The driver told us that Donghua Town is an ancient town with a long history, dating back to around the Western Han dynasty. The whole town has fewer than two hundred households, with only two main streets. Most of the buildings are tiled houses from the Ming and Qing dynasties. The entire town is built along the mountains, with bluestone slab roads, and ancient ancestral halls and round buildings can be seen everywhere, giving it a very antique feel. Due to inconvenient transportation, the town only got electric lights and telephones the year before last, but many families still rely entirely on kerosene lamps for daily life.

I thought to myself that this was good news. Since there aren’t many places with telephones, it would be easier to make inquiries.

At that time, in mountainous areas, telephones—such a luxury—were basically concentrated in government offices, guesthouses, and large factories, as well as the post and telecommunications office. I figured that the nephew of that southern snake couldn’t possibly be hiding in a government office, and there wouldn’t be any big factories here, so it would basically be the guesthouse or the post office.

The vehicle stopped at the entrance to the town and didn’t go any further, as it was really hard to turn around. We unloaded our luggage from the car. Seeing that we were strangers to the area, the two herbal medicine merchants let us follow them, since they also needed to find a place to stay. I quickly thanked them and followed them into the town. Young Master even tried to be a model citizen like Lei Feng, helping the old professor carry his things.

Most of the people in the town make a living by dredging silt from the Yellow River. Their clothing is almost no different from before the Liberation. The small town is usually quiet and peaceful, and it’s rare for strangers to visit. Our arrival made the locals feel surprised; many people gave us strange looks on the street, and even a few young children followed behind us, just like we used to circle around foreigners on the streets of Beijing.

There were no hotels or inns here. After walking for a while, we saw a government guesthouse. Compared to this place, the place I stayed at near Nangong was like a Hilton Hotel.

The medicine merchant said that this used to be a wooden round building owned by the local landlord, and it was the only building here that used bricks. During the “Cultural Revolution,” the landlord was killed, and the building was left vacant.

The round building had been used by the town to store sundries. Three years ago, a migrant worker who had made some money came back and leased it, turning it into a guesthouse. Since it’s the only one in town, even though it’s shabby, business is decent. If you don’t sleep here, you’ll have to sleep on the street.

Young Master was delighted when he heard this and whispered to me, “So this place is an old mansion, huh? Old Foster, take a look around—are there any ancient tombs here? We could collect them all.”

I gave him a slap and told him to watch his mouth. In those days, you couldn’t call yourself an antique collector in public; you had to say you were a junk collector. If you said you collected antiques, you couldn’t bargain down the price, and it would also be associated with the Four Olds. Even though it wasn’t a problem anymore, people still felt uncomfortable hearing it.

The guesthouse had a canteen, and if you stayed there, meals were included. I thought that was great—it would save on food expenses—so I booked a room.

There were only two staff members at the guesthouse. The one who greeted us was a middle-aged man named Old Cooper, who seemed to be quite familiar with the medicine merchants. As soon as they met, they greeted each other warmly. He was very enthusiastic, even helped me carry my things, and asked where we were from and what project brought us here.

I told them we were junk collectors. I wasn’t sure if he understood the code, but after settling us in, he invited us to the canteen for dinner. Dinner was rice with daylily and a plate of eggs. It tasted pretty good. Seeing that Old Cooper was quite chatty, I asked him how many villages were under this town. Then I took out the train ticket and asked if he knew where the phone number on it was from.

Old Cooper took the train ticket, looked at it, and frowned, “This number is from the Huangsha construction site ferry. Are you looking for someone? The Huangsha construction site is on the other side of the mountain, far from town. The Yellow River is at low water now, so work hasn’t started yet. The workers are on holiday, all back in their own villages, scattered over a wide area. If you want to find someone, it won’t be easy.”

I responded, “Is there anyone on duty at the construction site? I want to ask the person on duty. Since they work together, they should at least know where their colleagues live.” The villages here are all small; as long as you know which village, you’re sure to find the person.

Old Cooper said, “No, there’s no one on duty at the site. What’s there to be on duty for? There are just a few broken boats and some sand—who’s going to steal sand? Who has that much free time to do nothing and go to the Yellow River to freeze in the wind? Besides, when the Yellow River is at low water, strange things happen. Usually, no one dares to stay there at night. They say that the people who drowned in the Yellow River come out for air at this time, and there are a lot of ghost stories. People here are superstitious—absolutely no one will stay by the river at night.”

I replied, “Oh,” thinking to myself that this was going to be difficult. If the phone didn’t go through, even though there weren’t many people here, the villages were spread out, and with no roads, you’d have to walk everywhere. It would take at least ten days or half a month to cover it all.

The old professor was curious about what Old Cooper said and asked, “How can there be ghosts? Are there really ghosts in the Yellow River? But if no one’s there, how would anyone know about the ghosts?”