When the man came back, his face was hardened, and Cí’s immediate thought was that he was going to be turned away. But the official’s severe look seemed less for Cí than for the documents themselves, which he went through several times.
“I’m very sorry,” said the man at last. “I’m not going to be able to give you the certificate. Your grades are excellent, but in terms of your father’s integrity…” He didn’t seem able to bring himself to say more.
“My father? What happened with my father?”
“Read it for yourself. During a routine inspection six months ago, he was…” The man glanced kindly at Cí before going on. “He was found to have embezzled funds. The gravest crime an official can commit. He was on mourning leave at the time, but he still had to be demoted and dismissed.”
Cí trembled as he tried to make sense of the documents. His father…corrupt! That was why he decided not to return to Lin’an. His change of mind, the change in his attitude—it all stemmed from this.
He felt the shame transferring to him; he was dirty, contaminated by his father’s dishonesty. He’d now have to bear all of this. Feeling he might vomit, he fled from the Great Hall, down the magnificent stairs and out.
He stumbled through the gardens, castigating himself for his own stupidity. He had no idea where he was headed, or what to do with himself. He bumped into students and professors as if they were errant statues; he crashed into a bookstall, knocking it over, and when he tried to help pick up the books, the vendor shoved him away while shouting a few choice insults. A police officer made his way over to see what the commotion was, but Cí was able to disappear into the crowd.
Leaving the university grounds, he was nervous he’d be stopped. He made his way to the nearest canal and took a barge toward the trade square. All he had left was 200 qián. Now it was impossible for him to be a tutor. He had to reconsider.
What jobs could he look for? In a market flooded with farmworkers, his legal education would do no good. He didn’t have more skill than any other peasant in any kind of manual work, he wasn’t a member of any guild, and his injuries limited him. He went to a number of shops anyway, asking if there was anything he could do, anything at all, but had no luck.
He arrived at a salt warehouse and asked there. The man in charge looked at Cí as if he were trying to sell him a lame mule. He prodded Cí’s shoulders to see how strong he was, then winked at his assistant and told Cí to stay right there. From the top of a flight of stairs, the man dropped a sack of salt for Cí to lift; he just about managed it, though his ribs felt like they would crack under the weight. When he tried to lift a second sack, he fell flat on his face. The two men burst out laughing and sent Cí on his way.
Cí dragged himself along, trying to keep his spirits from sinking too low. Though he wasn’t in physical pain, he was sure his injuries were preventing him from making a good impression. But he had to keep trying. He checked all kinds of warehouses, businesses, workshops, the docks, even the municipal excrement collection service, but no one was willing to give him a chance.
He wandered to an area outside the city walls. For a while he drifted aimlessly, but then he heard shouting and headed toward the commotion.
A small crowd had gathered beneath a filthy awning; four or five men were holding down a boy who was kicking and screaming. The boy grew more distressed when another man came toward him brandishing a knife.
Cí realized he was witnessing a castration. There were specialist barbers who were charged with “converting” young homeless boys—usually those deemed to be brimming with vitality—into eunuchs for the emperor’s court. Feng had dealt with numerous corpses of boys who had died following the operation—from fever, gangrene, or blood loss. Judging by this particular barber’s appearance and the condition of his implements, everything pointed to the boy’s becoming one of those corpses.
Cí pushed his way to the front of the group. With a better view, he gasped at what he saw.
The barber, a toothless old man reeking of alcohol, had tried to remove the boy’s testicles but had accidentally cut the small penis. Cutting off the penis entirely, which he was now faced with doing, was clearly well beyond this man’s shaky abilities. The child wailed as if he were being split in two, and his weeping mother was begging her son to try and stay still.
Cí went over to the woman, and though it was risky to say anything, he turned to her and said, “Woman, if you let this man continue, your son is bound to die.”
“Get out of here!” shouted the barber, clumsily taking a swipe at Cí with the rusty knife. Cí sidestepped it easily and held the man’s gaze. The barber’s eyes were wild, and Cí figured he’d probably drunk every last penny from his most recent job.
“And you,” the barber said to the whimpering boy, “you’re still a man, right? So stop all that crying.”
The boy tried to comply, but he was in too much pain.
The barber, muttering that it was the boy’s fault for not keeping still, tried to stanch the blood. Because the incision had reached the urethra, he said he’d have to cut deeper. He took a straw compress from his bag of implements and pressed down. Cí shook his head. The barber twisted the penis and testicles together, and the boy shrieked. The barber paid no attention, but instead turned to the boy’s father and asked if he was absolutely sure. It was part of the rite: according to Confucius, not only would the boy become a “non-man,” but also, after death, his soul would never find peace.
The father nodded.
The barber placed a stick between the boy’s teeth and told him to bite down. As soon as he resumed his work, the boy passed out. It wasn’t long before the barber was finished, and he handed the parents their son’s amputated genitalia.
The barber, packing away his things, gave them instructions: As soon as he came to, the boy was to walk around as much as possible for two hours, then rest completely for the following three days. After that, the straw compress could be removed. He’d be able to urinate without any problem; everything would be fine.
As the barber started to leave, Cí stepped out in front of him.
“He still needs looking after.”
The man spat on the ground and sneered.
“The last thing I need is children.”
Cí bit his lip. He was about to reply but was interrupted by sudden cries behind him. Turning around, he saw that the boy lay in a pool of his own blood. And when Cí turned back, the barber had disappeared. Cí went over to try and help, but the boy was half-dead already. And then a pair of police officers arrived. Seeing Cí step back with blood all over his hands, they assumed he was responsible and tried to detain him. Cí dashed into the crowd and made his way to the canal, where he washed his hands and shook his head in disbelief at all that had just happened. He sat and looked up at the sky.
Midday already, and I still have no idea how I’m going to pay for the hostel or Third’s medicine.
Just then, a small cricket clambered onto his shoe. He flicked it off. But as the insect was trying to right itself, Cí remembered the fortune-teller’s proposal.
The thought of it made him nauseous; he hated the idea of making money from his unusual syndrome, but the situation with Third meant he might have to. Maybe it was the only thing of any value about him.
The canal’s dark, turbulent waters made their way toward the river. He thought of throwing himself in, but the picture of Third in his mind held him back.
He jumped to his feet, suddenly decisive. Maybe he was destined to end up dead in the river, but even if that was his fate, he didn’t need to give in so easily. He spat on the ground and headed off in search of Xu.