Sandalwood Death: A Novel (Chinese Literature Today Book Series) by Mo Yan Read Free Book Online Page A

worth a thousand ounces? Maybe even ten thousand! All right, then. Anyone with breasts can be my niang, and anyone with money can be my dieh. I got down on my hands and knees to kowtow with a good, loud banging of my head.
    “Your obedient daughter-in-law respectfully welcomes the father of her husband!” I intoned in a stage voice.
    Xiaojia could not follow my lead fast enough. He banged his head on the ground but said nothing, for he was too busy chortling.
    The old wretch, thrown off balance by my excessive show of courtesy, reached out—I was struck dumb by the sight of his hands; what strange hands they were—as if he wanted to help me to my feet. But he did not; nor did he assist his son. He just said:
    “No need for that. After all, we’re family.”
    Stung by the snub, I stood up, and so did Xiaojia. The old wretch reached under his jacket, which made my heart race in wild anticipation of being rewarded with a handful of silver certificates. It seemed to take him forever to find what he was looking for, but he finally produced a small jade-green object, which he held out to me.
    “I don’t have much to give you on this, our first meeting,” he said. “So take this little bauble.”
    As I accepted the gift, I parroted his earlier comment: “There’s no need to give me anything. After all, we’re family.” It felt heavy in my hand, but supple and smooth, and it was so green I couldn’t help but like it. In all the years I’d slept with Magistrate Qian, I’d received much cultural nurturing, until I no longer considered myself to be a vulgar person, so I knew at once that this was no common gift, but I had no idea what it was.
    Xiaojia clicked his tongue and gazed mournfully at his father, who merely smiled.
    “Head down!” he commanded.
    Xiaojia complied without a whimper. The old wretch hung a glistening silver pendant on a red string around his son’s neck. Xiaojia showed it off to me, but when I saw that it was a longevity talisman, I couldn’t help but curl my lip. Why, the old wretch treats his son like an infant on his hundredth day.
    Sometime later, I showed my first-meeting gift to my gandieh, who recognized it as an archery thumb guard, one carved from the finest jade. More valuable than gold, such a prized object was something that only members of the Imperial family and the nobility could afford. With his left hand on my breast, he held the thumb guard in his right and said admiringly, “This is wonderful, truly wonderful.” When I told him he could have it, he replied, “No, this is yours. ‘A superior man does not take someone’s prized object.’” “But why would a woman consider an archery thumb guard a prized object?” I said. In an uncharacteristically prudish tone, he waved me off. “Do you want it or don’t you?” I asked him. “If you don’t, I’ll smash it to pieces.” “Aiya, my little treasure,” he blurted out, “don’t you dare. I’ll take it, I’ll take it!” He slipped it over his thumb and held it out, so engrossed in looking at it that he forgot the important business of fondling my breast. But later, he draped a red string with a jade bodhisattva around my neck. I took an immediate liking to that, a woman’s gift. I tugged on his beard. “Thank you, my fine gandieh.” He laid me down and started riding me like a horse. “Meiniang,” he gasped, “Meiniang, I’m going to find out everything I can about this gongdieh of yours . . .”
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    7
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    With his gloomy, grim laughter as a backdrop, dizzying whiffs of sandalwood abruptly emerged from my gongdieh’s armchair, and the prayer beads in his hand and made my heart flutter. He was unmoved by my dieh’s plight, and my flirtatious moves were wasted on him. He stood up on shaky legs and tossed away the prayer beads that virtually never left his hand, star-like flashes of light bursting from his eyes, a sign that something had either pleased him or struck fear in his heart.