Chapter Sixteen: The Radish Bottle (Part One)

“Get up, get up, someone’s calling you.” Mengya’s voice drifted into my ears.

I took the phone from her hand and glanced at the screen—it was an old acquaintance in the trade, Li Jianjun.

“Jianjun, what’s going on?”

A voice full of complaint came through the receiver: “Qiu Tong, why haven’t you opened your shop in so long? I go there every day, just waiting for you to open.”

I felt a wave of impatience. This Li Jianjun still owes me quite a sum, and at his age—pushing fifty—he still has the nerve to complain to me. Honestly, it’s embarrassing to even bring it up, but he has no shame.

“Just tell me what you want,” I replied with little patience.

“One of my clients wants to buy that vase we bought from Line One in England. Take it out of your shop for me, I’ll pick it up.”

“What vase? I have plenty of vases.”

“The one we bought for five thousand euros at the old lady’s shop on Line One—the rose-red radish-shaped vase. Remember, I own half of it.”

I cursed inwardly. This bastard—claims to own half of it, but didn’t pay a cent, just got himself a verbal share, and now has the gall to remind me. There’s never a shortage of shameless people, but this year there seem to be more than ever.

Though the past has faded, I still belong to the antique city, to the circle of antiques dealers. The recent chaos had kept my shop closed for a week. With that in mind, I arranged to meet Li Jianjun at the shop at noon.

Mengya and I drove over, arriving at a quarter past ten. Seated beside the table, I took out the keys. “Mengya, fetch the rose-red radish vase we bought on Line One last year from storage—Li Jianjun’s coming to take it.”

“Li Jianjun? He still owes us hundreds of thousands, and he has the nerve to take something to sell?”

I sighed helplessly. “You don’t understand. In this world, those with thick skins have their fill; those with thin skins go hungry.”

Mengya sighed as well, resignation in her eyes. She unlocked the storeroom, rummaged around for a while, and finally emerged with an aged paulownia wood box in her hands.

We sat in the shop, sipping freshly ground coffee, and took out the “Western Zhou Bronze Gong-shaped Incense Burner” we’d bought at the Xiling Seal Society auction last year. The burner’s surface was pitch black, with flecks of emerald green and tangerine red mottling the darkness. Its shape resembled a deer, though the face looked a bit like a monster from an animated film. At first glance, it hardly seemed Chinese in style. The neck and limbs were covered in the characteristic “cloud and thunder” motifs of the Western Zhou. Above the motifs on the belly was a relief of an abstract, monstrous face—the so-called “taotie” pattern.

Mengya took a small bottle of scented powder from the rosewood cabinet. The bottle was only slightly larger than an eyedropper vial. She uncorked the wooden stopper, and at once, a refreshing cool fragrance wafted out.

I squinted at her and sighed, “You really are extravagant. That’s the melon chess powder Uncle Tian brought back from his visit to Grandma Lin in Taiwan last year. This little bottle would fetch tens of thousands.”

Mengya smiled, her voice soft and alluring. “Well, it’s just the two of us in the shop, isn’t it? No harm in treating ourselves.”

She laughed as she prepared to pour the powder into the gong-shaped incense burner. Just then, a man’s voice came from outside.

“Brother Qiu, you’re early today.”

A middle-aged man strode in, hair slicked back and gleaming, wearing a Louis Vuitton limited edition suit adorned with vivid floral patterns. On his feet were a pair of Louis Vuitton shoes with “Nelson’s Milk Snake” patterns. He beamed like a god of fortune bestowing blessings.

“Jianjun, have a seat,” I greeted him.

Mengya, seeing Li Jianjun enter, slipped the melon chess powder bottle into her sleeve. Li Jianjun glanced at the incense burner on the table, his expression turning into one of those insufferable, self-satisfied grins, the kind you see on variety shows.

“Oh, lighting incense, are we? Hurry up, then.” He glanced at Mengya. “Well? Don’t just stand there, get a move on! Don’t you see you have a guest?”

Mengya bristled at his bossy tone, her anger on the verge of erupting. I shot her a look, and she huffed, returning the precious powder to the rosewood cabinet. She took out another bottle of incense powder—this one plastic—and, after opening it, poured about five grams into the burner. She then lit a stick of sandalwood incense, used it to ignite the grey-brown powder in the burner, and covered it with the lid. A wisp of white smoke drifted from the “deer’s” mouth.

Li Jianjun sniffed, then turned away and spat, coughing into his hand. “Qiu Tong, you should fire your staff. Entertaining guests with this cheap Southeast Asian agarwood powder? It’s worth two or three yuan a gram at most—nearly choked me. At my shop, we burn only Hainan Canaan incense, thousands a gram. That aroma…” He made a show of being lost in ecstasy.

I thought, if you had money for Hainan incense and Louis Vuitton, you could pay what you owe me. At your age, still playing the dandy, all flash and no substance.

Mengya cast him a look of utter disdain. “Every guest gets the tea they deserve. For your kind, this will do.”

Li Jianjun’s face fell. I shot Mengya a warning look. “Is that any way to talk to Jianjun?” Then, with a touch of mockery, I asked Li Jianjun, “Are you here to hold an incense appreciation party today?”

Sensing my displeasure, and perhaps fearing I’d press him for payment, Li Jianjun waved it off. “Forget appreciating incense today—another time. I’m just here for the returning radish vase.”

I nodded and pushed the old paulownia box toward him. “Check it carefully—see if there’s any damage, any chips, or defects from the kiln.”

Li Jianjun smiled. “Please, would my brother try to cheat me? No need to check.” He was about to put the box in his bag.

I stopped him. “Business is business—check it, just in case.”

At my insistence, he opened the box. Inside, the vase was nestled in a groove lined with cotton, secured with its original wooden base.

Carefully, he lifted out the “Rose-red Glaze Radish Vase from the Daoguang Imperial Kiln,” placing the vase and its old redwood base on the table.

The rose-red glaze radish vase stood about twenty-five centimeters tall, shaped like a carrot with a long neck—hence collectors also called these “carrot vases.” The surface gleamed with a glossy luster. Among single-color, low-temperature glazes, rose-red was especially prized.

The rose-red glaze was first developed at the end of the Kangxi reign in the Qing dynasty. It was produced in the Yongzheng, Qianlong, Jiaqing, and Daoguang periods as well, with the finest examples from the Yongzheng era—these fetch the highest prices on the market. Colored with trace amounts of gold and fired at around eight hundred degrees in wood kilns, the glaze was named for its resemblance to rouge. Vessels came in many forms—vases, jars, plates, bowls, cups, and saucers—all thinly potted, graceful, and elegant. Most were white-glazed inside and rose-red outside; only a few were glazed rose-red both inside and out. In later reigns, especially after Qianlong, the quality declined. This Daoguang vase, though not as exquisite as a Yongzheng piece, still boasted a rich, beautiful glaze—an excellent specimen.

Li Jianjun scrutinized the Daoguang rose-red radish vase, shining a strong flashlight and ultraviolet lamp over it. Finally, he put it back in the box and nodded. “No problem. Would your wares ever be otherwise, Hall Master Qiu?”

I smiled. “We paid five thousand euros for that vase—almost forty thousand yuan. How much do you plan to sell it for your boss?”

Li Jianjun’s face lit with pride as he put the box in his bag and sipped his tea. “My boss has no shortage of money. I reckon I can sell it for at least a hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand.”

I thought, there he goes bragging again. The going rate is just over a hundred thousand at best, but he always has to exaggerate.

I sneered. “Jianjun, the higher the sale, the better. I just want one hundred and twenty thousand—the rest is yours.”

Hearing this, Li Jianjun puffed himself up and launched into more tall tales—how he’d hunted tigers on the mountain, slain dragons at sea, bought Xuande censers at Guardian, acquired Song Huizong pieces at Poly. Mengya and I exchanged weary looks, sorely tempted to spit in his face.