“Are you asking me to get Huiming to talk to him? I can’t do that.”
“But you have to. As a favor to me. We need the man’s help, not to get Gong released, but to reduce the punishment to a fine. I’m pretty sure he can get it done.”
Meng went with great reluctance, and returned to say that Huiming had agreed to talk to the man on their behalf. They were to wait for her call. After lunch at Meng’s place, Huiming phoned that afternoon to say that the Public Security Bureau had agreed to fine Gong. But it would be a heavy fine, sixty thousand yuan. Zhuang sighed before going to Zhao Jingwu’s place with Meng. Zhao had just returned from Xiaoyi’s house, so they sat down to discuss the situation. Zhuang told Zhao to have the money ready within three days.
“Are you going to lend Xiaoyi the money? That would be like hitting a dog with meat buns, with no hope of getting it back. He’d buy opium instead of paying the fine.”
“You’re usually very smart, Jingwu, so why are you so dense all of sudden? Xiaoyi squanders everything, so I can’t possibly lend him that much money. We’ve worked hard to get Gong off the hook by having the punishment reduced. We’ve done right by Gong Jingyuan. Xiaoyi is a hopeless addict who would steal all his father’s calligraphy and sell it to buy opium. We might as well buy Gong’s works now.”
Zhao and Meng both applauded Zhuang’s idea.
“That’s it! We’ll save Gong Jingyuan and keep his works with us. Maybe Xiaoyi will quit opium when there’s nothing more for him to sell,” Meng said.
“Why don’t you and Jingwu work on this?”
Zhao went to see Xiaoyi and spent the whole evening talking to him. Xiaoyi, who was moved to tears by what he heard, asked to borrow money from Zhao when he was told about the fine. Zhao said he would have gotten married long ago if he had that kind of money. Then he told Xiaoyi that he knew of an art dealer who he hoped would buy Gong Jingyuan’s calligraphy. The art dealer had agreed to buy only two, but Zhao told him to buy enough for them to bring in sixty thousand yuan. As a favor to save Gong, Zhao stressed.
“The art dealer reluctantly agreed, but he said he wanted a discount, since he was asked to buy so many pieces at one time,” Zhao said.
“How much is he offering?” Xiaoyi asked.
Zhao signaled with his fingers.
“But that’s half of what my father’s works usually fetch,” Xiaoyi cried out. “That’s like robbery. I won’t sell to him. I’ll sell the pieces on my own.”
“We only have four days. How many do you think you can sell off in that time, even if you manage to find buyers? Your father will have been sentenced by then.”
Xiaoyi had to agree with Zhao. So he led Zhao to his father’s house, where he ferreted out nearly four-fifths of the finished works. Zhao also discovered some antique scrolls in Gong Jingyuan’s possession.
“You need to give those away, too, Xiaoyi. I don’t want them, and neither does your Uncle Zhuang. We’ve run our legs off doing what’s right. But when we talked to the people at the Public Security Bureau, Number Two, and Abbess Huiming, they all said they could help, but they’d want some works from the famous calligrapher. I don’t see how we can refuse them. We have to make sure they don’t go back on their word and hurt your father’s chances, but at the same time we can’t let them make exorbitant demands. Why not give one to each of them?”
Xiaoyi scratched his head and fell silent for a moment before giving Zhao seven pieces, adding one for Zhuang and one for Zhao.
“We can’t take these. If this were anyone else, even ten antiques would not get me to do such a thing, let alone your Uncle Zhuang. But we are friends with you and your father, two generations of the Gong family. Tomorrow, Uncle Zhuang and I have to treat some people to a meal at the Xijing Restaurant, and you don’t have to worry about how much we spend.”
Xiaoyi was beside himself with gratitude, saying he would never forget their kindness and would make sure his father thanked them personally once he was released. After walking Zhao out of the house, he went back inside, took out a few antiques and his father’s calligraphy, then returned home.
. . .
With the addition of Gong Jingyuan’s calligraphy, they held the press conference ahead of schedule, generating reports in all the media outlets. On the day the gallery opened, a huge crowd showed up to see Mao Zedong’s calligraphy. When the great man was alive, they could only see copies of his work, so it was a feast for the eyes when they could view the original 148 large characters. They had come mainly for Mao’s handwriting, but were pleasantly surprised to see a dazzling array of art by famous ancient and modern artists. The small gallery located outside a bustling business district gained instant fame, attracting many out-of-towners, even foreigners.
Niu Yueqing had been apprehensive about how they would get their hands on the bulk of Gong Jingyuan’s treasured collection. She brought it up once, but Zhuang told her to shut up. They sold a few pieces on opening day, and when Zhao brought over the money, Zhuang tossed it at Niu Yueqing. “This accomplished two things at once. As long as Gong Jingyuan gets out and has his hands intact, money will continue to flow in for him. Besides, we may be able to wean the father and son off their evil habits, and they’d thank us for that. No one has raised any concerns, so why must you worry so much? If people got wind of this, they would be convinced that we’d done something unsavory.”
Niu Yueqing kept her mouth shut from then on. Soon they heard that Gong had been released, and she prepared some gifts to take to him. They were not prepared for the news that came that afternoon — Gong Jingyuan had died. Shocked, Niu Yueqing ran over to see Zhuang at the gallery. He was busy putting up signs under some of the works, indicating that one was “sold at twenty-one thousand,” another “sold at five thousand,” and yet another “sold at thirty-five hundred.” It was a ploy to spur potential buyers into action by marking the works as sold. Tang Wan’er was there to decorate a newly installed display case for folk artwork, such as paper-cuts, shadow-play figurines, pillow covers, and shoe pads, as well as the pillowcase with a red maple leaf that had been nicely embroidered with red and green thread. People praised the handiwork, which went to Tang’s head; trying to be smart, she said that the so-called culture T-shirts that were popular on the streets had only a witty phrase or two. It would show good taste and draw buyers if a passage from an ancient text were copied onto a shirt in tiny print. They were having a good time talking and bantering, so they reeled from the shock when Niu Yueqing rushed in to inform them of Gong’s death. They quickly placed a call to Wang Ximian and Ruan Zhifei to verify the news; Wang and Ruan said they had heard it, too, but weren’t sure what had happened. Leaving everyone behind, Zhuang went home with Niu Yueqing. He thought about going to Gong’s house after lunch. Even if it turned out not to be true, he should go to see Gong anyway.
Xiaoyi came with the news while they were eating. Niu Yueqing cried before rushing out to buy black gauze. Zhuang called Zhao and asked him to buy a wreath, a stack of hemp paper, two packs of incense, and four large candles. Zhao quickly got them and came back, followed by Niu Yueqing, who had bought three yards of wool fabric instead of black gauze.
“Why did you buy such fine fabric?” Zhao asked “Do you think the dead can wear it in the underworld?”
“With Gong Jingyuan dead, life will be tough for his wife and Xiaoyi, so what’s the use of giving them black gauze? They could at least make some clothes out of the fabric here. There’s nothing you can do for the dead, so we should worry about the living. It’s just that they were used to a good life when he was alive, so his death means the disappearance of their wealth god. It’s easy for the poor to become rich, but hard for the rich to turn poor. I’m afraid mother and son will have a tough time from now on,” Niu Yueqing said tearfully.