Young Master mocking me is normal. As the saying goes, “gold in troubled times, antiques in prosperous times.” These days, anyone dealing in antiques—even at the lowest level—is at least a ten-thousand-yuan household. But me? I just have a decent outfit, not even half a tael of spare cash on me. I spend everything I make, and my health isn’t great either. This situation is indeed related to my own principles. In Shanxi, those who set up stalls aren’t fools. As long as it’s something good, it won’t be cheap. I don’t buy fakes, and sometimes I get tricked and lose money. That’s why money never stays with me.

Thinking of my hardships, I couldn’t help but sigh again about that bronze business.

Just as I was speaking, someone suddenly walked in from the door. Young Master, seeing a customer, naturally went to greet him, immediately stood up, and asked, “Boss, what would you like to eat?”

I turned to look and was stunned. The person who came in was none other than the old man I’d just run into. He was still clutching that shabby bag. Hearing Young Master’s question, he ordered a bowl of noodles in heavily accented Mandarin, seemingly not noticing me, and found a seat to sit down.

Seeing it was just a small order, Young Master didn’t bother to serve him further. He went into the kitchen to tell the cook to prepare the food, then came back out to continue chatting with me. I lowered my voice, pointed at the man with my chopsticks, and asked, “Where is that guy from? Can you tell?”

“Shanxi, that’s a Shanxi accent,” Young Master also lowered his voice. “You’ve spent plenty of time in Shanxi—haven’t you developed an ear for this?”

I turned slightly and snuck a look at the old man, who was sitting with his head down, lost in thought. I thought to myself, Shanxi? But the words he said to me earlier weren’t in the Shanxi dialect. Even though I’ve spent a lot of time out of province, there’s no way I wouldn’t understand Shanxi dialect. What’s with that ‘deng da deng da’? Could it be some newly invented Shanxi slang?

Young Master gave me a pat and asked, “What’s up with you? Have you gone crazy over antiques, even taking a liking to old men now?”

I couldn’t help but laugh, turned and said, “What nonsense! I just think something’s odd.” Suddenly, I remembered Young Master also had a Shanxi accent, so I quickly asked, “Hey, you’re a local from Shanxi, right? Let me ask you, in Shanxi dialect, what does ‘deng da deng da’ mean?”

“‘Deng da deng da’?” Young Master frowned, his expression changing. “Where did you hear that?”

“What kind of phrase is that?” I asked, noticing his expression had changed and feeling curious.

Young Master lowered his voice: “That’s the lingo of the Nanpazi. I once heard a few old men in a hotel say it. I didn’t understand, so I asked my uncle, and he explained it to me.”

I let out an “oh,” startled inside. I turned to look at the old man again and thought, could this unremarkable old man actually be a Nanpazi?

Nanpazi is what people in the Shanxi region’s “Eight Trades” call tomb robbers. I’d heard about them from my family too. Nanpazi are very mysterious, and there are many ancient tombs in Shanxi. The big tombs in Shanxi are also prone to producing “zombies.” There’s a saying: “The best corpse-raising grounds are the two Xis”—first Shaanxi, then Shanxi. Nanpazi make their living in Shanxi, and their skills are far superior to the “wandering immortals” and “mountain ghosts” from other places.

According to common legend, Nanpazi usually work in pairs—one old, one young—wearing long gowns and felt hats. Some even set up stalls to tell fortunes, looking just like feng shui masters. They generally don’t dig tombs themselves. Their usual way of making a living is called “recognizing the spot”—that is, pinpointing tomb locations for other tomb robbers. They have special skills to read the land and know where ancient tombs are. In the best times, they could earn fifteen silver dollars per job. They’d take a look around, point with a fan, and leave—never coming up empty-handed.

Only in special circumstances—like troubled times or when encountering a particularly grand tomb—would they go down themselves. In their jargon, this is called “propping the pot.” If the pot is propped up, the job is a success; if not, they leave empty-handed.

Nanpazi are very particular about rules when robbing tombs. They never work in large groups—usually it’s an uncle with his nephew. When robbing a tomb, the uncle stays outside, the nephew goes in. Before entering, they must wash their hands and light a nine-inch incense stick. Before the incense burns out, they must come out. Like the Tatars outside the pass, they don’t speak plain language while working, but use their own set of secret codes. Outsiders basically can’t understand this lingo, and it’s said that to learn it, you must be initiated into the Nanpazi. If you’re not, even if someone teaches you, you won’t be able to learn it—kind of like the “heaven-taught poets” of Tibet.

I asked Young Master, “So this ‘deng da deng da’—what does it mean? Do you know?”

Young Master shook his head: “I’m not a Nanpazi, how could I know… Wait, are you saying this old man is…”

I nodded and told him what had happened at the Nangong Gate earlier. As soon as Young Master heard, his eyes lit up: “I’m telling you, Old Foster, you’re in luck! There might be hope for your bronze ware.”

I was puzzled. “Why do you say that?”

“When a Nanpazi comes to town, he’s definitely carrying something good. Their stuff can’t see the light of day, and they only do business with people who know the rules. He just spoke to you, and he was hanging around the Nangong Gate—he’s probably looking to sell something.” Young Master squinted at the old man’s shabby bag and said, “Look at that little worn-out bag—that’s brimming with energy. No doubt about it, your business opportunity has arrived.”