Jia Pingwa - Ruined City

She went there early the next morning, where she talked to several stall owners, who told her they were out of spittoons. But she could check out the Hong Jiang purchasing station. The Hong Jiang purchasing station? The name mystified her. She knew a man named Hong Jiang, of course, but could there also be a shop called Hong Jiang?

“That’s an unusual name. Where did they get it?” she asked.

“It’s nothing special. People started out calling it the place run by Hong Jiang, and after a while it just became Hong Jiang’s station.”

“That Hong Jiang, what does he do?”

“He runs a bookstore. We hear he struck it rich and opened a purchasing station to get even richer.” The man paused, “Are you from the Household Registration Office?”

She then asked where the station was located. When it was pointed out, she saw it, located in the middle of the lane. It was being tended by an old man. “Is this the Hong Jiang purchasing station?” Niu Yueqing asked him.

“It was, but not anymore.”

“What happened?”

“What happened? You’ll eat anything when you’re hungry and marry any woman when you’re poor, but illicit thoughts begin to crop up when you’re well fed and warmly clothed. Once he was well off, he laid eyes on a young, fresh girl and wanted a divorce. His wife refused, of course, so he gave her fifty thousand, plus this station, for her consent. Money as payment for a divorce is very popular these days.”

With a jumble of thoughts running through her mind, Niu Yueqing returned home to tell her husband.

“He hid it from us all that time, which must mean it was a messy divorce,” he said.

“That’s not what I meant. Don’t you think something fishy is going on here? He was dirt-poor, and we never heard of a purchasing shop. Where did he get the money to set it up? And when he got the divorce, he gave his first wife fifty thousand. Where did that come from?”

“Don’t you check the accounts with him regularly?”

“Every bookstore makes money, but not ours. At best we break even. I was suspicious, but as a woman, I know little about running a business. And you, when did you bother to check the books?”

“Without any evidence, we can’t confront him.”

“So we’ll continue to raise pigs to supply him with pork, is that it?”

“I have a gallery. Business will improve once it merges with the bookstore.”

“Are you going to have Jingwu keep an eye on him?”

“Well, weren’t you dead set on marrying Liu Yue off to your cousin’s son?”

A happy smile broke out on Niu Yueqing’s face. “Ai-ya! You’re so cunning. So you knew about the problem all along!”

“You thought you were so clever,” Zhuang said, embarrassing his wife.

On the twenty-eighth, Niu Yueqing went to the wedding on behalf of Zhuang, loaded down with gifts. Hong Jiang and his wife were so pleased they laid them out at the head table. They toasted her first during the banquet and announced: “Shimu is drinking for two today. Zhuang Laoshi could not be here, owing to an urgent meeting, so you must drink this one for him.” Niu Yueqing had so much to drink that her face was burning, but Zhuang was not at a meeting. He had gone to see Zhao Jingwu to hurry the project along. Zhao told him that the interior was nearly finished, but they couldn’t open until they had more art. Zhuang suggested they go see the man who forged famous artists’ work.

“It’s better that you don’t. I’ll be honest with you, it’s Wang Ximian, but he told me not to tell anyone, including you. He’s afraid someone might let it slip and ruin everything.”

“I could have guessed even if you hadn’t told me. I know just about every painter in Xijing, and there’s no one better at making counterfeits. A while ago, I heard that Guangzhou and Hong Kong were inundated with fake Shi Lu paintings, and that the family has launched an investigation. There have been rumors implicating Wang, so why didn’t he keep a low profile?”

“I knew about that, too. Those fake Shi Lu paintings were intended for us, with a forty-sixty split in his favor. But a tour guide from a travel agency managed to talk him into taking all the forgeries to Guangzhou. These fakes can only deceive non-Chinese, so they won’t do well in the domestic market. When foreigners visit China, they rely upon their tour guides to show them where to buy Chinese paintings and calligraphy. I managed to strike up a friendship with some guys at a travel agency who promised to bring foreign visitors to our gallery once we open. We’ll only have to give them a commission. Wang has three students helping him forge old paintings for us, like Zheng Banqiao’s bamboos in the wind, Qi Baishi’s shrimps, and Huang Binhong’s landscapes. He’s not doing much Shi Lu, but he’ll still forge a few, since they’re so popular. A few days ago, when I went to take a look, Wang had just finished Grazing Cattle , one of Shi’s earlier works, and Plums and Rock , done after Shi fell ill. They’re incredible. I took Plums and Rock to show Shi’s daughter, who couldn’t tell it was a fake. She even asked me how I got it. I told her I bought it from someone at a roadhouse. She said, ‘After my father fell ill, people like that often took him out to drink, and he’d do a painting to pay for the drinks if he didn’t have money.’” Zhao finished with a hearty laugh.

“Wang didn’t want me to know, but does he know that the gallery is mine?” Zhuang asked with a smile. “In fact, his wife and your shimu are like sisters, and she keeps me up to date on what he’s doing.” He took out his pipe, added some tobacco, and puffed away.

“Where did you get that?” Zhao asked. “It looks old, maybe an antique.”

Zhuang just smiled.

“What about Mao’s calligraphy in Gong Jingyuan’s collection? Still no news?”

“I was going to talk to you about that. Once we get it, we’ll be ready to open. We’ll hold a press conference and be in business. I’ve found a way to deal with Gong Xiaoyi.”

“How?”

“He’s shrewd when he’s sober but would call you grandpa if he needed a fix. I told him I could get Liu Yezi to sell him opium at a lower price. But of course I can have Liu jack up the price if I want, or refuse to sell him anything, even if he offers gold. So I told Liu to cut off his supply for ten days unless he brings out the scroll.”

“Who is this Liu Yezi, anyway? Be careful with opium dealers. You know it’s illegal.”

“Of course I know. I don’t smoke it and I don’t share in the profits. We were classmates. She and her husband have been in the opium-trafficking business for years, and they’re Gong Xiaoyi’s only supplier.”

“People in that kind of business treat money like their life. Why would she abide by your request to force Xiaoyi’s hand?”

“You’ll understand when I give you the whole story. Last year she sold a shipment of poppy pods to a guy named Ma on Dongyanshi Street. Ma owns a Chongqing hot pot diner, where he adds the pods to his soup to attract customers. Everyone was saying the hot pots at Ma’s place were so good that people felt terrible if they missed even one day. Someone suspected that he was adding poppy pods and, after observing him in secret, reported him to the police. The police shut him down and wanted to know where he got the pods. He ratted on Liu Yezi, who told the police that a doctor in the countryside had given her a package of them to make medicinal drinks for her father, who had stomach cancer. After he died, she didn’t want to throw away the pods, so she sold them to Ma. Of course the police didn’t believe her. The station chief is a buddy of mine, so I spoke to him on her behalf; in the end they noted her story in their report and released her. Why would she not listen to me now? Let’s go see her. Maybe Xiaoyi has already given her the scroll.”