by Mo Yan
Just as Zhu Ba was getting started, a shout from outside cut him off in midsentence. Hou Xiaoqi’s monkey startled us when it skittered in through the front entrance, with Hou himself hard on its heels. His face was lit up, as if coated with moonbeams. He ran straight to Zhu Ba.
“Eighth Master,” he said, “wonderful news! My vigil by the ditch behind the yamen has paid off. Fourth Master passed on the news that we are to climb over the rear wall late at night, when the sentries are sleepy. We can pull the switch, make the exchange, right under their noses. I scouted the terrain and discovered a crooked-necked old elm tree ready-made for scaling the wall.”
“Monkey,” an obviously pleased Zhu Ba said excitedly, “damned if you don’t have a couple of tricks up your sleeve! All of you, sleep if you can, but lie there and conserve your energy if sleep won’t come. The time to act has arrived. Pulling this off will be like ramming it up von Ketteler’s ass, and none of those bastards will know what hit them.” Zhu Ba then turned his attention to the corner, where the good fellow who would take my dieh’s place was fast asleep. “Xiao Shanzi,” he said, “that’s enough sleep. Time to get up. I’ve got a jug of fine spirits here, that and an off-the-bone roast chicken. You can share that with me as my going-away gift. If you’re having second thoughts, I can find someone else, though this promises to be not only a sensation, but one in which the name of the central figure will go down in history. I know what a fine singer you are, a disciple of Sun Bing. Your voice is an exact replica of his, and there is hardly any difference in appearance between you two. Look closely, Sun Meiniang, and tell me if this fellow isn’t the spitting image of your dieh.”
The fellow got lazily to his feet, yawned grandly, and wiped off the slobber that had crept out of his mouth while he slept. Then, rousing himself out of his lethargy, he turned to show me his coarse, long face. His eyes and brows certainly did resemble my dieh’s, and he had the same high nose. But he had a slightly different mouth. My dieh had full lips, while this fellow’s were thin, but that was all that kept him from being my dieh’s double. Add the right clothes, and he could fool anyone.
“Oh, I forgot one thing, Eighth Master,” Hou Xiaoqi said sheepishly. “Fourth Master wanted me to be sure to tell you that when Sun Bing was being interrogated, he angered von Ketteler with such foul curses that the German hit him with the butt of his pistol and knocked out two front teeth . . .”
Every eye in the room was immediately focused on Xiao Shanzi’s mouth. His lips parted to reveal two perfect rows of teeth. Most beggars have good teeth, since they survive on hard, crunchy food most of the time. Zhu Ba studied Xiao Shanzi’s mouth.
“You heard what he said. Yes or no, it’s up to you. I won’t hold it against you if you say no.”
Xiao Shanzi spread his lips wide, as if to show off his perfectly aligned, albeit yellow, teeth. Then he smiled.
“Shifu,” he said, “if I’m willing to give up my life, why would I want to hold on to a couple of teeth?”
“Good for you, Shanzi,” Zhu Ba said emotionally as he turned the sack of fireflies over and over in his hand. “That’s what I’d expect a true disciple to say.” The light from the agitated insects rose like a mist and lit up the few scraggly white hairs on Zhu Ba’s chin.
“Shifu,” Shanzi said, tapping his front teeth with a fingernail. “They’re starting to itch, so bring on the food and drink.”
Beggars swarmed the area behind Zhu Ba to be the first to bring out a jug and the cooked chicken, wrapped in clean lotus leaves. I could smell the chicken even before the leaves were peeled away, and the aged spirits before the stopper was removed. The two aromas were totally different, but came together as a potent reminder of the Mid-Autumn Festival, which was only days away, and the ambience surrounding it. A moonbeam filtered in through a crack in the temple door: a hand peeled away the oily lotus leaves in the light of the moonbeam; a golden-red cooked chicken glimmered in the light of the moonbeam; a black hand laid two shallow black glazed bowls next to the chicken in the light of the moonbeam; Zhu Ba put the sack with the fireflies into a pouch at his waist and clapped his green hands. I noticed how long, slender, and nimble his fingers were, looking like little people with something to say. He hopped forward a couple of spots, still seated on the mat, until he was right in front of Xiao Shanzi, the man who was going to take my dieh’s place in his cell and die in his stead. Zhu Ba held one of the bowls out for Xiao Shanzi, who accepted it but said with what looked to be much embarrassment:
“I can’t let you serve me like this, Shifu.”
Zhu Ba picked up the second bowl and clinked it against Xiao Shanzi’s, loud enough for all of us to hear it and hard enough to splash out some of the contents. Their eyes met, and to us sparks seemed to fly, like steel striking a flint. Their lips were quaking, and they both seemed about to speak—but they didn’t. Instead, they tipped back their heads and, with audible glugs, emptied the bowls. Zhu Ba laid down his bowl and tore off a drumstick with the skin attached. He handed it to Xiao Shanzi, who took it and seemed about to say something. But still nothing. A moment later, his mouth was stuffed to capacity with roast chicken, which rotated twice before it slipped down his throat like a greased rat. I’d have loved to run home to cook a dog’s leg for him, but there was no time for that, since a dog’s leg had to cook all day and all night. Now that he’d eaten the meat, he gnawed on the bone to pick it clean, almost as if to show us what his teeth could do. The image was of a squirrel chewing on an acorn. Though they were undeniably yellow, they were solid teeth. As soon as the tendons were picked clean, he started in on the bone itself, which produced the most noise. Not a single thing emerged from that mouth, not even bone chips. You poor man. If I’d known earlier that you were willing to die in my dieh’s stead, I’d have invited you to a sumptuous feast, making sure you got a taste of the best food anywhere. Too bad life does not allow for predictions or do-overs. As soon as Xiao Shanzi finished off one drumstick, Zhu Ba tore off the other one and held it out for him. But this time, Xiao Shanzi cupped his hands respectfully in front of him and said devotedly:
“I thank Shifu for giving me this opportunity!”
Then he reached behind him, picked up a broken brick, and smacked himself in the mouth, producing a dull thud. A front tooth fell to the ground, and blood spurted from his mouth.
Everyone froze, staring and speechless. Their gazes bounced back and forth between Xiao Shanzi’s bloody mouth and the gloomy face of Zhu Ba, who moved the tooth around on the floor with his index finger, then looked up at Hou Xiaoqi.
“How many teeth did Sun Bing lose?”
“Two, according to Fourth Master.”
“Are you sure that’s what he said?”
“I’m sure, Eighth Master.”
“After what you’ve done,” Zhu Ba said to Xiao Shanzi, his awkwardness showing, “I don’t have the heart to ask you to do it again.”
“There’s no reason to feel bad, Shifu. Once, twice, what’s the difference?” Xiao Shanzi said, blood bubbling from his mouth. He picked the brick up again.
“Wait—” Zhu Ba cried out.
But too late—Xiao Shanzi smacked himself in the mouth a second time.
He tossed the brick away and lowered his head. Two teeth fell to the ground.
The sight of the gaping hole in Xiao Shanzi’s mouth drove Zhu Ba into a frenzy.
“You dumb bastard,” he cursed, “I told you to wait. Now you’ve knocked out too many teeth, damn it! With too few we could have figured something out, but what are we going to do now?”
“Don’t get mad, Shifu, I’ll keep my mouth shut the whole time,” Xiao Shanzi said with a pronounced slur.
————
3
————
In the middle of the night I draped a tattered jacket over my shoulders, as instructed by Zhu Ba, added a beat-up old straw hat, and quietly exited the temple in the company of the beggars. There wasn’t a sound on the deserted streets, which were suffus
ed in the chilled green of beams sent down from a full moon, painting everything with ghostly airs. I shivered and my teeth chattered, the clicking sound striking my eardrums with such force I was afraid I might wake up the whole town.
Hou Xiaoqi led the way with his monkey, followed by Xiao Luanzi, who was carrying a spade and was the group’s tunneling advance guard. Xiao Lianzi, the undisputed master of tree climbing, walked alongside Xiao Luanzi, a leather rope girding his waist. Next in line was that valiant figure Xiao Shanzi, he of great virtue—upholder of allegiance, defender of righteousness and morality, disfigurer of his own face, death-defying—a man whose name was destined for eternal glory. I watched as he walked along, never wavering, his gait firm and steady, bold and spirited, almost as if he were on his way to a fine year-ending meal. A man like that comes along once a century, if that. The beggar chief, old Zhu Ba, himself a steely, dauntless figure, followed behind Xiao Shanzi, holding me, a young, beautiful woman, by the hand. We formed a small but potent procession of ancient figures: Zhan Zhao, Judge Bao, his attendants Wang Chao to the left and Ma Han to the right, with Di Long out front and Di Hu in the rear. Zhuge Liang harnessed the east wind but angered Zhou Yu, and there was a perfect match at Dew Drop Monastery.
Hou Xiaoqi led us into Smithy Lane, and from there into the sandals market, where we followed the contours of a low wall whose shadow concealed us as we trotted along at a crouch, all the way to Lu Family Lane, and from there to the bridge over the Xiaokang River, which flowed like a band of silver. On the far side of the bridge we streamed into Oil Mill Lane, at the end of which we could see the yamen’s high wall directly ahead; the rear garden was on the other side.
I was breathing hard as I crouched at the base of the wall, my heart pounding. Breathing came more easily for the beggars, whose eyes flashed, even the monkey’s.
“It’s time,” Zhu Ba said, “get to work.”
Xiao Lianzi took the rope from around his waist and looped it over a tree limb. Using both hands and feet, he climbed like a monkey—no, better than a monkey—and one-two-three, he was safely in the crotch of the tree, from which he easily dropped onto the top of the wall, and then continued down the other side, where he and his rope vanished from sight. But a moment later, he flung another rope over. Zhu Ba grabbed this one and pulled it toward him, confident that things were going smoothly. He handed the rope to Hou Xiaoqi, who plucked the monkey off his shoulder and sent it flying up into the tree, where it landed spryly on one of the branches, while he himself walked up the wall with the help of the rope, hand over fist, and then grabbed the other rope and disappeared behind the wall. Who was to be next? Zhu Ba pushed me up front. My heart was racing, cold chills ran up and down my spine, and my palms were sweaty. I grabbed hold of the rope, which was cold to the touch, like a snakeskin. I gripped it in both hands, but I’d barely taken two steps when my hands began to ache, my legs felt rubbery, and I was shaking all over. It hadn’t been all that long since I’d climbed that tree without the aid of a rope, but now I couldn’t make it up the wall with one. That other time I’d been nimble as a cat; now I was clumsy as a pig. This was not a case of worrying more about my lover than my dieh, nor was it the new life growing inside me. What was stopping me now were thoughts of what had happened on the other side of that wall the first time. You know the adage: “Get snakebit once, and you’ll fear ropes for three years.” Well, that wall and that tree brought a reminder of being covered in dog filth and going home with a sore backside. But then I heard Zhu Ba say:
“We’re here to rescue your dieh, not ours!”
How right he was. These beggars were risking their lives to rescue my dieh. How, then, at this critical juncture, could I run like a coward? And that sparked the return of my courage, as I was reminded of Hua Mulan, who went to war in place of her father, and of the hundred-year-old She Taijun, who rallied the troops for her slain grandson, Yang Zongbao. If there’s dog filth, so be it; if a whip lashes out, let it come. Suffering is the road to respectability; danger is the path to prominence onstage. In order to ensure that my name would live on, I clenched my teeth, stomped my foot, and spat in my hands: rope in hand, feet on the wall, face turned to the moon above. Propped up from behind by some of the beggars, I soared to the top of the wall in less time than it takes to tell, and found myself gazing down at rooftops in the yamen, tiles flickering in the moonlight like fish scales. Hou Xiaoqi stood ready to help me to the ground, so I grabbed hold of the rope hanging from the tree and, closing my eyes and steeling myself, sailed down into the grove of green bamboo.
My thoughts returned to boudoir frolics with Qian Ding in the Western Parlor, where by standing on the four-poster bed and looking out the window, I could see the splendor of the flower garden out back; the first thing to catch my eye was always that grove of green bamboo. Then my gaze would travel to the tree peonies, Chinese roses, herbaceous peonies, and blooming lilacs, whose perfume was nearly suffocating. The garden was also a showcase for potted mums on a little manmade hill. Prized Lake Tai rocks, all delicately shaped, lined a small pond whose lotus leaves were surpassingly lovely. I recalled seeing a pair of butterflies taking nectar from flowers around which buzzing bees flitted. A woman with a ruddy complexion strolled through the garden, the dour look on her face more severe than any seen on Judge Bao. A slim-waisted, light-on-her-feet serving girl followed close behind, and I knew that, though the older woman was not much to look at, she was the Magistrate’s wife, an intelligent woman from a good family who excelled in both talents and intrigues. Feared by the yayi, she was an intimidating presence in the Magistrate’s life. I had once entertained a desire to stroll through the garden, but Qian Ding insisted that I put that thought out of my mind. He kept me hidden in the Western Parlor to prevent our illicit relationship from going public. So here I was tonight, standing in the garden, not to stroll but to stage a rescue.
Once we were all together in the bamboo grove, including Hou Xiaoqi’s monkey, which he’d brought down from the tree, we crouched out of sight, waiting for the night watchman to sound the third watch on his clapper before moving on. Noise came on the air from up front, most likely an exchange by one team of sentries relieving the other. Then there was silence, broken only by the forlorn dying chirps of late autumn insects. My heart was pounding; I wanted to say something, but dared not. Meanwhile, Zhu Ba and the others sat peacefully on the ground, neither moving nor speaking, like five dark stone statues. That excluded, of course, the monkey, which began to fidget; Hou Xiaoqi quickly forced it to settle down.
As the moon traveled westward, its late-night rays grew increasingly cold. Chilled dew settled on bamboo leaves and stalks, lending them an oily sheen. The dew dampened my straw hat, my tattered jacket, even my armpits. If we don’t do something soon, Eighth Master, the sun will be up, I thought anxiously. But then there was more noise from up front, with shouts and bawling and the clanging of a brass gong, followed immediately by a red light that painted the compound scarlet.
A young yayi in uniform emerged from a path alongside the Western Parlor and, bent at the waist, stole over to us. He beckoned for us to follow him back onto the path, past the Western Parlor, the tariff room, the chief clerk’s office, and the dispatch office all the way up to the lockup, which was in front of the Prison God Temple.
Flames shot thirty feet into the air in the square fronting the lockup. The mess hall kitchen was on fire. Clouds beget rain, fire creates wind. Thick, choking smoke made us cough. The scene was as chaotic as ants on the move, as raucous as a disturbed crows’ nest. Soldiers scurried back and forth with buckets of water. We took advantage of the confusion to slip past the outer cells and the women’s jail, as if our feet were oiled, spry as cats, undetected, all the way up to the condemned cells. The stench nearly made us gag. The rats there were bigger than cats; fleas and ticks were everywhere. Windowless cells were fronted by low doors, the interiors black as pitch.
As he unlocked the door, Master Four urged us to move fast fast
fast! Zhu Ba tossed his firefly sack inside, abruptly flooding the cell with a green glow. I saw my dieh; his face was bruised black and blue, his mouth caked with dried blood. His front teeth had been knocked out. He no longer looked human. My shout of “Dieh!” was cut short by a hand over my mouth.
Dieh had been chained, hands and feet, to a “bandit’s stone” in the center of the cell. It was immovable, no matter how much strength was employed. In the flickering firefly light, Master Four removed the padlock on the chains and set him free. Then Xiao Shanzi took off his jacket, which he’d worn over tattered clothes the same color as my dieh’s, and sat down in the vacated spot, where he let Master Four put the chains on him as the others quickly dressed my dieh in the jacket Xiao Shanzi had taken off. With a disjointed stammer, my dieh sputtered:
“What are you people doing? What do you want?”
Master Four clamped his hand over his mouth.
“Dieh,” I said softly, “snap out of it. It’s me, Meiniang. I’ve come to save you.”
He was still making noise, trying to talk, so Zhu Ba doubled up his fist and hit him in the temple, knocking him unconscious. Xiao Luanzi bent down, slipped his hands under my dieh’s arms, and hoisted him onto his back.
“Let’s get out of here,” Master Four urged softly.
We squeezed out of the cell at a crouch and, as the confusion outside continued, ran all the way to the path behind the Prison God Temple, where we spotted a pack of yayi carrying water headed our way from the secondary gate. Magistrate Qian Ding was standing on the gateway steps shouting:
“Stay in line; careful with that water!”
Hidden in the shadows of the Prison God Temple, we froze in place as a line of red lanterns led the way for a high-ranking official who materialized on the pathway in front of the side gate, a cluster of bodyguards behind him. If that wasn’t the Shandong Governor Yuan Shikai, I don’t know who it was. We watched as Qian Ding ran up, knelt at the man’s feet, and sang out:
