I was half-convinced, half-skeptical—how could there be such a good thing? In our line of work, what kind of swindler haven’t we seen? Last time I was in Henan, I ran into a simple, honest farmer—he looked as honest as could be, almost to the point of being a bit slow. He said he’d dug up a bowl from the mud, wanted to sell it for just twenty yuan. I took the bowl, took one look, and smacked it right on his head—damn it, it was a high-quality fake porcelain. Later, when I searched him, this so-called country bumpkin, reeking of the countryside, actually had a ticket stub from the Shanghai Great World Dance Hall in his pocket.

In the antiques world, every swindler looks honest and simple, because people in this business all have dreams of striking it rich overnight, always hoping to stumble upon a treasure someone else overlooked. An honest, sincere appearance makes people drop their guard.

Looking at Young Master like that, if it weren’t for our years of eating and drinking together, I’d really think he and that old man were in cahoots, putting on a show to trick me.

While I was still doubting, Young Master had already had someone bring over a bottle of Daqu liquor, shoved it into my hands and said, “Nanpazi drinks three times a day—take this. Don’t say Young Master never did you a favor. When you get rich, we’ll meet again. Go on! Don’t let someone else beat you to it.”

I whispered to Young Master, “Forget it, there are too many swindlers these days. Let’s just steer clear of these people. If we’re meant to be poor, so be it.”

Young Master turned his head, grinned, and said, “See, that’s why you’ve got the guts to kill but only the fate to be killed—too stuck in your ways.” As he spoke, he took away my beer and shoved the white liquor into my hands. “With your eye for things, you’re in the top ten in Hedong. What are you afraid of?”

I thought about it and figured, well, if he’s a swindler, so be it. If not, then this is my chance to get rich—why wouldn’t I take it? If I heard later that someone else bought something good off that old man and struck it rich, I’d regret it for the rest of my life.

Thinking this, I took the white liquor and said to Young Master, “You win. Go get a few more dishes, bring a duck, and hurry up. I’ll show you Mr. Foster’s skills.” With that, I headed toward the old man.

Part One: The River-Town Seal

Chapter Two: Nanpazi

The old man was eating his noodles with his head down. I carried the dishes and liquor over and sat across from him. He looked a bit puzzled, started eating awkwardly, and didn’t ask what I wanted. His hand unconsciously went to cover his shabby bag.

Seeing this, I thought maybe there really was something good in that bag. Could it be that Young Master was right?

Young Master came over with two cups, placing one in front of the old man. The old man, thinking someone wanted his seat, stood up to move.

I thought, this guy really is timid. I grabbed him and called out, “Hey, don’t go.”

The old man, holding his noodles, smiled and said, “Let your friend sit, let your friend sit. I’ll just eat over there.”

I pressed him back down and said, “What friend? This liquor is for you.” As I spoke, I opened the bottle and poured him a drink.

The old man looked puzzled, but as soon as he smelled the liquor, I saw his legs go weak—he couldn’t leave even if he wanted to. He asked, “You’re treating me? I don’t even know you, why are you buying me a drink?”

I handed him a cigarette. He waved it off, but I insisted, so he took it, though he didn’t smoke it—just set it aside. I put on my professional antique dealer’s face and smiled, “You don’t know me, but I know you.”

The old man looked even more confused and asked, “You know me? Then I should know you too, shouldn’t I?”

I pretended to glance around, then lowered my voice, pointed at the shabby bag in his hand, and whispered, “Don’t doubt it—I not only know you, I know what’s in your bag.”

The old man’s face changed instantly. He clutched the bag and stood up. Seeing this, I thought he was about to bolt—was it really that serious? I quickly stood up to block his way and said, “Easy, easy, I’m not going to rob you, am I?”

The old man wasn’t buying it. He asked, “Who exactly are you?”

I motioned for him to sit down and quietly said, “Weren’t you just outside Nangong, asking me if I was waiting or not? Remember?”

The old man looked at me in confusion, as if trying to recall, but couldn’t. He shook his head and said, “Don’t remember. Just tell me straight—who are you? You’re all smiles, can’t be up to any good. If you don’t say, I’m leaving.”

I cursed him in my heart, patted him lightly, and said quietly, “Look at your memory. I’m just a guy from Nangong who buys antiques. Do you really not remember, or are you pretending?”

When the old man heard this, he calmed down, sized me up, and asked, “You really buy antiques? Then you’re pretty sharp—how did you know I had something to sell?”

I coughed, pointed at his bag, and said, “You’re always clutching that bag, speaking with a thick accent, hanging around the Nangong gate—anyone can tell you’re an old Nanpazi come to town to sell goods. No need to be taught that.” Of course, this was nonsense—it’s actually not easy to tell if someone’s carrying goods.

But the old man was taken aback: “What accent? What’s a Nanpazi?”

I was surprised too and said, “It’s what you said to me—‘waiting or not waiting,’ remember?”