The Corpse Reader (28 page)

A beggar boy with no arms came and sat next to him. He had two cloth bags for carrying sand slung over his stumps. He grinned toothlessly at Cí; he liked the rain, he said, because it cleaned his face. Cí leaned over and adjusted the boy’s bags for him, and with a cloth wiped some of the dirt from his face. Third’s constant smile sprang into his thoughts, her enthusiasm in spite of everything. He felt her there with him.

Getting up, he stroked the boy’s head and looked out. Maybe it was clearing up. If he hurried, he might even make it to the Ming Academy before nightfall.

From outside the academy, he could see silhouettes of the students in the classrooms. Their talk and laughter drifted out into the gardens and through the cloisters where, behind an imposing stone wall, there was a grove of plum, pear, and apricot trees.

A group of students came from the street behind him and passed by as they walked in the direction of the academy. They were discussing their classes, and behind them a couple of servants pulled handcarts overflowing with all kinds of food. A few of them glanced back at him as if they were worried he might contaminate them somehow. I probably would, he thought. They entered through the academy gate whispering.

Inside there was wisdom and cleanliness; outside, ignorance and baseness.

Summoning all his courage, Cí walked through the academy’s entrance. But as he did, a guard stepped out in front of him brandishing a stick. Cí told him Professor Ming had invited him.

“Professor Ming doesn’t give interviews to beggars,” he said, advancing on Cí.

Backing away, Cí noticed the group of students watching and laughing. But he wasn’t going to be diverted from the academy any more. He sidestepped the guard and ran through the gardens toward the main building. Shouts went up as he came through the door, and as he looked back he saw that the guard and several students were chasing him. He ran through the hallway and into a library. The students and the guard entered through another door and, together with students who had been studying in the library, quickly surrounded Cí. With his back against a bookshelf, he shut his eyes and waited for the first blow.

But then they all went quiet.

Looking up, Cí saw Professor Ming coming toward them, glowering. As soon as Ming heard what the guard had to say, he ordered that Cí be thrown out without even the opportunity to explain himself.

Cí was just outside the main gate, still dusting himself off, when he felt a hand on his elbow. It was the guard, and, after helping Cí to his feet, he gave him a bowl of rice. Cí was confused, but he thanked the man.

“Thank the professor. He said he’ll receive you tomorrow if you present yourself with better manners.”

Cí slept collapsed against the academy’s outer wall. He was exhausted, but his thoughts churned so much he didn’t sleep well. Every time he drifted off, he saw Third’s smiling face. All he could do now, he knew, was honor her memory and hope her spirit would give him protection.

In the morning, he had to be shaken awake by the guard. He got up and tried to make himself look as decent as possible, hiding his matted hair under his cap. Following the guard, who Cí now noticed had a strange tottering gait, he went through the gardens, stopping at a fountain to splash his face.

Ming was in the library, and Cí bowed as the guard left them. Ming, who was wearing the same red gown that he’d worn at the cemetery, closed his book and told Cí to take a seat. Ming asked his name, and he only replied, “Cí.”

“What about a full name? What should I call you, then?” he said, beginning to pace the room. “The Amazing Murder Guesser? Hmm? Or what about the Uninvited Academy Invader?”

Cí blushed. He hadn’t considered this obstacle, but he couldn’t reveal his full name because of the report about his father’s conduct. Rather than have to field more uncomfortable questions, he said nothing.

“OK, Cí No Parents, tell me this. Why should I make this kind of offer to someone who rejects his parents by refusing to name them? I was certain the other day not only that you were blessed with talent, but that you might even be able to make a contribution to our complicated science. But I’m having doubts, given this and your conduct yesterday.”

Cí considered saying he was an orphan, but that wouldn’t stop Ming from asking more questions. Finally, he came up with a story.

“I was involved in an accident three years ago and lost my memory. All I remember is waking up in a field one day. A family found me and took care of me, but they were moving to the south, so I decided to come to the city. They always said they thought I must have been from here.”

“Right,” said Ming, stroking his mustache. “And nonetheless you have a wide knowledge of how to uncover hidden wounds,
about where a prisoner is tattooed, about which knife wounds are mortal and which are not…”

“The family worked in a slaughterhouse. The rest I learned in the cemetery.”

“The only thing you’d learn in a cemetery is how to dig graves—and tell lies.”

“Please, sir—”

“Not to mention your disrespectful performance yesterday!”

“That guard’s an idiot! I told him about your offer, but he wouldn’t even listen to me.”

“Silence!” said Ming. “How dare you insult someone you don’t even know? In this institution, everyone follows orders, and that was all the guard was doing.” Ming turned away from Cí and went over to his desk. “Recognize this?” he said, picking up the book he’d been reading before.

It was his father’s copy of the penal code.

“Where did you find it?”

“Where did you lose it?” replied Ming immediately.

Cí avoided Ming’s penetrating stare. It was no use trying to fool him.

“I was robbed,” he managed to say.

“Mmm…Maybe the robber was the same man who sold it to me.”

Cí said nothing; if Ming had the book, there was a chance he knew about Kao’s tracking him. He got up to leave, thinking he should never have come. Ming told him to sit back down.

“I bought it from some ruffian at the market. When you and I met at the cemetery, I thought I recognized you, but I couldn’t place you. But I went to the book market last week, as I do every week, and this unique edition caught my eye—it stood out at what was a fairly insalubrious stall. I had a feeling you’d show up here sooner or later, so I bought it.” He frowned and put a hand to his
temple, meditating on what to say next. “Dear boy. I have a feeling I might regret this, but in spite of your lies, the offer still stands.” He picked up the book. “There’s no doubt in my mind that you have exceptional qualities. It would be such a shame for them to be…dissolved among the mediocrity. If you are truly willing to do as you’re told…” He handed Cí the book. “Here. It’s yours.”

Trembling, Cí took the book. He found it difficult to comprehend what was happening. Ming might know about his father, but he didn’t seem to know about Kao. He got down on his knees to thank Ming, but Ming told him to get up.

“Don’t thank me now. Now is when your work begins.”

“You won’t regret it, sir.”

“I hope not, boy. I hope not.”

Cí met his classmates-to-be in the Honorable Debating Hall, the lavish auditorium where debates were held and exams were taken. When there was a new student, it was traditional to give the professors and students an opportunity to meet him and express any concerns about his entering the academy. Standing in front of what seemed like hundreds and hundreds of piercing gazes, Cí tried to stay calm.

The room was silent as Professor Ming entered, bowed to the other professors and the students in the room, and then took his place at a podium. He related the story of the encounter in the cemetery, the meeting that had allowed him to witness Cí’s talents. He referred to Cí as the Corpse Reader and defined his practice as “an unfathomable mix of sorcery and erudition.” Ming said that perhaps with training and study—stressing the
perhaps
—the boy might shine. These were his reasons for inviting Cí to join the academy.

When the professor was asked about the applicant’s origins, Cí was surprised to hear Ming recount the story about his memory loss and his last few years as a butcher and gravedigger.

Then Cí was invited to the podium. He looked around in vain for a friendly face. There were only cold glares. He was asked about his knowledge of the classics, about law, and about what he knew of poetry. A wiry professor with bushy eyebrows led the comments.

“Our colleague, Professor Ming, was clearly dazzled by your reading of the corpse. He has heaped praise on you. And I don’t blame him; it can often be difficult to distinguish the brilliance of gold from the radiance of base metal. It seems that the accuracy of your examination and predictions have led Ming to think you’re some kind of visionary, and that qualifies you to stand alongside those of us who have spent our lives studying the arts. None of this surprises me. Ming’s passion for bodily organs is well known.

“But what you have to understand is that to solve crimes and bring justice to the dead, it takes much more than merely knowing
who
committed a crime and
how
. Truth lies in
motivation
—what could motivate a man to commit crimes?—and an understanding of people’s preoccupations, their situations. Their
reasons
are not to be found in wounds and entrails. They are to be found through an understanding of art and literature.”

The professor had a point, but his absolute contempt for medicine was too much. There was some truth in what he said, but if a judge couldn’t distinguish a natural death from a murder in the first place, how on earth could justice ever be done? Cí considered how best to express his opinion.

“Honorable professor, I’m not here to win a battle. I can’t possibly hope to prevail with the little that I know, nor compare my knowledge with that of the masters and students here. I only want to learn. Knowledge itself knows no limits, no compartmentalizing. Nor does it know prejudice. If you allow me to join the academy,
I swear I will give everything to my studies, even leaving aside the question of wounds and entrails if I have to.”

A pudgy professor with a pinched mouth raised his hand to speak. His breathing was heavy, and the few steps he took to come forward left him out of breath. He crossed his hands over his belly as he considered Cí for a few long moments.

“It seems that you tarnished this institution’s honor yesterday, bursting in here like a savage. It brings to mind a saying about a man: ‘Yes, he might be a thief, but he’s also a wonderful flutist.’ Do you know what my reply to that is? ‘Fine. He might be a wonderful flutist, but first and foremost he’s a thief.’” The professor licked his lips and scratched his greasy hair. “What part of this truth do you embody? That of the man who disobeys rules but reads bodies, or he who reads bodies but disobeys rules? Further, can you tell me why we should accept a vagabond like you into the empire’s most respectable academy?”

These questions surprised and worried Cí. He’d thought that, since Ming was the director of the academy, his opinion would prevail. Given the circumstances, though, he decided to change his approach.

“Venerable master,” he said, bowing. “I beg your forgiveness of my unacceptable behavior yesterday. It came out of feeling powerless and desperate. I know this is no excuse, and that the most important thing is for me to demonstrate that I’m worthy of your confidence. So, first, I must ask for your indulgence; I’m a country boy, and I’m eager to learn. Isn’t that what the academy is about? If I already knew all the rules, if I didn’t have the thirst for knowledge, why would I want to study? And how could I then avoid the things that make me imperfect?