Chapter Forty-Seven: The Commission Shop

The consignment shop occupied just a single room, about a hundred square meters or so. Its western side faced the main street, fitted with two doors and two windows. The other three walls were lined with shelves taller than a person, and in front of the shelves stood glass display counters filled with all manner of goods for sale. The space in the center of the room was not wasted either; it was piled high with large items, mostly furniture—wardrobes, cabinets, coat racks, sofas, and the like. The bigger pieces formed the base, with smaller items stacked on top, nearly reaching the ceiling.

Hong Tao did not bother to check the counters, since the old man from earlier had already looked through most of them. People who came here to hunt for bargains were no fools; if the old man had passed them by, there likely wasn’t anything worthwhile left. So Hong Tao circled the pile of furniture in the middle, hoping to find some overlooked treasure.

“This shabby sofa has the springs poking out and you still dare sell it for forty? Must be out of your mind with poverty!” Having made more than half a circuit around the furniture, Hong Tao found nothing of real value. The only thing that caught his eye was a pair of single-seat leather sofas. They looked fine on the outside, the leather still supple, but when he sat down, he discovered the springs inside were ruined—some bulging, some sunken.

“Hm, what’s that over there?” As he cursed and prepared to get up, Hong Tao suddenly noticed a dark, round object beneath the wardrobe across from him. It was only because he was short and sitting on the sofa that he could see it at all; standing, it would have been nearly invisible. Who knew who had kicked it so far underneath.

“It’s heavy!” Crawling under the wardrobe, Hong Tao managed to grab one of its legs and tug, but his first pull didn’t budge it. Only after using more force did he drag it out, and it felt dense in his hand.

“My god! Could Heaven really be shining on me today, giving me something good?” Once he got it out, Hong Tao saw it was a round stand with just three legs, about the size of a dinner plate and over twenty centimeters tall. It was coated in a layer of black, sticky paint, possibly tar.

Though Hong Tao wasn’t an expert on wood, he’d played with enough bead bracelets in later years to have a sense for such things. From the feel, he was nearly certain that if this was wood, it was definitely hardwood—and not just any hardwood; it might even be zitan, a rare and precious kind. But the coating was so thick that even after scratching with his fingernail a couple of times, he couldn’t reveal the wood grain beneath.

He tapped it with his finger. There was no sound at all—only pain in his finger.

“Auntie, I’ll take this little stool. Write me a receipt!” Hong Tao finally managed to flip it over and found a spot where the legs met the floor where the grain was visible. Seeing those close-set, iron-like, dark purple lines, his heart leapt in his chest. He quickly called out to the two saleswomen, who were still chatting. He already knew the price—it was chalked right on the thing: forty-two yuan, right down to the change. He had no idea who had set such an odd price.

“Whose child are you, yelling like this in here? You think this is your family's bench? Just because you say you want something doesn’t mean you get it. Go on, play outside!” The two saleswomen were displeased at having their conversation interrupted and tried to shoo Hong Tao away.

“I’m buying something. Here, fifty yuan, write me a receipt!” Hong Tao noticed from the corner of his eye that the old man was walking toward him, so he quickly pulled out a wad of bills, counted out five ten-yuan notes, and held them up.

“Where are your parents? Do they know you’re carrying around so much money?” The sight of all that cash stopped the saleswomen’s chatter. One of them came out from behind the counter, took the fifty yuan, and inspected it.

“I handle these things at home. Look—my household register, ration book, coal coupon, food coupon—they’re all with me. I do all the shopping for the family. Write the receipt first; we can chat later.” Hong Tao was well prepared. He was often discriminated against by shopkeepers because of his youth, so he’d sewn himself a little cloth pouch from canvas, hung it around his neck with his keys, and stuffed nearly all his family’s documents inside—short of his parents’ marriage certificate.

“What’s the world coming to, sending a child so young out to buy things? Are all the adults at home dead? Master Gao, write him a receipt. The stool is his, forty-two yuan. Go pay at the counter!” The saleswoman glanced at the documents and, finding nothing amiss, reluctantly called out to the counter by the door, where an old lady sat.

“Hey, I’m buying this. You’ll have to pick something else,” said Hong Tao, as the old man arrived and bent down, reaching for the little stool. Hong Tao quickly stepped in front, blocking him.

“You're buying it? Comrade, do you people sell to children without checking? What if he stole that money from home? Aren’t you afraid his parents will come looking for you? Go away and stop making trouble!” The old man seemed to realize something and started to complain to the saleswoman, reaching to push Hong Tao aside.

“Don’t you lay a hand on me! Who are you calling a thief, huh? You want to bully a kid? I swear I’ll take you down, you old bastard!” Hong Tao, though smaller, was stronger than the old man and nearly got shoved aside, so he climbed onto the stool, grabbed a nearby iron, and brandished it behind his back, ready to defend his prize.

“Well, well, aren’t you bold, picking up a weapon! I’ll kick you to death!” The old man was startled by Hong Tao’s stance and involuntarily took half a step back. Standing on the stool, Hong Tao was now only a head shorter than him.

“What’s going on? What’s this? Picking a fight with a child? If you have something to say, say it! You’re a grown man—fighting a kid? Shame on you!” The saleswoman, seeing things escalate, quickly inserted herself between them, stopping the old man.

“That brat cursed at me!” the old man grumbled, but he dared not lay hands on the saleswoman and could only keep pestering.

“Auntie, you saw it too—I found this first. The receipt’s already written. He comes over and tries to snatch it, calls me a thief, and wants to hit me. Please call the police, or if we start fighting and things get broken, it’ll be trouble for everyone. Old man, if you’ve got guts, don’t run off. Wait for the police and let’s see who’s the thief!” Hong Tao, gripping the iron, stood his ground, ready to retaliate at any moment.

“Are you leaving or not? If not, I’ll really call the police, and then you two can argue it out with them. Why are you fighting with a kid?” The saleswoman clearly knew the old man—regulars who hunted for bargains here were all familiar faces, and she had no interest in offending them over a child.

“Fine, I’ll do you a favor. I won’t argue with him here; I’ll wait outside, all right?” The old man, a seasoned troublemaker, understood the saleswoman’s implication—she didn’t want a scene in the shop, but once outside, he was someone else’s problem.

“Auntie, please give me my change. May I use your phone? I need to call home. If you won’t let me, and something happens to me, you’ll be responsible!” Hong Tao knew exactly how these games were played. He handed the money to the saleswoman and made his request.

“Master Gao, let him use the phone. Whose child is this, what a handful!” the saleswoman said, not particularly pleased, as the old lady behind the counter pulled out the phone. She knew the old man but had no intention of getting involved on his behalf.

“Hello, I’d like to speak to Jin Guangxing. Yes, I’m his nephew. Thank you!” Hong Tao dialed his uncle’s number with practiced ease, gave his name to the person who answered, and waited for his uncle to come to the phone.

“Hey, Hong Tao, why are you calling? I’m busy tonight, I’ll bring your parts tomorrow,” his uncle said after a few minutes, assuming Hong Tao couldn’t wait for his order.

“Uncle, I’m at the consignment shop at Beixin Bridge. Someone’s trying to take my money. Could you bring a couple of people and see me home? He’s waiting for me outside and I’m afraid to go out.” Hong Tao didn’t explain the details.

“What! Robbery in broad daylight? All right, wait there. It’s the consignment shop just south of Beixin Bridge intersection, right?” His uncle didn’t ask why.

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“Don’t go outside! I’ll be there soon. Don’t worry!” His uncle hung up.

“Auntie, I live near Yonghegong. I have three uncles and three cousins. If I were timid, I wouldn’t walk around with this much money. This has nothing to do with you—just enjoy the show, but don’t take sides, or you’ll have trouble. My uncles have plenty of free time and could drop in whenever.” With that, Hong Tao put the iron back on the table, dusted his hands, and loudly addressed the saleswoman who hadn’t been on his side, making sure the other two saleswomen could hear as well.

“What’s this got to do with us? Just don’t fight in here. Here’s your change—don’t lose it, or I’m not responsible!” The saleswoman’s face flushed—not with shame, but with annoyance, as Hong Tao had seen right through her intentions. She’d been planning to wander to the door and give the old man a signal, but now she slunk back behind the counter.

“Could you show me that multimeter?” Hong Tao wasn’t in a hurry. He shoved the little stool back under the wardrobe, making sure it was out of reach, then sauntered over to the counter. He found the multimeter he wanted—it was an FM30 model, though not made in Shanghai, but by the Zunyi Instrument Factory in 1973.