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black and white in these slabs made them look like traditional landscape paintings. Around the marble the wood was carved, showing designs of clouds, waves, pines, or bats. Also carved was the wall on the western side of Nainai's room. I used to stand in front of it to make out shapes of vases, fans, incense burners, old style books, and scrolls. People told me that this wall was designed by the previous owner of this house named Pu Xuezhai. He was the emperor's relative and a well-known artist. The wood he used was faintly fragrant. At nightfall, however, the fragrance of the wall was drowned out by that which came from Nainai's snow-white tuberoses. People in Beijing called them Fragrant Jade of the Night, which Nainai always kept in a large antique porcelain vase on a long hardwood table.

      The sweet scent of tuberoses always reminds me of Nainai's stories, which she tended to tell when the sun began to cast long shadows over the western corridor. Unlike Aunty, Nainai had studied with tutors when she was young. On her nightstand I saw books such as Three Hundred Poems of the Tang Dynasty and Dream of the Red Chamber. But the stories she told me were not from books. They were true stories.

      From her I learned that our ancestors were Manchus who originally lived in Mongolia. For generations they had been herdsmen, hunters, and warriors who were born, raised, and died in the saddle. On the boundless grassland their horses ran as fast as the wind. The hoofs drummed the ground. When they fought, their bows opened like the full moon and arrows flew across the sky like shooting stars. For one word of promise, they'd lay down their lives for a friend. Because of an insult, they'd plunge a white blade in a man's body and pull out a steamy red one.

      In the seventeenth century the Manchus fought their way down south. The Great Wall was unable to stop them. Soon they watered their horses in the southern sea. Nainai's ancestors must have distinguished themselves in the war, for in the years to come their descendants were given high official positions by the emperors of the Qing dynasty. After two centuries, however, their fiery temper cooled down. Their blood grew thinner and their faces turned pale. They acquired polite language and good manners. Warriors were no longer born into this family. The sons became civil officials and the daughters gentle ladies.

      Nainai told me that her grandfather once served as xingbu shang-shu, minister of punishment. The position was very prominent, similar to that of a justice in the supreme court. Yet the old man was miserable day and night, according to Nainai, because he was superstitious. He believed that people would all become ghosts after they died. Those who died of natural causes would become peaceful ghosts, while those who died by violence turned into ferocious ones. The peaceful ghosts would stay in the world of yin and not bother human beings. But the ferocious ones would sooner or later come back to this world to avenge themselves.

      This belief made the old man especially uneasy in the fall when the qiushen (autumn trials) came round. This was an old practice in the Qing dynasty. Each year when the bleak autumn wind rose, the important convicts of the entire country would be sent under escort to Beijing for a final trial. After this, the condemned men and women would be dragged out to Caishikou, a marketplace in Beijing, to be executed. Nainai's grandfather had to preside over the trials and the beheading.

      On the execution ground, he sat behind a huge desk in his official robe, surrounded by many bodyguards. His words, every one of them, were echoed loudly by soldiers and executioners. In his hand he held a writing brush dipped in red ink. One after another, the executioners presented the convicts to him. His job was to put a red dot on the labels that bore their names to indicate the final approval of the verdict. Once his brush fell, the person's fate was sealed. All hopes were lost. Executioners as fierce as wolves and tigers would grab the person by the arms and drag him or her out. The head was chopped off on the spot. Blood poured out from the headless body. A scream of intolerable pain and terror was cut short.

      The beheading went on. The executioners’ eyes turned red. A large crowd, hundreds of men and women, gathered to watch the event. Some cheered at the top of their voices; others grew pale and were made sick by the sight. The yellow earth drank the blood like red wine. Finally even the earth couldn't take it anymore. Dark puddles formed on the ground. A fishy smell permeated the air.

      While this was going on, Nainai's grandfather, an awe-inspiring figure representing the great empire and the law, was in despair. This hateful position was a “favor” bestowed on him by the dowager empress and the emperor. He did not dare refuse it. Thinking it over and over, he could not come up with any feasible solution, except wishing that someday they'd bestow this “favor” on someone else. But on that occasion he could hardly think, because the doomed men and women's eyes were fastened on him. Some were pleading. Others were desperate. Some drowned in tears. Some were spurting fire. Amidst panic and pain, once in a while he would be startled by a pair of eyes that were unusually calm and lucid.

      All these eyes were like sharp long needles that poked through his body and soul. Sitting up on high, he did not know how to escape them. He was paralyzed. His heart filled with terror. He knew that people who looked at him with such eyes would never forget him. They would remember him through life and death and three reincarnations. Sooner or later they would come back, seek him out, and make him pay the debt of blood.

      Of the many stories Nainai told me about our ancestors, this one somehow sank deepest into my heart. In the sixties when class struggle was emphasized, for a few years I really wished that I had never heard any stories from Nainai so that thought reform would not be such a difficult task for me. In fact, in those years I even wished that I had never had such a Nainai and those ancestors of hers. They were bloodsuckers, parasites, smiling tigers, piles of garbage, cow ghosts, and snake demons ... If I could erase them from my memory, I would become a reliable successor to the revolutionary cause like my schoolmates.

      In 1966, just as I was secretly congratulating myself, for I believed that I had finally made a clear break with Nainai and her ancestors, I had a strange dream. It happened soon after the Cultural Revolution began, when I was a Red Guard. By day I was busy writing dazibao (criticism in big characters) and attending thousand-people mass rallies to criticize capitalist-roaders, reactionary academic authorities, foreign spies, and renegades. I was extremely serious about the Cultural Revolution. I believed that through this revolution the Chinese people, led by our great leader Chairman Mao, would wipe out bureaucracy, corruption, and privileges from among government officials. We would build an exemplary society for the entire world.

      At night, however, I had no control over my dreams. In one dream there was a mass rally just like the ones I had attended in those days; but instead of the capitalist-roaders and reactionary academic authorities, I was the person the crowd struggled against. Around me, the frenzied revolutionary masses were yelling at the top of their voices. Everybody hated me. I was a tiny boat sinking in a vast raging ocean. I wanted to speak up, to debate with others and defend myself, but no one was willing to listen to me. They were all convinced that I was guilty. So they sentenced me to death. The sentence was to be carried out immediately . . .

      Next I was on my way to the execution ground. Somehow my grass-green army uniform and Red Guard's armband disappeared. I was wearing a long white robe, which was the costume worn by innocent convicts in traditional Chinese operas. Around my wrists and ankles, iron chains were dangling and clanging. A bleak autumn wind was rising; my silk robe fluttered and my hairband flew up. People lined the street to watch me, thousands of them. When I looked them in the face, I could not tell whether they were glad or sad. They all seemed to be wearing masks.

      As for myself, I remember that in my dream I felt very sick at heart because I was wronged and I had to die so young. But I said to myself: As the sentence could not be changed, I'd better meet my end heroically. There was no point in making a scene and disgracing myself at the last moment. I wanted to keep my memory intact. That much at least I could do.

      Then I knew I was dead. My body was lying on the ground, but somehow I still had consciousness. I saw many people walk by my dead body. Perhaps it was a parade. This time they were not wearing masks, so I recognized my classmates, friends, neighbors, and relatives. Nobody stopped to look at me. Not a soft sigh was uttered; not a single tear. They all fixed their eyes on something high and glorious. I wanted to scream at them to attract their attention. But I found that I had lost my voice. It was a soundless world. Eventually they all passed me by and the light began to fade. I knew that I was really

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