“Who?” Zhao stuck his head out. “Oh, her. She’s a maid for the family across the way, from northern Shaanxi. That part of the province has nothing to brag about but its women.”
“I’ve been looking for a maid for a long time, but haven’t found the right one. I’m not impressed with those at the labor market. Think she could find me one back in her village?”
“This one’s articulate and mannered. If she worked for you, she’d treat your guests with courtesy. But people talk behind her back, saying that when her employers are away, she gives the baby a pill so it will sleep all morning. I don’t believe it. I think the other maids in the neighborhood are jealous over her appearance and the affluence of her employers.”
“Obviously a pack of lies. No girl would do something like that,” Zhuang said.
The men sat back down after Zhao shut the door and began taking antiques out of a wooden chest to show Zhuang: ancient scrolls with calligraphy and painting, ceramics, bronze implements, coins, stone rubbings, and carvings, but what attracted Zhuang were eleven ink stones. They were also Zhao’s most prized possessions. He had Duan stones, Zhao stones, Hui stones, and clear clay stones, all very old and all engraved with the users’ names. One by one, he handed them to Zhuang to point out the color and pattern, to let him feel the texture with his fingers and tap them to hear the sound. He then told him the names of all the owners, original as well as later, and the official positions they held, what calligraphy and paintings they left to posterity, and what brought them fame.
“How did you get these?” Zhuang asked with surprise and envy.
“Some I collected a long time ago, others I bartered for. I paid three thousand yuan for that one.”
“Three thousand? That’s a lot of money.”
“A lot of money? These days I wouldn’t take twenty thousand for it. A month or so ago I visited the Lianhu District Museum. The city built a large museum and asked people to donate their artifacts. The district museum wanted to sell their undocumented odds and ends to put more money in the hands of the staff. I fell in love with this stone, which they offered to sell me for ten thousand yuan. We went back and forth, and since I know them, in the end I got it for three.”
Somewhat doubtful, Zhuang picked up the stone to examine it closely. It was several times heavier than the other stones. He tested it with his teeth; it gave off a metallic ring when he held it up to his ear. He saw a line of characters on the bottom that read: “Wen Zhengming’s fancy,” the one-time property of the famous Ming painter.
“Jingwu,” Zhuang exclaimed, “you’re obviously an authority. If you forget me the next time you come across something like this, I’ll never do another thing for you.”
“Take it easy,” Zhao said. “Someone told me that Gong Jingyuan’s son, Gong Xiaoyi, an opium addict, has a fine ink stone he wants to sell as soon as his father goes abroad. I’ll go see for myself. If it’s the genuine article, I’ll get it for you. I told you I wanted to give you something. How about these?”
Zhuang examined the two coins he was handed, turning them over and over. He laughed. “Jingwu, you devil, you can cheat other people if you want, but don’t try to put something over on me. This Xiaojian Emperor four-zhu coin is valuable, but it was once a five-zhu Han coin, while this Jingkang Emperor coin is a common piece from the Song dynasty.”
“I was just testing you. You know your business, so I’ll give you something you’ll like, something quite rare.” Looking uncomfortable, he took out a small red silk bag and opened it. Inside were two bronze mirrors. He looked them over to decide which of them he would give to Zhuang, who saw that one was inlaid with two cranes carrying a silk streamer with mandarin ducks in their beaks, the other winged horses holding two ends of a streamer depicting a phoenix in their mouths. Thrilled beyond words, he took them both.
“They’re a pair,” he said, “you can’t just give me one. Since you have a large collection of ink stones, I’ll bring you one tomorrow to help you build your collection.”
Zhuang was ecstatic; Zhao was not. “You can have them,” he said, “but you have to get me one of Wang Ximian’s paintings.”
“That’s easy,” Zhuang said. “We’ll go to his house, and you can tell him what you want him to paint. He’ll even treat you to a meal.” Zhuang walked over to the window with his mirrors to get a closer look.
There was a knock at the door. “Who is it?” Zhao asked. There was no answer. Zhao signaled Zhuang with his eyes to put away the mirrors, which he stuffed in his pocket while Zhao locked the chest and laid some well-thumbed books and periodicals on top of it. “Who is it?” he repeated. “It’s me,” came the response. Zhao opened the door. “Ah, it’s our plant owner, Mr. Huang. Why so late? Zhuang Laoshi has been waiting to get something to eat. Our stomachs are rumbling.”
Zhuang sized the visitor up. Short and thick, with a fleshy face, he was dressed in a white shirt and tie and carried a large satchel. Zhuang stood up and shook hands with Huang, who held on to his hand and said, “Zhuang Laoshi’s fame is as great as a thunderclap, and today I finally get to meet him! When I told my wife I was meeting Mr. Zhuang, she laughed and called me a dreamer. I won’t wash this hand so I can go home, shake hers, and let her share in the glory.”
“I guess that puts my hand on a par with Chairman Mao’s.”
They had a good laugh over that.
“You’re funny, Mr. Zhuang,” Huang said. “The greater the man, the more amiable he is.”
“I’m not great,” Zhuang said. “I’ve just made a bit of a literary splash. But you, you’re rich, and that gives you a louder voice.”
The man was still holding Zhuang’s hand, which was getting sweaty. “Hardly,” he said. “I’ve read some of your work. I’m just a country boy from a working-class family. Money was once my enemy, but now that I have a bit, it still can’t stand up to your reputation. I’m older than you, and if I may be so bold, I would like you to know that if you ever need anything, just ask. What’s mine is yours. Business is good at the plant. Our 101 brand is in great demand. You’ll get the grand tour when you come to see our operation.”
“I’ve told Zhuang Laoshi what you want, so there’s no need to beat around the bush. We’re all busy men. He usually does not write things like you want. He’s making an exception this time. Go ahead and make arrangements for us to visit the plant. There you can give me five thousand yuan. Publication guaranteed. We’ll make it clear up front — five thousand words!”
Huang finally let go of Zhuang’s hand and bowed deeply. “Thank you,” he said, “thank you.”
“When shall we come?” Zhuang asked.
“How’s this afternoon?”
“That won’t work. Let’s make it, say, three days from now.”
“Fine, I’ll pick you up. Jingwu, I am so happy Mr. Zhuang is willing to do this for me. Let’s go get something to eat. Where would you like to go?”
“Today’s my treat,” Zhao said. “We decided on hulutou.”
“Isn’t that a little too, you know—?” Huang said.
“It’s fast and it’s easy,” Zhuang replied. “And the Chunshengfa Café is nearby.”
“Okay, hulutou it is.” He reached into his satchel and took out a bottle of Xifeng liquor, three jars of coffee, two packets of sesame candy, and a carton of State Express cigarettes, and handed it all to Zhao Jingwu.
Abashed, Zhao said, “I can’t take all this. Here, Zhuang Laoshi, you take the cigarettes.”
Zhuang pushed them back. “Foreign cigarettes are too strong for me,” he said.