Sandalwood Death: A Novel (Chinese Literature Today Book Series)

the soldiers in back stepped up to the front row and raised their rifles in perfect formation. Their movements were rapid and skillful; they had no sooner taken aim than they pulled the triggers, creating a second volley of explosions that rang in my ears, and before the sound died out, their bullets had hit their marks.
    Not a single living soul was now left on the opera stage, abruptly stained by rivulets of multihued blood, while beneath the stage members of the audience were emerging from their Maoqiang trance. My poor subjects scrambled madly to get away, bumping and shoving, wailing and roaring, a chaotic mass of humanity. I saw the Germans up there lower their weapons, glum smiles on their long faces, like a red thread of sunlight poking out from behind dark clouds on a bitter cold day. The shooting had stopped, and once again I experienced mixed feelings of grief and joy. Grief over the destruction of Northeast Gaomi Township’s last Maoqiang opera troupe, joy over the Germans’ lack of interest in turning their guns on the fleeing commoners. Did I say joy? Gaomi County Magistrate, was there really joy in your heart? Yes, there was, great joy!
    Puddles of actors’ blood merged and flowed to the sides of the stage, where it streamed into wooden gutters that were intended for rainwater runoff, but now served to channel blood off the stage and onto the ground. After the initial cascades, the flow slowed to a drip, one large drop of heavy, treasured blood on top of another——drip, drip, drip, heavy, treasured . . . the Heavenly Dragon’s tears, that’s what they were.
    The common folk made their escape, leaving behind a field littered with shoes and cat clothing crushed beyond recognition; among the litter were bodies trampled in the stampede. My eyes were riveted on the two gutter openings, which continued to send drops of blood to the ground—one drop splashing on top of another. No longer blood, but the Heavenly Dragon’s tears, that’s what they were.
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    9
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    As I was returning to the Academy grounds from the yamen, a half moon on the nineteenth day of the eighth month sent cold beams earthward. I stepped through the gate and spat out a mouthful of blood; a brackish, saccharine taste filled my mouth, as if I’d overindulged in honeyed sweets. Liu Pu and Chunsheng were worried.
    “Laoye, are you all right?”
    Brought to my senses by the sound of voices, I looked at them and asked:
    “Why are you two still with me? Get lost, go away, stop following me.”
    “Laoye . . .”
    “You heard me, I said leave me alone; get lost, the farther the better. I don’t want to lay eyes on you again. If I so much as see you, I’ll break you in two!”
    “Laoye . . . Laoye . . . have you lost your mind?” Chunsheng could hardly get the words out through his sobs.
    I unsheathed the sword at Li Pu’s waist and pointed it at them, the glint of steel as cold as my tone of voice:
    “Father’s dead, Mother’s remarried, now it’s every man for himself. If you two retain any good feelings from the years we have been together, you will get out of my sight. Come back sometime after the twentieth to collect my body.” I flung the sword to the ground, where it clanged loudly and sent waves of sound into the night sky. Chunsheng took a couple of steps back, then turned and ran, slowly at first, then faster and faster, until he was out of sight. Liu Pu just stood there, head down, frozen in place.
    “Why aren’t you leaving?” I asked him. “Go in and pack some things to take back home to Sichuan. When you get there, don’t tell anyone your real name. Tend to your parents’ graves and stay away from all local officials.”
    “Uncle . . .”
    That gut-wrenching word brought on a torrent of tears.
    “Go on,” I said with a wave of my hand. “You have to look out for yourself; now go. There’s nothing for you here.”
    “Uncle,” Liu Pu repeated, “your unworthy nephew has been thinking about many things in recent days, and I cannot help but feel deeply ashamed. Everything that has happened to you, Uncle, is my fault.” He was tormented. “I dressed up to look like you so I could yank out Sun Bing’s beard, which was why he left the troupe, married Little Peach, and had two children. If he hadn’t married and become a father, he would never have clubbed the German engineer to death, and none of this would ever have happened . . .”
    “You foolish, worthy nephew,” I cut