The Barking

> *Taiyuan Prefecture, Yangqu County Office. Case file.*

> *Case: The Sudden Death of Scholar Wang of Taiyuan.*

> *File No.: 19th criminal file of the year Guihai, Kangxi reign.*

> *Deposition 7: The testimony of Zhang Li-shi, west neighbor of the Wang house. Interrogator's note: this deposition is to be read against the deposition of Afu in the preceding volume; it concerns the barking of the yellow dog in the west lane of the Wang house.*

> *—Respectfully recorded, Liu, Chief Clerk*

**【Deposition · Zhang Li-shi】**

The magistrate asks this servant woman about the yellow dog. I answer the magistrate: the yellow dog is mine; I have kept it six years. Its name is Ahuang, and there is no one in the lane who does not know it. It does not bite, and it does not bark at random. When the children of the lane pass the mouth of the alley, it cannot be bothered to lift its eyes. I often said Ahuang is not like a dog; it is like an old gatekeeper, who knows everything and says nothing.

Ahuang was brought back by my husband from the countryside. That year it was only a few months old, thin to the bone, and it followed the firewood cart ten li before it could be driven off. My husband said, this dog knows its way, it has found our way, let it stay. And it stayed six years. In six years Ahuang never once left this lane. It knew every person in the lane—how old each child was, which cat crossed the wall at night. It kept all of it in its heart.

The magistrate asks this servant woman when Ahuang began to bark. I answer the magistrate: on the fifth of the ninth month, the sun just past its height, I was picking greens at the mouth of the lane and Ahuang was lying at my feet. The young master of the Wang family, leading a woman, came out of the side gate of the rear garden and made for the west market. Ahuang had been lying down; all at once it stood up.

I say, the dog did not rise to its feet; it pricked its ears, and a low growl rolled up out of its throat first. Then it went for the woman—not running, its belly low, its steps quick and small. When it reached her, it stopped a pace away and barked. I have kept Ahuang six years; I have never heard it bark like that. It was not a guard dog's bark, warning off a stranger. It was a bark that meant: I know what you are.

It rushed at the woman, did not bite, only blocked the middle of the path and barked at the tops of its feet, its voice breaking.

The magistrate asks this servant woman what the barking sounded like. I answer the magistrate: Ahuang barked at people, it had always had a full voice, loud and rough. That day its voice came out tight and thin, trembling at the edges, like a dog barking at something it fears. The hairs on its back stood up from head to tail.

The young master of the Wang family started and turned his head: "What's the matter with this dog?"

The woman stopped too and looked down at the dog.

The magistrate asks this servant woman what look was on the woman's face then. I answer the magistrate: she kept her head down, looking at the dog, and she did not startle, and did not frown. She only looked at it, as if weighing something in her mind.

She squatted down, face to face with Ahuang. Ahuang still barked, the bark laced with whimpering. She did not raise her hand to it, did not shoo it. She only looked at it a moment, then the corner of her mouth lifted—she smiled at the dog.

The magistrate asks this servant woman what that smile was like. I answer the magistrate: I cannot say it. If a person smiles at you, you can tell warmth from cold, kindness from a sneer. Hers—I could not say. When she smiled, her eyes did not change. The eyes looked at the dog, and the smile was on the mouth only, as if a mask had been put on the lower half of the face.

Ahuang stopped barking. It stepped back, and stepped back again, back to the foot of the lane wall, and pressed its body against the wall, its tail tucked between its legs, and low sounds came out of its throat, no longer barks.

She stood up, smoothed her skirt, and said to the young master of the Wang family: "Let's go."

The young master answered and went off with her. As she passed me, I looked at her feet. She wore a pair of embroidered shoes, and the dust of the lane did not settle on them. When she walked, the hem of her skirt did not stir. It was as if she did not touch the ground as she walked—no, I have said it wrong. She did touch the ground, step after step, and there was nothing out of the way in it. It was just that I could not hear her steps.

The magistrate asks this servant woman whether Ahuang barked again after that. I answer the magistrate: it barked. From that day on, whenever the woman passed the mouth of the lane, Ahuang barked. But it no longer dared rush out; it crouched at the foot of the wall, tail between its legs, low growls tearing from its throat, and did not stop until its voice went hoarse. At night it barked too—a while, then a pause, like keeping watch, or like waiting for something.

Those nights, I was woken by the dog's barking over and over. My husband said, tie the dog up in the back yard. I did not tie it. I cannot explain it; I only felt that the dog's barking was not aimed at a person—it was aimed at something. It knew that thing was there. It barked so that someone would hear.

One night I was woken by the barking, and got up in my clothes to look. Ahuang lay in its kennel, not asleep, ears pricked, facing the direction of the rear garden, whimpering in its throat. I squatted and touched its head; it did not move, its eyes fixed on that side. I followed its eyes and looked—the wall of the rear garden was black, nothing there. But Ahuang's coat, from head to back, was standing on end.

I squatted by the kennel and kept it company until dawn.

The magistrate asks this servant woman whether she told the Wang family of this. I answer the magistrate: no. This kind of thing—who would believe it? And what was there to tell? A dog barks at a person. Say it to the young master, and he would only think I had it in for his woman.

The magistrate asks this servant woman whether she saw anything else of that woman. I answer the magistrate: once. That evening, at the mouth of the lane, I saw her drawing water at the well by the wall. She drew a bucket, and the bucket rope slid through her hand without a sound; the pulley did not creak. The bucket came up full, and not a drop spilled over the rim.

She carried the water, turned, and went back. I watched her go, and thought to myself: there is something not right about this Zhang-shi.

The magistrate asks this servant woman what was not right. I answer the magistrate: I cannot say it. It is simply not right. Like a thing that is there yet is not there; I have seen it with my own eyes and I still cannot say.

(At these words the deponent paused a moment before continuing.)

There is one more thing. When the magistrate asked whether the woman smiled while Ahuang barked—I went home and thought it over. I thought and thought, and I remembered: when she smiled at the dog, her shadow on the wall, the shadow of her face, did not move. The mouth of the shadow did not move. Her mouth smiled; the shadow's mouth did not.

(Interrogator's note: this deposition of Zhang Li-shi having been recorded, she was asked whether the dog's barking was heard again thereafter. Li-shi answered:)

It barked. It barked until the fourteenth of the ninth month. On the fourteenth, Ahuang suddenly stopped barking. I thought the woman had left the lane and the dog was at ease. That night, however, in the second watch, the dog in its kennel let out one long, low howl, once only. I got up to look; Ahuang was lying in the kennel, and did not howl again. After half a night the barking stopped abruptly, and from the head of the lane, someone laughed once.

**【Clerk's note】** Deposition of Zhang Li-shi, read against the deposition of Afu: Afu said "the young master shut himself in the study, and rustling sounds came from within the locked door" (testified by Afu and Old Li); Li-shi's deposition supplements the matter with "the yellow dog barked at the woman, and would not go near her." The two depositions agree on the woman's comings and goings, but disagree on one point: Afu said the woman "wore a crimson robe"; Li-shi said "a robe of white." Both witnesses saw her on the same day.

**【Clerk's note · supplement】** Deposition of Zhang Li-shi recorded; the clerk notes privately: when Li-shi spoke of the dog pressing itself against the wall with its tail tucked, her voice was steady; but when she spoke of the woman's smile, she dropped her voice, and when asked why, she said only: "I have lived in this lane thirty years. I have seen people smile. I have never seen a smile that the eyes did not share in." Recorded here for reference.