Jia Pingwa - Ruined City

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.

“Then keep them for yourself, Jingwu,” Huang said. “Since Mr. Zhuang prefers Chinese brands, I’ll bring him some Hongtashan cigarettes next time. Fighting over these little gifts makes me look tacky.”

Zhao accepted the gifts, then looked at Zhuang and smiled. “I know you’re hungry, but you don’t drop by every day, so how about marking your visit with a piece of calligraphy? Just one. That won’t keep you here much longer.”

“You are a sly tiger. I know something’s up any time I see you smile. But you already have everything, so why do you want a piece of my calligraphy?”

“I collect famous people’s calligraphy.”

So they set up a table and spread out a sheet of rice paper. Zhuang picked up a writing brush, but hesitated. “What should I write?” he asked as he cocked his head.

“That’s up to you. Something you’ve recently come to understand. When your fame reaches the heights, people will want to study your life, and I will have primary material.”

Zhuang thought for a moment, then wrote:

The wind dances gracefully when the butterfly comes

The person departs and the moon laments

“What does that mean?” Zhao asked. “The butterfly [ die ] in the first line is clearly from your name, and the moon [ yue ] in the second line is probably your wife, Niu Yueqing. I can figure out your use of ‘gracefully’ and ‘laments,’ but not ‘comes’ and ‘departs.’”

Zhuang ignored him as he wrote in smaller characters on the side:

Zhao Jingwu asked me for this, so I copied some ancient lines. I know what I know and I know what I do not know. My words may not be worth a thousand apiece, but in three hundred years they will be cultural artifacts and can sell for eight hundred. If Jingwu has descendants, they will inherit tens of thousands .

That’s it, I’m done. Zhuang herewith lays down his brush .

Zhao clapped in joy. “Terrific,” he said with a laugh. “Definitely worth thousands.”

Huang, the plant owner, salivated over the scene. “How about one for me, Mr. Zhuang? I’ll have it professionally mounted and hang it in the main room.” Without waiting for a reply, he began adding ink, splashing some on his hand when he pressed too hard. He ran into the yard to wash it off.

“He’s washing off all my glory,” Zhuang said softly. He and Zhao laughed. “Write one for him,” Zhao said. “These wealthy upstarts are always in the market for a little refinement.”

“Ah,” Zhuang sighed. “People these days are transformed into experts in everything the day they become officials. Our mayor studied soil sciences in college, but now that he’s in office, he delivers talks on industry at gatherings of industrialists, commerce at business meetings, and art and literature at cultural gatherings. And every word must be recorded.”

“No matter how great his wealth,” Zhao said, “for refinement he still needs you.”

So Zhuang wrote:

There is no heavenly message for savage demons

The moon is dark in the presence of starlight