Xiaoqi began anew:

“With boots on my head and a cap on my feet, come hear my topsy-turvy song~~meow~~meow~~Mother goes into mourning when her son gets married, a Magistrate travels afoot while in a chair we are carried~~meow~~meow~~a rat chases a cat that is harried, snow falls in midsummer and a city is buried~~meow~~meow~~”

A thought broke through the fog in my head that tomorrow was the fifteenth day of the eighth month, which meant that today, the fourteenth, was Beggars’ Day, celebrated throughout Gaomi County. On this day each year, beggars from all over the county parade three times past the official yamen. They sing Maoqiang opera the first time and perform acrobatics the next. On their third pass, they untie sacks from around their waists and, first on the south side of the avenue, then on the north, they approach women, young and old, standing in their doorways, to fill their sacks from proffered gourds and bowls, some with various grains, others with uncooked rice, and others still with rice noodles. When they come to our door each year, I dump greasy brass coins from a bamboo tube into a chipped ladle in the hands of a crafty little beggar who opens his throat to let loose a cry of gratitude: “Thank you, Ganniang, for that tip!” All those greedy eyes then turn to me, and I know what they want! But I cock my head, curl my lip, and flash a smile, letting my eyes sweep the crowd, getting a rise out of all those monkeys, which turn somersaults to the screaming delight of the children behind them and the onlookers lining the street. My husband, Xiaojia, takes greater pleasure in this festive day than the beggars themselves. He gets up bright and early and, without stopping to slaughter pigs or butcher dogs, falls in behind the parading beggars, dancing for joy, singing along with them one minute and making cat cries the next. Lacking the voice to sing Maoqiang, Xiaojia has a talent for cat cries, sounding like a tomcat one minute and a tabby the next, then a tomcat calling out to a tabby and a tabby calling out to her kittens, and finally lost kittens crying for their mother, this last call bringing tears to the eyes of anyone within earshot, like an orphan who longs for her mother.

Niang! How tragic you died so young, leaving your daughter to suffer torment alone. But your early passing spared you from the paralyzing anxiety and crippling fear for which my dieh must atone
. . .
I watched the contingent of beggars swagger past the imposing array of soldiers.
Hou Xiaoqi’s voice does not crack; the beggars’ cat cries never waver
. On the fourteenth day of the eighth month, beggars rule the roost in Gaomi County, and even my gandieh’s loyalists must quietly make way for their procession.
Beggars carry a rattan chair over their heads with Zhu Ba, the reprobate. He has worn a tall red-paper hat and a yellow satin dragon robe of late
. For a pauper, a commoner, or a minor bureaucrat to dress like that would have been a crime, one that would likely cost them their life. But Zhu Ba had license to overstep all authority, for the beggars had created their own kingdom, and freely did as they pleased. But this year there was a new twist: they escorted an empty chair—Zhu Ba was nowhere to be seen. Where had he gone?
Why is he not sitting imperiously in his Dragon Chair? Glory as great as an official in the top-tier range. Meiniang hears her heart skip a beat. The beggars this year, I think, are acting strange.

I, Meiniang, born and raised in Gaomi, came to the county town as a bride in my late teens. Before that, I sang Maoqiang opera in my father’s troupe, performing in all nine villages and eight hamlets. I’d come often to the county town, which seemed like a big place to me, and I have a vague recollection of my father teaching opera to the town’s beggars. I was still young then and wore my hair like a boy, which is what people thought I was. Actors and beggars, my father said, are alike. Beggars are no different than actors; actors are the same as beggars. Which is why beggars and I came together naturally. And why I saw nothing unusual in a beggars’ parade. But those German soldiers from Qingdao and the Imperial Guards from Jinan had never seen such a sight. They slapped the butts of their rifles, ready to confront the enemy, and then stood wide-eyed—some eyes round, some slanted—gawking at the bizarre, raucous assemblage of approaching humanity. But when the procession drew near, they loosened their grip on their weapons as odd, scrunched-up expressions crept onto their faces. Those of the Imperial Guards weren’t nearly as comical as those on the faces of the German soldiers, since they at least were familiar with the tunes emerging from Hou Xiaoqi’s mouth. To the Germans it was gibberish, all but the obvious cat cries mixed with lyrics. I knew they were wondering why all those people were yowling like cats. And while their attention was riveted on the parade of beggars, they forgot about the one person who wanted to storm the yamen gate—me. My brain was engaged. The moment had arrived, and I’d have been a fool to let it pass. Turn the gourd upside down, and the oil spills out. When opportunity falls into your lap, do not stand up. For me it was trying to catch fish in muddy water, frying beans in a hot skillet, adding salt to boiling oil. The chaos on the street was Meiniang’s invitation to dash through the gate.
Meiniang would crash the yamen gate to free her dieh from his prison cell. Though she be smashed like an egg against steel, her tale as a martyred daughter the people would tell.
I waited for the chance, my mind made up. Hou Xiaoqi’s gong rang out louder and louder; his topsy-turvy tune was getting increasingly dreary, and the cat-criers were holding out just fine, filling the air with their exaggerated yowls as they made faces at the soldiers and guards. When the procession got to where I was standing, as if on a signal, the beggars pulled cat skins out from under their clothes; large head-to-tail skins were draped over their shoulders, and smaller ones went on their heads. This unexpected, stupefying turn of events stunned the guards. I’d never get a better chance, so I stepped to the side and slipped between the German soldiers and the Imperial Guards, heading for the yamen gate. Momentarily dumbstruck, they quickly came to their senses and blocked my way with bayonets. But I would not be denied—the worst they could do was kill me—I was going into that yamen, bayonets or not. But at that critical moment, two powerful beggars pulled out of the procession, grabbed me by the arms, and dragged me back. I made a show of struggling to break free and run toward the bayonets, but a half-hearted one. Though not afraid to die, I was in no rush to do so now. I wouldn’t be able to close my eyes in death without seeing Qian Ding one last time. Truth is, I was like a poor donkey trying to walk down a flight of steps. With eerie shouts, the beggars surrounded me, and before I knew it, I was sitting in the rattan chair tied to a pair of bamboo poles. I fought to get down, but four strapping, grunting beggars hoisted the poles onto their shoulders, and I was up in the air, rising and falling with the motion of the chair beneath me. I felt a sudden sadness; tears filled my eyes. But that made the beggars happier, as their leader, Hou Xiaoqi, beat a frantic tattoo on his gong and raised his voice higher than ever:

“The street walks on people’s toes, a dog flies in tail to nose. Pick up the dog and hit a brick, the brick bites the hand of a man expecting a lick~~meow meow~~”

My beggar escort carried me southward, leaving the yamen gate behind. After slanting off the main road, we traveled another ninety paces or so until we were in front of the Temple of the Matriarch, whose roof tiles made a good bed for cattails, known locally as dogtail grass. The beggars had stopped singing and screeching once we were off the main road, for that is when they broke cadence and quickened their pace, and it was also the moment I realized that today’s procession was not about stocking up on provisions, but was all about me. If not for them, by then I’d likely have been lying dead, bayoneted by a German soldier.

My rattan chair was no sooner settled on the temple’s chipped and cracked stone steps than two of the beggars picked me up by the arms and bundled me into the dark confines.

“Is she with you?” a voice in the darkness asked.

“She is, Eighth Master!” said the two men who had carried me in.

There, on a tattered mat in front of the statue of the Matriarch, fumbling with something that gave off a bright green light, sat Zhu Ba.

“Light a candle!” he commanded.

His words hung in the air when a little beggar lit a piece of touch paper and with it the stubby half of a candle hidden behind the statue. Light suffused the temple’s interior, including the guano-covered face of the Matriarch. Zhu Ba pointed to the ratty mat he was sitting on.

“Have a seat.”

At this point, what could I say? I sat down without a whimper—I had to, since I had no feeling in my legs. My poor legs! Ever since Dieh was imprisoned, you’ve been running all over the place, leaping and jumping, until you’ve worn the soles right off your shoes . . . dear left leg, precious right leg, this has all been hard on you.

Zhu Ba stared holes in me, apparently waiting for me to say something. The green light from whatever he was fumbling with was now more muted, but thanks to the bright candlelight, I was able to discern that it was a gauzy sack that held hundreds of fireflies. For a moment I couldn’t imagine why this village elder was playing with bugs. Once I was settled on the mat, all the other beggars found places to sit, except for those who sprawled on the floor. But whether seated or lying down, none of them said a word, and that included Hou Xiaoqi’s sprightly little monkey, which squatted at his feet and limited itself to jerky movements of its head and clawed feet. Like Zhu Ba, they all had their eyes glued to me, and that too included the monkey. I greeted Zhu with a kowtow.

“Compassionate and merciful Master Zhu—!
Tears flow before a word she can say, the distressed young woman cannot find her way.
Please, Eighth Master, save my dieh from the Provincial Governor Yuan, the German von Ketteler, and the minor county official Qian Ding—
Three dignities a ruthless plan do make, to impale my dieh on a sandalwood stake
—the executioners will be my gongdieh, Zhao Jia, and my husband, Zhao Xiaojia. They are determined to make the process inhumanely cruel, forcing him to linger impaled between life and death for five days, until the rail line between Qingdao and Gaomi is completed. I beg Eighth Master to save him, and if that cannot be done, then to kill him with merciful speed. The foreign devils’ conspiracy must be foiled, oh, Eighth Master . . .”

“
I tell you, Meiniang, worry not; eat some mutton rolls while they are hot.”
Once he had sung these two lines, Eighth Master said, “These rolls did not come to us as alms. I sent a boy to buy them at the home of Jia Si.”

A young beggar dashed behind the Matriarch’s statue and emerged carrying an oilpaper packet in both hands. He placed it on the mat in front of me. Zhu Ba touched it to see if it was hot, and said:

“People are iron, food is steel, and you will starve if you miss a meal. Have one while it’s still hot.”

“My situation is too dire to have any appetite for stuffed rolls, Eighth Master.”

“
Sun Meiniang, don’t give in to alarm, for that ruins harvests and to the heart brings harm. It’s said that earth can stop a flood and a general can block an army, so hear me out and eat your rolls while they’re warm.”

Zhu Ba stuck out his right hand, the one with the extra finger; he waved it in front of my eyes, and a glistening dagger appeared. A flick of the dagger, and the oilpaper parted to reveal four steaming stuffed rolls. Song Xihe’s layered cakes, Du Kun’s baked wheat buns, Sun Meiniang’s stewed dog meat, and Jia Si’s meat-filled rolls were Gaomi’s most famous snack foods. Plenty of shops in Gaomi sold dog meat, so why had mine become one of the famous four? Because it tasted better than everyone else’s. And why was it so tasty? Because I secretly stuck a pig’s leg in with the dog meat, and when everything in the pot—meat, raw ginger, a bit of cinnamon, and prickly ash—was boiling, I stirred in a bowlful of strong spirits. That was my secret recipe. Master Zhu Ba, if you find a way to save my dieh, I’ll bring you a cooked dog’s leg and a jug every day for the rest of your life. One large roll sat atop three others on the oilpaper in the shape of a candelabrum. Their reputation was well earned.
Jia Si’s rolls, steamy white as snow, tops twisted into a plum-blossom bow, a spot of red in the center~~a spun-gold date, charming and mellow
. Zhu Ba laid his dagger down in front of me, an invitation to spear one of the rolls. Either he was concerned that I might burn my fingers if I picked one up, or he was afraid that my hands were not clean. I waved off his offer, reached down, and grabbed one. It warmed my hand as the fragrance of leavened dough filled my nostrils.
With my first bite I devour that gold-spun date, and its sweetness coats my throat. The red date slides into my stomach, where it awakens juices there afloat. With my second bite I open the wheaten folds, and expose the mutton-carrot filling inside. The mutton is salty, the carrot sweet, with leeks and ginger the taste is complete. If you’ve not eaten Jia Four’s rolls you haven’t lived
. Now, I may not have been a pampered heiress, but I was a respectable woman, and should not display traits of anything less in front of all those beggars. Small, dainty bites were called for, but my mouth had a mind of its own, and before I knew it I had gobbled up half a roll that was larger than my fist. I’d been taught that a decent girl chewed slowly and swallowed with care, but my throat acted like a greedy hand, reaching up and pulling down every bite as soon as it entered my mouth. The first roll was gone before I had a chance to actually taste it, and I had to wonder if it had really found a home in my stomach. I’d heard that beggars have an uncanny ability to strike down a dog through a wall and move objects by thought alone. I could not be sure, but that roll seemed to have entered my mouth and slid down to my stomach, though in fact it had done no such thing, and now lay in the stomach of somebody else, somebody like Zhu Ba. That is the only way to explain why my stomach seemed empty and why I felt hungrier than I’d been before the roll disappeared. Then my willful hand snatched the second roll out of its wrapping, and, like its predecessor, I finished it off it in three or four bites. Now that I’d put away two of the rolls, my stomach actually felt like there was something in it. So I turned to the third roll, wolfed it down, and now there was a heaviness in my stomach. By then I was stuffed, but I reached out for the last roll anyway. In my little hand it looked bigger than ever, had greater heft, and wasn’t all that appealing. The mere thought that three big, heavy, ugly things just like it were already nestled in my stomach sent an embarrassing belch up and out of my mouth. But while my stomach was sated, my mouth was not. With three large rolls having laid a foundation down there, I could eat more slowly for a change, and at the same time pay a bit of attention to my surroundings. I looked up and saw Zhu Ba staring at me, and behind him were dozens more twinkling eyes. All those beggars were watching me, and I knew that in their eyes I had gone from something approaching a goddess to a common woman with a greedy mouth. They ought to change the adage that “Man eats to live” to “Man lives to eat.” Nothing makes you worry about dignity like a full belly, and nothing overcomes thoughts of shame quicker than an empty one.