Volume One, Chapter Fifty-Eight: Pieces and Players

Eight days ago, Beijing.

Chang Ke had been wandering the antique street in Dashilan for four hours. Ink fragrance filled every shop and even the street itself; there were hundreds of similar little stores. At their entrances and inside, paintings and calligraphy by renowned masters were displayed, some living, some deceased. Qi Gong, the still-living advisor to the Palace Museum, chairman of the National Cultural Relics Authentication Committee, and president of the Chinese Calligraphers Association, had works in nearly every shop.

Chang Ke smiled, genuinely fond of this old street where vulgarity was flaunted without restraint. Most shopkeepers weren’t native Beijingers, but they spoke with a Beijing accent, fanned themselves with palm-leaf fans, and lounged on bamboo deck chairs, warding off the summer’s oppressive heat and persistent flies.

He dressed in a style that bordered on ostentatious: a light gray summer suit from the flagship George Armani store in Hong Kong, a wide-collared shirt with orange and white vertical stripes, and limited-edition Zegna light brown suede lambskin shoes, all exuding the fresh scent of Armani cologne. Retro black-framed Gucci glasses hung on his nose, and even his belt was custom Armani. Yet, to the uninitiated, none of it would reveal its pedigree.

Hollywood had a saying: if you don’t know what to wear to the Oscars, wear Armani.

Whenever he returned to Beijing, Chang Ke liked to treat himself. His father used to say, “When it comes to food, you know it’s good if you say so. When it comes to clothes, you know it’s good if others say so.”

He considered that a saying from an era of poverty.

Having lived long at the edge of danger, returning to the normal world, dressing well brought him joy—a compensation for past hardships.

He entered a shop to look at the calligraphy hanging on the wall, a freshly mounted “work” by Qi Gong written on rice paper. The owner, sitting on a stool at the door, wore a white undershirt and waved a fan, but didn’t stand. In this season, anyone in a suit was clearly an expert, so no guidance was needed.

Just as Chang Ke was about to speak, a man from out of town entered. This time, the owner reluctantly stood and followed him in. Chang Ke fell silent and turned his attention back to the paintings.

“Boss, take down that Qi Gong piece for me to see?” The out-of-towner’s phrasing was correct, but lacked the Beijing accent’s unique ending. His voice was loud, without the polished charm of a native.

The owner slowly took down the rice paper piece inscribed “Quiet Nurturing.” The visitor examined it closely. “Boss, how much is this?”

Both Chang Ke and the owner glanced sideways at the man. “Three hundred,” the owner replied listlessly.

“Is it authentic?” the customer asked seriously. Chang Ke almost laughed out loud along with the owner.

The owner replied honestly, “Sir, where could I ever get a genuine piece from the master for three hundred? This is a high-quality imitation. We Beijingers are honest folk; we won’t cheat you.”

“But you do have a good eye,” the owner added, seeing the outsider was about to bite. “When it comes to imitations, in this whole lane, ours are the most lifelike.”

As he spoke, the owner walked from the counter. “You see, once Master Qi Gong came to Liulichang with his assistant. Guess what? He came into this shop and couldn’t tell it was a fake, even asked his assistant, ‘When did I write this? Do you remember?’”

The visitor was amazed. “Boss, how many of these do you have? I’ll take them all.”

The owner was stunned for a moment, glanced at Chang Ke, who smiled encouragingly, then turned his gaze back to the wall.

The owner lowered his voice to the customer. “I have twenty Qi Gong pieces. If they were genuine, a three-foot one would cost at least twenty thousand. But if you want a discount,” he gestured with his right hand, “five thousand.”

The customer pulled cash from his waist pouch. “That’s cheap. Those officials wouldn’t know the difference anyway. They’re for gifting; no one will suspect.”

The owner gathered twenty pieces, asking, “Do you want them mounted? If you need more, I can send them by EMS.”

The customer left the shop loaded with treasures. The owner looked at the thick stack of bills, then glanced apologetically at Chang Ke for not blowing his cover. Chang Ke smiled understandingly.

“Boss, I just got married and want to hang one at home. Looking at Qi Gong’s script will make my wife happy. How much?”

“Regular price, twenty.”

Chang Ke took three “Qi Gong” scrolls, left the shop, and sat down at a nearby kiosk, ordering two elegant black-bottled Cokes. Squatting at the street corner, he drank and watched the crowd.

Before he finished a cigarette, his pager beeped. He hailed a taxi and headed to the old “Donglaishun” outside Jianguomen. His superior had reserved a small private room and ordered the dishes.

Chang Ke placed his scrolls carefully on another chair, sat, and started on the sweet pickled garlic in the small dish.

The leader was “slurping” tomato-and-egg dumpling soup, with three small bottles of Erguotou on the table—Beijingers called them “Little Second.”

Chang Ke frowned, ordered three Yanjing beers, and drank straight from the bottle.

After finishing his soup, the leader began the hotpot. In the center of the small round table sat millet chili, sesame paste, peanut sauce, oyster sauce, soy sauce, and other condiments, along with chive flower, fermented bean curd, shrimp oil, cooking wine, chili oil, and more. The leader took a spoonful from each dipping bowl, mixing them in his own bowl clockwise. This method kept the sauce uniform and symbolized “Donglaishun”—everything going smoothly. Half a bowl of traditional “spicy, salty, preserved, marinated, fresh” dipping sauce was ready.

On the table were hand-cut lamb and fatty beef slices, which he cooked skillfully in the hotpot.

Chang Ke asked the waiter for a plate of machine-cut lamb. The leader looked puzzled. “Why eat machine-cut when there’s hand-cut? It’s frozen, cheap, not fresh.”

“It’s not about the money. Machine-cut lamb is thinner and uniform, tastes better.”

Chang Ke’s sauce was simple: a spoonful of soy sauce, a handful of chopped cilantro, and he started cooking. Seeing the leader’s confusion, he said, “I’m from Yingzhou. I like the original flavor. With so many condiments, are you eating lamb or dipping sauce?”

“You kid, in this heat, why dress like a CCTV news anchor? Aren’t you hot?” The leader’s nose was sharp. “And you sprayed foreign perfume, showing off again? Only women use that stuff.”

“You always send me on tough assignments. On every field job, I never get to wear anything nice. Last time in Ruili, I wore a tramp’s clothes for three weeks, smelled like I’d crawled out of a sewer. Back in the capital, can’t I treat myself? Who knows, I might meet a beauty—gotta give myself more chances.”

The leader eyed his outfit. “I wasn’t wrong about you. Whatever you do, you’re always purposeful. This suit—can’t get it on the mainland, can you?”

“Definitely not. Had relatives buy it in Hong Kong.” Chang Ke deliberately showed off his Gucci glasses.

The leader scoffed, “Lying again. Your parents are northern; how could you have relatives in Hong Kong? Don’t think I don’t know. You’ve used fake documents to go to Hong Kong twice, haven’t you?”

Chang Ke had to change the subject. “How long have you been married, chief?”

“Twenty-five years. Why?”

Chang Ke murmured, “Fuck!”

The leader frowned. “What do you mean?”

Chang Ke said incredulously, “Even a rape sentence wouldn’t last that long, would it?”

The leader replied sternly, “That’s where you’re wrong. Our education was different. Marriage was always meant to last for life. Family is a man’s refuge; having a home is the greatest happiness.”

“Even if there’s no passion? How long since you and your wife made love?”

“What kind of question is that? Does love always require sex?”

“Doesn’t it? Without sex as a premise, can it be called love?”

“You talk like a romance expert.”

“Chief, aside from the day you recruited me in Bincheng, all these years, why do you always wear that gray jacket? Did your wife make you? If so, it means she dresses you to look old and steady, without any masculine charm. She’s keeping you on a tight leash—quite shrewd.”

The leader was stung and a bit irritated. “So many opinions about a jacket? I wear it for convenience—I don’t want to fuss over clothes every morning. Your sister-in-law bought five or six at once. You think I never change?”

Seeing the leader embarrassed, Chang Ke secretly laughed; he was used to steering conversations by indirect probing.

Chang Ke switched topics again. “Chief, let me ask boldly: judging by your constant attire, have you ever worked frontline?”

The leader was startled. Years of clerical work had made him forget the telltale sign. Now that it was noticed, he didn’t bother to conceal it. “I graduated from the police academy, worked as a clerk up to this position. I recruit and plan operations, but never worked frontline.”

Chang Ke feigned enlightenment. “Chief, you’ve recruited countless people, have a talent for spotting the capable—very impressive. But I’ve always wondered, without field experience, how are you able to strategize and foresee everything? I’ve always admired that.”

“Commanders and generals are not the same. I’m a chess player.”

Chang Ke caught the flaw and interrupted, “So we’re just chess pieces.”

The leader waved dismissively. “Don’t say that. Young man, what do you know? Office politics, interpersonal struggles, reading superiors—these things are full of intrigue and danger, no less than dealing with drug lords. I command you because I understand human nature far more deeply than you young people.”