Where Did These Old Letters Come From?
BA JIN's SEVEN LETTERS were in the hands of Zhao Congping from the Confucian temple antiques market. Since he could set a high price and hold back, he was reluctant to give them to me. I was unwilling to let the letters fall into someone else's hands, and as a deal like this can't be rushed, I often felt sorry for the poverty of writers. In the world of Taiyuan's antique markets, Zhao Congping was counted as a "loner" , and he normally didn't make many friends. I had a few old friends who were versed in the antiques business, but most of them weren't familiar with him, so I couldn't find an appropriate middle-man. For instance, I had a good friendship with Xue Ye of Cotton Lane Antiques Village, well-versed in the antiques trade, whose business was old china and who was also a good poet. When I tested Zhao by saying, I have a friend called Xue Ye who purveys fine goods, Zhao snorted, continuing to say, "These days, there's only a few people who sell genuine items" , and disparagingly, that he didn't give a damn about old china. The two of them had evidently fallen out. If you were to say that Xue Ye's (or anyone else's) goods were of high quality, he would just get more angry. Behind his back, antique collectors gave Zhao a nickname, calling him "Zhao the bald donkey" , in reference to Zhao's large, shining, bald pate and his obstinate character. I was afraid that if I sent a middleman to persuade Zhao, the more they talked, the wilder that Zhao would get, and that the price wouldn't come down. In order to deal with this problem, I'd have to resort to another method.
A writer specialises in describing people, so we should start from looking at people. I toasted Zhao, saying, "How strange it is, I call you Zhao, people call me Zhao, Daili's surname is also Zhao, it must be fate!" The two Zhaos laughed heartily. I begged him to talk about where the letters came from. How did you, Zhao, come to have these things? The origins of true antiques can be certified, and for fine products, we should be able to attribute a source in all cases. Then Zhao, giddy with intoxication, revealed the source of these old letters.
Zhao said, "For ordinary people to achieve great things, they must work assiduously." Now, Zhao was not an ordinary person, but he wanted to talk about his hard work.
We said previously, Zhao Congping originally was a laid off worker from the No. 247 Munitions Factory, who had entered the antiques trade to make a living. Around the early 1990s, Taiyuan had commenced a large-scale plan of demolition and construction. Among the many demolished old houses many treasures were discovered by antique dealers. In urban Beijing you can often see the same scene among demolition and excavation workers, also squat idlers, waiting to pick up the old stuff. Even small porcelain pieces and larger old wooden materials all have people waiting to collect them. One day, on Liberation Road in the central district of Taiyuan, idlers had gathered at the removal of an old Yan Xishan period compound, and were squatting smoking cigarettes. Among the buildings for demolition was a three-entrance house from the early Nationalist period, No. 20 Slope Road, a former residence of the senior manager at the No. 247 Munitions Factory. Yan Xishan had emphasized that "Manufacturing can save the country" , and that "Military force is the support for justice" . Since then, No. 247 Munitions Factory has had one hundred years of history. It had formerly been the Northwest Factory, before being taken over by the government in 1949.
Zhao came from this factory, and he knew all of the previous managers and high-ranking officials who lived in this compound. He went to the scene; where he said his brother-in-law from the same factory and other relatives also participated in collaborative painstaking efforts. At that time, the bottom of the compound at No. 20 had a huge basement. The basement had been having water pumped out of it for the past two days and nights. The crowd had patiently waited for it to be pumped dry, but upon not uncovering any treasures, the crowd gradually dispersed. At the time of the demolition of the rooms, while removing the ceiling, a package was discovered wrapped in oil cloth. (During the late Qing Dynasty and early Nationalist-era, ceilings were made of hard materials, rather than paper.)
When they took down the package and slowly opened it, inside, there was a bundle of old letters, which were probably temporarily stored there by the head of the household at the time. According to the contents, it could be inferred that they also possibly might have been stored there by a school-aged young woman in the household, who, not wanting adults to know of the letters or of the affections contained within, hurriedly stored them in the ceiling at the time of departure. Who would have thought that the world would change so much that after several decades had passed, this young women would not have the opportunity to retrieve the letters. These letters had lain quietly on a rafter, gathering dust, waiting for someone in the future to become aware of them. When the government demolished the old munitions factory house, a labourer encountered these letters. Knowing that his close friend Zhao Congping had an antiques business, he gave these letters to him, to see if they how much value they might have at sale. Zhao said to me, for around ten years, the letters had not been sold off, and he almost forgotten about the matter. If I hadn't seen you, I wouldn't have thought of it. This is the origin of these letters.
An antique dealer's existence is an important link in the chain of protecting cultural heritage, usually they help and sometimes they hinder, but we could not be without them. This time, they appear to have made a positive contribution. If finding the letters had been the exclusive domain of demolition workers, it's possible that the letters may have been discarded early on.
I said, "Zhao, how is it that I hadn't heard this story from you before?"
Zhao said, "At first, I wanted to return the letters to Ba Jin's family. Perhaps I could make a fortune out of them. In the end, someone discovered a letter from Shen Yanbing, and after they returned it to his family, the family sent five hundred yuan and the letters were let go for a 'thanks'. That's not how you make big money. It wouldn't make any business sense to do things that way, so I forgot about it."
I said, well, it didn't require any outlay on your own behalf, so you shouldn't ask a high price for it!
He said, "Right then, bottoms up! Another day when I'm feeling happy, I just might give them away to you for free!"
I nearly had a fit. Of all the Shanxi antique dealers I'd encoun-tered, he was certainly the most difficult to get along with. I'd bought his standing mirror for an exorbitant price; it was useless without the base that he still owed me. Since it was useless, I left it at Xue Ye's shop for a while. In the end I just gave it to one of my old friends from Changzhi. I purchased a large daffodil vase from him, even though I had no place at home to put it, and I stashed it under the bed, thinking I'd give it to someone sooner or later.
If things were going to get better between Zhao and I, we'd need to understand each other better.
This obstinate Zhao Congping had in his youth been an admirer of violent and extremely radical revolutionary fighters. I found out that as soon as you mentioned the turbulent times of the Cultural Revolution, keen to speak his mind, he became serious, and swelled up with pride and sincerity, becoming a different person. It was precisely through discussing the historical facts of Shanxi's Cultural Revolution, that among the talk of blood and fire, we were able to find a common interest. At that time, I had been writing Sacrifice for three years, which was about the military postures of the two great factions in Shanxi, so I understood something of the matter. We talked about the major groupings in Taiyuan, where the main corps had split into factions: the Corps, the Red Ensign and the United Ensign; we talked about Liu Geping, Zhang Riqing, Chen Yonggui, and Yan Chengxiao. Zhao became greatly excited with the mention of each battle. The two of us talked non-stop, comparing notes, and, as they say in Sichuanese, "spinning yarns" . I'd learned that previously, in those years, Zhao had been head of the Young Workers' Organisation. He had supported Liu Geping's rebellion. Tapping his chest proudly, Zhao declared that he was at the command at Liu Geping's house the night they seizedpower. After the great split between Liu Geping and Zhang Riqing, the grouping which Zhao belonged to in the No. 247 Factory was well-armed. They had occupied the stronghold at Beimen Military Fitness Academy in the provincial capital, entrenching themselves in combat, and they had also remotely supported Changzhi's Huaihai Munitions Factory's Red Ensign of the same faction. In respect of this military history, we covered many events in succession, such as the "September 5 Incident" and the "Pingyao Incident" , the bitter battle for the breach of Shanxi by the Changzhi Red Ensign. He was amazed that I not only spoke readily and fluently, but I had a better grasp of the overall situation than him. When I'd first asked him about the matter, he'd boasted, "Anything you want to know about the Cultural Revolution in Shanxi, you can ask me!" In the end, it turned into me talking while he listened, and he asked me about many historical controversies. Zhao was thoroughly perplexed, saying, young chap, you're ten years younger than me, how come you know so much? I also bragged, "I'm a scholar, I never go outdoors, but I still know everything under the sun, if you have any questions, you can come ask me."
He wanted me to urgently give him a copy of Sacrifice for him to read in detail, to "let even an old Red Guard learn something new" .
I said I was still having difficulty publishing the book, and there weren't many copies in print, so I could only lend it to him, and I'd have to ask that he contribute some opinions in respect of it.
Early in 2007, when Sacrifice was published, I earnestly sent him a copy (no, "lent" him a copy) and arrived at an agreement with him: Ba Jin's letters were not to be sold to any other person, and he'd wait until I had returned from Beijing to resume discussion.
Things were really beginning to change. I'd become accustomed to talking with Zhao, and I knew that he wasn't a slippery salesman.
In May 2008, Sichuan experienced an enormous earthquake, and I travelled from Beijing to the disaster zone to gather material. In June, I returned to Shanxi and to Taiyuan, where I lived together with Shanxi author Li Du in a small guest house, working overtime both day and night. We immersed ourselves in writing Shanxi Province Aids Sichuan, becoming so tired that we couldn't straighten our backs and were in a bad mood. In the meantime, I again went to the Confucian temple to look for Zhao Congping. I could not give up on Ba Jin's letters.
As soon as Zhao saw me, he said that he cried while reading Sacrifice, and that he didn't want to part with it to return it to me, wanting it to read again and give it more thought. He said he also had two friends urgently wanting to borrow and read it, and would that be ok?
I said, "As long as you give Ba Jin's letters to me, of course it's ok for me to give Sacrifice to you." A nearby bystander echoed, "This type of book, written by the people instead of the government, will be a cultural relic in the future."
By now, Zhao's tone had changed. He said that he'd certainly leave these letters with me, but it'd be better if I could offer a higher price.
I said that was too much, where would I get the money from? Zhao shouted something improper, which made me exceptionally annoyed. He said, "Young chap, I saw you donating money on China Central Television! If you can give that much money to disaster relief, how can you not afford these?"
I couldn't stop myself from getting angry, "Damn you! You only open a lousy shop, and you have the nerve to compare yourself to disaster victims? I don't need your filthy letters, keep them, you bald old donkey! Go make a killing off them!"
Zhao quickly apologised, admitting that he shouldn't have said that. With our conversation ruined, I soon departed.
After that incident, I felt that to cuss at someone so publically wasn't good, and that I myself lacked cultivation. Zhao had been laid off for many years, struggling through hardship at the Confucian temple, even if he was full of hot air, he would't have been making much money, otherwise he would have moved his store to the antiques village earlier. With regard to these letters, he must have known in his heart that customers are few, and that other people may not have been so infatuated with them, so he had no desire to lower the price, for no other reason but for to make a living—this I could completely understand. If he didn't bother with me, who else would he ask? At any rate, had not poverty had narrowed our outlook?
In the latter part of August, Shanxi Province Aids Sichuan was completed and turned in to the publishing company. I again turned my mind to the seven letters sent by Ba Jin to Daili.
I had to hurry to Ordos on business. When I returned to Beijing I was very busy and afraid that I would not be able to return to Shanxi for one or two months. If the letters weren't there on my return, what would I do?
On the morning of September 6, I think it was a Sunday, I decided that I could bear another trip to the Confucian Temple. This would be the last time I would stand in front of the sales counter at Shop No.22 Li Xuan Zhai, on Confucian Temple Road.
I didn't say a word, wanting to keep a straight face.
The two of us looked at each other for a good while, Zhao likewise silent. After a long time, Zhao Congping spoke, "I knew you'd come back, Zhao!"
I couldn't hide my smile, I was just about to open my mouth to say something, only to see Zhao Congping heroically wave a hand to stop me from speaking, before extending a forefinger, asserting of his own initiative, "10,000 yuan! You can certainly afford it, the seven letters and the envelopes are yours and I'll treat it as a deal between friends."
"It's a deal!" I replied in three words, not mincing my words.
The two of us laughed. Zhao gave me a large, tarnished pair of tongs. He had already taken the letters and envelopes, and placed them one by one in a transparent pouch.
After concluding the deal, as a matter of convention, I found some paper and wrote a simple contract of purchase and sale, which we both signed. Zhao asked, what's the point of this? I said it was to prove the authenticity of the origins of the letters later on.
I casually brought up the matter of the book Sacrifice, and from behind the mirror, Zhao winked an eye, slyly saying, "It's unfortunate, I've lost it" .
I said, "Matter isn't ever destroyed, only transformed, let's put aside the question of whether it's lost or not."
The two Zhaos were overjoyed.
Afterwards, I asked him to lock up the shopand take a ride in my car to Liberation Road, and to point out No.20 Slope Road where he had discovered these letters in detail for me. Maybe we could find some old residents, and ask them to recall who were the inhabitants of that compound seventy years ago. We were following the lead presented to track down the recipient of the letters, Zhao Daili.
Zhao Congping happily pulled down the meter-wide rolling door, and latched the lock on the ground.
The two of us departed by car. In the car, Zhao asked me, laughing, "Ba Jin passed away a long time ago, what are you doing looking for this young woman? Didn't you also think about the fact that the letters said she was seventeen years old, she was probably born in 1920, she'd be ninety if she's still alive today! Where are you going to go to find her?"
I said solemnly, "We'll see."
I was very concerned, for someone who had repeatedly corresponded with Ba Jin, a "new woman" facing the revolutionary war, what would her fate be? Did she survive? What type of family was this? What type of person was she? In those seventy years, what did she experience?
Curiosity, exploration, nostalgia, reflectiveness, to search, and an admiration for history—aren't these the characteristics of a writer?
Previously, Slope Road in Taiyuan's city center was very short. These days, it is a forest of tall buildings, and full of heavy traffic, the small road has almost entirely disappeared. We came to a carpark in front of the gate of a large building, and Zhao stood up, spending a long time surveying his surrounds, before stamping his feet, saying with certainty, "This is Slope Road, this is No.20!"
I saw a slab of cement: it was completely empty. I was quite disappointed.
To be able to discover the previous inhabitants of the No.20 complex, Zhao and I made our way through the dilapidated neigh-bourhood, asking questions for over an hour, but we were unable to find anything out. Without a doubt, many generations must have lived in that house. I looked around me, dusk had fallen, and the light fell on the glass of a new style building, reflecting light in hundreds and thousands of places. So many mirages had already been submerged by history.
In the end, Zhao stood in front of the car, and said by way of consolation, "It's nothing to be concerned about. Don't worry, if you want to know whose house it was, I just need to go back to the factory and to the administration. Surely they'll have a record of the house. If I can investigate a little, we'll know, won't we?"
I said, "This is a good idea. In the next few days I have to travel on business, if I can trouble you to check at the factory, let's meet again in a few days, and there will be some good wine waiting for you."
He said not to worry about it, at the factory, he was considered senior, so it wouldn't be hard for him to make enquiries.
The two of us reluctantly said our farewells.
Who could have foreseen the fate that would soon befall Zhao …
