Chapter 93: Can't Spend It All! (Guaranteed Minimum 1 Chapter)

To make the performance convincing, Wei Ming and Melinda walked in holding hands and didn’t let go afterward; the staff assumed he was a foreigner with a yellow skin and white heart.

Among the countless dazzling goods, Wei Ming immediately spotted several motorcycles displayed in the center of the hall.

He dragged Melinda over to take a look—mostly Japanese brands like Honda and Yamaha, with only one American Harley, whose design was less appealing than future models and offered poor value for money.

“You like this? Haha, motorbike guy.”

“It’s just transportation, but it saves time—I like efficiency.” Wei Ming glanced at the price and gave up; they sold the same outside, cheaper in RMB, and he could afford it if he saved a bit more.

Nothing they needed was on the first floor—only food, drink, and daily necessities; if they wanted to see arts and crafts, they’d have to go upstairs.

As soon as they went up, Wei Ming was drawn to a blue-and-white porcelain vase adorned with auspicious patterns of deer, cranes, and pine trees; though covered by glass, it wasn’t non-sale, and there was an introduction and price beside it.

Melinda fell in love on the spot and nudged Wei Ming: “It’s from the Ming Dynasty!”

She knew a bit of Chinese history and figured this vase was older than American history itself.

Wei Ming: “I know, but I advise you not to buy it. Though $800 is pocket change to you, porcelain is fragile—I’m afraid you won’t be able to bring it back to Britain safely.”

The female staff member, who understood English, immediately came over warmly: “Please rest assured, madam—we provide shockproof packaging; it definitely won’t break.”

Still, Melinda preferred to listen to Wei Ming and looked elsewhere: “What about this one? Made of jade.”

It was a lotus-shaped incense burner carved from white jade, exquisitely shaped; the staff explained: “This is a Qing Dynasty Qianlong-era piece, possibly from the imperial palace, and it’s only $500.”

The staff was overly enthusiastic; Wei Ming almost regretted boasting earlier.

Melinda instantly fell in love and whispered: “If I take this back, I can sell it for a high price!”

Wei Ming: “There’s some blood-like infiltration in this jade—isn’t this a tomb artifact? Unlucky, unlucky.”

The clerk: This foreigner knows a lot—could he really be a foreigner?

“What about this snuff bottle?” Melinda spotted another small item.

“I know an old man who makes these—he charges $200. Even Qing Dynasty ones aren’t worth it.”

Melinda thought everything was wonderful, so Wei Ming quickly pulled her toward the calligraphy and painting section.

“I only tell you this because I treat you as a true friend—don’t be fooled by the low prices now; someday, one of these paintings could be worth more than all those vases and jars combined, and they’re less likely to get damaged.”

“I only recognize one artist—Qi Baishi; I don’t know the others,” Melinda said to Wei Ming, looking at the signatures. “You tell me about them.”

Wei Ming: “Just knowing Qi Baishi is impressive—he produced many works, and many people make a living copying his paintings, so you might end up with a fake…”

Although Wei Ming didn’t collect paintings himself, he’d picked up some knowledge passively through his elders’ circles.

Among these modern and contemporary works, Qi Baishi’s paintings were relatively expensive since he was deceased; even the cheapest cost $50, while high-quality, large pieces could reach $200–300—and in thirty years, they’d likely sell for two to three million easily.

But the masterpieces that would later fetch tens or even hundreds of millions at auction were nowhere to be seen; early owners knew selling now meant undervaluing, so they were all waiting for the right price.

Wei Ming helped Melinda pick a group of shrimp, a pair of cicadas, and a bird perched on a loquat tree—totaling $410. The canvases weren’t huge, but all were peak-period works with inscriptions and seals, and crucially, they matched Melinda’s foreign aesthetic.

Then Wei Ming carefully selected several contemporary artists whose works hadn’t yet appreciated in value.

“Mr. Li Kuchan was Qi Baishi’s top disciple—I recently attended the NPC and saw his painting and even met him in the Great Hall. His prices will surely rise soon.”

Melinda: “Buy! Buy! Buy!”

The key was how cheap they were!

You could buy a large painting for just dozens of dollars—some for only about fifteen dollars!

Wei Ming: “Mr. Li Keran was also a disciple of Master Baishi…”

“Buy! Buy! Buy!”

Wei Ming: “Mr. Wu Zuoren is the president of the Central Academy of Fine Arts—he…”

“Buy! Buy!”

“Huang Binhong…”

“Buy!”

“Guan Shanyue…”

Finally, looking at the pile of scrolls, Melinda asked: “How much did we spend?”

Wei Ming: “About £500.”

Melinda sighed helplessly—this money was disappearing too fast.

Wei Ming: “Let’s stop for today. We can’t even fit it all in one box—I’m afraid you won’t be able to carry it all.”

Melinda nodded, then turned back to the internal-painting snuff bottle: “But I still want that one—it’s so beautiful, and the painting’s inside—it’s incredible!”

Wei Ming pushed her away directly: “It’s just internal painting—I’ll give you one later.”

Long Ao’s grandfather was skilled in serial comics and also an expert in internal painting; Hengzhou’s internal painting was famous, and since the Qing Dynasty, many Hengzhou masters had supplied snuff bottles to the capital.

Because they bought so much, the Friendship Store offered free delivery—even sending someone to carry it.

Melinda: “Can we pick it up later? My darling and I want to have dinner first.”

“Of course, madam.”

Since Melinda still had so much money left, Wei Ming borrowed some and bought imported film rolls and chocolate on the first floor, planning to repay her in RMB later.

Melinda felt cheated—until she stepped outside and Wei Ming repaid her at black-market rates, which made her breathe a sigh of relief.

“What do you want to eat? Pick anything—I’m treating!” she patted her full chest.

Obviously you’re treating—I’ve spent the whole day playing tour guide and feel emotionally drained; I need to treat myself. He thought: “Let’s go to Kao Rou Wan.”

Jingcheng had two famous roast meat restaurants: Kao Rou Wan and Kao Rou Ji.

The former specialized in beef, the latter in lamb; Wei Ming wanted beef again.

Because of Melinda’s foreign face, even though they were only two, they were given a private second-floor room; otherwise, in the first-floor hall, other customers would be eating or staring.

Though this time-honored shop often served foreigners, Melinda’s appearance was too striking.

After ordering, Wei Ming asked: “First time here?”

Melinda nodded, curious: “I’ve eaten hot pot, but never this—how do you eat it?”

This method at Kao Rou Wan was called zhi zi roast meat: between their table sat a large heated iron plate with charcoal underneath, and on the table were bowls of soy sauce, vinegar, minced ginger, rice wine, brined shrimp oil, sliced scallions, and cilantro leaves. You dipped beef slices in the seasonings, placed them on the iron plate, flipped them until they changed color, then ate.

Wei Ming had eaten it often in his past life: “Let me show you.”

He picked up a pair of very long chopsticks and deftly flipped the meat slices; soon the aroma filled the air, and Melinda was already salivating.

!

“This smells amazing!”

“Then why are you just standing there? Grab some!”

“I’m waiting for you to feed me,” she laughed, tying up her curly hair with a hair tie.

Then Wei Ming’s chopsticks reached over—long enough to cross the table and deliver the meat steadily to her side.

Melinda cupped her chin and took a bite immediately, praising: “Delicious!”

The serving staff happened to see this scene; her cheeks flushed, her heart racing.

This man was incredible—he was dating a foreign woman! He must have some special qualities!

Besides roast meat, they ordered two refreshing side dishes.

Then they ate and chatted.

“Melinda, if my novels were translated into English, would they have any chance?”

Melinda thought, then shook her head: “I’ve read your ‘Duck’s First Insight’ and ‘Er Niu’—I understood them, but I doubt foreigners would care. The slang and dialects would scare off most translators. Your work clearly thrives better locally.”

Wei Ming: “I have other works too.”

“Those poems?”

Wei Ming shook his head: “Actually, I have another pen name—I write fairy tales.”

“Oh?” She was instantly interested.

After the meal, they stepped out and passed a newsstand; Melinda asked: “Do they sell your work here?”

Wei Ming asked: “Sir, do you have the latest ‘Children’s Literature’?”

“Sold out.”

Wei Ming smiled: “I have a copy in my dorm—I’ll bring it to you tomorrow. I’m on night shift today.”

“Okay.”

Then the two returned to the Friendship Hotel, rechecked every item against the invoice, confirmed everything was correct, and allowed the store to load it onto the truck.

Wei Ming and Melinda followed the truck back; as for the two bicycles, they’d send someone to ride them over.

In the car, Wei Ming briefly summarized the plot of ‘The Legend of the Heavenly Book’; upon hearing it involved classical themes, heavenly gods, and demons, Melinda felt it would be difficult.

Back at Peking University, colleagues saw Wei Ming and Melinda returning together in a car and were envious.

But Mei Wenhua was only worried: Where’s my bike?!

“The Friendship Store staff will ride them over later.”

Then Wei Ming helped Melinda deliver the box of paintings back to Shao Yuan.

On the way back, he saw Mei Wenhua hugging his little pigeon, nearly in tears: “That lady weighs nearly two hundred jin—the wheels are about to be crushed!”

Wei Ming: “Brother, accept your loss.”

Wei Ming was about to head to his dorm to change into his uniform for work when a guard colleague called out: “Phone call—Liu Rulong.”

Long Ao came often; everyone here knew him.

“Hello.”

Liu Rulong just informed him: “I reached my mom—she’s at my grandpa’s in Foshan and should already be on the train back.”

“Good.”

“I got my royalty payment—40 yuan,” Long Ao exclaimed excitedly. “Let’s split it fifty-fifty—you did most of the character designs.”

Wei Ming laughed: “I didn’t do that much. Don’t bother splitting money—just tell Grandpa to get me a snuff bottle. I’m giving one to a foreign friend.”

After hanging up, the colleague added: “There’s also mail.”

Wei Ming had been receiving fewer letters lately, only about ten a day; he picked one up and pointed to the first: “Why’s there no stamp on this?”

“Oh, a child brought it over to you.”

Wei Ming opened it and saw only a few childish large characters: Why’s there nothing after this!?

(End of Chapter)