Chapter Seventy-One: The Expert

Kao Sha is the name used in Beijing, but in the south it is called Fragrant Cloud Silk, Lang Silk, or Yun Silk. It is a handmade, plant-dyed silk fabric. The process to make it is intricate and entirely manual, making it increasingly rare—only elderly folks still wear it. Its color is similar to sweet bean paste, but a shade darker, and its surface is coated with a layer of something like glue, reminiscent of the waterproof coating on outdoor jackets.

In the old society, the custom was that men wore silk gauze while women wore plain silk. Since men needed to work outside, wearing a Kao Sha garment in summer was not only smooth and cool but also waterproof, breathable, mosquito-repellent, and reportedly beneficial for the skin.

Seeing the old man's attire, Hong Tao immediately understood that this elder was somewhat knowledgeable. Playing with crickets, katydids, and song insects was an old practice; after liberation, few understood it. Perhaps this man did, so it was worth asking him a question.

“You want to buy? Hehe... I really misjudged you. How old are you, sir?” The old man was momentarily stunned by Hong Tao’s question, then bent over, laughing, playfully teasing Hong Tao.

“Sir! I’m showing you respect, asking for your advice. If you know, please say so; if not, that’s fine. Why make fun of me?” Hong Tao saw that the old man wasn’t being serious and decided not to take him too seriously in return.

“Hey, smart kid! You’re quibbling with me now? I’m just joking with you—why so humorless? You dare get angry? Let grandpa pluck a bird for a snack! Hahaha!” The old man was exactly as Hong Tao had guessed—not at all dignified. As he spoke, he reached out and grabbed Hong Tao’s crotch, flicked his tongue, and made a clicking sound with his mouth, laughing triumphantly.

“All right, you’ve had your fun and taken your liberties. Now, do you have anything genuine to show me? Don’t just tease—otherwise you’re just an old rascal.” Hong Tao couldn’t handle this elder; first, the man had a thick skin; second, he’d lived through much of society, seen and experienced everything, so it was nearly impossible to trick or coax information from him. The only tactic was to provoke him a little, since being younger counted as an advantage—such people generally respected old customs, especially toward the youth.

“You’re right. My wife used to say I was an old rascal. But grandpa won’t just tease you; since you called me grandpa, I’ll show you something real. These jars are fakes—the patina is wrong. Believe it or not.” The old man wasn’t offended by the child’s mockery; perhaps Hong Tao struck a nerve. He wiped the grin off his face, picked a cricket jar from the counter, and held it up to the window’s light.

“Take advice, eat well! Since you say they’re wrong, I won’t buy.” Hong Tao didn’t dare doubt him. He knew nothing about these things; though he’d played with crickets in his previous life, those were mass-produced last week—he had no knowledge of jars with history.

“Hey, wait—I haven’t finished speaking. Come, let’s sit on the sofa and chat. No reason not to. Meeting me today is your luck; I’ll tell you what these things are really about. Interested?” The old man, seeing Hong Tao was indeed obedient, seemed to get excited, pulled Hong Tao onto a single sofa behind the counter, ignoring the cashier’s eye rolls and the chalk-written ‘for sale’ sign on the sofa, holding up the jar for Hong Tao to examine.

“Fine, you’ve eaten more salt than I’ve eaten bread. I’ll learn something from you today.” Hong Tao had nothing better to do, so he listened. Having seen all sorts of scams in later years, Hong Tao believed no one could easily fool him now.

“I like that attitude. What elders say isn’t always right, but listening does no harm. Let’s start with who made this jar. If it’s real, it’s from the late Qing, made by Zhao Ziyu. Do you know the Qing Dynasty?” The old man worried Hong Tao wouldn’t understand, so he explained as he asked.

“Just go ahead. Sui, Tang, Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms, Song, Liao, Western Xia, Jin, Yuan, Ming, Qing, Republic of China—I know them all. If I don’t understand, I’ll ask.” Hong Tao showed off a bit, irritated by being treated like a child.

“Well, well! You’re impressive, kid! All right, I’ll continue. This jar is called a battle bowl. See the slot in the middle? It’s for the gate. When fighting crickets, you insert the gate, place a cricket on either side, then lift the gate. The crickets spot each other and instantly get aggressive, determined to fight to the death. Do you know why?”

“Male crickets have territorial instincts. Only one can occupy a territory.”

“Correct! Looks like you know more than I thought. I should show you something real. Can you read these characters?” The old man was taken aback by Hong Tao’s answer and reassessed him, then flipped over the lid to show the inscription underneath.

“You’re mistaken; these aren’t just characters—they’re a signature, the maker’s mark. I already saw it. That’s why I wanted to buy it—I think it’s an antique. Otherwise, why spend over forty yuan on this? For three yuan I could buy a train ticket to Tianjin and get a basket of cricket jars for ten yuan.” Hong Tao deliberately razzed the old man, prompting him not to use basic knowledge to fool him.

“All right, all right. It’s a mark, as you say. So, tell me—what does it say?” The old man didn’t mind Hong Tao’s jab, admitted his slip cheerfully, and pressed for an answer.

“Leisure Studio Pure Play!” Hong Tao had already seen the mark and answered instantly.

“Impressive! Did you recognize it yourself or did someone tell you? Does your family play with insects? Have you seen this before?” The old man was surprised; the mark did indeed say those four words, but in traditional script. At Hong Tao’s age—a primary schooler at best—it was rare to recognize simplified, let alone traditional characters.

“No one told me. No one in my family really plays with insects, except my grandfather who carried a katydid gourd. I haven’t seen this before, but I recognized it myself. Don’t be fooled by my age; I may not play crickets as well as you do, but when it comes to reading, you might not match me.” Hong Tao had figured out the old man’s temperament: he responded to provocation with seriousness, and to seriousness with playfulness.

“Fine, you’re learned; we won’t compare that. Let me keep explaining cricket jars. This ‘Leisure Studio Pure Play’ is Zhao Ziyu’s mark, but unfortunately this jar isn’t his. Look—hold it to the sunlight and examine the lid. What do you see?”

“...There are many tiny golden specks...” Hong Tao stared at it for a long time. The jar’s material was fine and compact, with nothing but sparkling little crystals on its bluish-black clay body.

“Exactly. Good eye! Zhao Ziyu’s jars don’t have these, because his clay-washing technique was especially meticulous—all these specks are impurities, filtered out in his process. Understand?” The old man praised Hong Tao and explained the origin of the specks.

“So why bother? If I don’t buy, why stop me? Isn’t it a fake?” Hong Tao was now confused.

“That’s where you’re mistaken. Zhao Ziyu’s jars aren’t easy to find. Although this isn’t his, it’s a late Qing imitation, well-made, and the patina is genuine. Plus, it’s an old jar, seasoned by use—ready for crickets right away. If you buy a new jar, you must soak it in rainwater for half a year before it’s fit for insects. Got it? I’ve examined these jars several times—the price is fair. Some cricket enthusiast must have been hard up for cash and exchanged them for money. It’s a good item!” The old man finished by lamenting the seller’s misfortune.

“There are so many rules for raising crickets? I used to keep them in glass jars—didn’t they live just fine, still fought?” Hong Tao thought the old man’s explanation sounded excessive; any container would do.

“Ah, you don’t understand. Playing with insects has its rules—what you did isn’t playing, just messing around. ‘Play insects for one autumn, play jars for a lifetime.’ Know what that means? Kid, you’ve got a long way to go. Take your time, but grandpa sees promise in you. At your age, I didn’t have jars as fine as these!” For once, the old man didn’t argue, patted Hong Tao’s head, and stood up to leave.

“Grandpa, grandpa, wait! Don’t hurry off. How about this: I’d like you to teach me, tell me the rules of playing with insects. I won’t ask you to do it for nothing—how about I treat you to two shots at Jude Lin’s?” Seeing the old man about to leave, Hong Tao quickly grabbed his trouser leg. From what he’d just said, the old man certainly had genuine knowledge, far more than Hong Tao himself.

“You’re treating me to drinks? ...Well, isn’t that something! I’ve grown old, and finally someone young wants to treat me. All right, grandpa will enjoy it for once, see what it’s like to be hosted by a youngster. Go pay, bring the jar, and let’s take a trip together!” The old man hesitated for a while, then finally stomped his foot and agreed to Hong Tao’s request.

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