The Golden Rat Read online

“Baoliu!”

  “I’m sorry.” Baoliu stepped into the open, toward his father’s amber-lit face. “I was trying to be quiet,” he mumbled. “I knocked something over.”

  “What are you doing prowling around like this?”

  Baoliu heard a door open above and then saw Jia Lam peering out from her private quarters.

  “I was hungry. I just wanted something to eat,” said Baoliu.

  “Go to bed!”

  Baoliu looked at his father, and at a maid peering around the corner, and, without a word, made his way back to his room.

  “And stay there!” his father shouted after him.

  BAOLIU AWOKE SUDDENLY, thinking he had heard something. He had fallen asleep in his clothes, and wondered why.

  The sound came again—footsteps; he looked up as someone passed in the hallway—a servant, perhaps.

  Baoliu thought nothing of it, and pulled covers around himself, but then his eyes came to rest on the lantern next to his bed. The candle had almost burned itself out and now flickered faintly in a puddle of wax. He felt as though he’d only drifted off for a few minutes, but in fact, he’d been asleep for hours. It was late, probably near dawn. Why would anyone be up so early?

  Yawning, he crawled out of bed. He looked down the hallway, and saw a shadow headed up the stairs.

  It must be Hai Nan, he thought for a moment, and then wasn’t sure.

  He pulled on a robe and slippers and crept into the main salon, picking his way through a dark maze of armchairs and tables, and then looked up the stairway. The shadowy figure was gone.

  A door clicked open on the landing above.

  Baoliu froze, and saw the shadow again, walking through the dark on the landing. It pushed open a sleeping–chamber door—Jia Lam’s—and then disappeared into her room.

  “You shenme shi?” “What?” Her voice was faint, sleepy.

  Baoliu couldn’t make out the words, but it was a man who responded to her.

  Something fell. And then quiet returned. Baoliu began to climb the stairs, slowly, quietly. And then froze as faint cries came from the room.

  Immediately, Baoliu sprinted up the stairs and then across the landing. He was reaching for the half-open door; it suddenly swung outward, slamming into his face and knocking him reeling.

  A scream came from inside the room.

  Someone stumbled over Baoliu, fingernails digging into his neck. He turned, and the shadow of a foot smashed into his head.

  He rolled onto his stomach, and felt hot blood dripping from his eyebrow. He tried to get to his knees, and crumpled face-first to the floor.

  WAVES OF NAUSEA swept over him as he tried to awaken and open his eyes. He heard servants and heard his father crying out—and then it was later, it seemed, and he heard heavy boots and hard voices.

  Hai Nan was explaining something, and then another voice joined in.

  Baoliu blinked, blood in his eyes, and saw Hai Nan in his maroon robe. He saw men in hardened-leather armor—constables. And watched servants hurrying with basins in their hands.

  “He’s never liked her,” said Hai Nan. “But this is unthinkable!” Jewelry was scattered on the floor. And a blanket was rolled up against the wall. The thing was mummy-shaped and bloody, and part of a hand was sticking out of the folds.

  “Baoliu? What did you do?” his father cried, directly over him.

  Baoliu struggled to get up, and realized his wrists were bound behind him. A gloved hand grabbed him by the shirt, and almost lifted him off his feet.

  “What are you doing?” he cried.

  “Zhukou!” “Silence!” the constable snapped.

  “I did nothing!”

  He was slammed against the wall. Dizzy, for a moment he saw his father looking on. And then he was being dragged down the stairs, held under the arms by two constables.

  In front of the house, a crowd had gathered—neighbors, many still in their nightgowns.

  A hum of voices stopped suddenly as Baoliu emerged in the grasp of the constables. Familiar eyes met his; people stepped back, and the crowd parted as he was led away.

  3

  Tang qin could have let his son be taken to Yongjia Prison, a converted fortress about which tales of torture, death, and depravity abounded. Instead, at a cost of almost a hundred tongqian a day, Baoliu was confined in the Gaoji, the “jail of the rich,” in a private cell within the walls of the House of Law, a collection of imposing buildings on a ridge overlooking the city.

  The cell was small and sparse: a cot, a table, and a single, slitlike window, but it was clean, he was given three meals a day, and his other needs were tended to. Still, though he was well treated and ate passable food, Baoliu didn’t consider himself the least bit fortunate. He’d done nothing. He’d committed no crime; his father or Hai Nan or one of the servants had killed Jia Lam. One of them had stabbed her to death. Or maybe it had been done by an intruder, a thief. Whoever it had been, it was Baoliu alone who would have to answer for the crime.

  He was told there would be a trial, but not when it might be.

  Prisoners in Gaoji were allowed to receive food, clothing, and other things from relatives, and to have visitors. Baoliu kept waiting for someone to come see him, or at least send a package. No packages arrived and no visitors came, not even his father or brother.

  Day after day, he languished—terrified of the impending trial, outraged by what had happened to him. How could father do this to me? he wondered over and over. How could he turn his back on me, abandon me like this? How could he think I’d ever kill someone?

  On the morning of his fourth day in the prison, the numbing anxiety of waiting turned to sick fear. The guards came for him; in shackles, he was escorted through the House of Law and into a large, wood-paneled courtroom—the place musty, stinking of a stale odor and age. He saw his father and Hai Nan, and some of his relatives, but most of the seats were empty. Not one of his friends was there. There was a clerk in a black skullcap, and a black-robed judge hunched over an ornately carved table, a writing brush in one hand, the other resting on an ivory cudgel. His face was long and thin, his mouth pinched-looking.

  Shackled, wearing the same bloodied clothes he’d had on the night of the murder, Baoliu stood before him, guards at his side. The judge looked up from his writing and studied Baoliu. “I have examined the magistrate’s report, and it is his conclusion that you are guilty of the crime of murder. Your confession is now required.”

  “I killed no one,” said Baoliu, his voice cracking with nerves. “I do not confess.”

  The judge blinked. “Very well. Then you shall proceed to speak in your defense and to present evidence of your innocence. Defend yourself if you can.”

  “I have never killed anyone, and I never would. I did not kill Jia Lam.”

  “Then who did?”

  “I don’t know,” said Baoliu, and glanced over his shoulder at the people behind him. “I saw someone go into her room, but I don’t know who it was.”

  “And why don’t you know?”

  “It was close to dawn but still very dark.”

  The judge leaned back in his chair. “And you just happened to be awake at this time?”

  “I was asleep, but then something woke me up—footsteps, or some other sound.”

  “‘Or some other sound,’” said the judge, softly echoing Baoliu’s words.

  Baoliu licked his dry lips. “When I heard her cry, I ran to help.”

  “You rushed to her rescue?”

  “Yes.”

  “How brave of you!” said the judge, a smile veiling his sarcasm.

  “It’s the truth!”

  Someone laughed, a stupid, jittery giggle coming from somewhere behind Baoliu. The judge pounded for quiet. He smiled into the silence he had created and then turned his gaze on Baoliu.

  “Perhaps I am mistaken,” he said in a pleasant, mild-sounding tone of voice, “but there are stains on your clothing which appear to be dried blood.”

  “It’s my
blood.” With a shackled hand, Baoliu touched the gash in his forehead. “The bedroom door hit me and I bled. The rest of it must have gotten on me when the killer stumbled into me when he was trying to get away.”

  “Oh, I see,” said the judge, as though suddenly enlightened and fully believing Baoliu’s every word.

  Baoliu opened his mouth to speak.

  “This ‘killer’? No one else in your family saw him. Why were you the only one?”

  “The others were asleep.”

  “But didn’t you say that Jia Lam cried out? Wouldn’t this have awakened everybody?”

  “Yes—I think it did.”

  “But still no one saw him?”

  “No, but—”

  “There’s something else I don’t understand,” interrupted the judge, his tone one of mock confusion. “You claim to have been asleep in bed and awakened by a noise. However, when the constables found you, you were fully dressed. Why?”

  Baoliu’s words wavered with nerves. “The night before the robbery, I returned home late. I was tired—and fell asleep in my clothes.”

  “Oh,” said the judge as the clerk handed him a document. He studied it for a long moment and then looked up at Baoliu. “Jewelry was stolen that night, some of which has not been found, and I see here that you have stolen from your father’s wife before. Is this so?”

  “Yes,” said Baoliu, rubbing damp palms on his pants. “But I wasn’t stealing from Jia Lam that night.”

  “Oh, this night was an exception?” The judge laughed softly at his own joke, and then so did the clerk and the guards.

  “The things I took before were things that had been my mother’s. When my mother died, Jia Lam took everything that had belonged to her. I couldn’t let her keep all of it.”

  “Is this correct: Jia Lam became your father’s wife after the death of your mother? How did you feel about her? Did you like Jia Lam?”

  “No.”

  “Did you resent her?”

  “Yes, I did, but—”

  “Did you hate her?”

  Baoliu tried to think of something to say but no words would come.

  His gaze on Baoliu, the judge sighed and then looked out at the courtroom. “Does anyone wish to speak in defense of Baoliu?” he asked. “Are any present who can attest to his innocence?”

  Baoliu turned and looked at his father and brother and the others, and tears filled his eyes; none of them moved, none of them rose to address the court.

  “I find no reason, then,” said the judge, “not to confirm the conclusion of the magistrate. I declare you guilty of the crime of murder.”

  Baoliu stared openmouthed.

  “Your age of only sixteen years inclines me to leniency. Though your crime was most heinous, a capital punishment can be avoided. With your confession, a sentence of enslavement for life will be the recommendation of this court. How do you say?”

  “I did nothing wrong!”

  “Baoliu, it is most evident that you did!” said the judge, his voice rising. “I think you now regret what you have done—but only because of the price you will have to pay, not because you are repentant. Think of all the pain and grief you have caused. Show contrition for what you have done, admit to your wrongdoing, and you may be spared.”

  “Confess, Baoliu!” Hai Nan called out. “Save yourself!”

  “I confess to nothing!”

  “Then no choice remains for me!” snapped the judge. “Death by beheading is the sentence of this court!”

  “I’m not guilty! I murdered no one!”

  Rising darkly, the judge aimed the cudgel at him. “Guards! Remove him!”

  “Just time!” he begged. “Just give me time to prove my innocence!” Baoliu reached out chained hands.

  A huge arm locked around his neck; another guard grabbed the loop of chain connecting his wrist shackles. Hai Nan cried out to him and his father hung his head in shame as Baoliu was dragged from the courtroom.

  4

  Before the trial, Baoliu had held out hope. Now he had none.

  Now, like the other two in the waiting cell, he sat—thinking over and over about everything that had happened—and about what was to come. The undersized boy had quit beating his head back against the bars, and now sat staring into space; the tattooed old man lay curled in sleep.

  Baoliu pressed his face against thick, dirty bars and gazed emptily out at the prison complex.

  Guards paced the ramparts of the prison-yard walls. A work gang was collecting its tools and taking them to a shed. They’d worked most of the day refurbishing a barrier between the execution yard and the spectator’s gallery. The job appeared done; everything was ready for the morning show.

  The afternoon waned. The gold of day changed to darkening silver as the sun dipped beneath distant hills, striping the cell and those inside with lengthening shadows of bamboo. His feet caked with mud, his silk robe and cotton shirt and pants filthy, Baoliu hugged himself against the cold.

  Far below, the Oujiang River slowly snaked through the plains, black and sluggish-looking, melding opaquely with a fog-draped sea. From the heart of the city, the Genggu, The Drum of Time, began to beat, announcing the first of the twelve hours of the night.

  Darkness closed in on the cage. Baoliu hung his head, wishing for the morning. He only wanted it to be over—for the pain of waiting to end. He had seen death before, but believed that somehow it did not apply to him. He was going to live forever.

  Muffled laughter erupted from the guardhouse.

  If only I’d confessed, he kept telling himself. My life would have been spared. Anything was better than death.

  More laughter came from the guardhouse.

  Baoliu looked in the direction of the place.

  A door squealed open. A torch seemed to be floating in the direction of the bamboo death cell. Footsteps crackled. Two guards, one with a torch in hand, emerged into view.

  Bathed in wavering light, Baoliu exchanged glances with the boy and old man.

  Fingers fumbled with a lock. The cage door swung open.

  “Tang Baoliu! To your feet!”

  Baoliu found himself facing a gap-toothed guard. Chewing a wad of sap, the man closed iron cuffs on Baoliu’s wrists as the other removed his leg shackles.

  “Come!” He was pulled out into flickering light. He looked all around, at the black outline of the main prison and the towering walls encircling it, and then at the execution yard and the spectators’ gallery there. Run! His own voice screamed inside his head.

  “Kuai yidian!” “Move!” ordered the sap-chewing guard. And then he jabbed Baoliu in the back, pushing him in the direction of the guardhouse.

  “Where are you taking me?” A curse was his answer—and the sting of a split-cane whip across his back. He stumbled ahead, sharp stones digging into his feet, and then was shoved ahead into a long, paved corridor. Yellow light streamed from the last doorway. He followed it into a small room.

  “Father!”

  Tang Qin sat at a scratched wooden table—alone, his expression hard, his eyes tired. For a long moment he looked at Baoliu’s shackled wrists and then slowly raised his gaze.

  “Zuoxia!” A guard snapped his fingers and pointed in the direction of a low stool. “Sit!” he ordered.

  Baoliu sat down across from his father, who averted his gaze. When he spoke it was as though he were addressing the wall beside him instead of his son.

  “Arrangements have been made with the authorities. I have sacrificed a great deal of my money—eight thousand tongqian. It has cost me dearly, but your life is to be spared.”

  “What?” Baoliu gasped.

  “There is to be a ka-di; another is to die in your place.”

  Shocked, Baoliu stared. He understood the arrangement his father had made—but not why. The custom, ka-di, was well known but its practice rare: at an enormous price, a substitute could be purchased to die in place of a criminal condemned by the courts.

  Baoliu’s eyes brimmed wit
h tears. Relief—and gratitude—filled him. “Thank you, Father!” he stammered. “I know how all this must appear to you.” He reached out a hand to his father, and then lowered it as his father, a look of contempt on his face, crossed his arms.

  “Father, please, you’ve got to believe me when I tell you that I’m innocent!”

  “Zhukou!” “Silence!” His fist came down hard on the table. “I am not your father, and never again shall you address me as such. After tonight, you shall not speak to me nor shall you ever again enter my home!”

  Stunned, Baoliu clenched his jaw and wiped at tears brimming in his eyes. “I am innocent! I was not stealing from Jia Lam, and I did not kill her!”

  “Even now you continue lying! And by lying, disgrace yourself even further!”

  “I’m telling the truth!”

  “You hated Jia Lam; you have since the first day she came into our home. You disrespected her, as you did me. You’ve fought with her; you’ve stolen from her; and now you’ve killed her! You say someone else was in the house that night, but I recall seeing only one person sneaking about in the dark that night—you!”

  “You don’t understand!”

  “No, Baoliu, I do not. I do not understand what has happened to the son I once had! You lie, you steal, and now you’ve taken a life. You have committed the greatest of sins. You have dishonored this family for all time. Even now, you show no remorse for what you have done!”

  “But I didn’t do it!” Baoliu’s hands curled into fists. “And somehow I’ll prove it!”

  His father exhaled noisily. “Do you think that I want to believe that a child of mine committed murder? Don’t you realize how badly I want to believe you, and that I have tried to think of anything—anything!—that might make me even doubt that you’re guilty? How I wish, with all my soul, that I could, but I can’t!”

  Baoliu opened his mouth to speak, and then stopped himself as a battered rosewood door opened. A magistrate in a red silk robe entered the room, followed by a guard and a man with a shaved head: Baoliu’s substitute in death. His face looked oddly familiar and so did his hands. They were overlarge, the backs of them burned—scarred to a horrid, melted-looking smoothness. Their eyes met briefly and then the man was led from the room. The magistrate, stroking a beard of black and gray, turned to Baoliu. From the flowing sleeves of his robe he produced a scroll and read: