Elsewhere, page 25
Zixia sighs. ‘My apologies for raking up old affairs. But Zigong, to comprehend your bond with Woman Kong truly made me see how bitter the situation must have been to you, when Kong Kui invited Zilu, instead of you, to Wey to provide him with counsel. Your indignation would only have been greater when the Master disregarded your appeal and assigned Zilu to edit The Annual of Spring and Autumn and when you had to hand over the largest payment to Zilu every fortnight, even though you were the one who did the squalid job of bookkeeping.’ He gazes at Zigong, smiling. ‘Do not worry about poverty but about inequality – this line came to me again and again when I pondered the reasons for Zilu’s brutal death. Wasn’t it this cumulative sense of injustice that finally led you to commit the irredeemable deed? Didn’t you scheme, via Woman Kong, with Kuaikui, and lay down the trap for your fellow disciple Zilu, your peer who worked and studied beside you for three decades and was, in the end, cut up into pieces alive, slash after slash? And shouldn’t I judge you for your crime and crucify you in public to console my mentor’s spirit in heaven?’
He stops, nearly out of breath, his ears humming as the heralds howl:
‘… irredeemable … cut up into pieces alive … alive … in the end … adjudge you for your crime … crucify … crucify …’
The audience screeches. Some of them, soft-hearted and impressionable, are already weeping.
‘How despicable!’
‘How could that woman still be alive after all the upheaval she brought about?’
‘I never liked Zigong, those creepy eyes of his!’
‘Hang him!’
Once again, Zixia feels the stage trembling at the commotion. He glances to his right where Yanyan stretches the corners of his mouth upwards and nods at him.
Zixia sighs. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I have to do what I have to do, he thinks. Then he turns to the Master, who is watching him from the centre of the Rostrum, still, his face neither joyful nor despairing.
‘My answer is no – no, I shall not crucify Zigong,’ he exclaims, under the sage’s impervious gaze, the vowel rushing to his upper palate, quivering. ‘I shall not judge him. And I will not. To truly bring solace to Zilu’s spirit, I realise, I ought to halt my speculation on Zilu’s conniving with Kuaikui and instead examine a much more crucial matter. As I re-read the Analects 6.1, I became conscious of this’ – he takes a breath – ‘what caused Zilu’s death was nothing but the inequality of this House, the injustice that troubles and torments every one of us. If we are all scholars following Confucius for knowledge and if knowledge is universal and indifferent, why rank us into hierarchical groups, provoking cut-throat competition among us? Why confine our study within the six books of the Confucian oeuvre and prohibit us from looking outside the walls of the institution to peruse the Hundred Schools of Thought? And with the preposterous wealth we are amassing from the symposiums, why shouldn’t all disciples have the right to vote on the pecuniary scheme and be informed transparently of the House’s spending?’
He exhales deeply and looks around at his colleagues. Zigong, Ziwo, Ranyong and Yanyan.
‘What rights?’ Ziwo bellows. ‘Have you completely lost your mind?’
Shaking his head, Zixia stands up from his mat, walks to the edge of the Rostrum and, with his arms raised, calls directly to the audience: ‘And when I probed deeper into this matter, I asked myself, as an institution whose purpose is teaching, why should we charge you ten coins for attending the symposium? How is it just to demand you spend such a fortune when you only wish to learn? If the Master is concerned with the decline of humanity, and the sage claims that he takes benevolence as his burden, and only with death does his road come to an end, shouldn’t the symposium be free, open to all under Heaven?’
His declamation rings out, fizzing through his flesh and bones like elixir. Come on you lot, he thinks, looking at the flocks beneath him. Help me to succeed in my intentions.
Right beside the stage even the herald is transfixed. He stares at Zixia momentarily before recalling his duty and clears his throat.
‘Zixia said …’
‘Silence.’ From behind them a voice comes, measured and gentle. ‘Silence,’ the voice utters again, from the centre of the Rostrum.
Hesitating, the herald cries out loud: ‘Silence!’
The others echo: ‘Silence … Silence … Silence …’
Zixia has never heard a sound so horrid, throttling him like a shroud soaked with icy water, closing tighter and tighter as the word is repeated.
The audience hisses in bafflement.
‘Why are they asking us to be quiet?’
‘What did Zixia say? He went on for quite a while there.’
‘What the heck? Oi, herald, what did he say?’
‘Did he say something about money? That’s a bit vulgar.’
Zixia cannot breathe. A queasiness rises to his head and he feels the stage spinning underneath him. The space around him begins to warp, opening up as if a giant mouth is about to devour him.
‘Zixia.’ He hears a call coming from behind and turns around woodenly.
Glaring at him is the Master, whose eyes are bloodshot, filled with fury. ‘You unworthy student of mine,’ he says. ‘And you were implicating Zigong for misinterpreting the Analects? You’ve perfectly misread the line from 6.1 and suggested this most absurd palaver about the so-called inequality of the House. Is it because of the penalty you got last time for being late? In any respect, before you spouted your drivel, you should have learnt that the bù jūn in the text does not mean unequal, rather, it means unbalanced, indicating when, in a regime, the governing bodies are not in their designated positions. And the bù ān says nothing about people’s minds, it warns us that society will be thrown into chaos when the subordinate wants to overturn his superior, when the incompetent, inflated by ridiculous delusion, attempts to steal power from the capable – that’s what this line means: not worry about poverty but about political imbalance, not about underpopulation but about societal disorder.’
Zixia cannot believe his ears. The words the Master has uttered penetrate his mind with pronounced force, drilling down further as the heralds echo.
‘… the subordinate … the superior … the incompetent … the capable … overturn … steal power … steal … power … power … disorder … disorder …’
All of a sudden, Zixia sees the answer – the horrifying revelation. Zilu. Was it the Master who … He looks at the saint, whose face has aged profoundly since he put on the black gown, his hair lead white.
Zixia exerts himself to try and make a sound when he sees Yanyan raise his hands, his cardinal gown swaying with his movement, a golden sheen glimmering against the red brocade under the sun.
‘Forgive me, my master,’ Yanyan says. ‘I have to make a confession.’
Ah for fuck’s sake, Zixia thinks, looking at his peer. Don’t bother saving me now. Are you trying to get yourself ruined as well?
‘You may speak,’ the Master says.
Yanyan bows. ‘Thank you, my master. And I beg for your punishment. I’m afraid I have failed you and my fellow disciples. I have certain pivotal knowledge, yet I’ve kept quiet because of my sentimentality and misjudgement.’ He sighs. ‘Throughout my years of studying under the guidance of Zilu, alongside Zixia, I have observed a great deal of conflict between Zixia and our mentor. Zixia is distrusting, always paranoid that Zilu would disfavour him due to his humble upbringing. In private, he often vents his discontent, not just towards our mentor but also the House. Most recently, before Zilu went to Wey, he had read the Great Preface Zixia drafted and then provided some criticism, which, to my understanding, had wounded Zixia’s pride and as such he had with Zilu the fiercest feud.’
What is he talking about? Zixia cannot believe his ears. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
‘I deserve all the blame for concealing the truth,’ Yanyan continues, looking firmly at the Master. ‘I had been perturbed since Zixia followed Zilu to Wey, fearing something disastrous would happen. And when he returned with Zilu’s remains, I knew he must have been involved in the misdeed. However, I failed to report it to you because I was blinded and corrupted by the companionship he and I have shared for more than a decade.’ He pauses and sighs. ‘But now I must come forward because our institution cannot stand any more slander. I must disregard my personal sentiment and, for the greater good, divulge to you all: Zixia was the one who orchestrated Zilu’s death and I have evidence to prove it.’
He turns to Zixia and Zixia sees his face. Pale as always, the blue veins are gleaming beneath Yanyan’s skin, like the epiphyllum flower blooming for just a second before dying.
‘He is carrying a scroll.’ Yanyan points at Zixia’s chest. ‘A letter to his father-in-law, Marquis Zhao of Jin, who, as we all know, took Kuaikui in when he was in exile and backed Kuaikui’s takeover of Wey.’
Zixia bursts out laughing, finally breaking his silence. He retrieves the scroll from his chest pocket and thrusts it up in the air. ‘Is this what you were talking about? Yes, this is indeed a letter to my father-in-law, but it’s about but domestic matters, which I wrote on behalf of my wife!’
‘Very well,’ the Master says. ‘In this case, just open it and read it out loud to all of us.’
The placid tone of the command gives Zixia a chill. Only by lifting his hands, does he realise that they are trembling rapidly. He inhales to steady himself and breaks the clay seal.
The silk unfurls and Zixia sees, in astonishment, strange characters appearing in columns. The handwriting is florid and graceful, yet unfamiliar. It doesn’t belong to him, or any of the men he knows.
Dear Father, it says. As your humble half-son, I thank you for your help in unplugging a thorn from my heart. I’ll be forever in debt with you and Prince Kuaikui for your generous support …
It’s her. Zixia slumps down on the Rostrum, a musty odour rising from the corroded wood. He thinks back to Woman Bu’s outcry earlier this morning, when he had proposed teaching their daughter to read and write. She cursed him for sending the girl to hell – because this whole time, able to read and write yet having to act like an illiterate, she must have been there herself.
He now sees clearly that Yanyan must have planned this because he distrusted him, just as he doubted Yanyan, that at the end of the day, they believe only in themselves. What he cannot fathom is why Woman Bu would be persuaded by Yanyan to forge this letter. They have met behind his back. How many times? And what is she going to do after he dies, as a widow with two children? Is she going to get remarried? To whom?
He is still searching for answers when a herald walks up the stage, picks the letter from his hand and presents it to the Master.
The Master peruses the letter and announces the verdict:
‘I now conclude: it is Zixia who murdered Zilu!’
The audience thunders into claps and cheers, some gasping, some swearing.
It is almost the Hour of the Horse. The spectators, along with the disciples, are waiting eagerly for the execution of the convict as the sun ascends to its zenith.
Kneeling on the stage, Zixia is staring at the hem of his cardinal gown, his ears, once again, filled with an eerie silence. The hem is torn, its colour fading. Meticulously, he studies the ruptured stitches and the gradation of the redness until a herald appears with a tray. The Master speaks:
‘Although affectingly aggrieved by Zixia’s misdemeanour, we must ensure he receives an appropriate punishment, so that the morals of the Confucian House can be rehabilitated, and order restored. Now, historically, the first person who was killed by the method of hai was Bo Yikao, the crown prince of King Wisdom of Zhou. Bo, first held hostage by King Ferocious of Shang, was killed by being cut up into pieces alive. Afterwards, Ferocious used Bo’s minced meat to make cakes. He sent the meat cakes to Wisdom and ordered him to eat them. From this, we can learn that the completion of hai manifests as the meat of the executed being consumed by a family member of his.’
Zixia lifts his head and he sees a bowl being offered to him by a herald in a white robe.
In the bowl is a sludge of dense brown paste.
‘Zixia,’ the Master calls. ‘You’re not exactly Zilu’s family. But having studied under him for ten years, I assume he was like a father to you and you like a son to him. So I ordered this bowl of hai to be made for you, using the remains in the jar that you brought back. I consider it most suitable for you to eat this right here in front of everyone before we send you off the stage to the guillotine. What do you think?’
Zixia looks around the Rostrum, feeling the floor whirling. The faces are all so familiar, circling him like grey pigeons. Ziyüan, Zigong, Ziwo, Ranyong and Yanyan.
He smiles.
Extending his arm, Zixia picks up the spoon, pushes it in the meat paste, digs out a large dollop and feeds it into his mouth. The hai is warm and fragrant, viscous and hearty, reminding Zixia that he is in fact starving.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to Carlos Rojas, Phillip Lopate, Rey Chow, Nicky Harman, Chad Harbach and Catherine Platt, who have guided and helped me since the earliest days of my journey as an English writer.
Thank you to Hélder Beja and the Script Road Macau Literary Festival, whose commission prompted me to write my first article in English. Thank you to Frances Weightman, Sarah Dodd and the Leeds Centre for New Chinese Writing for having me in Leeds on so many wonderful occasions and inspiring me to write my first story in English. Thank you to Martin Doyle and The Irish Times for publishing that story.
Thank you to Eoin McNamee, Marie Caulfield, Nell Regan, Mike McCormack, Mia Gallagher, Declan Meade and Thomas Morris for their friendship and support.
Thank you to Madeleine Thien, Jan Carson, Lan Xu and Lucy Caldwell for the trips we took, the chats we had and the wine we drank together and for inspiring and encouraging me to work on ‘When Travelling in the Summer’, ‘Shooting an Elephant’ and ‘Stockholm’.
Thank you to He Xiaozhu for giving me the permission to use part of his poem Six Verbs, or the Apple in a fictional cookbook that appeared in ‘The Little House’.
Thank you to Lucy Caldwell (again), Alex Preston, Allison LaSorda and Danny Denton for their brilliant and insightful editorial notes and for publishing some of the stories in this book.
Thank you to the teachers and writers at the University of East Anglia, especially Andrew Cowan, Jean McNeil, Philip Langeskov, Tessa McWatt and Naomi Wood. Thank you to Catherine Gaffney, Tasha Ong, Emma Bamford and Vijay Khurana for reading the early drafts of the stories and giving me invaluable feedback.
Thank you to my agent and sometimes therapist Matthew Turner and all the wonderful people at RCW, especially Peter Straus, Stephen Edwards, Katharina Volckmer, Sam Coates, Tristan Kendrick, Natasia Patel and Aanya Dave.
Thank you to my editors Angus Cargill, Rebekah Jett and the phenomenal teams at Faber and Scribner who have helped bring this book to life.
Thank you to Daniel – my husband, best friend and first reader – who is incredibly patient and kind and puts up with me on a daily basis. Thank you to my father who is my most fervent critic and the first reader of my Chinese books.
At last, thank you to my mother and my son for being in my life.
About the Author
YAN GE was born in Sichuan, China, in 1984. She is a fiction writer in both Chinese and English who has received numerous awards, including the prestigious Mao Dun Literature Prize (Best Young Writer), and she was named by People’s Literature magazine as one of twenty future literature masters in China. Her work has been translated into English, French and German, among other languages. She has an MFA in creative writing from the University of East Anglia where she was the recipient of the UEA International Award 2018/19. She lives in Norwich.
Copyright
First published in 2023
by Faber & Faber Limited
The Bindery, 51 Hatton Garden
London EC1N 8HN
This ebook edition first published in the UK in 2023
All rights reserved
© Yan Ge, 2023
Stories in this collection have been previously published as follows:
‘The Little House’, The Stinging Fly, Issue 42, Volume 2, Summer 2020;
‘When Travelling in the Summer’, Brick 104, 2019;
‘No Time to Write’, Pursuit: The Balvenie Stories Collection, Canongate, 2019;
‘How I Fell in Love with the Well-Documented Life of Alexander Whelan’,
Being Various: New Irish Short Stories, Faber & Faber, 2019
The right of Yan Ge to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
ISBN 978–0–571–37313–0
Yan Ge, Elsewhere
