by Mo Yan
‘Nobody’s willing to go down? Not a fucking one of you? Then we’ll just let father and son cool off in the water! Old Liu, Arhat Liu, since you’re the foreman, go into town and report this to Shoe Sole Cao the Second.’
In preparation for the trip, Uncle Arhat Liu wolfed down some food, followed it with half a gourdful of wine, then led out one of the black mules, tied a burlap bag over its back, and mounted it. He headed west, towards the county town.
Uncle Arhat wore a sombre expression that morning, from either anger or resentment. He was the first to suspect that something terrible had befallen his master and the master’s son following the suspicious fire. Up at the first light of dawn, he was surprised to note that the western compound gate was wide open. He spotted blood on the ground as soon as he walked into the yard, and more of it inside the house. Even in his confused state he knew that the fire and blood-letting were linked.
Since he and all the other hands knew that the young master had leprosy, they did not enter the western compound unless it was absolutely necessary, and then only after spraying mouthfuls of wine over their bodies. Uncle Arhat believed that sorghum wine was an effective disinfectant for all kinds of dangerous germs. When Shan Bianlang’s bride entered the compound three days earlier, no villagers were willing to assist, so naturally he and an old distillery hand were left to help her out of the sedan chair. As he held her arm and walked her into the house, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, seeing her delicate bound feet and her plump wrist, as big around as a lotus root, and he couldn’t stifle a sigh. In the midst of his shock over the murder of Old Man Shan and his son days later, the image of Grandma’s tiny feet and full wrist appeared and reappeared in his mind. He didn’t know if the sight of all that blood made him sad or happy.
Uncle Arhat whipped the big black mule, wishing it could sprout wings and fly him to town. He knew there would be more excitement to come, since the flowery, jadelike little bride would be returning from her parents’ home tomorrow morning on her donkey. Who would be the beneficiary of the Shan family’s vast holdings? Things like that were best left to Nine Dreams Cao to decide. After having overseen Gaomi County for three years, Cao had earned the sobriquet ‘Upright Magistrate’. People talked about how he dispatched cases with the wisdom of the gods, the vigour of thunder, and the speed of wind; about how he was just and honourable, never favouring his own kin over others; and about how he meted out death sentences without batting an eye. Uncle Arhat smacked the mule’s rump harder.
The mule flew west towards the county town, pounding the ground with its rear hooves when its front legs were curled up, then stretching out its front legs and curling its rear legs. The movement produced a rhythm of hoofbeats that belied the seemingly chaotic motion. Dust flew like blossoming flowers in the glinting light of the horseshoes. The sun was still in the southeastern corner of the sky when Uncle Arhat reached the Jiao-Ping–Jinan rail line. The mule balked at crossing the tracks so Uncle Arhat jumped down and tried to pull it across. But since he was no match for the animal’s strength, he sat down on the ground, gasping for breath and trying to figure out what to do next. The sunlight hurt his eyes. He stood up, wrapped his jacket around the mule’s eyes, and led it in a circle a few times before crossing the tracks.
Two black-uniformed policemen guarded the town’s northern gate, each armed with a Hanyang rifle. Since it was market day in Gaomi County, a stream of pushcarts, peddlars with carrying poles, and people on mules and on foot passed through the town gate. Ignoring the traffic, the policemen busied themselves leering at pretty girls passing in front of them.
Uncle Arhat led his mule onto the main street of town, paved with green cobblestones that clattered loudly under the mule’s shod hooves. To the south, the huge market square was jammed with people from every trade and occupation, haggling over prices, shouting and carrying on, buying and selling everything under the sun.
In no mood to get caught up in the excitement, Uncle Arhat led the mule up to the gate of the government compound, which looked like a dilapidated monastery, its tile roofs covered with yellow weeds and green grass. The red paint on the gate was peeling badly. An armed sentry stood to the left, while to the right a bare-chested man supported himself with both hands on a staff resting in a smelly honeypot.
Uncle Arhat bowed to the sentry. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘I need to report to County Magistrate Cao.’
‘Magistrate Cao took Master Yan to market,’ the sentry replied.
‘When will he be back?’
‘How should I know? Go look for him at the market square if you’re in such a hurry.’
Uncle Arhat bowed again. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Seeing that Uncle Arhat was about to walk away, the bare-chested man sprang into action, churning his staff up and down in the honeypot and shouting, ‘Come look, come look, everybody, come look. My name is Wang Haoshan. I cheated people with a phony contract, and the county magistrate sentenced me to stir up a honeypot. . . .’
Uncle Arhat and the mule entered the crowded market square, where people were selling baked buns, flatcakes, and sandals. There were scribes, fortune-tellers, beggers using every imaginable ploy, peddlars of aphrodisiacs, trained monkeys, gong-banging hawkers of malt sugar, knickknack vendors, storytellers with tales of romance and intrigue, dealers in leeks, cucumbers, and garlic, sellers of barber razors and pipe bowls, noodle sellers, rat-poison merchants, honeyed-peach sellers, child vendors – yes, even a ‘child market’, where children with straw markers on their collars could be bought or sold. The black mule kept rearing its head, making the steel bit in its mouth sing out. The sun was directly overhead, blazing down on Uncle Arhat, drenching his purple jacket with his own sweat.
Uncle Arhat spotted the official he was looking for at the chicken market.
Magistrate Cao had a ruddy face, bulging eyes, a square mouth, and a thin moustache. He was decked out in a dark-green tunic and a brown wool formal hat. He carried a walking stick.
Caught up in resolving a dispute, he had drawn quite a crowd. Instead of forcing his way to the front, Uncle Arhat led the mule out of the crowd, which blocked his view of what was going on, then mounted up, giving himself the best seat in the house.
A little runt of a man was standing beside the tall Magistrate Cao, and Uncle Arhat assumed it must be the Master Yan to whom the sentry had referred. Two men and a woman stood cowering before Magistrate Cao, their faces bathed in sweat. The woman’s cheeks were made even wetter by her tears. A fat hen lay on the ground at her feet.
‘Worthy magistrate, your honour,’ she sobbed, ‘my mother-in-law can’t stop menstruating, and we have no money for medicine. That’s why we’re selling this laying hen. . . . He says the hen is his. . . .’
‘The hen is mine. If the magistrate doesn’t believe me, ask my neighbour here.’
Magistrate Cao pointed to a man in a skullcap. ‘Can you verify that?’
‘Worthy magistrate, I am Wu the Third’s neighbour, and this hen of his wanders into my yard every day to steal my chickens’ food. My wife’s always complaining about it.’
The woman screwed up her face, without saying a word, and burst out crying.
Magistrate Cao removed his hat, spun it around on his middle finger, then put it back on.
‘What did you feed your chicken this morning?’ he asked Wu the Third, who rolled his eyes and replied, ‘Cereal mash mixed with bran husks.’
‘He’s telling the truth, he is,’ the man in the skullcap confirmed. ‘I saw his wife mixing it when I went over to borrow his axe this morning.’
Magistrate Cao turned to the crying woman. ‘Don’t cry, countrywoman. Tell me what you fed your chicken this morning.’
‘Sorghum,’ she said between sobs.
‘Little Yan,’ Magistrate Cao said, ‘kill the chicken!’
With lightning speed, Yan slit the hen’s crop and squeezed out a gooey mess of sorghum seeds.
With a menacing laugh Magistrate Cao sa
id, ‘You’re a real scoundrel, Wu the Third. Now, since you caused the death of this hen, you can pay for it. Three silver dollars!’
Wu the Third, shaking like a leaf, reached into his pocket and pulled out two silver dollars and twenty copper coins. ‘Magistrate, your honour,’ he said fearfully, ‘this is all I have.’
‘You’re getting off light!’ Magistrate Cao said, handing the money to the woman.
‘Magistrate, your honour,’ the woman said, ‘a hen isn’t worth all that much. I only want what’s coming to me.’
Magistrate Cao raised his hands to his forehead, uttered an exclamation, and said, ‘You’re truly a decent, upright woman. Nine Dreams Cao salutes you!’ Bringing his legs together, he removed his hat and bowed low.
The poor woman was so flustered she could only gaze at Nine Dreams Cao through tear-filled eyes. Once she’d regained her senses, she fell to her knees and said over and over, ‘His honour, the upright magistrate! His Honour, the upright magistrate!’
Magistrate Cao placed his walking stick under her arm. ‘Up, get up.’
The countrywoman got to her feet.
‘I can tell you are a filial daughter by the way you came to market in shabby clothes and poor health to sell a hen for the sake of your mother-in-law. Nothing impresses the magistrate like filial piety. Take the money and look after your mother-in-law. Take the chicken as well. Clean it and make a nice soup for her.’
Money in one hand, chicken in the other, the woman walked away, murmuring her gratitude.
Meanwhile, the deceitful Wu the Third and the neighbour who had served as his witness stood under the blazing sun trembling with fright.
‘Wu the Third, you scoundrel,’ Nine Dreams Cao commanded, ‘drop your pants.’
Wu was too bashful to do as he was told.
‘You tried to cheat that good woman in broad daylight,’ Magistrate Cao rebuked him. ‘It’s pretty late for modesty, isn’t it? Do you know what shame is selling for these days? Drop ’em!’
Wu the Third dropped his pants.
Nine Dreams Cao took off one of his shoes and handed it to Little Yan. ‘Two hundred lashes. All cheeks. Ass and face!’
Holding Magistrate Cao’s thick-soled shoe in his hand, Little Yan kicked Wu the Third to the ground, took aim at his exposed backside, and started in, fifty on each side, until Wu was screaming for his parents and begging for mercy, his buttocks swelling up in plain sight of everyone. Then it was his face’s turn, again fifty on each side; that stopped his screams.
Magistrate Cao placed the tip of his walking stick on Wu the Third’s forehead and said, ‘Will you try something like that again, you old scoundrel?’
Wu the Third, whose cheeks were so puffy he could barely open his mouth, responded by pounding his head on the ground as though he were crushing garlic.
‘As for you,’ Nine Dreams Cao said, pointing to the man who’d served as witness, ‘an ass-kisser who’d make up a story like that is the scum of the earth. I’m not going to give you a taste of the bottom of my shoe, because your ass would only soil it. Since you prefer something sweet, I’ll let you lick the ass of your rich buddy. Little Yan, go buy a pot of honey.’
Little Yan moved towards the crowd, which parted to let him pass. The false witness fell to his knees and banged his head so hard on the ground that his skullcap fell off.
‘Get up! Get up! Get up!’ Nine Dreams Cao commanded. ‘I’m not going to have you beaten or punished. I’m going to treat you to some honey, so what are you pleading for?’
When Little Yan returned with the honey, Nine Dreams Cao pointed to Wu the Third. ‘Spread it on his ass!’
Little Yan rolled Wu over on his belly, picked up a stick, and spread the potful of honey over his swollen buttocks.
‘Start licking,’ Nine Dreams Cao ordered the false witness. ‘You like kissing ass, don’t you? Okay, start licking!’
The false witness kept kowtowing loudly. ‘Magistrate, your honour,’ he pleaded, ‘Magistrate, your honour, I promise I’ll never again . . .’
‘Get the shoe ready, Little Yan,’ Nine Dreams Cao said. ‘And really put some arm into it this time.’
‘Don’t hit me,’ the false witness screamed, ‘don’t hit me! I’ll lick it.’
He crawled up to Wu the Third, stuck out his tongue, and began lapping up the sticky, transparent threads of honey.
The looks on the hot, sweaty faces of observers can hardly be described.
Sometimes fast, sometimes slowly, the false witness licked on, stopping only to throw up, which turned Wu the Third’s buttocks into a mottled mess. Seeing that he’d accomplished’ his purpose, Nine Dreams Cao roared, ‘That’s enough, you scum!’
The man stopped licking, pulled his jacket up over his head, and lay on the ground, refusing to get up.
As Nine Dreams Cao and Little Yan turned to leave, Uncle Arhat jumped off his mule and shouted, ‘Upright Magistrate! I come to file a grievance –’
6
JUST AS GRANDMA was about to climb off her donkey, the village chief, Five Monkeys Shan, stopped her: ‘Young mistress, don’t get down. The county magistrate wants to see you.’
Grandma was taken to the inlet at the western edge of the village in the custody of two armed soldiers. Great-Granddad had such severe leg cramps he couldn’t walk, and it took the nudge of a rifle in his back to get him moving; he fell in behind the donkey, his knees knocking.
Grandma noticed a black colt tied to the willow tree at the inlet. It was beautifully liveried, its forehead decorated with a red silk tassel. A few yards away, a man sat behind a table with a tea service. At the time, Grandma didn’t know that he was the illustrious Magistrate Cao. Another man stood next to the table, the magistrate’s capable enforcer, Master Yan, or Yan Luogu. Rounded-up villagers stood in front of the table, crowded together as though huddling to keep warm. A squad of twenty soldiers fanned out behind them.
Uncle Arhat stood behind another table, soaked to the skin.
The bodies of Shan Tingxiu and his son were laid out beneath the willow, not far from the tethered colt. Already beginning to stink, they oozed a foul yellow liquid. Above the bodies, a flock of crows hopped around on the branches, making the canopy of foliage come alive.
This was Uncle Arhat’s chance to get, finally, a clear look at Grandma’s full, round face. Her almond-shaped eyes were large, her long neck was like alabaster, her lush hair was rolled up into a bun at the back of her head. Her donkey stopped in front of the table, Grandma sitting tall and straight on its back, the picture of grace. As he watched Magistrate Cao’s dark, solemn eyes sweep across my grandma’s face and breast, a thought flashed into Uncle Arhat’s mind. The old master and his son came to grief because of this woman. She must have taken a lover, who had set the fire to ‘lure the tiger out of the mountain’, then had killed father and son to clear the way for himself. When the radishes have been picked, the field is bare. Now she could carry on however she pleased.
But when he looked at Grandma, Uncle Arhat was immediately besieged with doubts. No matter how a murderer tries to mask it, the look of evil always shows through. This woman sitting on her donkey . . . like a beautiful statue carved from wax, gently swinging her dainty, pointed feet, her expression a mixture of solemnity, tranquillity, and grief – unlike a bodhisattva, yet surpassing a bodhisattva. Great-Granddad stood alongside the donkey in stark contrast: his age against her youth, his decrepitude against her freshness, all serving to accentuate her radiance.
‘Have that woman come forward to answer some questions,’ Magistrate Cao ordered.
Grandma didn’t stir. Village Chief Five Monkeys Shan shuffled up and shouted angrily, ‘Climb down from there! His honour the county magistrate has ordered you to dismount!’
Magistrate Cao raised his hand to call off Five Monkeys Shan, then rose and said genially, ‘You there, woman, dismount. I want to ask you some questions.’
Great-Granddad lifted Grandma down off the mule.
‘What is your name?’ Magistrate Cao asked her.
Grandma stood stiffly, her eyelids slightly lowered, and said nothing.
Great-Granddad answered for her in a quaking voice, ‘Your honour, the unworthy girl’s name is Dai Fenglian. We call her Little Nine. She was born on the ninth day of the sixth month –’
‘Shut up!’ Magistrate Cao barked.
‘Who said you could talk?’ Five Monkeys Shan castigated Great-Granddad.
‘Damned fools!’ Magistrate Cao banged his fist on the table, causing Five Monkeys Shan and Great-Granddad to shrink in terror. As a benevolent expression reappeared on the magistrate’s face, he pointed to the bodies beneath the willow tree and asked, ‘You there, woman, do you know those two men?’
Grandma glanced out of the corner of her eye, and her face paled. She shook her head in silence.
‘They are your husband and your father-in-law. They have been murdered!’ Magistrate Cao shouted.
Grandma reeled before collapsing to the ground. The crowd surged forward to help her up, and in the confusion her silver combs were knocked loose, releasing clouds of black hair like a liquid cataract. Grandma, her face the colour of gold, sobbed for a moment, then laughed hysterically, a trickle of blood seeping from her lower lip.
Magistrate Cao banged the table again. ‘Listen, everyone, to my verdict. When the woman Dai, a gentle willow bent by the wind, magnanimous and upright, neither humble nor haughty, heard that her husband had been murdered, she was stricken with overpowering grief, spitting a mouthful of blood. How could a good woman like that be an adulteress who plotted the death of her own husband? Village Chief Five Monkeys Shan, I can see by your sickly pallor that you are an opium smoker and a gambler. How can you, as village chief, defy the laws of the county? That is unforgivable, not to mention your tactics to defile someone’s good name, which adds to your list of crimes. I am not fooled in my judgements. No disciples of evil and disorder can evade the eyes of the law. It must have been you who murdered Shan Tingxiu and his son, so you could get your hands on the Shan family fortune and the lovely woman Dai. You schemed to manipulate the local government and deceive me, like someone wielding an axe at the door of master carpenter Lu Ban, or waving his sword at the door of the swordsman Lord Guan, or reciting the Three Character Classic at the door of the wise Confucius, or whispering the ‘Rhapsody on the Nature of Medicine’ in the ear of the physician Li Shizhen. Arrest him!’