Chapter 2: Seven Stars: 50 Years Later

Fifty years later, at the Xiling Society on Hefang Street, my thoughts were interrupted by an old man. I closed my grandfather's notebook and sized him up.

"Do you accept rubbings here?" he asked, with an odd look, as if he had some special purpose in coming.

I didn't really care about walk-in business. Most of the antique market deals were done privately; the surface stuff was just small-time, not much profit. So I brushed him off: "I do, but I don't pay high prices." Meaning, if you don't have anything good, get lost and don't waste my time reading.

"Oh, then could you give me an introduction?" the guy asked, looking like he was browsing a supermarket.

I was getting a bit impatient. In this line of work, you can go three years without a sale, then one sale feeds you for three years. I was used to the daily leisure and hated dealing with half-knowledgeable customers. Every antique has a story behind it, and if you really got into it, you couldn't finish telling it in a few days. If I had to introduce every customer who came in, I'd have no time for business—I might as well open a teahouse.

I waved him off and said this place didn't handle introductions. There were plenty of other shops next door; he should go check them out.

The man looked a bit awkwardly at me but didn't leave. He asked again, "Well, I wanted to ask—do you have a rubbing of the Warring States silk manuscript? The one from fifty years ago, stolen by those grave robbers from Changsha and then swindled by an American?"

"You said it yourself it was swindled by an American, so how would there be one?" I got annoyed. "If you're looking for a rubbing, you have to hunt for it at the market. You can't just specify one and expect to find it—impossible!"

He lowered his voice: "I heard you have connections. I was sent by Old Itch."

Hearing the name Old Itch, I was startled. Wasn't Old Itch sent to prison the year before last? Could he have ratted me out? Was this guy a cop? I panicked a bit and started stammering: "Which... which Old Itch? I don't know him."

"I understand, I understand," he chuckled, pulling a watch from his pocket. "Look, Old Itch said you'd understand as soon as you saw this."

That watch was a gift from Old Itch's first love back when he was in the northeast. He treasured it like his life. When drunk, he'd pull out the watch and moan, "Juan, Li..." I'd ask what his woman's name really was, and after thinking for a long time, he'd actually cry, saying he'd forgotten. For Old Itch to give this watch to this guy meant the man had some real credentials.

But no matter how I looked at this guy, I found him repulsive, not like a decent person. Still, since Old Itch had referred him, I had to give some face. Besides, if someone came to me and I didn't even let him finish speaking, I might make an enemy.

I mulled it over and decided to be straightforward. I raised my hand and said, "Alright, mister, since you're a friend of Old Itch's, what business do you have with me?"

He grinned, revealing a big gold tooth: "A friend of mine brought back something from Shanxi. I want you to take a look and tell me if it's genuine."

Hearing that, I sort of understood. This bastard was probably a grave robber. He'd dug up something good and wanted an appraisal. Damn, the forest was big and had all kinds of birds. Someone actually dared to come into a legitimate antique shop peddling goods.

But men like that were usually desperadoes. Better not offend them if I could help it. I forced out a standard service smile and said, "With that Beijing accent of yours, you're a big shot from the north coming south to consult me? You flatter me too much. There are plenty of experts in Beijing. I suspect your intentions are elsewhere."

He grinned slyly: "They say southerners are sharp, and it's true. You're young, but you see things clearly. To be honest, I didn't come to see you this time. I want to meet your grandfather."

My heart trembled violently, and my face changed color. My grandfather had a very peculiar background; very few people knew about him. If someone asked, it usually meant trouble. I asked coldly, "What's your motive for seeing my grandfather?"

Seeing how grim my expression got, Gold Tooth was startled too. He quickly said, "No motive, no motive. I'm just an ordinary antique enthusiast. I only wanted to know if your grandfather kept one or two rubbings after he stole the Warring States silk manuscript from Biaozi Ridge in Changsha. We'd like to buy one and see if it matches the scroll we have."

Before he could finish, I shouted to the clerk dozing off in the corner: "Wang Meng, show the guest out!"

The old gold tooth was anxious: "Don't be like that! Why chase me away just like that?"

I said, "You came too late. My old man passed away last year. If you want to see him, go find a crooked tree and hang yourself—maybe you'll meet him!" With that, I pushed him out, all the way to the threshold.

Big Gold Tooth had a remarkably thick face. He grabbed the pillar outside the threshold and refused to leave, shouting, "Hold on, hold on! Let me say one more thing, let me say one more thing!"

I couldn't drag him off after trying for a while, so I had no choice but to swear: "Spit it out! Don't waste my business time!"

"You little grandson, why can't you talk nice?" he said with a sly grin. "It doesn't matter if the old man isn't around. I didn't say anything bad. At least, take a look at what I brought. You can't refuse Old Itch's face, can you?"

I looked at him—fake smile, obviously planning to stick around. Plus, he'd already attracted a crowd of tourists outside. If this kept up, I'd end up in tomorrow's newspaper. I had no choice but to nod: "Fine. Come inside and let's have a proper look. Don't make a monkey show out here. But I warn you, I can't guarantee I'll find anything definitive."

"Of course, of course. I'm in this trade too. I know the rules!"

Actually, the Warring States silk manuscript had over twenty scrolls, each different. The one my grandfather stole was just a very short section. There were indeed a few rubbings preserved to this day, kept as treasures at the bottom of our family chest. No amount of money on the market could buy them. Even if I made up some nonsense, this old guy would never know.

We went back to the inner room. I had Wang Meng pour the old man some tea and asked him to show me the goods. Gold Tooth awkwardly pulled a piece of white paper from his pocket and handed it to me. I got annoyed as soon as I saw it—damn, it was just a photocopy.

"Well, you can't carry a treasure like that around in your pocket; it would crumble at the slightest touch," he said, lowering his voice mysteriously. "If it weren't for my wide connections, this thing would have already ended up abroad. I'm serving the people, right?"

I laughed dryly: "From the look of you, you're just a grave robber. I think you don't dare to sell it—this is a national treasure. You want to keep your head, don't you?"

Exposed by that one remark, the old man's face turned green. But since he needed my help, he held back and said, "You can't say that. Every trade has its ways. Back in the day, when your grandfather was a grave robber in Changsha, his reputation was far and wide..."

I pointed a finger at his nose and said, "Don't talk too much. If you mention my grandfather again, take this thing back and study it yourself!"

"Alright, alright, I'll stop. Please take a quick look, and I'll be on my way."

I unfolded the white paper. From the layout, I could tell it was a well-preserved Warring States silk manuscript, but it wasn't the one my grandfather had stolen. However, on closer inspection, I found some differences from the genuine article. Since I'd agreed to help, I didn't want to half-ass it and risk them coming back to bother me. I put the thing under a magnifying glass and examined it carefully. After about the time it takes to smoke a cigarette, I had a basic idea. I shook my head at Gold Tooth, who was looking at me with hopeful eyes, and said, "Although the lines on the photocopy suggest it's quite old, it should be a later dynasty counterfeit. That is to say, an antique forgery. It's in an awkward position identity-wise. This photocopy is so poor, I can't be certain. I can only guess it's from the Han dynasty. In other words, it's not exactly fake, but not exactly genuine either. That's what it is."

"Then is it the one your grandfather stole?"

"To be honest with you, the one my grandfather stole was swindled away by that American before he even got a chance to look at it. I really can't answer that question." I sighed, putting on my most sincere look. I thought, if he knew I had rubbings, word would get out, and then others would come after me. Better to bluff him and let him find answers elsewhere.

Gold Tooth seemed to buy it. He sighed: "What bad luck. Looks like we'll have to track down that American if we want any hope."

"Why are you so fixated on this one scroll?" I asked. This was too strange. Collecting ancient texts was all about fate. Trying to gather all twenty scrolls of a Warring States period manuscript was way too greedy.

"Little brother, to be honest with you, I'm not really a tomb raider. Look at my build—I couldn't handle the roughing. But my friend is indeed an expert. I don't know what he's playing at, but he has his reasons, and it's not my place to ask too many questions." He chuckled, shook his head, and sighed: "Alright, since you've said that, I can put my mind at rest. I won't take up any more of your time, little brother. I'll take my leave now."

Having said that, he stood up, made a fist-and-palm salute to me, and left without looking back. Seeing how disappointed he looked as he left, I felt a bit sorry. But in our line of work, you absolutely must be careful at every turn. For him, it was just a small matter; at worst he'd just have to spend a bit more time. After thinking it over, I let it go.

At that moment, I noticed he hadn't taken the photocopy with him. Probably because he was too stunned just now. I casually picked it up to look at the content and suddenly found an interesting pattern—a human face like a fox, with two eyeless, three-dimensional eyes that seemed to protrude from the paper. It made me gasp. Just now I was only focused on dating it and didn't look at the content carefully. Now it seemed this should also be a rare treasure. When Old Yang comes out, I could use this photocopy to make a few fake rubbings—that would be fun for me.

I photographed it with my digital camera and took the paper to Wang Meng outside. If that Gold Tooth comes back later, just give it back to him, so he doesn't think I'm trying to take advantage of him.

My grandfather was a Changsha "tufuzi," which is to say a tomb raider. It's not strange at all that Grandfather entered this line—in modern terms, it was hereditary. When my great-great-grandfather was thirteen, there was a drought in Central China. In those days, a drought meant famine; even if you had money, you couldn't buy food. Back then, all the corners of Changsha had nothing except many ancient tombs. So they lived off the mountains, lived off the tombs—the whole village went tomb raiding together. In those years, countless people starved to death, but not a single person in their village died, all thanks to exchanging dug-up items with foreigners for food.

Later, over time, this activity developed a cultural accumulation. By my grandfather's generation, there were already industry rules and school divisions. Historically, tomb raiders were divided into Northern and Southern schools. According to custom, "tufuzi" belong to the Southern school. They mainly relied on soil probing to find ancient tombs. Before the Republic of China, they used probe awls; after the Republic, they used the Luoyang shovel. With just a nose, they could determine depth and dynasty. Nowadays, many novels casually mention the Luoyang shovel, but actually the Northern school doesn't use it. They excel at accurately judging the location and structure of tombs—the so-called "dragon seeking and point acupoint."

The Northern and Southern schools were major factions divided by literati. Originally, they had nothing to do with underworld affairs. Later, after several periods of chaos, many people switched careers halfway, gradually bringing these things into this trade. My grandfather never defined himself before. Later, when his apprentices asked, he realized that his methods could be classified as the Southern school. Since their establishment, the two schools have been in constant conflict. The Southern school says the Northern school is impractical—too many schemes, making such a fuss over tomb raiding. Just go in, take things, and leave. But they have so many rules, bureaucratic. The Southern school has few rules and never taboo against the dead. Northerners scold Southerners as local dogs, damaging cultural relics—every tomb they raid collapses, even pulling out corpses to sell. Southerners call Northerners hypocrites—clearly thieves but acting like something else

After Liberation, the line between the Southern and Northern factions was no longer so clear. My grandfather said he was Southern School, but among his old buddies there were quite a few from the Northern School as well, and their children were even more mixed up. There's no need to go into details.

My grandfather was illiterate. After Liberation, he attended a literacy class. Back then, he only knew how to "pan for sand" (grave robbing). Learning characters nearly killed him. But thanks to becoming literate, he was able to record some of his experiences. The Third of the Biaozi Ridge in Changsha was my grandfather. He recorded all these things word by word in his old notebook. My grandmother was an educated woman, a lady from a distinguished family. She was attracted by his stories, and in the end my grandfather moved into her family in Hangzhou and settled down there.

That notebook is considered a family heirloom. My grandfather's nose was completely ruined after that incident. Later, he trained a dog to sniff the soil, and people gave him the nickname "Dog King." This is a true story. In Changsha, among those who used to be grave robbers, the older generation all know that name.

As for how my grandfather later survived, and what ultimately happened to my second uncle and my great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather, my grandfather never would tell me. In my memory, I never saw a one-eyed, one-armed second great-uncle, so I guess it really was more bad than good. Whenever this topic came up, my grandfather would sigh and just say, "That's not a story for children." No matter how we asked or wheedled, he wouldn't reveal a single word. Eventually, as we grew older, we gradually lost our childhood curiosity.

***************************** When the shop closed that evening, I received a text message. Opening it, I saw it was from my Third Uncle at home.

Third Uncle is the only one from my parents' generation still engaged in grave robbing. I heard he reformed for a while in his early years, but later he couldn't get along with his boss personality-wise, so he went back to dabbling in antiques on his own. Third Uncle often boasts that he started earlier than anyone else—working alone at six years old, and by ten he had made a name for himself among the Eight Outer Schools. He could almost be called a born grave robber.

But this grave robber has now basically retired. According to a few of his subordinates, in previous years he would occasionally go down into tombs himself to retrieve artifacts, but in the last few years he's settled down and focused on trading. It seems that when you get old, you just have to accept it.

I opened his text, thinking he was calling me to dinner, but to my surprise it was just one line: "9 o'clock, chicken eye yellow sand."

This was code on our circuit, meaning new goods had arrived and he wanted me to come pick through them. Third Uncle has good connections over at Mangshan and has many apprentices. Maybe a few of them had worked another tomb and the stuff had arrived in Hangzhou. I was considering whether to go, when immediately I received another message: "There's a dragon spine back, come quickly."

Lately I've been strapped for cash, so seeing good stuff I can't buy is worse than not seeing it. But when he mentioned "dragon spine back," my eyes lit up. "Dragon spine back" means there's a treasure. Third Uncle's standards are exceptionally high. If even he thinks it's a good item, it must be a rare treasure indeed. Missing this opportunity would be a shame.

I made up my mind on the spot, locked up the shop, and drove my beat-up Jinbei straight to Third Uncle's place. Whenever he was selling off goods, his place was as crowded as a market. If you came a bit late, nothing would be left. I was a bit anxious inside, and unconsciously stepped on the gas a few more times. As a result, a traffic cop stopped me at an intersection. After a lot of hassle, it was already an hour later when I parked under his building. Just as I got out of the car, I heard him shouting from above: "You little bastard! I told you to hurry up, and you dawdled for half the day. What's the use of coming now?!"

My heart had already sunk. Hearing this, I knew the item was definitely already sold. I cursed: "Come on, Third Uncle, you should have saved a good thing for me. You sold it too fast!"

"You damn well know it's a good thing, so why couldn't you come faster? I was the first to notify you!"

I sighed and didn't bother to explain. Just then, a young man walked out from his front door, carrying a long camphorwood box wrapped tightly in cloth, with only one side of the lid exposed. I knew that such a thing was called a sword box, used for storing a treasured sword or blade. Even the box alone was valuable; if there was a sword inside, it would be an astronomical figure.

I guessed that was the "dragon spine back," so I pointed at the thing on the young man's back. Third Uncle nodded and made a helpless gesture.

I felt thoroughly disinterested and was about to head back the way I came, but Third Uncle told me to wait. He said there were still quite a few people upstairs picking stuff in his storeroom, and wanted me to come up and help collect money. Thinking I had nothing to do that evening anyway, I went up to join in the fun.

After everything was dealt with, I poured half a glass of Wuliangye and accompanied him in drinking while telling him about the gold-toothed old man who came snooping around today. I told it as a joke, but unexpectedly, after hearing it, he clicked his tongue and said: "A gold-tooth from Beijing? Huh, talk about a coincidence—it's like committing suicide on a bridge but not jumping into the river—hitting the bridge (coincidence)!"

I was puzzled, wondering if Third Uncle knew them. I asked what was going on. Third Uncle said he'd heard in recent years that some grave robbers had become very arrogant, and there was a gold-toothed man from Beijing who specialized in selling their goods. It seemed they had indeed opened a treasure tomb in Shanxi recently, and had really dug out a lot of treasures.

I thought that silk manuscript might have come from that Shanxi tomb, so I printed out the thing from my digital camera and showed it to him. Third Uncle's face had been flushed and he was in high spirits, but as soon as he saw the silk manuscript, his expression suddenly changed.

"What's wrong?" I asked. "Is there something off about this thing?"

He furrowed his brow and said, "I tell you, kid, to learn more from me, but you never listen. Anyone with sharp eyes can see it at a glance—this is a map."