Caesar said nothing as he gently brushed aside her damp bangs to see her face clearly.
“A hero doesn’t take advantage of someone in distress.”
Caesar kissed her purple lips.
“Alright… you win…”
Caesar opened his arms to embrace her, as if he were a king embracing the entire world.
Morning sunlight shone on the cobblestone road of Liulichang Street. A rickshaw ran cheerfully along, flanked by quaint buildings of gray bricks. Each house had a sign with black characters on a golden background, displaying names like “Baocuitang” and “Chongwenfu.”
“Back in the Qing dynasty, this was where examinees stayed while taking their imperial exams. Most of the shops here sold paper and ink—like ‘Daiyuexuan’ for brushes, ‘Lifushou’ for painting brushes, ‘Qingmige’ for southern paper, and ‘Yidege’ for ink—all of them century-old brands! There were also a lot of antique shops. Have you heard of ‘Jiguge’? This street is full of treasures. I used to stroll here from childhood—back in the day, you could find Song dynasty porcelain even in street stalls,” the rickshaw driver said enthusiastically while pedaling, saliva spraying as he spoke.
“Nowadays, it’s mostly to fool foreign tourists, right?” The passenger in the back said leisurely.
“Oh my, you said it! By the sound of your accent, you’re from Henan, aren’t you?” The rickshaw driver slapped his thigh.
“Maybe… my Chinese teacher was from Henan…” the passenger said, with a hint of regret.
The rickshaw passed the grand archway of the Huaxia Calligraphy and Painting Society and stopped at a narrow alley. The driver dismounted: “Here we are. But there’s nothing good in these small shops, and you can’t use cards here—Visa, MasterCard, American Express,” he waved his hand, “none of those work.”
“Your English is great—you sound like you’re from Texas!” The passenger chuckled.
The driver laughed too. They had been joking back and forth the whole way.
The young passenger stepped off the rickshaw casually. He wore a blue traditional Chinese tunic with one-inch wide white cuffs, casual trousers, and a pair of Beijing-style “tiao bian” shoes. His hair was brilliantly golden, and his eyes were ocean blue. As he stood in the street, he looked just like a foreigner ripe for the picking. Several eager shopkeepers from nearby storefronts immediately wanted to lure this “fat sheep” into their stores. The passenger ignored them completely, opened a folding fan with “He who hasn’t climbed the Great Wall isn’t a true hero” written on it, and strolled into a narrow, sunless alley.
The sign for “Fenglong Hall” was a bit old, hanging over the shop door. There was a dark blue cotton curtain hanging in front of the entrance. This was almost at the deepest part of the alley, where collectors would rarely choose to open a store.
The passenger lifted the cotton curtain. A bell rang on the door, but no one came to greet him; the counter was empty.
The shop still had old paper-covered windows, filtering the sunlight in a hazy manner, with countless specks of dust suspended in the air. The room contained old tables and wooden boxes, items with years of history, thread-bound books, Tang tri-colored pottery, stone ink slabs, and brush washers. It seemed like the store sold a little bit of everything. There was even a large red wedding dress hanging on the wall. The shop looked like an old house sealed in dust—untouched for decades, with only the spirits of dust dancing in the air, ruling over the place.
The passenger wandered around slowly, inhaling the rich scent of sandalwood, and finally stopped to admire the red wedding dress. The dress was made of high-quality silk from Lake Tai, with exquisite kesi borders, adorned with gold-leaf phoenix patterns, pearl buttons, and glass shards. It was spread out and pinned on the wall, with a bride’s profile inked beside it. The passenger studied the expression of the drawn face—it was as if a charming-eyed girl were turning her head and giving a soft smile.
“A formal dress worn by Manchu women during the Qing dynasty, with the authentic style of a cheongsam. Back then, the cheongsam had a wide hem that reached the floor, and pants underneath—it wasn’t like the modern style that reveals arms and legs,” someone said softly from behind.
“Mr. Ling Fenglong?” The passenger didn’t turn around.
“Caesar Gattuso? You’re so young,” the shopkeeper said.
Caesar turned around. Though he was prepared, he was still a little surprised to see the shopkeeper. The old man speaking in the Beijing dialect was actually a European—his gray-white hair and steel-gray eyes, the handsome features of his youth still discernible in his thin face. The shopkeeper wore a bamboo-fiber shirt, fiddled with a pair of iron balls, and held a plastic bag containing a jianbing guozi breakfast roll in his other hand…
“There really are all kinds of monsters among hunters.” Caesar looked him up and down.
“The water runs deep in this line of work—I’m just a normal guy,” the shopkeeper said with a slight smile. “I went out to get breakfast. Want some?”
“No thanks, I tried douzhi this morning—it made me throw up.” Caesar recalled the taste of that brine-like drink and felt a bit nauseous again.
“Then have some tea if you threw up. I have some Tieguanyin autumn tea here, picked from old tea trees.” The shopkeeper led Caesar to a corner, where a tea set of celadon lay ready on an old tea table carved from a tree root.
The two of them sat facing each other as the shopkeeper skillfully boiled water and brewed the tea. Pouring, steeping, rinsing, washing—the celadon tea set moved gracefully in his hands, with an aesthetic so mesmerizing that it seemed almost hypnotic. A faint aroma of tea wafted through the air, and finally, a small cup of steaming tea was placed in front of Caesar.
Caesar took a whiff of the aroma and nodded: “You’ve been in China for a long time?”
“I’m a Henan native,” the shopkeeper replied confidently.
Caesar frowned: “Can’t you look in the mirror at your face that screams ‘Aryan’ before saying such blatant lies?”
“My parents were Germans stranded in China during World War II. Unfortunately, they both died, so I was raised by a Chinese couple from Henan. I’m not exactly against my German heritage, but…” The shopkeeper slapped his thigh, “German is a damn hard language—I couldn’t learn a single word!”
Caesar nodded: “An Italian and a German speaking in Henan dialect—quite amusing… Alright, I didn’t come here just for tea.” He put down his teacup and placed a heavy paper bag on the table before the shopkeeper. “Two hundred thousand dollars, for the information you promised.”