The fatty had an ancestral jade pendant he always wore. This piece of jade was gifted to his father by a commander in the Northwest Field Army. Back then, this commander led his troops into Xinjiang and wiped out a band of bandits in the Niya Oasis; this jade was carried personally by the bandit chief. Though called a jade pendant, its shape wasn't quite typical; it was ancient and bizarrely formed, carved with a jumble of patterns that resembled a map or perhaps writing—no one knew its actual purpose.

The fatty had shown me this jade many times. My family used to have quite a few antiques, and when I was young, my grandfather had taught me a good deal about the knowledge of metalware, stones, and jade. However, I couldn't discern the age or true value of this particular piece.

The fatty wanted to sell the jade to raise some capital for starting a business, but I stopped him. "This was left to you by your father. If you can avoid selling it, then don't. We aren't at rock bottom yet. If it comes down to it, I can ask my family for money; my old man and woman just got a lot of back pay."

We spotted an empty space by the roadside and pulled the tricycle over, buying two bowls of luzhu huoshao nearby for lunch.

Luzhu huoshao is a soup stewed from pork offal, mostly containing things like large intestines, soaking up pieces of chopped huoshao bread. It was just over a yuan a bowl—both economical and satisfying.

I had put way too much chili oil in my bowl; the heat brought tears and snot streaming down my face as I stuck my tongue out, panting for air.

After taking a couple of bites, the fatty turned to me and said, "Lao Hu, I’ve wanted to take you out and strike it rich these past few years. Who would have thought the national economy would open up like this? The situation isn't just slightly better; it’s absolutely booming. It’s nothing like when I first started setting up shop; there weren't even three places in all of Beijing selling pop music cassette tapes. I really feel like I’ve dragged you down. Your father was a Division Commander before he retired, enjoying the rank of a Deputy Municipal level official. You should go back and have your old man pull some strings to get you a job in an office; stop suffering alongside me."

I patted the fatty’s big belly and replied, "Brother, let me give you a heartfelt truth too. If I really wanted an office job, I could get one anytime, but I don't dare. Do you know why? I'm scared. If I settle down in one place and can't think of anything else, all I see are my dead comrades, flashing before my eyes. Seeing them makes my guts twist with pain. What we’re doing now, running around chasing small business, at least distracts my mind so I can think about other things. Otherwise, I’d go completely insane."

Having been in the army for so many years, I didn't learn much else, except how to boost morale. I comforted the fatty, "We aren't exactly suffering now, are we? We still have luzhu to eat! Remember when I was deep in the Kunlun Mountains? Now that was suffering. One Lunar New Year, everyone missed home, and many new recruits were crying secretly. The Division Commander saw this wouldn't do, so he quickly made dumplings for everyone to improve morale. The dumplings we ate—you probably wouldn't believe it. There wasn't a single green vegetable in the Kunlun Mountains; greens were more expensive than gold. But we had plenty of meat. They were dumplings filled entirely with a ball of minced meat. The altitude was so high that water wouldn't boil, so the dumplings were half-cooked inside, the meat filling still red. Can you imagine what that tasted like? Even so, I still ate seventy or eighty of them; they almost burst me open. I was starving! I hadn't eaten anything cooked properly for years; I was desperate. The next day, they sent me to the infirmary; my stomach couldn't digest it; it felt like sheet metal inside. Do you remember what they said in Red Crag? The eve of revolutionary victory is always the coldest. Our business can't always be like this. If the tape recorders don't sell, we can sell something else. Just like Chairman Mao always said: If they won't let us climb Lushan, we'll go to Jinggangshan. If your PLA won't march with me, I'll find the Red Army."

I switched on the tape recorder, and the two large speakers immediately blared out music.

Because the recorder was quite battered, the sound quality was terrible; even the most beautiful song sounded like a broken gong when played through it.

But neither the fatty nor I thought it sounded bad. At least it sounded better than the two of us singing. After my deep and simple ideological education, the fatty's mood brightened considerably. Swaying his little legs to the rhythm of the music, he started shouting his sales pitch, "Take a look, come see! Hong Kong and Taiwan originals, selling off arms and legs at a huge discount! We're losing money to make friends!"

Passersby and the other vendors setting up stalls nearby all cast curious glances our way. Next to us, a man selling antiques from a makeshift stand came over to greet us. As he smiled, a large gold tooth flashed in his mouth. Gold Tooth pulled out cigarettes and offered a round to both of us.

I took one and looked at it. "Yo, high quality stuff. American smokes, Marlboro."

Gold Tooth lit my cigarette and said, "You two gentlemen, trying to sell pop music cassettes at the Panjiayuan Flea Market—you're the only ones in this whole Four Nine City who could think of that. You truly are the first."

I took a deep drag and blew two plumes of white smoke out of my nostrils. These American cigarettes really had a kick. I looked up at Gold Tooth and said, "Don't try to needle us with that line. My brother and I just happened to run into this spot while avoiding the Industrial and Commercial Bureau. We’ll rest a while and then leave."

As we chatted, it turned out we weren't strangers. Gold Tooth’s family was from Hainan Island; his father had done a stint in Yunnan as part of the sent-down youth program. His father’s generation had settled there when the People's Liberation Army moved south. Their roots were all tied to the Third Field Army. When we started mentioning where our hometowns were, which column or sub-column our elders belonged to, which division or regiment, we realized we weren't distant relatives.

However, Gold Tooth’s father wasn't an official. His father was a skilled tomb raider—a daodou craftsman. He was later conscripted by the Kuomintang army, and during the Battle of Xuzhou—the Huaihai Campaign—his unit defected and joined the PLA. He himself stayed in the army as a cook. His legs were ruined by frostbite on the Korean front, leaving him permanently paralyzed. After the Reform and Opening Up, he moved from Hainan to Beijing and started dealing in antiques and curios for business.

It’s better to listen well than to speak well. He spoke eloquently, calling himself a daodou craftsman—but wasn't he just a grave-robbing thief? Others might not catch the nuance, but since I was raised by my grandfather, he told me plenty about such things.

A real expert only needs a small gesture to show his skill. Digging deeper, I asked Gold Tooth, "Did your respected elder ever serve as a Mojin Xiaowei? Did he ever dig up any 'Big Zongzi'?" (Big Zongzi is slang circulating among tomb robbers, much like bandits in the mountains have coded language instead of openly discussing murder and arson. Zongzi refers to a well-preserved corpse in a tomb, one that hasn't decomposed. Hitting a Big Zongzi meant running into trouble—referring to zombies, malevolent spirits, or other unclean things. Dry Zongzi referred to a tomb where the corpse had rotted down to just a pile of white bones. There was also the Meat Zongzi, meaning the corpse was surrounded by valuable items.)

Upon hearing this, Gold Tooth immediately looked at me with deep respect and insisted on treating me and the fatty to Beijing-style mutton hotpot in Dongsi, where we could talk more deeply. So, the three of us packed up our things and headed toward Dongsi together.