roccoschili Chapter 1: The Rules of Panjiayuan
Chapter 1: The Rules of Panjiayuan
Panjiayuan Market opens at 4:30 a.m., and Cheng Xiaojin had barely taken a few bites of his jianbing guozi when trouble struck.
"Brother Jin, Brother Jin, could you please take a look?"
A middle-aged man in a windbreaker squeezed through, holding a brocade box in his hands, with a fawning smile on his face.
Cheng Xiaojin didn't look up, chewing on a thin biscuit, and said indistinctly, "The fee for appraising someone starts at one hundred, and there are no credits."
"One hundred? That's outrageous!"
"If you think it's too expensive, go to the Palace Museum; it's free there."
The fat man Zhao Defa from the next stall scoffed, "Brother, don't bother with him. His own stall only sells cheap stuff, yet he's here to appraise other people's goods."
Cheng Xiaojin glanced at Zhao Defa, put the jianbing guozi on the stall cloth, and wiped his hands.
"Fatty Zhao, it's true that what I sell is cheap stuff, but I never pass off cheap stuff as antiques. Last week you sold that famille rose bowl, and you told people it was from the Qianlong imperial kiln. Did you even believe that yourself?"
Zhao Defa stiffened his neck: "Stop spouting nonsense."
Did I criticize you? I was just stating the facts.
Cheng Xiaojin, with his legs crossed, picked up a jianbing guozi (Chinese crepe) and took another bite: "I glanced at that bowl. The bottom mark says 'Made in the Qianlong Period,' but the bottom mark of Qianlong imperial kilns is always 'Made in the Qianlong Period of the Great Qing Dynasty,' six characters. Your bowl is missing two characters. Do you think Emperor Qianlong never went to school?"
Several vendors around the stalls burst out laughing.
Zhao Defa's face turned red and his neck thickened, but he didn't say anything more and turned around to tidy up his stall.
The man in the windbreaker seized the opportunity and leaned in again: "Brother Jin, really, please take a look. It won't be for nothing, a hundred it is."
Cheng Xiaojin sized up the man. He had a non-local accent, dirt under his fingernails, and large knuckles, so he must do manual labor.
The jacket is brand new; the tags are still attached. I guess it was bought specifically before heading to Beijing.
"Where did it come from?"
Anhui.
"Where did this come from?"
"It's an heirloom, passed down from my great-great-grandfather."
Cheng Xiaojin finally finished eating the jianbing guozi, rubbed the oil off his hands, and held out his hand: "Let me see it."
The brocade box was opened, and inside lay a small bronze cauldron, about the size of a palm, its surface covered with emerald green rust and engraved with a few crooked characters.
Cheng Xiaojin picked it up and weighed it in his hand.
It's lighter now.
Bronze artifacts are cast from three metals: copper, tin, and lead. They have a weighty feel when you hold them, and the older the artifact, the heavier it is, because of the density of copper.
That's not right.
He then lightly scratched a small, inconspicuous spot on the bottom of the cauldron with his fingernail, and a small piece of the emerald green rust peeled off, revealing the grayish-white base underneath.
"Brother, did your great-grandfather pass this cauldron down to you?"
"Yes, yes, it's been passed down for several generations."
"Was your great-grandfather from Yiwu?"
The man in the windbreaker was stunned: "Huh?"
Cheng Xiaojin turned the small tripod upside down and used his fingernail to pry along the seam at the bottom. The base opened with a snap, revealing the grayish-white core inside.
Plaster.
The so-called bronze rust on the outside is actually from being soaked in chemicals. After soaking, it's buried in the soil and left to decompose for several months, making it look quite convincing.
If they had put in a little more effort, they would have at least replaced the core with cast iron; at least the weight would have been correct.
They can't even bear to spend this small amount of money.
"Brother, if this stuff really came from your grandfather, go back and ask him which wholesale market he got it from. Next time you buy something, remember to pick the expensive stuff and don't buy this cheap stuff."
The laughter around them grew even louder.
The man in the windbreaker blushed and paled in turns, his lips trembling for a long time before he finally blurted out, "You, you're lying."
"I'm lying to you?"
Cheng Xiaojin shoved the broken-open small tripod into his hand: "Look at this plaster core yourself. There are still air bubbles on it. The mold wasn't properly vented during casting. If this were a Shang or Zhou bronze artifact, tell me, what kind of mold did our ancestors use to cast the plaster three thousand years ago?"
The man in the windbreaker stood there, holding the small cauldron that had been broken in two, his face flushed red, speechless for a long time.
Zhao Defa gloated from the side: "See? Panjiayuan is a deep rabbit hole. All those 'ancestral treasures' are just made up out of ten."
Cheng Xiaojin glanced at Zhao Defa, ignored him, and instead waved to the man in the windbreaker.
"Alright, brother, I won't take your hundred bucks. Consider it a token gesture of friendship. If you really want to find antique items, I'll teach you the simplest way."
The man in the windbreaker stared at him blankly.
"Look at the hands of the person selling things."
Cheng Xiaojin shook his fingers: "People who handle old objects all year round have smoothed lines on their fingertips and calluses on the sides of their knuckles. Look at my hands, and then look at the hands of the people you meet at street stalls. If the hands are right, the item may not be right, but if the hands are wrong, the item is definitely wrong."
The man in the windbreaker glanced down at Cheng Xiaojin's fingers, then at his own, stuffed the broken cauldron into his bag, and walked away in silence.
Zhao Defa clicked his tongue: "Xiao Jin, you're really something, showing people your work and then giving them a free lesson. You should open a tutoring center."
"I'd like to."
Cheng Xiaojin crossed his legs again: "I earn money through my own abilities, not by cheating people."
"Alright, you're really capable, you're awesome."
As the sun slowly rose, the crowds at Panjiayuan began to increase.
Cheng Xiaojin's stall is located in the inner part of the East District, neither good nor bad.
The stall displayed a wide variety of items: several rough porcelain bowls from folk kilns, two copper locks, a few old brick carvings, and a pile of copper coins of indeterminate age.
There aren't many valuable items, but everything is genuine and unadulterated.
That's his rule.
Cheng Xiaojin has a lot of other flaws, but he has one bottom line when it comes to business: the things he sells can be worthless, but he can't deceive people with fakes.
If you ask him why, he can't give you any grand reasoning; it's just what his grandfather taught him since he was a child.
When the old man was alive, he often said, "In our line of work, you can fool others, but you can't fool things."
An item is from a certain era; whether you say it is or you say it isn't, it still is.
So don't bother.
Around 10 a.m., the flow of people reached its peak.
Cheng Xiaojin sold two copper locks and made a total of three hundred yuan.
After deducting today's stall fee and the cost of the jianbing (Chinese crepe), I made a net profit of just over two hundred yuan.
Enough to last two days.
He was pondering where to have lunch when a voice sounded from behind him.
"Cheng Xiaojin, setting up a street stall here again?"
He knew who it was without even turning around.
Miao Daqing, director of the Panjiayuan Market Management Office, is in his forties. His hair is neatly combed and he always carries a black leather notebook in his hand. He walks with a slight protrusion of his belly.
"Director Miao is here. Have you eaten?"
Cheng Xiaojin stood up with a grin.
Don't try to get on my good side.
Miao Daqing opened his notebook: "You still owe me last month's stall fee, and it's time to pay this month's too."
"Director Miao, you see, we're a bit short on funds."
"Which month aren't you in a rush? You owed three months' worth of payments last year, and you still haven't made up for the last month."
"That happened when I was moving. They charged me a deposit and three months' rent upfront, which emptied my pockets."
Miao Daqing closed his notebook: "Cheng Xiaojin, to be honest, the higher-ups are cracking down hard lately, and it's not easy for me. If you really can't pay up, I'll have to..."
"No, no, no."
Cheng Xiaojin quickly pulled out a handful of change from his pocket, counted it several times, and managed to put five hundred yuan into it, saying, "Director Miao, please take this first. I'll make up the rest at the end of the month."
Miao Daqing took the money, twirled it a few times, and stuffed it into his pocket: "It's the end of the month, I'll remember."
"You remember, and I remember too."
Miao Daqing looked around again and lowered his voice: "By the way, a few unfamiliar faces have been coming to the market recently, asking about antiques, and they're quite generous. If you run into them, keep an eye out."
"What's your background?"
"I don't know, but he doesn't seem like a serious collector. He's asking about everything, regardless of the type. Serious collectors don't do that."
Cheng Xiaojin nodded: "Okay, I understand."
Miao Daqing is gone.
Cheng Xiaojin put the remaining money back in his pocket, touched it, and felt how thin it was.
In the afternoon, when there were fewer customers, he took a nap on the stall.
In a daze, I heard Zhao Defa shouting to someone, saying that he was having a clearance sale of fine Qing Dynasty imperial kiln pieces at a loss.
Cheng Xiaojin didn't open her eyes, cursed under her breath, turned over and continued sleeping.
By the time it was almost time to close up shop, the sun was already setting in the west.
Cheng Xiaojin squatted on the ground tidying up his things, stuffing copper coins into a cloth bag while pondering what goods he should buy tomorrow.
Just then, he caught a glimpse of the commotion at the market entrance out of the corner of his eye.
A dusty, gray agricultural tricycle with a Hebei license plate was parked outside the entrance, its cargo bed half-loaded with woven bags.
Standing next to the tricycle was a man who looked like an old farmer, around sixty years old, with a deeply lined face, wearing a faded military green jacket, and tightly clutching a burlap sack containing something in his arms.
The old farmer's eyes darted back and forth at the market entrance, looking like he wanted to go in but didn't dare.
Cheng Xiaojin glanced at it a couple more times.
The old farmer's way of holding things was interesting; he didn't just tuck them under his arms, but rather wrapped his arms around them and held them against his chest, just like he was holding a child.
Whatever that thing was, it held considerable weight in the old farmer's heart.
Cheng Xiaojin rolled up the stall cloth, hoisted it onto his shoulder, and walked towards the market entrance.
As he passed the old farmer, he slowed his pace and casually asked, "Grandpa, are you looking for someone or selling something?"
The old farmer glanced at him but didn't say anything.
Cheng Xiaojin didn't ask any more questions and walked away.
He walked a dozen steps and then looked back.
The old farmer remained standing there, clutching the burlap sack in his arms even tighter.