Chapter 112: Miao Sheng Phonograph Shop

Lushui City, lamps flickered on at dusk.

After arriving in Pulu Province for over three months, this was Li Banfeng’s first time entering a city.

Ma Wu had said that Pulu Province’s cities might not match those of the Outer Provinces, but Lushui City’s nights still held light.

Li Banfeng saw the light—the daily grand ceremony of lighting lamps in Lushui City.

Since electricity could not be transmitted over long distances, gas lamps became the stars of night.

Patrolmen carried torches and foot pedals, lighting streetlamps one by one along both sides of the roads.

Each shop sent clerks to light the signboards’ lantern boxes.

Gas lamps were bright, no dimmer than some electric lights.

What surprised Li Banfeng even more was that gas lamps could flicker.

On the gas outlet pipes, valves driven by steam opened and closed rhythmically, regulated by the lamps’ own heat, controlling gas flow.

When the valve opened fully, gas surged, and the lantern boxes blazed brightly.

When the valve opened halfway, gas dwindled, and the lantern boxes dimmed.

Some valves even contained special powders, causing the lantern boxes to shift colors continuously.

Ma Wu was right—Lushui City was a city, a big one.

Perhaps its buildings weren’t as tall as those in Yuezhou, its streets not as wide, but this was a true city—Li Banfeng could smell the unique scent of urban life.

The tallest building was called Peace Tower, owned by the Lu family, housing a mall, restaurants, and rumored to have a cinema.

The building occupying the best land was called Paradise Gate, also owned by the Lu family, where wine flowed endlessly, dances never ceased, and countless high-slit qipaos swayed.

Ma Wu said the most promising place was Xiaoyao Bay—home to dance emperors, singing queens, and over a hundred rising stars still being polished.

Xiaoyao Bay had once been Ma Wu’s property; Li Banfeng had promised Ma Wu he’d visit someday, but now was not the time.

Li Banfeng now only wanted to find Miao Sheng Phonograph Shop—Ma Wu often invited them to record records, and their phonographs were reliably high-quality.

After much searching, Li Banfeng found the shop—the storefront was small; he pushed the door open, and the interior was barely five or six square meters, holding a counter over a meter long, with two hand-cranked phonographs on it.

Had he come to the wrong place?

Li Banfeng stepped back to the doorway and glanced again.

No mistake—Miao Sheng Phonograph Shop.

Behind the counter sat a man wearing a black top hat, a black tailcoat, white shirt, black bow tie, clean-shaven lower lip, and a pair of mustaches curling upward.

At first, the man seemed asleep; when Li Banfeng stepped back to re-read the sign, he startled him awake.

The mustached man rose, smiling at Li Banfeng: “Sir, welcome. I am Ling Miaosheng of Miao Sheng Phonograph Shop. Which of our phonographs have you chosen?”

Li Banfeng looked at the two frail hand-cranked phonographs on the counter and shook his head: “Not these two.”

Ling Miaosheng froze, staring in astonishment: “Sir, you don’t like either of these?”

“That’s right!” Li Banfeng saw nothing special about them.

Ling Miaosheng’s expression turned serious: “Then what you seek must be extraordinary. Please tell me—what kind of phonograph do you want?”

What kind of phonograph?

What kind could this tiny shop possibly have?

Li Banfeng said: “Show me your best phonograph.”

“Of course, sir.” Ling Miaosheng stepped from behind the counter and waved one hand—the wall suddenly lifted a curtain.

The curtain’s color matched the wall exactly.

Not just matched—it was seamless, leaving not a trace.

Behind the curtain was a wooden door.

Creak~

Ling Miaosheng pushed open the door and extended a hand inside: “Sir, please enter.”

Li Banfeng followed Ling Miaosheng through the door; beyond lay a corridor, so dimly lit that even with his vision, he could not see its end.

This shop was larger than it appeared.

But its layout was unusual.

Ling Miaosheng led Li Banfeng to a door, gently opened it, and gestured for him to move quietly.

Why be so cautious?

Was someone sleeping here?

Ling Miaosheng walked to the room’s center and quietly lit a candle.

The room was also large; by candlelight, Li Banfeng could barely make out the walls.

In the center, an object the size of a bedside table was covered by a cloth.

This must be the shop’s most expensive phonograph.

Li Banfeng felt a flicker of anticipation.

Ling Miaosheng first scattered a handful of golden grains beneath the cloth.

Li Banfeng’s heart leapt.

Was this fuel?

Was this also a steam-powered phonograph?

As Ling Miaosheng slowly lifted the cloth, the truth was revealed.

The phonograph had a white body, a red head, and two bright eyes.

The “fuel” Ling Miaosheng had scattered was actually corn.

The phonograph extended its head, ate the corn, gurgled, and cleared its throat.

Ling Miaosheng gave an order: “Sing ‘Autumn Water Beauty.’”

The phonograph stretched its neck and began to sing:

Goo-goo-goo~

Gazing through autumn waters,

Not a glimpse of her graceful form,

As the night grows old,

Two or three lonely geese cry,

…

Li Banfeng looked at Ling Miaosheng and asked: “Is this a… singing chicken?”

Ling Miaosheng nodded: “This is our finest phonograph. It can sing over thirty songs; with patient care, it can learn many more.”

Li Banfeng didn’t understand why this rooster—crimson comb, snow-white feathers—could sing, but it was clearly not what he wanted.

“Mr. Ling, I want a normal phonograph—say, one made in Amikan. Do you have any?”

Ling Miaosheng nodded: “Yes, sir. This way.”

Li Banfeng followed Ling Miaosheng into another room—larger, filled with over a dozen phonographs, all from Amikan.

Ling Miaosheng explained: “Amikan phonographs aren’t as durable as Che Man’s, nor as refined as England’s, but they have a unique charm—

A charm hard to describe; their products simply feel bold, unrestrained.”

As he spoke, Ling Miaosheng pulled back a curtain, revealing the first phonograph.

“This is a wind-up phonograph—wind it once to play one song; clear tone, lightweight, compact.”

Ling Miaosheng played a tune; Li Banfeng shook his head slightly.

The tone was too far from Niangzi’s, and the phonograph was too small—its parts wouldn’t fit.

Ling Miaosheng opened another phonograph—huge, nearly two meters long and wide, its turntable vaguely resembling Niangzi’s, with a massive lever attached above the cabinet.

Ling Miaosheng pulled the lever; the phonograph’s belly roared.

It was a bellows mechanism.

Under the wind’s force, a windwheel inside began to spin.

Ling Miaosheng explained: “The windwheel drives a governor—no matter the wind strength, it rotates at a steady speed.

You can pull the bellows while listening, but it’s noisy.

Or you can pull the bellows to wind the spring, then listen—the spring holds power for up to two hours.”

After fully winding the spring, Ling Miaosheng wiped sweat, flipped the switch, and the phonograph began to play.

Honestly, this bellows phonograph’s tone bore some resemblance to Niangzi’s.

After the song ended, Ling Miaosheng unveiled the third model.

This one was electric.

In Pulu Province, electricity couldn’t be transmitted over long distances—but it could be stored.

Ling Miaosheng brought a battery the size of a tea box, placed it in the phonograph’s rear compartment, flipped the switch, and the machine whirred to life.

“Electric phonograph—stable rotation, convenient to use, but charging is troublesome. During the day, you must leave it in the sun.”

Only then did Li Banfeng notice the photovoltaic panels on the surface.

Ling Miaosheng smiled: “On sunny days, one hour of charging gives eight hours of playback. On cloudy days? Hard to say.”

If it had electricity, could it charge a phone?

Charge for what? What use is a phone? To connect to a kuixiu?

This phonograph’s design and structure were too different from Niangzi’s—Li Banfeng had no interest.

He pulled back the fourth curtain—beneath it was a sewing machine.

Ling Miaosheng threaded the needle, gripped the flywheel, stepped on the pedal—clack-clack-clack—the sewing machine whirred, stitching fabric on the table as it sang “Roses Bloom Everywhere.”

"Roses bloom everywhere, youth is everywhere, the spring wind cannot be stopped..."

The cuff was sewn shut, the sewing machine fell silent, and the music ceased with it.

Ling Miaosheng turned back and said: "The beauty of this phonograph lies in its ability to ease fatigue from sewing work; of course, if you don’t wish to listen to music while sewing, you can wind the spring, and enjoy the music only after your work is done."

Although this phonograph is peculiar, its components are very similar to those of my wife’s.

Ling Miaosheng opened the fifth phonograph—the largest one: "This is also a wind-powered phonograph, but different from the bellows model; it is driven by an external windmill."

That is, you must hang a windmill twenty-eight centimeters in diameter outside your window."

"When the windmill turns, you can listen to music; if you don’t wish to listen, you can wind the spring instead."

"Once fully wound, it can play for up to twenty-two hours; as long as the wind outside doesn’t stop, the music in your home won’t stop either..."

Ling Miaosheng introduced over a dozen phonograph models to Li Banfeng in one breath; Li Banfeng felt some interest in each, yet was unsatisfied with all.

Ling Miaosheng looked at Li Banfeng, fell silent for a moment, then suddenly asked: "Sir, you wish to buy a steam-powered phonograph, don’t you?"

Li Banfeng was startled: "How do you know?"

Ling Miaosheng suddenly smiled: "I heard the sound of steam venting—in your heart."

PS: Salala heard the voices of all you readers—you readers’ favorite author is Salala, and no one else will ever dwell in your hearts.

(End of Chapter)