The fortune-teller wasn’t at the market stalls in the fisherman’s district or at the salting houses, nor was he at the brick market next to the silk shops along the wharves or the Imperial Market. Cí asked everyone and anyone, to no avail. It was as if the earth had swallowed up the fortune-teller and spit out a hundred other tricksters and charlatans in his place.
Cí was ready to give up when he suddenly remembered Xu’s job at the Great Cemetery. He boarded a barge to get there.
On his way to the Fields of Death, he wondered if this was the right thing to do. Why try so hard to stay in Lin’an? His only interest here was in continuing his studies. Perhaps it would be better to flee to a city where no one knew him, and where there weren’t the likes of Kao on his trail. Here he was, though, trying to prolong a dream any idiot could have told him was now unattainable.
How could his father have dishonored the family and condemned him and Third to their current state? The same man who had taught him about honor and being virtuous in society had apparently thieved and betrayed Feng’s trust! It seemed unbelievable, but the man at the university had said the reports were beyond doubt. And Cí had read through them, memorizing the details of each accusation. For all his anger at his father, he still questioned whether his father could have been guilty of such acts.
He opened his eyes with a hard jolt of the barge as it moored clumsily at a jetty on the western lake near the cemetery.
As Cí made his way up the gentle incline to the Fields of Death, he was far from alone. It was a common thing to do at the end of the working week—to join together as a family and honor one’s dead, and many people were walking up the hill. Third came into Cí’s thoughts; the sun was starting to set, and he didn’t know if Moon would have fed his sister, or if Third’s cough had worsened. At the idea of Third going hungry and needing her medicine, Cí quickened his pace. Overtaking a number of people, he reached the huge gate at the cemetery’s entrance. He asked a group of groundspeople if they knew where he could find Xu, but they didn’t, so Cí continued up the hill, to the highest part of the cemetery. The higher he went, the better kept the lawns were, and here in the most exclusive part of the cemetery, there were large gravestones and gardens with family mausoleums. Groups of wealthy families, dressed pristinely in mourning white, made offerings of tea and incense. He saw a gardener by a pavilion that had a sweeping, winglike roof and asked again about Xu. The man pointed up higher, in the direction of the Eternal Mausoleum.
Cí reached a squarish temple swathed in mist. A small man was digging a grave, spitting curses with every shovelful of earth extracted. Seeing Xu, Cí was suddenly nervous. He watched as the man stopped to rest, and then he approached slowly, still unsure that this was a good idea.
Just as Cí considered turning on his heels to go, the fortune-teller looked up and caught his eye. He planted his spade in the earth and straightened up. Then he spat on his hands and shook his head.
“What the hell are you doing here? If you’re after more money, I’ve spent it on women and wine, so you might as well go back to where you came from.”
Cí frowned. “I thought you’d be pleased to see me. You seemed a bit more enthusiastic yesterday.”
“Yesterday? I was drunk yesterday. And now I’ve got work to do.”
“Don’t you remember your offer?”
“Listen. Thanks to you, the whole of Lin’an knows how I worked it with the crickets. I have no idea how I got away this morning. If the others had caught up with me, I’d be in one of these,” he said, pointing to the grave.
“Sorry, but I wasn’t the one cheating people.”
“Ah, right! So what do you call going up against a giant knowing that, even if they cut you in two, it wouldn’t hurt a bit? Damn! Get out of here before you make me get out of this grave and kick you out.”
“But yesterday you wanted me to do it. I’m here to accept your offer. Don’t you get it?”
“Listen, the one who doesn’t get it is you.” The fortune-teller got out of the grave, brandishing the spade. “You don’t get that you’ve made it so I can never go back to the market. You don’t get that word’s spread about your special talent, and now no one’s ever going to bet against you. You don’t get that you’re cursed, you’re bad luck! And most of all, you don’t get that I’ve got work to do!”
Then a voice came from behind them.
“He bothering you, Xu?” An enormous man covered in tattoos had appeared out of nowhere.
“He was just leaving.”
“Well, get on with that grave,” said the man. “Otherwise you’ll be looking for another job.”
The fortune-teller grabbed the spade and began digging again. Cí jumped in beside him.
“What are you up to?” Xu asked.
“Can’t you see?” he said, scooping out earth using his hands. “Helping.”
The fortune-teller looked at him for a moment and sighed.
“Go on, take this,” he said, handing him a hoe.
They dug side by side until the hole was the length of a body and half as deep. Xu worked silently, but when they finished, he sat back on the grave edge, took a dirty flask from his bag, and handed it to Cí.
“Not afraid to drink with someone who’s cursed?” asked Cí.
“Go on. Have a drink, and let’s get out of this damned hole.”
The deceased and his family arrived. At a signal from a man who appeared to be the family elder, Cí helped Xu lower the coffin into the grave. It was almost in place when Cí lost his footing, and the coffin dropped the last couple of feet, its top coming half-open on impact and dirt falling inside.
Cí couldn’t believe it.
Gods in heaven! What else can possibly go wrong?
Cí jumped down into the grave and tried to get the top back on, but the fortune-teller pushed him away. Xu tried moving the coffin himself, but when it fell he’d sprained his finger and could barely use it.
“Get away from him, you idiots!” cried the widow. “Hasn’t he suffered enough?”
With the help of some of the men from the family, Cí and Xu lifted the coffin out. They all went to the mausoleum to repair the coffin and clean the body again. Seeing how swollen Xu’s finger was, Cí took the jasmine-soaked sponge from him and dabbed at the dead man’s muddy shirt. The family members were happy to let him; the general belief was that the bad luck from touching a dead body only affected the person doing the touching.
Cí had dealt with so many dead bodies that he wasn’t superstitious. But as he continued with the sponge, he noticed some marks at the neck.
He turned to the family elder. “Did someone apply makeup to the body?” Cí asked.
The man shook his head, surprised.
“How did he die?”
“Fell off a horse. Broke his neck.”
Cí checked the dead man’s eyelids.
“Mind telling me what you’re up to?” asked Xu. “Why don’t you stop annoying them so we can finish this job?”
But Cí wasn’t listening. He turned back to the elder and said, “Sir, there is no way this man died that way.”
“What—what do you mean?” stuttered the man. “His brother-in-law saw it all.”
“What you said may have happened, but it’s clear that, perhaps after being thrown from a horse, he was also strangled.”
He showed the elder the purple bruises on either side of the neck.
“These were hidden underneath some makeup. Not the best job, either. In any case, these bruises clearly correspond to a pair of powerful hands. Here and here,” he said, pointing to the bruising.