The Corpse Reader (17 page)

Cí pulled out the sliver of metal he’d found attached to the cricket and threw it on the table.

“All I know is you must have lost your mind,” said the fortune-teller, but he was staring at the metal all the same.

“Fine,” said Cí, taking out the biscuit-size metal sheet and placing it under the table. “Watch and learn, since this is all new to you.”

When he moved the sheet beneath the table, suddenly, as if propelled by an invisible hand, the sliver began moving around, too. The fortune-teller shifted uncomfortably on his stool.

“Magnets,” announced Cí. “Not to mention the camphor repellent at the ends of the other crickets’ channels! Or—what else?—the trapdoor where the first cricket disappeared and the second cricket, the one with the metal sliver attached, was released? But you don’t really need me to explain all this, do you?”

“What do you want?” whispered the fortune-teller.

“My eight hundred
qián
—which I would have won from the bet.”

“Ha! You should have figured this out a lot earlier. Now get out.”

“Not till I have my money.”

“Listen, kid, you’re sharp, I’ll give you that, but you’re starting to bore me. Zhao!” He called the manager over. “Give him a bowl of rice and show him out.”

But Cí wasn’t giving up that easily.

“My money,” he growled.

“Enough!” said the manager.

“No,” a voice behind them boomed, “it isn’t enough!” Everyone in the tavern turned to see who it was.

A man stood in the middle of the dining area. It was the giant, the owner of the blue cricket that had nearly beaten the fortune-teller’s yellow one. The fortune-teller looked terrified as the man, who was even bigger than the manager, strode purposefully over, pushing people aside. The manager stepped forward, and the giant took him down with one punch. Then the giant grabbed the fortune-teller by the neck, and Cí, too.

“Now,” he growled, “let’s hear this little story about magnets one more time.”

Cí hated swindlers, but he hated violent people even more. Moreover, this man seemed perfectly prepared to take his money.

“This is between us,” said Cí obstinately, even though the giant had him by the neck.

“The devil with both of you!” said the giant, flinging them against an old lattice screen, which broke into pieces.

As Cí struggled to his feet, the giant got astride the fortune-teller and began choking him. Cí leaped on the giant and punched him in the back, but it was like punching a brick wall. The giant threw him back toward the screen. Cí tasted blood on his lips.

The other patrons gathered around, eager for a fight. They started laying bets.

“Hundred-to-one odds on the giant,” announced a young man who appointed himself deposit taker.

“Put me down for two hundred!”

“A thousand!”

“Two thousand if he kills him!”

Cí knew that none of these wolves would help him; his life was in serious danger, and running wasn’t an option. Aside from his injured calf, he was surrounded, and the giant was on his feet, looking down at Cí as if he were a cockroach there to be stomped on. The giant spat on his hands and encouraged the crowd. Suddenly, Third popped into Cí’s mind, and he decided what to do.

“Well,” said Cí, “it won’t be the first time I’ve smacked a woman down.”

“What?” roared the giant. He swiped at Cí, who managed to hop out of the way, causing the giant to stumble.

“I’ll bet you’re more girl than man.”

“I’m going to rip out your guts and feed them to you!” Again the giant swiped at Cí, and again Cí dodged him.

“You’re worried about an injured man beating you. Bring us some knives!” Cí shouted.

“It’s your own grave you’re digging!” the giant sputtered as he grabbed someone’s gourd of liquor and downed it. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he brandished one of the knives that had been brought from the kitchen.

Cí checked his. It was razor sharp.

“What about a bet on the little guy?” called the boy taking bets. “Come on! I have to cover the bets. He moves quick…he might survive one attack.”

Laughter went around.

“
I’ll
bet on me,” said Cí, to everyone’s amazement. “Eight hundred
qián
!” he said, staring directly at the fortune-teller.

The fortune-teller looked amazed, too. But after a moment, he nodded his assent. He rooted around for the money, and gave it to the taker.

“Fine,” said the deposit holder. “Anyone else? No? OK…Strip to the waist and get ready to fight!”

The giant smirked, then winked and bragged to someone in the crowd about how he was going to crush Cí. He dramatically removed his robes, revealing an alarmingly muscular torso, and then took a bowl of oil and poured it over his chest for greater effect.

“Shit yourself, have you?” said the giant.

Cí didn’t answer. With a ritual air, he placed his belongings in a neat pile. Knowing what he was about to do, he emanated calm. He took off his five-button tunic, and there—from waist to neck and all along his arms—was the thick tangle of scars for all to see. Proof of some atrocity. A stupefied murmur went around. Even the giant looked stunned.

“Ready!” said the taker, and a roar went up.

“Before we start,” yelled Cí, and the noise died down, “I want to offer this man the chance to save his life.”

“Save it for the grave!” said the giant.

“You’d be better off listening,” he said. “Or do you think someone with these scars would be easy to kill? I take no pleasure in executing my opponents. How about the Dragon Challenge instead?”

The giant blinked. The Dragon Challenge would put them on more even footing, but not many people dared take it on: it required having a pattern cut into oneself with a knife. The cut had to be both deep and long. And the first to cry out was the loser.

“I’ll do mine right over my heart,” said Cí, hoping to get the crowd on his side.

“You must think I’m stupid! Why would I want to be cut when I can crush you without suffering a single scratch?”

“Yes, yes—I don’t blame you.” Turning to the crowd, Cí raised his voice. “I’ve come across plenty of cowards just like you before!”

The giant could see from the people’s expressions what was at stake. If he turned down the challenge, his manliness would be in doubt.

“Fine, shrimp. But you’re gonna be swallowing your words along with your teeth.”

It was the bravado Cí had expected.

Another cheer went up.

Cí set out the rules: “The cuts start at the nipple, trace the outside in loops, carry on outward, going deeper all the time. We only stop when one of us cries out.”

“Agreed,” said the giant. “On one condition.” He looked at each person in the crowd, savoring the moment.

“Whoever wins gets to sink his knife into the other’s heart.”

“Ten thousand
qián
on the boy!”

Everyone, Cí included, turned around in astonishment to see who was placing this bet.

A murmur went around: “He’s mad! He’ll lose it all!”

But the fortune-teller wasn’t deterred. He took a bill from his wallet. The youth taking the deposits checked the bill’s authenticity. Once the amount was matched by other bettors, he struck a gong, signaling the preparation for the duel.

Cí and the giant stood a few feet apart, facing each other. The two cooks marked the knife blades to indicate how deep they should sink them. The giant, eyeing his blade as if it were a snake and he had to work out how venomous it was, drained the last of his liquor. He slammed the gourd down and ordered another.

Then the cooks painted on the combatants’ bodies the pattern their knives had to follow. The cook who was painting on Cí trembled when his brush crossed over a particularly thick scar.

Cí shut his eyes and prayed for the spirits to protect him. He’d taken part in a Dragon Challenge three years earlier. He’d won then, but it had nearly cost him his life. He knew there was a chance
now that his lung could be punctured long before his opponent, with his thick layers of muscle and fat, was seriously injured. But in his mind it was still worth it: Third needed him to be victorious.

And so it began.

Cí swallowed. He didn’t feel the incision, but watched the blood bubbling out of his chest, dripping down his belly and onto his legs. While pain wasn’t an issue, the tricky part was staying calm: the slightest jolt and he’d lose the bet. He took slow, even breaths as the tip of the knife sliced through his skin.

He watched the other cook cut the giant, who flinched, but his sardonic smile showed Cí he was a serious opponent. The longer it went on, the closer death came.

The grooves grew increasingly deep, parting fat and flesh, beginning to slice the muscles and fascia. Cí feigned pain. The giant’s mouth was jammed shut, the strain in his jaw and neck apparent. He kept his enraged, pained eyes locked on Cí.

Looking down, Cí saw that the knifepoint had stopped directly over his heart. The cook had pushed too hard and hit a rib, and the knife was caught between it and the tough scar tissue. Seeing this, the giant seemed to think victory was almost his, and he shouted for yet another drink. Cí told his cook to continue—if he stopped for too long, that also could be taken as defeat.

“Sure?” said the cook, trembling.

No!

But Cí nodded.

The cook gritted his teeth and pushed down. The skin stretched like resin and then, with a pop, the knife sunk deeper. It was almost at his heart—Cí could feel his heart hammering and held his breath. The cook glanced up for a signal to stop.

“Go on, you bastard!”

The giant laughed. Cí looked up. The giant’s torso was bathed in blood.

“Who’s the coward now?” he roared, lifting another gourd to his lips.

Cí knew that, any second, it could all go terribly wrong. He shut his eyes and thought about the money and Third.

Cry out, for god’s sake!

And it happened—as if the giant had heard his thoughts. His eyes clouded before opening horrifically wide.

The crowd fell silent. The giant tottered toward Cí. The knife was in to the hilt—in his heart.

“It…it was him…he moved!” stuttered the cook.

“De…vil…boy!” croaked the giant, before crashing straight through a table and collapsing on the floor.

A number of men rushed forward to try to revive him, while others crowded around the taker for their money.

Cí didn’t even have time to put his clothes on. The fortune-teller grabbed his arm and dragged him to the back door. They went as fast as they could, given Cí’s wounded leg and the bleeding from all the cuts, and went down an alley that led to a canal. There, they ducked under a stone bridge, out of sight.

“Take this. Cover yourself and wait here.”

Cí took the man’s jacket and put pressure on the worst cuts. He began to wonder if the fortune-teller would come back and was amazed when the little man appeared not long after, carrying an over-full bag.

“I had to get the kid at the door to hide the rest of my things. Are you in much pain?” Cí shook his head. “Let me see. Buddha! I have no idea how you managed it.”

“And I don’t know why you bet on me.”

“I’ll explain later. Use this.” He handed Cí a bandage. “How on earth did you get those burns?”

Cí didn’t answer. He hadn’t forgotten about the fortune-teller’s cheating him. The fortune-teller took off his donkey pelt and put it around Cí’s shoulders.

“Do you have any work?”

Cí shook his head again.

“Where are you living?”

“None of your business. Did you make your money back?”

“Of course. I’m a fortune-teller, not an idiot. Is this what you’re after?” He held out a purse full of coins.

Cí took his winnings—800
qián
transformed into 1,600. It was hardly adequate return for what he’d been through.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, standing up.

“Why the hurry? Look at you. You aren’t going to get far on that leg.”

“I need to get to a pharmacy.”

“At this time of night? They can’t do much for a wound like that in a pharmacy. I know a healer—”

“Not for me!” He tried to walk but stumbled. “Damn!”

“Shh! Sit down or they’ll see us. Those men bet their week’s wages, and I can promise you they’re no Buddhist monks. They’d kill you for less.”