into the palanquin to set his prayer beads inside, and then leaned back out, as the curtain fell to keep the sacred object from view. Now that his soft white hands were empty, he looked contentedly at Magistrate Qian. With a leering smile, the Magistrate raised his hand and—whack—spun my father’s head around with a slap that sounded like the squashing of a toad. Caught unawares, my dieh stumbled, trying hard not to fall, but the moment he steadied himself, a second slap, more savage than the first, sent him thudding to the ground, where he sat only semi-conscious, his eyes glazed over. He leaned forward and spat out a mouthful of blood and, it appeared, a tooth or two. “Forward!” Magistrate Qian commanded.
The carriers picked up the palanquin and trotted off, leaving the two yayi behind to pick my dieh up by his arms and drag him along like a dead dog. Magistrate Qian walked on, head high, chest out, the epitome of power and prestige, like a rooster that has just climbed off a hen’s back. The head-up posture did not serve him well, as he nearly fell when his foot bumped into a brick in the middle of the road, and would have had it not been for the quick action of Diao Laoye. Not so fortunate was the Magistrate’s hat, which fell to the ground in the flurry of activity. He reached down, scooped it up, and put it back on his head—cockeyed, as it turned out. He straightened it, then continued walking behind the palanquin, followed by Diao Laoye; the yayi brought up the rear with my dieh in tow, his legs dragging along the ground. A bunch of impudent neighborhood children fell in behind my dieh, bringing the total number in the procession to a dozen or more traveling along the bumpy road on their way to the county yamen.
Tears spurted from my eyes. Oh, how I wished I had thrown myself at Magistrate Qian for what he’d done. No wonder Dieh said I was the perfect son so long as there was no trouble, but in a crisis, I turned into a no-account son. I should have broken the man’s leg with a club; I should have cut open his belly with a knife . . . Well, I picked up my butcher knife and ran out of the yard, intent on chasing down Magistrate Qian’s palanquin. But my curiosity got the better of me, and I followed a trail of houseflies to the spot where the puddle Dieh had made lay in the sun. Yes, there they were, two of his teeth, both molars. I moved them around with the tip of my knife, feelings of sadness bringing fresh tears to my eyes. After I got to my feet, I turned toward their retreating backs, spat mightily in their direction, and cursed at the top of my lungs, Fuck you—followed, in a barely audible voice, by: Qian Ding.
CHAPTER FOUR
Qian Ding’s Bitter Words
The Gaomi Magistrate, drunk in the Western Parlor, his mind on the lovely Sun Meiniang. (A drunken body, not a drunken heart!) Eyes limpid as ripples on an autumn lake, red lips, ivory teeth, a maiden young. Dog meat and strong drink stir my emotions, an affecting aria from the opera Maoqiang. No general can pass up a beautiful woman, the adage goes, a hero prostrates himself before feminine charms. You and I are like fish in water, cavorting together. We shy not from carrying on in the yamen court (outraging our ancestors). Alas, a shame that a dream that seems so right soon gives way to what is wrong. Fighting has broken out in Northeast Township, led by Sun Bing, once an opera singer with a beard so long. I think back to early days in Gaomi County, when he spouted nonsense in a song. When a red tally was tossed, he was detained at my command and sent in chains to be flogged. At a competition over beards, he was weak, I was strong. That day I first saw Sun Meiniang, like the Tang Consort reborn. The daughter of Sun Bing means that he and I to a single family must belong. The cruel German devils want to punish him with savagery at the hands of the executioner, Zhao Jia, gongdieh of the fair Meiniang . . .
—Maoqiang Sandalwood Death. Drunken ramblings
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Please sit, dear wife. I cannot ask you to bother with the lowly chore of preparing food and