Once the yayi had paraded their prestige, which, in truth, came from you, they set the palanquin down at the edge of the parade ground. Flowers bloomed in profusion on peach trees bordering the ground, producing a fine pink mist in the drizzle. A yayi with a sword on his hip parted the curtain to let you emerge from the palanquin. You straightened your feathered hat, shook the wide sleeves of your official robe, clasped your hands, brought them up to your chest, and bowed to us all.
“Local elders,” he said in a booming voice, “citizens, a joyous holiday to you!”
That was just an act. I thought back to when you and I were frolicking in the Western Parlor, and could barely keep from laughing out loud. But when I thought of all you had suffered this spring, I was on the verge of tears. I stopped swinging and, steadying myself with the ropes, stood still on the seat. My lips were pursed, my eyes moist, my heart assailed by waves of emotion—bitter, acrid, sour, and sweet—as I watched my gandieh put on a show for the monkeys.
“In this county we have long promoted the planting of trees,” he said, “especially peach trees——”
His lackey from the Southern Society, Junior Officer Li, cried out:
“His Eminence sets an example for us all; he is first in all things. On this drizzly Qingming day, he has come to plant a peach tree to bring blessings to the common people…”
My gandieh greeted this interruption with a stern look at Li, then continued:
“Citizens, go back to your homes and plant peach trees, in front and in back, and on the borders of your fields. Citizens, as the poet reminds us, ‘Spend less time meddling in others’ affairs and idling in the marketplace, and more on reading good books and planting trees.’ In fewer than ten years, Gaomi County will enjoy wonderful days. The poem also says, ‘Thousands of trees with peach-red flowers, the people sing and dance, celebrating world peace.’ ”
After intoning the lines of poetry, he picked up a shovel and began to dig. Just as his shovel hit a buried rock and sent sparks flying, Chunsheng, who hardly ever left his side, rolled up to him like a dirt clod and fell frantically to one reverent knee.
“Laoye,” he said breathlessly, “it’s bad, really bad.”
“Bad?” my gandieh demanded. “What’s bad?”
“The unruly citizens of Northeast Township are in revolt!”
Without a word, my gandieh dropped the shovel, shook his sleeves, and climbed back into his palanquin. The bearers picked it up and ran with it on their shoulders, followed by a contingent of yayi, who stumbled along like a pack of homeless curs.
Gripped by ineffable dejection, I watched the procession head away from me. Gandieh, you have ruined a perfectly good holiday. Listlessly I alighted from my perch and walked into the clamorous crowd, where I was manhandled by little imps as I tried to decide whether to lose myself in the grove of peach trees and all those flowers or go home and prepare some dog meat. Before I could make up my mind, Xiaojia, my dullard husband, strode vigorously up to me, his face beet red, eyes wide, lips trembling.
“My, my dieh,” he stammered, “my dieh is back…”
Strange, strange, how very strange: a gongdieh has dropped into our laps. I thought your dieh was long dead. Hasn’t it been more than twenty years since you heard from him?
Xiaojia was sweating profusely. “He, he’s back,” he stammered. “He’s really back.”
————
6
————
Together with Xiaojia I sped toward home, and was soon gasping for breath. “How could a dieh just show up out of nowhere?” I asked. “He’s probably looking for a handout.” But I wanted to see what sort of goblin had just entered my life. If he was all right, well and good. But if he had a mind to upset me, or tried anything funny, I would break his legs and deliver him to the yamen, where, guilty or not, he’d get two hundred strokes with a paddle, leaving his backside bloody and covered with his own filth. Then we’d see if he dared pass himself off as somebody’s dieh. Xiaojia stopped everyone we met along the way to say enigmatically:
“My dieh is back.”
And when it was obvious that they could make no sense of what he was talking about, he raised his voice:
“I have a dieh!”
Before we’d reached home, I spotted a horse-drawn carriage outside our front gate and a swarm of curious neighbors, including top-knotted youngsters who were threading their way in and out of the crowd. The horse was a young, dark red, overfed stallion. The accumulated dirt and grime on the vehicle gave ample evidence of the distance it had traveled. I received the strangest looks when the people spotted me, their eyes flashing like graveyard will-o’-the-wisps. Aunty Wu, who owned a general store, greeted me with a false display of good wishes:
“Congratulations!” she said. “’Fortunate people live a life of ease; the wretched among us spend their life on their knees,’ as the adage has it. The god of wealth favors the rich, that’s for sure. You were already the envy of others, and now heaven has sent you a super-rich gongdieh. Good Mrs. Zhao, a nice big porker has landed at your door, while your stable is crowded with horses and mules. You are blessed, truly blessed!”
I glared at the woman, with her piss pot of a mouth, and said, “Aunty Wu, does that mouth of yours ever stop spouting gibberish? If your family is short a dieh, you can have this one. I certainly don’t cherish him.”
“Do you mean it?” she said, with a false laugh.
“Yes, and anyone who doesn’t take me up on it is the product of a horse-humping donkey!”
Angered by the argument, Xiaojia put a stop to it:
“I’ll screw the life out of any woman who tries to take my dieh away!”
Aunty Wu’s flat face turned bright red. Known in the neighborhood as an inveterate gossip and rumormonger, she knew all about my dealings with Magistrate Qian, and was so full of sour jealousy that her teeth itched. After being humiliated by me and cursed by Xiaojia until her bunghole itched, she stormed off in a huff, muttering to herself. I walked up the stone steps and turned back to the crowd. “Come on in, good neighbors, for a really good look. If you don’t want to, then get your dung beetle asses out of here and stop being so damned nosy!” Soundly embarrassed, they left. I knew they spoke of me in glowing terms to my face and gnashed their teeth, cursing me, behind my back. They’d have liked nothing better than to see me singing in the street to fill my belly. Appealing to their better instincts and treating them with courtesy was a waste of time.
Once inside the yard, I commented loudly, “I wonder which heavenly spirit has dropped into our world? Let’s see, maybe I can broaden my mind.” This was no time to be genteel. I needed to give him a firm warning, whether he was a real gongdieh or not, to let him know who he was dealing with and to keep him from trying to lord it over me in the future. A gaunt old man with a scrawny queue was bent over carefully dusting a purple sandalwood armchair with gold inlay and a silk pad. The wood was so highly polished and dust-free I could have seen my reflection in it. He straightened up slowly when he heard my blustery entrance, turned, and sized me up coolly. Mother dear! His sunken, furtive eyes were colder than the steel of Xiaojia’s butcher knife. My husband stumbled across the yard and, with a foolish laugh, said ingratiatingly: