Idle Talk at the Warehouse-Inn

The fifteenth of the eleventh lunar month, clear skies, and a little cold. Liang Tai set a brazier on the ground. Shao Shuyi and the scar-faced man came to sit around it, warming themselves while they chatted. In the courtyard five or six paces away, several kiln artisans brought from Quzhou were talking nonstop with two foreigners—through an interpreter, of course. “Yesterday I went to the prefectural office to visit old acquaintances and sat there half the day. This year both north and south are in a bad way,” the scar-faced man said. “In the second month the wild tribes of Liaoyang rose in rebellion. In the sixth month, over five hundred Huihui raided and plundered Xie, Ji, Xi and other prefectures. In the eighth month, bandits in Shandong burned and looted Yanzhou. The ninth month brought some good news at last: the Yao rebel leaders Tang Da’er and Jiang Renwu of Daozhou and Hezhou were taken and sent to the capital under guard in prison carts. But their followers are still making trouble, and Lian and Gui prefectures have fallen. All that in a single short year—who knows what’s happening to this realm.” Shao Shuyi understood. No wonder the levies had looked so heavy when he went through the account book—the money was going to put down the rebellion in Huguang. “Gongren, the north has had so much rain and so many floods that there must be plenty of displaced and desperate folk. Luckily we’re going north by boat,” Shao Shuyi said. For some reason this year the north had either earthquakes or floods, and famine had spread over a wide stretch of country. Any fool could tell that order in the localities must have broken down completely, and going overland to Dadu would be very dangerous. Besides, when he ate with Yu Chu in the little courtyard by the river, Yu Chu had said that when the dynasty was at its height the tax grain came to twelve million dan a year: the Jiangzhe xingsheng supplied four and a half million dan, Henan about two million six hundred thousand, and the metropolitan region just under two million three hundred thousand. The latter two together already came to more than Jiangzhe. Jiangzhe alone held more than twenty-eight million people, while Henan and the metropolitan region together—the four northern provinces—held only just over seven million. The tax burden on the northern people was truly heavy. In fact, the north was taxed in more ways than the south, which probably had to do with Kublai’s conciliatory policy toward the old Southern Song lands: every tax levied in the south was levied in the north too, but not every northern tax existed in the south. The north was sliding toward collapse step by step, beyond any doubt. “Speaking of boats—did you get it?” the scar-faced man asked, looking at Shao Shuyi. Shao Shuyi found the phrase “did you get it” a little odd, but there was no way he could correct him, so he only said, “I’ve had it towed over here.” “Hm?” The scar-faced man was surprised. “Where?” “That Qian family boatyard to the west,” Shao Shuyi said. “Oh, the one tucked away in a branch creek? A small place.” “Right, the one at Luhua Port.” By regulation, “Of a town’s waterways, those where the flows converge and run through are called rivers; those that branch off are called ports.” The Lou River (Liuhe) could be called a river; its tributaries could only be called ports—or creeks. The Qian family boatyard sat where Luhua Port entered the Lou River. A zuanfeng haiqiu could just barely moor at the meeting of the waters; going any further in was out of the question, since the boat’s hull was over five zhang long, while “a port is three zhang six chi wide and one zhang six chi deep.” The depth was enough. The width was not. “How much are you planning to spend on repairs?” the scar-faced man asked. Shao Shuyi sighed softly. “Ten ding at most.” “Money thrown away,” the scar-faced man judged again, without any politeness. “And worse, you bought the boat and you’re only repairing it, not using it. That’s a still bigger waste.” “Gongren—” Shao Shuyi’s eyes shifted, and he chuckled. “Would it be worth hauling goods from Jiangnan to sell in Dadu?” “Dadu Road has four hundred thousand people, and officials and men of rank gather there in crowds. What do you think?” The scar-faced man snorted. “Then again, you’re right. We’re heading north next spring. If I could carry a boatload of southern goods to sell in Dadu, there’d be a decent profit in it. Too bad you have no capital. You’ll just have to watch the chance go by.” “But aren’t you a man of means, Gongren?” Shao Shuyi said with a smile. “Why not buy some tea, silk, writing supplies, lacquerware and the like, send them to Dadu to sell, and I’ll take a bit of freight money for it.” “Get lost,” the scar-faced man said, laughing and cursing at once. “I’m thinking of you, Gongren.” Shao Shuyi put on a look of surprise. “You have two sons and two daughters. The daughters will need dowries when they marry, your sons betrothal gifts; the house could stand a renovation, too. And you love fine horses and fine blades, you like a good tune, you’re fond of landscape painting—which of those costs nothing? With a chance like this, you ought to use it.” The scar-faced man grew tired of hearing it. “Third Young Master gives me a few dozen ding a year, and that’s enough. Besides, I have some property of my own.” Refused, Shao Shuyi still didn’t give up. “Last time I went to Sima Bridge in the old city, I saw a great many gardens gone to ruin. Why not buy one and have it swept out and put in order? Once you’re done with all this running about, you could live at your ease in a garden and amuse yourself for the rest of your life. Wouldn’t that be fine?” “You’ve truly got your head buried in money.” There was no dealing with him. The scar-faced man rose and went out into the courtyard, looked at the kiln artisans and the foreigners talking, and asked, “Well? Can it be made?” An old kiln artisan, his face full of wrinkles, bowed and said, “Gongren, making it is no trouble. But the kilns in Quzhou all fire white porcelain.” “They don’t want white porcelain?” the scar-faced man asked. “It’s not that they want none at all,” the artisan answered with a bitter face. “Celadon and white porcelain, a third each, from what I hear. And they want green-white porcelain as well.” “What a nuisance.” The scar-faced man sighed. “Where’s the best green-white porcelain?” “Jingdezhen,” the artisan answered without a moment’s hesitation. “Oh,” the scar-faced man said, then turned to Shao Shuyi, who had just come over, and asked, “Did you hear that?” “I did,” Shao Shuyi said. “The kilns at Jingdezhen are skillful, no worse than the Longquan kiln. You could send someone there to buy some green-white porcelain and keep it in the shop, and next year we can see whether the foreigners care for it.” “Mm.” The scar-faced man nodded, then looked at the artisan again. “Your kiln owner is an old acquaintance of Old Minister Zheng, and their ties run deep. You’ve been at the kilns for years yourself, so you know this is a secret matter. Don’t go blabbing about it. Understood?” “Rest assured, Gongren. This old one won’t speak of it.” With that he turned to the several artisans who had followed him over. “When we get back, keep your mouths shut.” “Yes,” they answered together. The two foreigners watched blankly, with no idea what was being said. Shao Shuyi looked them over and found they seemed to have been fattened up. Of course they had. Third Young Master Zheng wouldn’t let them run about outside, and treated them with such hospitality—they couldn’t help getting fat. That was just as well. The cost of feeding two men was a small matter. Once porcelain matching the foreign merchants’ requirements was made, they could sell it by the ten thousand next year, and the profit would be simply enormous. “When do you start the kiln?” the scar-faced man asked. The old artisan thought a moment, then raised his head. “As soon as we get back. We’ll bring a few dozen pieces before the New Year for you to look over.” “Good.” The scar-faced man was pleased. “If the white porcelain suits the foreigners’ taste, there’ll be a supply every year, and only more of it. Not only will the kiln owner gain—you’ll earn more too.” The old artisan nodded again and again, delight on his face. He was no greenhorn; he knew well enough that whether the kilns prospered had everything to do with their livelihood. And perhaps it was not only men like him, who fired porcelain all their lives, who would benefit—even the kin who farmed their fields and came to help at the kilns when work was busy could share in the good fortune. These days there weren’t that many odd jobs to be had in the countryside. Plenty of village men wanted to sell their sweat and had nowhere to sell it. “That’s it, then. Settled.” The scar-faced man waved a hand cheerfully, then looked at Shao Shuyi with a grin. “Once the first batch of porcelain comes, I’m done with this business.” “You forget, Gongren—they want celadon and green-white porcelain too,” Shao Shuyi reminded him. “No matter. Tomorrow a kiln owner from Chuzhou is going to Salt and Iron Creek to call on Third Young Master, and I’ll talk it over with them then.” He went on, “Enough. On a cold day like this, why talk about such things? Better to warm a jug of wine.” “How refined of you, Gongren,” Shao Shuyi said with a smile. “I’ll go and tell the cook to see to it.” “You’ve quite the shopkeeper’s air about you now.” The scar-faced man laughed. “I’d say the people at the warehouse-inn fear you more than they fear me.” “You jest, Gongren. Let me have the cook make a couple more dishes,” Shao Shuyi suggested with a laugh. “So eager...” The scar-faced man pointed a finger at him. “I won’t be hiring your boat. But I can point you toward a lead.” “Thank you, Gongren.” Overjoyed, Shao Shuyi went off at once to tell the cook to make some of her best dishes. The scar-faced man was right, in fact. Shao Shuyi had no shopkeeper’s title now, but he had the substance of one. ... Toward evening, the kiln artisans from Quzhou left the celadon shop. A short while later the two foreigners climbed into a carriage as well and were gone. In the Chen Family Distillery not far off, a man who looked like a servant boy watched all of this in astonishment. He didn’t know the artisans or what they were, but the foreigners were easy enough to tell at a glance. Admittedly, Liujiagang was not short of foreigners—there were quite a few, and some had even settled here for years. But why had they come to the Zheng family’s celadon shop? Instinctively he felt this was worth something. If he ran and told Zhou She, there might even be a reward. He kept his composure. Only after drawing his eyes away did he slowly finish his food and wine, then rise, pay the bill, and slip off quietly.