Chapter 579

Drinking contests separate the martial from the civil: warriors drink wine and devour pig's shoulders; scholars drink wine and compose a hundred poems. One is like Fan Kuai meeting Xiang Yu, the other is like Li Bai, the greatest drunkard of Huaxia, who wrote poetry after drinking too much. In short, uncultivated warriors drink from big bowls and eat meat in large bites; cultured scholars have far more elaborate games.

But that was long ago. The scholars who once drank and boasted were all literate by five or six, recited Tang poetry by seven or eight, mastered the Four Books and Five Classics by ten or twelve, studied poetry and prose, and then deepened their learning further. Though their goal was passing the imperial exams and becoming officials, they truly possessed profound foundations.

Today's so-called cultured people lack those foundations—they can only quote classical texts. If you ask them to compose poetry or lyrics, even if they produce verses that look convincing, they're merely superficially convincing.

Someone like Old Guan, who carries birdcages and raises pet birds, understanding antiques so well, is already rare. As for Po Lan Hou, the outsider grandson of a prince, he never even reached the era of carrying birdcages—the Great Qing had already fallen, the times were chaotic, and he barely inherited what his father left him. That he still took the time over the years to study it is quite admirable. To expect these two to compete in drinking and poetry? No chance. Just like in the original play, they began playing drinking games.

Nothing new here—largely identical to the original play, just different themes and a few more correct lines. But Old Guan still relied on his age, like when he mentioned coral rings—no one actually plays like that. That's not a drinking game, not a test of cultural refinement, but an exam of an encyclopedia.

Actually, Old Guan meant no harm—he was just making things hard for Po Lan Hou. He held resentment, had nowhere to vent it against the son of his enemy, so a little mischief was harmless. They differed by a generation; if he said drink, Po Lan Hou drank—no real issue.

Likewise, at the end, Po Lan Hou still brought out over twenty kinds of wine, challenging Old Guan to identify them.

But the difference was this time Old Guan didn't send Guan Xiaoqiao or Han Chunming—he tasted each one himself. Han Chunming had played with Po Lan Hou for four years; Guan Xiaoqiao had only just returned to the country. Three sips at once with chopsticks? Guan Xiaoqiao couldn't handle it. Not because she lacked ability, but because she'd never drunk so many kinds of wine.

Guan Xiaoqiao is twenty-one, born in 1960. Old Guan loved wine, a lifelong drunkard. When Guan Xiaoqiao was young, he certainly dipped chopsticks in wine for his granddaughter to taste. If she'd had even a little talent and been trained from childhood, her ability could have been hardened. But due to circumstances and the desire to get rich, her parents fled to America when she was five or six. She hadn't returned in all these years—how could she have prepared?

In the original play, Guan Xiaoqiao's situation likely meant she went to Cha Ba Lou in 1982 and picked it up again. Not to mention her parents, those unfilial, uncouth people.

Even if Guan Xiaoqiao tasted wine just as in the original play, it still couldn't prove Old Guan's ability. After all, she wasn't a factory quality inspector or a wine association taster. Even if she could detect flowers in the wine, what did it matter? What truly mattered was cultural cultivation, what mattered was character.

When Old Guan faked his death to watch the spectacle, Guan Xiaoqiao's performance wasn't good at all. Earlier she went to extremes, demanding antiques from Han Chunming; later, when she found them, she pretended ignorance, claiming everything was left by Old Guan to Han Chunming as his disciple. She'd confidently told Su Meng it was Han Chunming who took the antiques, and after the misunderstanding was cleared, she never thought to explain to Su Meng.

She claimed she'd leave everything in the country, never let her parents smuggle it abroad—but given all her deceptive behavior, if Old Guan hadn't appeared, she'd have sold it for money. In fact, even with Old Guan's appearance, after her real death, given her parents' character and her own past conduct, she'd still have sold it…

So whether now or in the original play, Old Guan's claim that he must teach Po Lan Hou how to be an elder is flawed. After all, he hasn't even properly managed his own son—how could he have the right? Though Han Chunming, his disciple, does have some ability and is a junior, it still falls short. One who can teach disciples well but can't manage his own son still falls short…

Thanks to Old Guan's ability to identify wine by scent alone, Po Lan Hou drank all twenty-plus varieties. Though each was only a little, together they didn't add up to four taels, but mixing so many wines, plus the few cups already consumed in their earlier contest, amounted to half a catty—and he hadn't eaten a single bite—enough to suffer.

After swallowing his final sip and showing his empty cup, Po Lan Hou stood, bowed: "Today I've lost. But I don't accept it—we still lack thirty years of learning. Uncle Guan, shall we spar again sometime?"

His meaning was simple: the grudge between his father and Old Guan was settled; from now on, they'd interact normally.

"Always welcome. Even if you had thirty more years, you still wouldn't be a match for the Nine Gates Commander." Old Guan clearly understood. He stood up smiling, returned the bow, then turned to Wang Yan and the others gathered around watching, especially the two boys with drool nearly dripping, waving his hand: "What are you still staring at? Sit down and eat. Here, these two chicken legs—one each for you two boys."

Old Guan sat on the stool, used his chopsticks to pick up two chicken legs for the two children. Once everyone was seated, he picked up a peanut, signaling the meal had begun.

Han Chunming, holding the wine jug, smiled as he poured for everyone: "Hey, Po Lan Hou, you haven't even done much yet, and you've already drunk half a catty. Still able to go?"

"Your master cheated. One line, one sip—then he made me drink double by splitting it into two stanzas. But who cares—he's old. I let him. But when it comes to drinking capacity, I don't bow to anyone. Your master's old bones can't handle it—he'll definitely knock you out tonight."

Old Guan snorted coldly: "Don't give me that nonsense. It's because your learning is insufficient. If you'd recited the next line, wouldn't it have been your Nine Gates Commander drinking?"

That wasn't wrong—Po Lan Hou genuinely didn't know. Though Old Guan leaned on his age, it was still true Po Lan Hou lacked knowledge. Mostly, though, Old Guan was older, and Po Lan Hou let him win—so he drank.

"Alright, I'll go practice and come back. Winning against you isn't enough—I'll win back your title of Nine Gates Commander."

"Heh, I'll be waiting."

"Come on, let's all drink one together." Han Chunming poured wine for everyone. Everyone at the table except the two children drank. Immediately, the group raised their cups—even the two little ones had drinks to join in—and they all drank. The clinking of bowls and chopsticks rang out densely as they officially began eating.

"Let me introduce you: you know Po Lan Hou. This is his daughter, Hou Sue—older than all of us, just call her Sister Hou. Po Lan Hou, Sister Hou, this is the Prince I mentioned—appeared on People's Daily, an academician of the Academy of Sciences, a true great scientist…"

Starting with Wang Yan, Han Chunming introduced everyone one by one, each person sharing a cup with Po Lan Hou.

After introducing the last two children, Po Lan Hou smiled warmly and drank a proper cup with the two kids, then ate a bite of food and looked at Wang Yan: "I heard from Chunming you've collected a lot of good things over the years—tens of thousands?"

Wang Yan smiled and nodded: "About that."

"About that? It's way off!" Han Chunming clapped excitedly. "This morning the Prince took us to see them—if it weren't for today's match, we wouldn't have come back. I tell you, the collection is enormous, truly dazzling…"

After hearing Han Chunming's hype for Wang Yan, Po Lan Hou widened his eyes, equally disbelieving: "Really that many?" He'd collected so many scraps himself, daily gaining a few treasures, proud of his hoard—yet today he realized there were mountains and seas beyond him.

"Why would I lie? We haven't even seen the collection from the three-courtyard mansion yet." Seeing Po Lan Hou's signal, Han Chunming turned to Wang Yan: "Prince, Po Lan Hou is trustworthy. When you have time, could you take him to see it too?"

"Ah, rest assured. I've lived this long with only two principles: clean hands and a guarded tongue. I don't steal, don't cheat, don't take what's not mine, and never gossip. We all collect antiques—you know how frustrating it is to hear about so many fine things you can't see. Nothing more than wanting to broaden my horizons. Would you allow it?"

Po Lan Hou had shed his earlier seriousness. Now he spoke with a swaying, carefree air, praising himself while slapping his chest loudly—it was quite entertaining.

Wang Yan smiled and nodded: "I haven't even spoken yet, and you're already praising yourself. Never mind that—given the Provincial Military Commander's face and Chunming's, how could I refuse you? Besides, with so many fine things, it's dull to keep them all to yourself. Sometimes you need to show off, satisfy your vanity—don't you agree?"

"You're teasing me." Po Lan Hou laughed. "Fine. When I've properly organized my collection, I'll invite you all over for a drink and show you my treasures."

Han Chunming poured wine for everyone: "The Prince really has clout. I've known him for years—he's always been stingy, never letting anyone see anything. Now I've finally seen it!"

Po Lan Hou waved his hand: "Wait a bit. Everything from before is hidden away. Now my house is full of junk—I can't show anything yet. Please understand. When I stop collecting junk, you can see whatever you want."

"Oh, so it's all talk," Taozi interjected haltingly, looking earnestly at everyone. "You guys hold off on that. The Prince's generous—he said you can go, you can go. But just answer me: I saw you drink those twenty-some small bottles earlier, but I didn't understand any of the previous stuff—how exactly did drinking work?"

He wasn't the only one lost. Besides the two little ones, Guan Xiaoqiao and Hou Sue didn't understand, and even Ma Du only grasped some. The earlier parts were truly incomprehensible. Ma Du was different—he'd read books but hadn't reached that section, or had read and forgotten. Over the years he'd studied history and ancient crafts, not deeply explored poetry and prose.

Han Chunming immediately explained what Old Guan and Po Lan Hou had said—the allusions, the poems, their meanings, how they matched, and why they drank. Hearing this, everyone except Ma Du just enjoyed the entertainment, broadening their horizons.

A table full of antique lovers, eating and drinking, naturally returned to topics of history and culture. With Po Lan Hou added, he was a good storyteller, his speech lively. The two children didn't understand, finished eating, and slipped away. Guan Xiaoqiao and Hou Sue also finished quickly, sat aside, chatting intermittently. At the table, Taozi ate alone; the rest conversed merrily.

Wang Yan felt it was fine—eating, drinking, chatting idly was a decent way to relax. In a world with such long time spans, besides using time to implement his mastered technologies and organize teams for deeper research, he rarely managed his company—just reviewed monthly, quarterly, annual reports to track progress. These took little time, so in his endless leisure, he always found things to do.

But since his father's business took off, he'd never worried about money, so his pursuits weren't limited to any single industry. While controlling the world's largest commercial supercarrier, he'd written books, made films, been a thug, practiced medicine—he could do all these at once if he liked, becoming a thug who healed the sick while writing and directing films, depending on his mood.

Right now, he could be the top-tier scientist leading China's computer industry, repeatedly honored and awarded; he could be the collector of ten thousand antiques from different dynasties and varying rarity; he could be the carpenter and woodcarver making fun, beautiful toys for his children at home; he could be the merchant riding the tide of the times. If Ma Du's future path remained unchanged and he entered the Beijing circle, Wang Yan might, if he felt like it, join in as a screenwriter or filmmaker. If he wanted to appear publicly, he could become a popular or disliked public figure.

On him, among these roles, distinguishing a primary from secondary was meaningless. Any of these could be his main occupation. Even now, he could open a restaurant with Han Chunming, take charge of the kitchen, and still treat it as his primary work.

Aside from never stopping research and learning, he could do anything—or abandon anything—depending on his mood…

The meal lasted until past eight. They agreed to visit the antique collection next Sunday during the day off. Wang Yan carried his own gas cylinder home.

After placing the gas cylinder, Wang Yan lifted the curtain and entered the inner room. The curtains were drawn. Su Meng, in a tank top and shorts, lay face-down on the soft, comfortable bed, reading, her bare feet crossed and swinging back and forth.

She glared at Wang Yan: "Smell like smoke and alcohol—go wash up."

Wang Yan leaned forward, exhaled, and caught the slap thrown at his round buttocks. Su Meng's complaint dissolved into a strange moan—painful yet pleasurable.

Smiling, Wang Yan took off his T-shirt, went bare-chested to the outer room for a basin, washed up, then returned straight to bed and turned off the light. Tonight, he slept plain—Su Meng was unwell, lying face-down because she felt uncomfortable.

"I heard Old Guan's place was lively today? Who'd you drink with?"

"A junk collector."

"Oh? Prince, you really are something. I don't look down on junk collectors—they support themselves. But you, a great scientist, really drink and chat with a junk collector?"

Wang Yan shook his head and smiled: "Don't underestimate junk collectors. In the past, they were proper imperial relatives, masters of birdcages and pet birds—now they're fallen. Don't think you're a top student from Peking University—you're no match for them in culture."

"So impressive? My son said this guy competed with Old Guan, drinking the whole time—what happened?"

Curiosity and gossip are human nature—everyone loves to listen, watch, and join in the fun. Su Meng was no exception—she was even more gossipy. But over the years she hadn't visited Old Guan's courtyard often—mostly old men talking about history and culture, topics she had little interest in, and many things she didn't understand. Today, hearing her son describe the lively scene, she finally asked.

"This junk collector's father once had a grudge with Old Guan and his brothers. Back then…"

Like a bedtime story, Wang Yan vividly recounted events from the late Qing dynasty to tonight's happenings, then rambled on about trivial matters of daily life and studies, pondering whether to enroll his son in preschool when autumn term began, so the boy wouldn't keep running through the alleyways all day with his wooden toy submachine gun, making "dudu du" noises.

Life is just like this…