Part One: 1901, Northward (1)

It’s hard to say where their story should begin. By the time Xie Pingyao realized this was the person he was looking for, they had already met twice. The third time, Little Polo was sitting in a basket suspended at the city gate, neither in the sky nor on the ground, shouting in Italian, “Hey buddy, can you give me a hand? It’s just a matter of five coins.”

Two guards on the gate, with their knees propped against the winch handles, stood with their hands on their hips and wicked smiles on their faces. Foreigners, especially those who could travel on the main roads, had money and were especially wealthy. It would be a shame not to extort a bit from them. They had agreed on the price: five coins. Little Polo sat in the basket, lifted halfway up, when the older guard extended another hand, five fingers wiggling. Yes, five more coins. Little Polo pointed to the ground, confused as to why the price had changed after they had just negotiated.

He couldn’t understand the guards’ words, and they couldn’t understand his garbled foreign language, but that didn’t prevent them from communicating. The older guard, with a handlebar mustache, touched the left side of his mustache with his left hand and spread his five fingers, “That’s the starting price,” then touched the right side with his right hand and spread his five fingers again, “This is the sightseeing fee for the great scenery of Wuxi.” Little Polo emptied all his pockets to show the guards above him; he only had five coins left. The younger guard said:

“Then just sit there for a while and watch how the sky darkens in our Great Qing Empire.”

Little Polo didn’t mind at first. Being suspended mid-air was quite pleasant; he wasn’t often able to enjoy such a view. His perspective was truly expansive, giving him a sense of being above the hustle and bustle of human life. The bustling life of Wuxi unfolded beneath him in vivid detail: houses, rivers, roads, fields, and distant mountains. Smoke wafted from the crevices between the fine tiles of each household, mingling with the sounds of children crying, adults scolding, and the indistinct barking of dogs. People walked on the roads, boats glided on the water; further away, the roads and rivers intertwined, sketching a vast expanse of land.

The earth seemed to expand, the world to grow—this was the feeling he had. He even felt that the world was spreading outwards from Wuxi city, centering on this city gate, this basket, and ultimately, him—the Italian man sitting cross-legged in the basket. The world was grandly expanding and spreading outward from him. Many years ago, he and his brother Fedele, in a tall stone house in Verona, each pressed a finger on a point in the Italian map on a globe, imagining the world spreading from Verona to the entire globe.

In the few months he had been in China, this was the first time he felt a clear sense of direction. From Hangzhou, he had boarded a boat, meandering along winding waterways, feeling a continuous, disorienting confusion. The spatial understanding he had painstakingly established by studying a British-drawn map of China for half a month before leaving Italy had completely unraveled. Now, he felt he was beginning to grasp something meaningful.

Across the moat, a few children gathered, pointing and whispering about him, debating whether to cross the drawbridge and see if the foreigner’s braid was real or fake. A few adults emerged from the tall, slender old houses, calling the children home for dinner. The plaster peeled and curled behind them, while moss quietly crept higher up the walls. Little Polo tried asking them for five coins in Italian, but they didn’t understand. He then tried in English, but they still didn’t understand. Remembering a few Chinese words Li Zanki had taught him, he shouted:

“Qián” (money)

To indicate he needed five coins, he repeated it five times.

The adults heard him, but they hurriedly tugged their children by the ears, scurrying away into the old brick and tile houses as if Little Polo were trying to rob them.

Light shone through the windows of nearby houses as evening slowly descended from the sky. The two guards no longer expected to get the additional five coins, but since it was still early for their shift change, keeping a foreigner suspended was quite entertaining. The older guard was instructing the younger one on how to smoke a pipe, explaining which times of day the tobacco tasted the best and that an extra puff felt like a moment of paradise.

Little Polo started to grow anxious. Darkness was encroaching rapidly from afar, and the world seemed to be shrinking around him, closing in quickly at his feet. He suddenly felt a strong sense of abandonment. Others had places to come from and places to go back to, but he was stranded in a foreign land, hanging mid-air with a full bladder.

In the distance, a tall, thin man in a long robe approached. Desperation overtook him, and he shouted in Italian:

“Hey buddy, can you give me a hand? It’s just a matter of five coins.”

In the last light of dusk, he saw the man’s ears twitch.

This must be the guy. The Xi Lan Inn was in the city, and not many foreigners needed to pass through the gate at this hour.

Little Polo repeated the phrase in English. Xie Pingyao raised his hand and said, “OK.”

Little Polo began to rise. At the highest point, he wanted to pause and take another look, hoping that with a better mood, the world might seem expansive again. However, the two guards pulled him out of the basket. They still needed to hoist Xie Pingyao up. Charging their people ten coins felt a bit much for the older guard, but the price had been set, and it wouldn’t be right to lower it in front of the foreigner.

Apologetically, he tried to make conversation, mentioning that the gates closed early due to recent strict orders. The younger guard chimed in, saying he had been on gate duty for a year and three months, and it was always strict. The older guard gave him a dirty look as darkness fully settled. Torches were lit at the four corners of the gate. The guards urged them to hurry as the patrol leader was approaching. They dismantled the makeshift winch. This side income was a perk for whoever was on duty, and the authorities turned a blind eye as long as it didn’t interfere with patrols.

After using the guards’ chamber pot, the two of them descended the tower. Little Polo thanked Xie Pingyao with each step, insisting on treating him to dinner. Xie Pingyao didn’t decline and followed him. As they neared the inn, Little Polo suddenly smacked his forehead, realizing he had been so focused on getting there that he forgot to ask if Xie Pingyao was here for business or looking for someone, hoping he hadn’t delayed anything important. Xie Pingyao replied:

“Looking for someone.”

“Who?”

“You.”

“I knew it,” Little Polo said, hugging Xie Pingyao tightly. “I knew from the first glance you must be Xie. Li and I have been waiting for you for days.”

In the easternmost guest room on the second floor of the Xi Lan Inn, they found Li Zanqi lying on a sickbed.

In his daily telegrams, he repeatedly told Xie Pingyao that he was suffering greatly from a leg injury and could not endure the long journey. He begged his old friend to come to his aid. Indeed, Li Zanqi looked worn from his injury; compared to ten years ago when they last saw each other, his cheekbones were more prominent, his hairline had receded dramatically, and the hair on his forehead no longer needed shaving. Even his braid had thinned to the size of a rat’s tail.

The inn’s linens were primarily made of indigo-printed fabric, with the sheets, duvet covers, pillowcases, pillow towels, and tablecloths all produced by the famous local dyehouse, Lu Yimao. The blue fabric was decorated with white motifs of lotus roots, water chestnuts, and bamboo shoots. Li Zanqi, enveloped in these Jiangnan blue-and-white textiles, appeared even more haggard and shrunken, with only his forehead and eyes seeming larger. Xie Pingyao lifted a corner of the thin blanket, revealing Li Zanqi’s right leg in a splint, tightly wrapped in several layers of cloth—injured. In his most recent telegram, Li Zanqi had written, saying he couldn’t move and to meet him at the Xi Lan Inn.

Li Zanqi’s leg injury happened in Suzhou. Little Polo wanted to see the Humble Administrator’s Garden, and as their boat docked at a nearby pier, Little Polo lost his footing while disembarking, falling backward and landing directly on Li Zanqi’s leg. Li Zanqi, who was side-stepping up the stairs, heard a faint crack and felt a sharp pain in his right leg. He initially shrugged it off, continuing to accompany Little Polo around the garden, acting as both a guide and translator.

However, upon returning to the inn, he found that his right calf had swollen to become the thickest part of his body, even his foot was swollen. No wonder he had been suspecting he wore the wrong shoe size, as his right shoe suddenly felt too small. Still, he paid little attention, seeing a doctor only for some basic treatment, and continued guiding Little Polo through the waterways of Suzhou. It wasn’t until he revisited the doctor, who sternly warned him about the risk of amputation, that Li Zanqi realized the severity of his condition and understood he could no longer continue his journey north. That’s when he thought of Xie Pingyao.

They had once been colleagues at the Translation Bureau under the Jiangnan Arsenal. Li Zanqi specialized in Italian, while Xie Pingyao worked in English. During work hours, they kept to their respective tasks, either buried in books or interpreting for officials and foreigners. After work, they mingled. Back then, they were both young and unattached, often hanging out in Hongkou or along the Huangpu River, finding a small teahouse or tavern to drink and chat. Whether happy or upset about the state of the Qing Dynasty and world affairs, they drank.

Once sufficiently inebriated, they disregarded the bartender’s repeated warnings to avoid discussing politics, freely criticizing the government and international matters. When the debates grew heated, physical altercations sometimes erupted, and Xie Pingyao landed a few punches on Li Zanqi. For safety, their regular tavern provided them with a private room, separated from other rooms by a storage space to prevent eavesdropping.

Xie Pingyao was the youngest in their drinking group, an angry young man of that era who felt he couldn’t survive without discussing politics. Every day, he bombarded Li Zanqi with questions about Italy, asked old Xia, who specialized in French, for news from France, and inquired about the latest happenings in Russia from old Pang, the Russian expert. His interest lay beyond translation; he couldn’t bear sitting all day in the Translation Bureau reading convoluted old texts, despite his proficiency. He longed to do something more tangible.

Li Zanqi still remembered how this younger brother, when drunk, would say, “A true man must take action and seek ways to save and preserve the nation. How can one hide in a study and pass the days relying on foreign articles and gossip?” They heard it often enough that they began to take it lightly. But one day, the tavern suddenly fell silent, and they realized Xie Pingyao was missing. It turned out he had gone to the Grand Canal Governor’s Office, where they required a translator.

The Grand Canal, where water turned into grain. Since the Song and Yuan dynasties, countless canal boats have transported the abundant resources of Jiangnan northward along the canal, continuously supplying the imperial capital in the north with the rice and fish of the south. There, emperors, ministers, and millions of border soldiers opened their mouths for meals every day. Eating was a big deal, and transporting grain was also a big deal, so naturally, overseeing the grain transportation was a big deal too. But even these big deals couldn’t shake off the involvement of foreigners; they wanted a hand in everything, and there weren’t enough people who could speak their language. With a nod from the Grand Canal Governor’s Office, Li Hongzhang made a cough in the direction of the Jiangnan Arsenal, and suddenly a Translation Bureau was established.

Working at the Translation Bureau was no cushy job, and heading to the Grand Canal Governor’s Office was no plum assignment either. It was essentially exile, moving from bustling Shanghai to a small city in northern Jiangsu. The batch of translators who worked with English were gathered together, each one bowing their head. The supervisor asked, “Anyone interested?” Xie Pingyao stood up.

“Why do you want to go?”

“To do something practical.”

There was a ripple of laughter among his colleagues. In this day and age, was there anything more absurd than wanting to “do something practical”? If there was indeed one place in the Qing Dynasty where you could do something practical, it certainly wasn’t the Grand Canal Governor’s Office. As they crossed the Jining Waterway, the terrain gradually rose, and the riverbed, once filled with water, now ran dry. The canal was dry enough to ride a horse on, and the whole canal system was on the brink of collapse. The Governor’s Office wouldn’t survive much longer. Going there at this time was like swimming against the current, inviting discomfort upon oneself. Permission was granted from above for Xie Pingyao to “carefully consider” his decision.

For two days straight, his superior had treated him with great importance, even going as far as to bring him a hot cup of herbal tea, repeatedly discussing the possibilities for the future of both the nation and the individual. Finally, he asked, “Are you still going?” Xie Pingyao replied, “Yes.” His boss let out a long sigh. “So be it. The world is as it is. It’s a waste no matter where you go. Maybe wasting in a different place will yield some results.”

Xie Pingyao packed his belongings and hurried to Huai’an overnight. Along the long and winding journey, he hitchhiked, walked, boarded large boats and small boats, and even hitched a ride on bamboo rafts carrying goods. On the morning he arrived in Huai’an, he enjoyed two hearty bowls of the local famous Changyu noodles, then eagerly reported to the government office. In the first few years, he felt fortunate to be in the right place: there was work to be done, important work. The foreigners knew the significance of the Grand Canal to the Qing Dynasty.

They had staked out the concessions, captured the coastal ports, and now had their eyes on the inland waterways. They couldn’t control the entire river, but they could certainly insert their interests into it: “Let my people pass, let my goods be transported. I want to travel up and down this river freely. Don’t stop me unless necessary. Lower the taxes, especially at customs. Ensure that ships carrying goods from the British Empire, the United States, Austria-Hungary, the Netherlands, France, Russia, and other great powers pass through the locks as quickly as possible. The earth spins from west to east, and we Westerners can’t afford to waste time.”

This was what Xie Pingyao was here to do, negotiating alongside his superiors. When translating, he was even more impatient than his superiors. If they couldn’t express themselves clearly, he supplemented their meaning in English. And when the foreigners spoke in their sparkling language, he translated it thoroughly, making the officials and foreigners alike uncomfortable. His translations made negotiations and communications more effective, cutting straight to the chase. Time was noticeably shortened, but it also frequently left the officials and foreigners in the government office inexplicably frustrated.

Xie Pingyao and Li Zanqi had discussed in their daily communication about the ethics of translation. What exactly constitutes ethical translation? Should it be a literal translation or a free translation? Is it acceptable to supplement and enhance during translation? Xie Pingyao insisted that effective expression in the ultimate sense was the most important. Li Zanqi disagreed, questioning what effective expression meant.

Was it the translator’s effective expression or the reader’s? Xie Pingyao wrote a lengthy letter to him arguing: “You have no idea how arrogant and greedy Westerners are. They can’t afford to waste time, but we can? Their ships navigate our waters, why should they have the final say? Whether it’s a big ship, a small ship, a sailboat, or a steamboat, they’re all ships. Why should they cut in line just because they fly a Western flag? Even if God descended to earth, he couldn’t explain this logic. You also don’t know how weak and cowardly the officials in our yamen are.

When Western devils raise their voices a little, they bend over several degrees; luckily we haven’t encountered any opera singers, or our heads would truly be shoved into our pants. A Western devil slams the table, and they’ll urinate directly. I’ll translate according to the whims of the officials. Our canal has long been filled with flags of various nations.”

Li Zanqi reminded him that this job wouldn’t last long. Sure enough, just two months and three days into the fourth year, their immediate superior received instructions from above, entrusting Xie Pingyao with a heavy responsibility: the shipyard needed him more. The Grand Canal Inspectorate oversaw nearly three hundred civil and military officials, as well as over twenty thousand warehouse workers, shipbuilders, and guards; under the jurisdiction of the Grand Canal Inspectorate were many shipyards, the largest of which was located in Qingjiangpu, twenty li away from the yamen.

Xie Pingyao was assigned there. The shipyard was vast, and he had some ideas for shipbuilding, so he invited a few foreign experts to make some modern improvements to the canal boats. Translators were needed to accompany them, ensuring their living and working conditions were satisfactory. Upon arriving in Qingjiangpu, Xie Pingyao realized that this wasn’t a promotion but rather a reassignment to a more meaningless position.

As the canal project reached its inevitable conclusion, even those with a little knowledge knew it was all over, just a matter of sooner or later for the execution of the death sentence. The shipyard also lost its momentum, with the frames of several canal boats poking around the massive workshop, untouched for months. Being close to the river, birds flocked to the cabins, and once when Xie Pingyao visited the workshop, he vented his frustration on an unfinished canal boat, landing a hard punch, and two wild chickens fluttered out, barely missing his ears. From top to bottom, the shipyard was utterly listless, and the only skill improving was mahjong. Foreign experts were adept at playing this traditional Chinese game, with no translation needed. Xie Pingyao found himself a translator who wasn’t even good enough to join a mahjong game.

In a daze for a while, news came from the capital that a man named Kang Youwei had rallied over a thousand scholars from eighteen provinces to petition jointly. It was a big move, its authenticity uncertain. But from then on, he started paying attention to Kang Youwei, corresponding with friends like Li Zanqi, with discussions often revolving around this figure.

Three years later, he learned from officials touring from the capital that there was reform in the capital, indeed led by someone surnamed Kang, along with his disciple Liang Qichao. This news excited him for a while, although he never liked the photos of Kang Youwei in the newspapers, the style of his beard made him feel uneasy. He wrote to Li Zanqi: “I want to go to the capital and witness the arrival of a great era.” Li Zanqi replied calmly: “Brother, restrain yourself. A great era is not like a boiled egg, cracking its shell and bouncing out plump and white.”

Once again, Li Zanqi’s pessimism hit the mark. Another round of news of reform came, and Tan Sitong, Yang Rui, Liu Guangdi, Lin Xu, Yang Shenxiu, and Kang Guangren had already been chopped at the market and wanted posters for Kang Youwei and Liang Qichao plastered along the canal. No one knew where they were hiding. Xie Pingyao worried about Kang and Liang’s safety for a while, feeling uneasy as if he had become a fugitive, never able to settle down. Thankfully, there was a noodle shop next to the shipyard. Visiting every few days for a warm bowl of noodles in the morning gave him a bit of peace for the day. But his appetite noticeably decreased, and he could only manage to finish one bowl of the authentic Changyu noodles made by the landlady herself.

In a shipyard, where there are officials, there are hierarchies; where there are hierarchies, there is bureaucracy. Everyone tacitly abides by all the rules of the bureaucracy. For instance, even if there’s nothing much to do, everyone pretends to come and go according to their duty. Even playing mahjong or pushing cards, must be done in the bureaucracy, within the confines of the office. This is considered fulfilling their duties; taking the game back home to play would be considered dereliction of duty. Apart from this, there’s also the constant jostling for benefits and ranks.

Everyone knows that the canal project is on its last legs, and the shipyard is also on its decline. Each person is secretly planning for their future and career, but when they see the tangible benefits, they still holds on tightly without letting go. Besides various directives and orders from above, the shipyard is essentially isolated from the outside world, operating based on a form of inertia-driven formalism. Xie Pingyao often feels a sense of desolation, as if his inner self is overrun with waist-high weeds. He feels himself gradually succumbing to the abstract life devoid of tangible experiences.

As groups of refugees streamed southward along the canal, Xie Pingyao finally realized that another major event had occurred in the world: the drought in North China. Seeing more and more refugees drifting downstream, some so destitute that they couldn’t even afford a makeshift boat, carrying their families and fledgling children, stumbling along the riverbank, clad in the red and yellow garb of the Boxers, who advocated for righteousness and the expulsion of foreigners, was now prevalent in northern China.

Their slogan: “Destroy the foreigners, support the Qing,” echoed throughout the region. They targeted foreigners for violence, then converged on Beijing, aiming for the Forbidden City. Subsequently, the Eight-Nation Alliance invaded Beijing, resulting in arson, killings, and looting, forcing the Empress Dowager and the Emperor to flee in a state of disarray. Following this, the Boxers were suppressed. From Beijing to Qingjiangpu, a journey of more than a thousand miles, news inevitably lagged for some time, but everything unfolded in due course. Each piece of old news, as it arrived in sequence, was still fresh to Xie Pingyao. Sitting by the dock, amidst the bustling activity, with the sound of distant drums from Fuyang, it was evident that chaos had truly descended upon the world. Amidst the tumultuous events, before Xie Pingyao could even begin to make sense of it all, a telegram arrived from Li Zanqi.

Li Zanqi’s implication was clear: if you can’t stay, don’t force yourself to stay; when it’s time to move, then move. In Xie Pingyao’s view, Li Zanqi exuded an air of authority in everything he did. Even if you tore off the roof, he’d remain as steadfast as Mount Tai. However, despite his reliability, this man, who always moved at his own deliberate pace, had also left the translation bureau two years prior. He had become the chief editor of the Shanghai-based “Eastern and Western Illustrated Magazine,” specializing in writing about the latest developments in Europe and America, providing Chinese people with a glimpse of the real overseas world.

This encouraged Xie Pingyao. After exchanging several telegrams, he discussed with his wife and decided to leave the shipyard to take over from Li Zanqi, who had injured his leg. It was on a morning when he had eaten two bowls of Changyu noodles that he handed in his resignation. The noodles felt like they were expanding in his stomach, almost making him want to vomit, but he endured it. It was a ritual, marking the beginning of a new life.

“What’s your impression of this person?”

“Not bad, but a bit unconventional.”

“He’s an optimist,” Li Zanqi said. “His flaw is that he tends to be verbose and occasionally a bit stubborn.”

“I’ve experienced that firsthand. I’ve run into him twice in the marketplace before he got into the lift.”

In the morning, Xie Pingyao arrived in Wuxi. After disembarking, he wandered through the streets and alleys, inquiring about the location of the Blue Tin Inn. Surprisingly, no one seemed to know. He wasn’t in a hurry though; it was still early, and on his first visit to Wuxi, he planned to explore while searching for the inn. He figured he would find accommodation before nightfall. The Grand Canal passes through both Wuxi and Huaiyin, but the scenery in the two places is quite different.

Wuxi has more waterways, with streams and canals crisscrossing the landscape. The sunlight carries a hint of moisture, and the cobblestone streets in the alleyways are covered in moss. Wuxi locals speak as if only the tip of their tongues is working, with their speech bouncing and rolling off like startled birds, quickly fluttering past his ears, elusive. With communication barriers, he opted to observe more and speak less, refraining from speaking unless necessary.

By noon, feeling hungry, he found a noodle shop and sat down. Across from him sat a foreigner. Initially, Xie Pingyao didn’t pay much attention. The foreigner was dressed in traditional Chinese robes and a mandarin jacket, with a false braid added to his head. He looked just like any other Chinese man until he spoke up, asking for chili. Xie Pingyao didn’t know how to say “chili” in English, and he knew the waiter wouldn’t understand English, so he picked up his chopsticks and dipped them into the vinegar bottle, stirring them in his bowl before putting the sauce-soaked chopsticks into his mouth, making exaggerated gestures of discomfort, wiping his brow as if sweating profusely, and making sounds of discomfort.

To show he wasn’t afraid of spicy food, he wrapped the false braid around his neck twice, bravely pursing his lips. The waiter understood, as did the people around them. The foreigner looked quite pleased with himself, mimicking the actions of the middle-aged man beside him, lifting his right foot and resting it on a long bench, supporting himself with one buttock. This series of Chinese-style movements was quite authentic.

The chili arrived, and the foreigner picked up a large chunk with his chopsticks and dropped it into his noodles, slurping loudly as steam rose from his hair. Xie Pingyao also asked for chili. With his penchant for spicy food, this level of heat was quite satisfying.

In the afternoon, he encountered Xiao Boluo again, this time at a teahouse by Taibo Bridge. Xie Pingyao had walked from Nanchang Street to Qingming Bridge and was feeling a bit tired. Sitting down on the stone steps of the bridge, he looked out over the smoky streets and asked the locals about the source of the smoke, which turned out to be from the kilns. He remembered a couplet he had read many years ago, written by someone he couldn’t recall: “South of the city, the sight of smoke-filled kilns, bricks, and tiles have been fired for hundreds of years,” which seemed to describe this place.

Xie Pingyao massaged his feet and then got up to head towards the smoke from the kilns. Following the river, he arrived at Taibo Bridge. There was a teahouse by the bridge, extending a broad platform like a hanging building. A foreigner, enjoying his noodles, leaned against a railing with his teacup in hand, sipping tea. With each sip, he closed his eyes and swayed his head, savoring the taste. Xie Pingyao didn’t appreciate these pretentious actions. Over the years, he had encountered many Westerners—some foolish, some wise, some naive—and he didn’t mind them. But those who put on airs, he couldn’t stand.

It was those who put on airs: either they deliberately adopted a folksy demeanor, humbly joining in laughter with the Chinese but harboring deep-seated arrogance and prejudice; or they specifically imitated Chinese tastes and habits, holding themselves up as a mirror, reflecting their image to you through their mimicry, subtly sneering and mocking you. Then there were people like Xiao Boluo, who watched without being part of the audience but still had a soulful expression as if deeply engaged in the performance.

Because he found them distasteful, Xie Pingyao ended up watching them a little longer. Boats darted back and forth along the river: selling cloth, transporting silk, peddling vegetables, hauling bricks, traveling, and bidding farewell to guests. There was even a fleet returning from a wedding procession, each oar adorned with red silk, with men whose faces were flushed with drink serenading women washing clothes by the water, getting splashed in the process. Xiao Boluo laughed heartily at the hustle and bustle of the canal, then resumed sipping his tea. After finishing his tea, he meticulously picked out each tea leaf and laid it out to dry on the railing.

During the subsequent journey north along the canal, Xie Pingyao noticed that Xiao Boluo continued this habit of counting tea leaves: either while drinking, watching the leaves unfurl slowly in the cup before sinking to the bottom, or after finishing his tea, scooping them out to count. He enjoyed the feeling of drinking Chinese tea, with the tea leaves gently swirling in the cup, a sensation akin to time standing still. But at that time, Xie Pingyao attributed this detail to foreign affectation. When Li Zanqi asked him about his impression of Xiao Boluo, his response was quite restrained: “He’s not bad, but a bit unconventional.”

Li Zanqi agreed. “This guy is indeed different from other Westerners. Not every Chinese person can sit down and share a meal with him. An Italian would be content with just pasta, but not him. He insists on eating Chinese rice and pancakes, and he has to have chili with every meal. He can’t even handle chopsticks properly, but he insists on not using knives and forks, claiming that Chinese people are more civilized, using bamboo and wooden utensils for eating, unlike us Westerners who wield a bunch of weapons as soon as we sit down at the table.”

“Just bear with it,” Li Zanqi said. “It’s better than forcing you to have Western food with him every day, right?”

“What are you guys talking about?” Xiao Boluo asked Li Zanqi in Italian. “Is it Chinese secret talk?”

“We’re saying how nice your clothes look,” Li Zanqi replied. “Mr. Di Marco, from today onwards, you have to speak English.”

“Sorry, Mr. Xie, I’ll change,” Xiao Boluo switched to English. “Thank you for complimenting my clothes. Aren’t my braids nice too?”

“They’re very nice,” Xie Pingyao said. “Much nicer than ours.”

“Of course. If fake looks worse than real, what’s the point of faking it?” Xiao Boluo took off his false braid and held it in his hand to show them. It was shiny black and sturdy, thicker than the combined braids of Xie Pingyao and Li Zanqi.

Xie Pingyao smirked and said to Li Zanqi in Chinese, “He’s quite verbose. I’m afraid I can’t handle it.”

“If it’s not satisfying,” Li Zanqi lowered his voice and also spoke in Chinese, “then raise the price. They like straightforward deals.”

“What are you two whispering about behind my back?” Xiao Boluo asked.

“Zanqi asked me if Mr. Di Marco is handsome,” Li Zanqi replied.

“Thank you.” Xiao Boluo bowed before the bed. “If my eye sockets were a bit shallower, my nose bridge a bit lower, and my hair not so curly, I would be even more handsome.”

The next day, they left Wuxi and headed towards Changzhou. It was Xiao Boluo, Xie Pingyao, and Shao Changlai. Li Zanqi stayed at the Xilan Inn and needed a few more days to recuperate. With the aid of crutches, he could manage on his own and would take a boat back to Shanghai or even Hangzhou, as his hometown was in Xiaoshan. Shao Changlai was hired by Xiao Boluo as a servant in Hangzhou. He was twenty-eight years old, not tall, but had strong shoulders. He had worked as a porter for many years and was one of the many porters making a living in Hangzhou. Sichuanese men were naturally good at cooking, so he also took on the role of a cook.

According to Li Zanqi, given Xiao Boluo’s peculiar preferences, it was highly likely that Shao Changlai was initially hired as a cook and also served as a porter. Xie Pingyao didn’t know how skilled he was as a cook; there was no time to taste his dishes. Last night, they arrived at the inn and stayed up chatting by Li Zanqi’s sickbed until midnight, accompanied by a few small dishes and two pots of wine. Brothers who hadn’t seen each other for many years had to drink enough to catch up. Shao Changlai bought the dishes himself: pig head meat, sautéed dried tofu with shepherd’s purse, smoked fish, soy sauce-marinated pork bones, cold and spicy gluten, and fried peanuts.

Along with Xiao Boluo and Shao Changlai, they had two catties of baijiu. Shao Changlai needed to pack, and considering his lower status, Xie Pingyao let it slide. Xiao Boluo joined in, wanting to “deeply experience” Chinese liquor, but after just two ounces, he passed out on the table. They set off this morning. Xiao Boluo wanted to have one last meal of xiaolongbao. Xie Pingyao helped Li Zanqi to a breakfast shop nearby. They each had a portion of xiaolongbao filled with fresh meat and shrimp, accompanied by seaweed egg drop soup. After finishing the soup, they felt invigorated from head to toe.

Shao Changlai was qualified to work as a porter. Xiao Boluo’s personal belongings alone filled two boxes, including various hydrological measurement instruments, a compass, a Kodak camera, a Browning pistol, a Mauser rifle for self-defense, books and materials to read along the way, ink and paper for writing, a Cossack whip, tea leaves, and a complete set of teapots and cups for brewing Kung Fu tea. In addition, Shao Changlai had his luggage and small items, so many that it seemed like he was moving house. Shao Changlai meticulously balanced everything on the shoulder pole. When he squatted down, the muscles on his shoulders, hardened by calluses, flexed twice, and with a gentle cough, all his belongings rose into the air. From a side view or from behind, only Shao Changlai’s head was visible among the moving luggage.

Shao Changlai carried the luggage with small steps but maintained a surprisingly fast pace. Xie Pingyao carried his wicker trunk and also had a small bundle on his shoulder containing personal items. Xiao Boluo, without any luggage, only carried a cane. The cane, entirely purplish-red, appeared to be made of rosewood, but it was coated with steel, with a milky-white substance embedded in the grip, which Xiao Boluo claimed to be ivory. Xie Pingyao couldn’t discern its authenticity, but it was undeniably beautiful, almost like an ornament.

As the three of them left the inn, they walked along the damp blue-brick and stone-paved road towards the pier outside the city. Li Zanqi stood at the Xilan Inn’s gate, leaning on his crutches, waving goodbye with one hand.

When boarding the ship, Xie Pingyao noticed two extra barrels of water, procured by Shao Changlai’s contacts from Mount Hui. They were delivered to the ship ahead of time. It was said that the water from the Second Spring was of excellent quality. Su Dongpo, passing through Wuxi, made a special trip to taste it, “Bringing along a small piece of the sky, to test the Second Spring of the mortal world.” Xie Pingyao boiled some of it to brew tea for Mr. Dimak. These two barrels of water brought a slight warmth to Xie Pingyao’s heart. With companions like this on the long journey, it shouldn’t be too much of a struggle.

The boat was rented in Suzhou, initially for a month. After the lease expires, both parties would assess their willingness before deciding whether to renew it. The captain of the boat was from Suzhou, surnamed Xia. He had two apprentices as assistants. The three of them took turns on duty, handling the pole, steering, rowing, rocking the oar, and managing the sail. In case of urgent travel, they could journey day and night.

Due to Li Zanqi’s leg injury and the wait for Xie Pingyao, their journey north was delayed for a few days. Once on board, Xiaobo urged Xie Pingyao to convey to the boat owner to hoist the sails and row vigorously, in order to make up for lost time. Xiaobo’s trip to China was solely for the purpose of studying the Grand Canal. He was determined to travel from south to north along its route, with time constraints and a weighty mission. During his tenure at the Canal Inspectorate, Xie Pingyao had hosted several batches of foreign experts studying the canal. However, it was mostly local guidance, taking them to see landmarks such as the Qingjiang Locks, the confluence of the Yellow River and the Grand Canal, and the flood defenses of Hongze Lake.

Occasionally, they would visit Yangzhou to experience the Shaobo Lock. Apart from that, Xie Pingyao provided translation services and took care of their daily needs. They were quite well-dressed, in suits and leather shoes; some even wore tailcoats. Returning from the riverbank to the inn, they seemed as decayed as the officials in the yamen. There was an elderly Englishman with a big belly who took off his smelly socks from his high boots and asked Xie Pingyao to wash them.

Xie Pingyao replied politely, “Please wait a moment,” then walked away. Another gentleman from Holland, perhaps accustomed to the red-light district in Amsterdam, quietly asked Xie Pingyao if he could introduce him to a cheap Chinese woman, preferably beautiful with small feet. Xie Pingyao retorted with a Chinese curse. When asked what it meant, Xie Pingyao replied, “It’s a greeting to your mother.” The red-haired gentleman said, “Greeting one’s mother at this time, it’s rather embarrassing.” From then on, Xie Pingyao had no interest in these foreign experts on official inspections, much like the officials who claimed to be inspecting but were actually just sightseeing and engaging in formalism.

However, Li Zanqi remarked that this Xiaobo was different. He funded his own travels and didn’t boast about being an expert; he simply had a genuine interest. Xiaobo hailed from Verona, a small city not far from Venice, the hometown of Juliet from Romeo and Juliet. He had a penchant for water and often accompanied his father to Venice. Mr. Dimak, Xiaobo’s father, had started out as a shoemaker, then expanded into a factory owner. Seeking further growth, he purchased several gondolas in Venice and hired people to row them year-round along the canals.

Mr. Dimak’s main work involved sailing and traveling by carriage, shuttling between Verona and Venice to collect payments. Xiaobo had gained considerable knowledge about the lagoon and canals from his childhood trips to Venice with his father, exploring all the islands in the vicinity. He idolized the famous Marco Polo, who had spent many years in Venice during the Yuan Dynasty. In homage to his idol and to maintain respect for his heritage, Xiaobo allowed others to adjust his name slightly, calling himself Polo Marco.

Hence, Li Zanqi referred to him as Xiaobo. Marco Polo had come to China during the Yuan Dynasty and stayed for seventeen years, earning the admiration of Kublai Khan. On his second voyage, he traveled south along the Grand Canal from Dadu (present-day Beijing) to Hangzhou, then further southward through mountains and valleys to Fuzhou and Quanzhou. Xiaobo intended to travel upstream along the canal, retracing his idol’s journey and exploring the places where Marco Polo had once ventured.

In March, the springtime in Jiangnan was in full bloom. From Wuxi to Changzhou, both banks were adorned with green willows and blossoming peach trees. The apricot blossoms had already faded, while the pear blossoms were just beginning to bloom in clusters. Along the river embankments, lush green grass sprawled, extending to Zhenjiang. Xiaobo sat on the bow deck of the boat, with a square table and a bamboo chair, enjoying tea in the breeze. After finishing a pot of Biluochun tea, he poured a second cup, and a fine layer of sweat had already formed on his neck. “Clear, clear,” he said to Xie Pingyao in English. Xie Pingyao corrected him, “It’s ‘thorough.'” When Chinese people discuss tea, they say “drinking it thoroughly.”

Xie Pingyao sat on another bamboo chair beside him, holding a scroll of “The Axioms of Humanity” that he had found in a bookstore in Changzhou. It was a meticulously handwritten copy in small regular script, for which the owner had demanded a hefty sum. He had heard about this book from a friend before; it was said to be authored by Mr. Nanhai. With no signature, he couldn’t confirm its authenticity, but judging from the style and speculative nature of the writing, it bore some resemblance to the sporadic articles he had read by Kang Youwei in newspapers. Xiaobo hadn’t spent much time in Changzhou; he had only wandered around Qingguo Lane, tasting all sorts of fruits and snacks. He had heard there was a Catholic church outside the city and decided to visit it alone.

Xie Pingyao insisted on not accompanying Xiaobo. He wanted some time alone. Concerned about any potential trouble, Xie Pingyao wrote a few notes for him. In case he encountered any difficulties or needed directions, he could simply hand the notes to someone. Meanwhile, Xie Pingyao accompanied Shao Changlai to exchange cash and manage the daily expenses for the three of them. They carried silver ingots, Mexican silver dollars, and a silver note, which was exchangeable for Mexican silver dollars. These items were scarce and valuable.

After exchanging the money, Shao Changlai went to purchase food supplies while Xie Pingyao took the opportunity to explore the bookstores. He even bought two boxes of famous Longquan ink. Upon returning to the ship, Xiaobo was already back. Although Xiaobo didn’t mention anything about the church or whom he had met, judging from his expression, Xie Pingyao realized that the trip might have been futile and decided not to ask further.

As the boat left Changzhou, the voices gradually faded away. Although there were still many boats on the canal, the sense of neighborhood, like the one felt while docked at the pier, was lost. Greetings exchanged with passing boats were now just hurried pleasantries. After traveling another dozen miles, even the desire to wave at passing boats disappeared. Despite the beautiful spring scenery, continuous bustling scenes would eventually become unnoticeable. Occasionally, small boats were sailing alongside them, curious to see what foreigners looked like. Xiaobo was cooperative during such encounters, making funny faces and even imitating the movements of Roman warriors. Xie Pingyao couldn’t be bothered to watch his antics. He flipped through a couple of pages of his book, glanced at the scenery, and gradually drifted away from reality, lost in the world of books and landscapes.

He was no stranger to rivers and wilderness. For the past few years, he had been by the riverside, where the shipyard was located amidst vast stretches of wilderness. Even during his time at the Canal Inspectorate, he could ride a horse for half an hour and find himself in deserted, uninhabited areas. However, he had never experienced such profound relaxation before. If a person’s inner self had eyes, then his had always been clouded with mist. He always felt like one thing piled upon another before him, with knots in his heart stacking one upon the other.

The exact nature of these matters, or what the knots were, didn’t matter much; he just felt stifled. Now he realized that deep down, he had been yearning persistently for a broader, more expansive way of life, but he couldn’t uproot himself from inertia. Though he wasn’t entirely sure what such a life entailed. Compared to the young man in his early twenties who had decisively left the translation office, he hesitated, grew timid, became scattered, and slackened. Thus, he owed a debt of gratitude to his elder brother, Li Zanqi. Li Zanqi’s urgent telegrams, akin to a dozen gold medals urging him to make a decision, finally compelled him to act.

The river water splashed onto the boat, soaking his shoes. Old Xia, adjusting the sails, climbed up the mast and reminded him to retract his right foot. Xie Pingyao nodded in acknowledgment, straightened his leg, and dipped his foot into the canal. Old Xia chuckled from above, and he chuckled too, moving the bamboo chair to the edge of the deck and dipping his other foot into the water.

Despite living by the canal for several years, he had never dipped his feet into the water at this time of day. Was he afraid of the cold? Not really, he just hadn’t done it before. What if he were a boatman? Suddenly, it dawned on him that Old Xia wasn’t laughing at his innocence or impulsiveness; he was laughing at how solemnly he treated something as trivial as getting his feet wet. At that moment, Xiaobo, sipping his tea and studying the map intently, pointed to a spot and waved to Xie Pingyao.

“Yangzhou! Yangzhou! Marco Polo’s Yangzhou!”

“Too early,” Xie Pingyao pulled his foot back onto the deck, removed his shoes and socks, and wrung out the water. As the wind blew over his wet feet, it felt as though cool fingers were gently caressing them back and forth. “We’ll reach Yangzhou after passing Zhenjiang.”

After passing Zhenjiang, they would reach Yangzhou where Marco Polo had once stayed.

“Polo said he served as the governor in Yangzhou. How high a rank is a governor in your country?” Xiaobo asked.

“No one else besides him knows he served as the governor of Yangzhou. There’s not a single mention of it in any historical records.”

Xiaobo shrugged. “That’s because too few of you can read.”

Xie Pingyao shrugged. He gradually noticed that despite Xiaobo’s deep appreciation for Chinese culture and scenery, the subtle traits of European arrogance and superiority always seemed to show themselves if one wasn’t careful. He preferred to believe in their origins. Of course, he made an effort to restrain himself. One way was to take out his notebook with its fine leather cover and briskly jot down notes. It was made of high-quality calf leather, with a small clasp and slightly yellowed Italian paper. Xiaobo would use a Parker fountain pen to record his observations along the canal at any given moment.

Whenever there were discoveries or ideas, he would discuss them with Shao Changlai and help him retrieve the notebook and pen from his luggage. His ideal way of writing was with Chinese paper and brush, but he couldn’t handle a traditional brush, let alone understand the rules of ink spreading on rice paper. Trying to write Italian letters with a brush would only confuse him. Moreover, the boat was constantly rocking, making it impossible to write. Hence, he praised the Chinese once again, admiring their grandeur and formality. Even writing a single character required a complete set of writing tools—ink, brush, paper, and inkstone—such grandeur.

During their field investigations along the canal, Xiaobo requested Xie Pingyao’s constant presence. Many times, the translation between Chinese and English terms would be disjointed, and Xie Pingyao needed to lend a hand when needed. Xiaobo was pleasantly surprised to find Xie Pingyao’s profound connection to the canal. From the strategic policies regarding the canal in the Canal Inspectorate to the daily details and experiences by the riverside, Xie Pingyao was like a walking encyclopedia of the canal.

He generously referred to Xie Pingyao as a “nobleman,” a Chinese phrase he had learned directly from Shao Changlai. Shao Changlai had been living quite frugally in Hangzhou; during that time, work had been unexpectedly scarce. He spent each day at the Wulinmen wharf, holding onto his pole and pestle, often standing from dawn to dusk with leg cramps, yet no customers would arrive. That day, Shao Changlai’s hunger-induced dizziness emboldened him, and he was the first to rush to the bow of the boat, only to realize that their guest was a foreigner.

He harbored a dislike for foreigners. In his hometown, there were quite a few missionaries who would gather the villagers after work and lock them in the church, reciting strange scriptures. Some said they recited spells like Tang Monk’s Tightening Curse, or perhaps they practiced foreign witchcraft; anyway, it all seemed secretive and suspicious. They even distributed various strange-colored pills to them. Some people said that those high-nosed, deep-eyed fellows weren’t even human like them, and for them, the Chinese were the most suitable guinea pigs for their medicines. He somewhat believed it. Since the foreign missionaries arrived in their village, there have been frequent incidents of children and women having their eyes and hearts gouged out.

But that day, Shao Changlai couldn’t care less; having a proper dinner was more important. He grabbed their luggage and ran, not even bothering to discuss the price. This gave Xiaobo a good first impression of him. Xiaobo had been in China for a while now; he had spent almost half a month just in Shanghai. Besides dealing with foreign affairs passports and various procedures for traveling in China, his time was mostly consumed by shopping. Unless the Chinese were asking for as much money as he was willing to give, negotiations seemed endless; bargaining was necessary, yet tiresome. A porter was straightforward. The second reason Shao Changlai caught his attention was that after escorting Xiaobo and Li Zanqi to the inn, he took them to a Sichuanese restaurant.

It was remote, and most locals in Hangzhou couldn’t find it, but the food was excellent. Xiaobo sweated profusely as he devoured the spicy dishes, thoroughly enjoying himself. Shao Changlai noticed that the foreigner’s appreciation for chili peppers was only at a basic level. After enjoying a hearty meal, with alcohol buzzing through his head, Shao Changlai became even bolder and, through Li Zanqi’s translation, told Xiaobo that if he had good ingredients, his cooking skills were no worse than those of the restaurant. Xiaobo agreed, saying that to know if a wine is good, one must taste it for oneself and offered to pay for the meal. Shao Changlai didn’t hesitate and promptly whipped up a plate of mapo tofu. Numbing, spicy, tender, and hot—Xiaobo nearly swallowed his tongue halfway through, finding it twice as delicious as he had anticipated. Halfway through the meal, Xiaobo asked:

“Willing to join us?”

“Italy? It’s too far, I won’t go.”

“Beijing,” Li Zanqi suggested.

“The place where the emperor resides? I’ll have to think about it.”

Xiaobo took out a silver ingot and slammed it on the table with a loud bang.

Shao Changlai’s pupils immediately dilated. “Go! Can I go?”

According to their verbal agreement, the journey to Beijing was a big deal, with the money earned going back to their hometown to buy land, get married, and have children, all within reach. That was settled. Shao Changlai felt like he had hit the jackpot. He knelt in front of the dining table with a thud, “This humble one kowtows to the foreign gentleman. You are my nobleman!” Then he kowtowed to Li Zanqi, “Master Li, you are also a nobleman to me.”

Li Zanqi quickly helped him up. “There are no big or small people here. Everyone’s knees are precious, don’t kneel for no reason.”

“What did he say?” Xiaobo was not accustomed to this kneeling.

“He said you are his nobleman.”

From then on, Xiaobo knew what a “nobleman” was. Now he spread out the map, wanting to talk to his “nobleman” about the things on the map. Xiaobo was using a military map of China’s eighteen provinces drawn by Germans, which Xie Pingyao had seen in the Canal Inspectorate and was the best map available to ordinary people. Some of the place names puzzled even the Chinese, especially when translated into Chinese, leaving them unsure of the location. The distance measurements were also inaccurate; based on his knowledge of Huai’an, according to this scale, the canal would have flowed hundreds of miles away by now.

Nonetheless, despite the complaints from the officials, they still had to use it; there was no better alternative. Xiaobo’s fingers moved through the river channels on the map, like a boat, but even slower than the slowest hand-pulled boat. Hesitant, as if every invisible small dock might be a possible stop; especially when reaching the fork in the canal, his fingers became like a sailboat unable to determine the wind direction, circling at the confluence; he didn’t know which direction to go. His fingers moved not from south to north but from north to south.

“Beijing. Tong County. Yangcun. Tianjin. Jinghai. Qing County. Cang County. Dongguang. Jing County. Gu City. Wucheng. Linqing. Liaocheng. Anshan. Nanwang. Linjiaba. Yiqiao. Yaohai. Suqian. Huaiyin. Baoying. Gaoyou. Shaobo. Sanjiangying. Zhenjiang.”

His index finger stopped just after Zhenjiang. Going further would mean turning back.

“Considering the lifestyle and mindset of a Chinese person,” Xiaobo said, “if you were a Southerner and asked to choose a place to live along the canal, where would you choose?”

Xie Pingyao pointed between Suzhou and Hangzhou, where Xiaobo’s finger hadn’t reached. After a few seconds of hesitation, he slowly retraced his steps, finally settling on the English word “Beijing.”

“What if you were a northerner? Like someone from Beijing or Tianjin.”

Xie Pingyao lifted his finger from the top of Beijing and placed it back down between Beijing and Tianjin.

“I’m talking about an ordinary Chinese person,” Xiaobo said.

“I am an ordinary Chinese person.”

“What about a foreigner? Like someone from England or America. Now, today.”

Xie Pingyao still pointed between Beijing and Tianjin.

“Is it safe? The Boxers just caused trouble, and your own emperor and empress dowager are still hiding in Xi’an.”

“They’re hiding from you, not the Boxers,” Xie Pingyao said. “The movement to support the Qing and eliminate foreigners didn’t start in Beijing. And targeting you foreigners didn’t start from Beijing either.”

“Your words sent a chill down my spine,” Polo Marco said, touching the back of his neck, a look of fear crossing his face. The setting sun cast a crimson hue over half of the canal, resembling a stretched wrinkled crimson silk. As boats passed by ahead, slicing through the water with sharp, delicate sounds akin to tearing silk, the surface smoothed over again, the silk unfurling endlessly.

Polo Marco lit a Manila cigar with a match from Bryant & May, each box containing only eighteen matches and exorbitantly expensive. “Mr. Lee reminded me that I may have chosen the wrong time to come to China.”

That was also Xie Pingyao’s concern. It might not just be the wrong time, but a dangerous one as well. Heading north, they were venturing into the heartland of the Boxers. Thankfully, these past few days had been safe.

“In the dozen or so days I spent in Wuxi, I roamed around alone every day, just to see if the Qing Empire was still friendly to Mr. Polo Marco,” he said proudly, drawing deeply from his cigar with each puff. “Very friendly. No one caused any trouble, at most, they just watched, like watching monkeys in a zoo. So what? Having this strange face is bound to attract attention. One year, I met the American traveler W.E. Geil in the Netherlands. We went to see the canals in Amsterdam one after the other. He told me that the canals in China were even more worth seeing.

We even agreed to come to China together; but when I came, he was nowhere to be found, who knows where he ran off to. You don’t know Mr. Geil? He’s a real great traveler. What I’m trying to tell you is that Mr. Geil told me personally that we have this strange face to be looked at. When he went to Africa, those black people surrounded him in layers, you know what he did? The great Mr. Geil sat cross-legged on a tree stump in the tribe, letting his African friends have a good look.

He even asked them if they wanted to touch his face. Then he stretched out his neck.” Polo Marco took another deep drag from his cigar, imitating Mr. Geil by stretching out his neck. Suddenly, the boat shook, causing Polo Marco to choke on his cigar, tears welling up in his eyes as he swallowed the smoke. The boat shook again. Instinctively, Polo Marco grabbed his purple clay teapot and teacup. They heard the sharp voice of the boatman:

“What’s going on?”

The second apprentice replied, “Master, someone is causing trouble!”

They both turned to look back. Through the narrow passage between the two side cabins, they saw the second apprentice gripping the boat pole at the stern, with another boat coming up behind them, slightly smaller in size. The first apprentice stuck his head out from the cockpit but was waved back by the master. Shao Changlai was preparing dinner in the cramped kitchen, holding a bunch of spinach as he emerged. Lao Xia rolled up his sleeves and walked to the stern, bowing his fist to the approaching boat.

“Dear friend on the road, please enlighten us.”

A jovial male voice came back, “The wind got too strong and I couldn’t control the sail. Sorry about that, haha.”

The voice was familiar. Lao Xia patted the second apprentice on the shoulder, and the young man stepped aside, revealing the speaker. A broad-shouldered man with a stubbly beard. Summer was still far away, and the man was wearing a short-sleeved coarse cloth sweatshirt. With a single flex of his fist, the muscles on his arms were rippling. Shao Pingyao had seen this man after lunch. At the time, Polo Marco was sprawled on the deck in a bamboo chair, dozing off. Shao Pingyao was also feeling a bit drowsy, lying on the bunk, flipping through the poetry collection of Mr. Gong Dinggan, “Miscellaneous Poems of Ji Hai”.

His eyelids were fighting a losing battle against sleep. Polo Marco called for Mister Shao. He went up to the deck, and Polo Marco was in conversation with someone from the adjacent boat. The cargo ship was smaller than theirs, perhaps on its return journey, carrying only half a hold of pine wood. Its draft was not too deep, and despite its larger sails, its speed was not slower than theirs. The man was wearing the same short-sleeved sweatshirt at that time. He asked Shao Pingyao to translate for Polo Marco:

“Where are you from? Did you come to our Great Qing Empire to rob or to kidnap brides?”

This person’s accent is from the northern regions, it’s evident from the pronunciation.

Shao Pingyao translated, “Which country are you from? Did you come to China to earn money or find a wife?”

Polo Marco chuckled, “Alright, brother, if there are any good-looking ones, help me find one. Chinese girls are worth more than half a canal compared to Italian women.”

The man replied, “Fake foreign devil, tell the real foreign devil that it depends on how much hair he has on his body. If he has a lot of hair, introduce him to a female gorilla; if he has little hair, just find a female monkey to make do with.”

The man’s facial expression remained friendly, and he kept smiling at Polo Marco and Shao Pingyao while speaking. But the other three men on his boat were laughing uproariously, slapping their thighs and stomping their feet in joy. Shao Pingyao knew they had encountered troublemakers. While he was wary of foreigners, he had no respect for arrogant people like them. He smiled too and translated to Polo Marco, “He has two sisters, one with long hair and one with short hair. Which one do you like?”

Polo Marco replied, “Of course, the one with long hair.”

Shao Pingyao translated, “Mr. Dimarko says if possible, he’s more interested in your older sister.”

The man nearly jumped off the boat. Thankfully, the other two behind him held him back, and he could only stamp his feet and curse angrily in place. Another person adjusted the sail, and their boat sped ahead.

Xiao Boluo felt very aggrieved. He spread out his hands to Xie Pingyao and said, “Should I choose the younger sister with short hair?” Xie Pingyao also shrugged in response. Xiao Boluo reclined back in the bamboo chair, widened his eyes, and puckered his lips. “It was supposed to be a lovely nap. But now, with thoughts of the beautiful girl with long hair, how can I possibly sleep?”

They paid no attention to when their boat reached the back.

Xiao Boluo was about to get up to check when Xie Pingyao stopped him. The person coming towards them was Xiao Boluo. He walked through the aisle to the stern, where Lao Xia was still negotiating with the boat behind them. Seeing Xie Pingyao approaching, Lao Xia gestured for him to halt. Matters on the boat were primarily the responsibility of the captain. Lao Xia said, “There’s a heron in the canal on the right. Did you see it, my friend? Seeing a heron while sailing is a good omen, it signifies wealth for brothers.” They all looked towards the canal, and sure enough, a thin, tall-legged heron stood by the water, its neck curved towards the sky. Surrounding it was a thin layer of green, which made the heron look even more like a graceful solo dancer, pleasing to the eye.

“Is that so?” Short-sleeved undershirt asked. “Hey, fake foreigner, ask your real foreigner at home if they have the same custom.”

A man with a braid wrapped around his neck came up behind him, patting his shoulder. He lowered his voice and said, “Let’s talk after the heron.”

The other two also agreed, “Big brother is right. When you’re away from home, it’s better to believe than to doubt.”

Suddenly, there was a sense of estrangement among them, and Short-sleeved Undershirt couldn’t quite keep his composure, but he held back. Running a boat, to a large extent, relied on the unpredictability of fate; no one could say for sure what they might encounter before the next whirlpool. So, keeping a calm heart was crucial, knowing that trouble could strike at any moment. The cargo ship veered to the left rear, quickly catching up to them side by side. Short-sleeved Undershirt was still standing on the deck, giving Xiao Boluo a thumbs-up. Xiao Boluo gestured back with the teapot, “Short-haired sisters are good too.” He had no idea what had just happened.

“Foreign ink drinker!” Short-sleeved Undershirt shouted. “You translate for me, what nonsense is this foreigner spouting?”

Xie Pingyao realized he was giving Short-sleeved Undershirt an out, so he let him have it. This time, he was part of the provocation too; if he hadn’t translated in a non-sisterly manner, this wouldn’t have happened. So he said, “Mr. Dimakos invites you for tea.”

“We’ve got good tea here, he’s ruining it!” Short-sleeved Undershirt’s voice was mostly carried away by the wind. The wind also pushed their boat forward significantly.

They were far ahead now.

Lao Xia instructed his second disciple to lower the sail and slow down. The sun had set. Before dusk rose from the earth, it emerged from the water first, and half of the canal began to turn into murky darkness. The second disciple didn’t understand why they needed to slow down. Logically, they should be speeding up at this moment, pushing forward tirelessly to reach the next town dock before the lights of the city extinguished.

“Let them go,” the master confirmed that their supplies were fine, squatted at the stern, and took out a pouch of dry tobacco. Exhaling smoke slowly, he said, “Don’t make enemies before nightfall.”

“But we didn’t provoke them,” the second disciple said.

“With you around, we did,” the master replied.

The second disciple was confused. “Master, you said seeing a heron brings good luck. Do we have this custom on the water?”

“If you believe, then it exists; if you don’t, then it doesn’t,” the master said.

The second disciple scratched his head.

After finishing his smoke, Lao Xia knocked the ashes off against the side of the boat, stood up, and shouted to the eldest disciple, “Whenever you see people, stop and camp for the night.”

“Master, do you mean to stop at their place?” the eldest disciple asked.

“You blockhead! I mean stop wherever you see people!”

They camped out in the wilderness, and Xiao Boluo had no objections. It was his first time seeing so many stars in China. Since there was no rush to get to the dock, they anchored the boat and started making dinner. Xiao Boluo, Xie Pingyao, and Shao Changlai cooked separately and ate first. Lao Xia and his two disciples cooked separately as well. After everyone finished eating, Xiao Boluo suggested going for a walk along the riverbank. Shao Changlai cooked a stir-fried pork dish for this meal, with plenty of chili making the meat even more fragrant.

Xiao Boluo ate a lot, enjoying the meal. Lao Xia was a cautious man; he decided to stop halfway for the night for one reason: safety. Short-sleeved Undershirt wasn’t one to pick a fight he couldn’t handle; if they missed tonight, they might never catch up with him again in this lifetime. Better safe than sorry. He explained to Xie Pingyao that it was good to stop here; there was a church nearby, and they could go see it if they had time. Maybe Mr. Dimakos could meet some fellow countrymen there. In the past two years, this route has been less traveled. When he and the eldest disciple passed by here, they often saw a group of people singing hymns in front of the church.

Lao Xia considered all foreigners as Xiao Boluo’s countrymen. Lao Xia’s caution also extended to leaving Shao Changlai on the boat and sending the eldest disciple to accompany Xiao Boluo and Xie Pingyao ashore. “My people will ensure your safety, but feel free to do as you wish. Consider this as keeping a hostage. With someone remaining on the boat, he’ll know we haven’t tampered with your belongings. Moreover, rest assured, we won’t abandon you. This became a regular pattern in their activities ashore over the next few days, with the accompanying person changing from the eldest disciple to the second disciple. The second disciple was young and restless; it was good for him to get some fresh air.

That night, they stepped onto the shaky gangplank and the shore, beneath a sky full of stars. Hearing about the church, Xiao Boluo was even more eager. He leaned on his cane, with a Cossack whip fastened to his belt, saying it was to ward off wild dogs.

In the pitch-black surroundings, they could barely make out a winding path on the riverbank, illuminated only by the stars in the sky and the reflections in the canal. Over the years, countless feet had finally worn a narrow path in the earth, devoid of grass. Dead grass, new grass, all appeared black in the night, only the road was bright. The eldest disciple led the way, followed by Xiao Boluo and then Xie Pingyao. They walked towards the dark shadows of houses in the distance. In the scattered villages, there were a few dim lights, making the houses and their way of life seem even more humble. The eldest disciple mentioned that if he remembered correctly, the church was behind the village. He repeated his master’s instructions: just look at the church, and avoid entering the village if possible. Better to avoid unnecessary trouble.

It felt like they were close at hand, yet they walked and sweated profusely without reaching their destination. Later, they heard a few dreamlike barks of dogs. Xiao Boluo gripped the whip tightly in his hand, but not even a yellow weasel darted past them. The village was as quiet as the river at night. The section of the riverbank near the village sloped down, worn by many footsteps, sinking lower with each step. The dock was rudimentary, just a square space cut out by the river, enough for a boat like theirs to dock.

Dozens of wooden piles were driven into the bank side by side. The steps on the dock were also made of wood. If the three of them had keen enough eyes, they could tell that they were poplar wood, as they had been soaked in water for so long, turning black with decay. Xiao Boluo stomped his foot on the dock, nearly collapsing the wooden steps. They circled to the back of the village from the riverbank and saw a darker, slender house in the darkness. The eldest disciple pointed upwards, and only then did Xiao Boluo and Xie Pingyao notice an even thinner cross standing on the roof. One windy day, the cross had been blown crooked to the right side of the church roof.

The church was dark and deserted, its door tightly shut. Weeds had grown over the threshold. Xiao Boluo eagerly went to knock on the door, but Xie Pingyao suggested letting the eldest disciple do it. The eldest disciple, experienced in wandering the world, knocked three times, paused, added a bit of force, then knocked three times again, and paused once more. After the third set of knocks, someone woke from an uneasy sleep and grumbled irritably:

“Who’s that deadbeat? This house is already occupied by yours truly!”

The eldest disciple knocked three more times, and the sound of shuffling footsteps from inside followed.

“Who’s there?” The voice spoke in dialect, with a whistle between the teeth. “Won’t even let people live in peace!”

The creaking sound of the door opening wasn’t pleasant either; the door frame had been dampened. True to form, the person inside grumbled as they opened the door, and a thick, musty odor hit them like a club, almost choking the three of them. The old man, with poor eyesight and wearing disheveled clothes, leaned in to get a better look at the three of them. Even then, he couldn’t see clearly, at least not enough to discern that Xiao Boluo was a foreigner. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have said, “Don’t think I’m afraid just because there are three of you. Even if you all come at me, I’m not afraid.” He mistook the bearded Xiao Boluo for the father of the other two.

“Are you a priest?” Xie Pingyao asked on behalf of Xiao Boluo.

“I’m not a priest,” the old man said, chuckling and revealing a large, dark gap in his mouth. “I’m a cobbler. That was ages ago.”

“And now?”

“Are you all homeless too? Then I’m just like you.”

“Do you know where the priest went?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him for half a year. When I arrived here, I just pushed open the door and came in. He must have left long ago.”

“Why did he leave?” Xiao Boluo asked.

“Because your dad was a foreigner,” the old man said, poking Xie Pingyao’s nose. Even in the darkness, his ambiguous expression was visible. “I heard that people from the north were coming in droves, to kill!” He made a chopping motion with his hand. “If your dad were still here at that time, he’d have to run away too.”

When Xie Pingyao translated, he omitted “your dad.” This was a mistake they couldn’t afford to make. “Have the people from the north arrived?”

“Haven’t seen them,” the old man said grandly, straightening up and readjusting his clothes that were about to slip off. He yawned. “Back then, I was living in a nunnery twenty miles away.”

“I mean, did you see any northerners coming when you were at the nunnery?”

“The nunnery lost its followers long ago, and even the last nun returned to secular life. People from the south don’t come anymore.”

Xie Pingyao found it difficult to translate; this man was completely off track. Xie Pingyao intended to wrap up the conversation and leave him to sleep. But Xiao Boluo was persistent. “Where is the priest in the church from?”

“Foreigner,” the old man said solemnly.

“I mean, is he British, German, American, Italian, or from another country?”

“Foreigner,” the old man interrupted mid-yawn, then stopped himself, very seriously correcting them. In his mind, there were only two countries in the world: China and foreign.

Xiao Boluo knew he wouldn’t get any useful answers, so he shrugged and agreed to leave, thanking the old man before they departed.

On the way back, insects were chirping whose names they couldn’t tell. Xiao Boluo cracked his whip three times in the direction of the chirping insects. His whip skills were impressive, producing a clear sound that could be heard for miles. Of course, the whip was also good for that. After putting away the whip, the three of them continued walking in silence for a while. Suddenly, Xiao Boluo asked Xie Pingyao, “Would a Chinese person seek refuge with a foreigner?”

Xie Pingyao found the question odd and asked the eldest disciple, “Would you?”

“Me?” The eldest disciple pointed to himself, accustomed to being on the sidelines of Xiao Boluo and Xie Pingyao’s conversations. There wasn’t much to see in the late night, and even fewer questions required his input, with the straight path back to the riverbank. “Would I? If Chinese people won’t take me in, why would foreigners?”

Xiao Boluo asked again, “Then in your China if a foreigner seeks refuge, would they turn to another foreigner?”

Xie Pingyao vaguely sensed some logical connection between the two questions but couldn’t articulate it. He turned to the eldest disciple again and asked, “If you were a foreigner seeking refuge, would you turn to another foreigner?”

“Well, if I’m already seeking refuge, it’s better to be with other foreigners than nowhere at all,” the eldest disciple felt it might not be entirely appropriate and added, “but it’s not a certainty.”

“What about you?” Xiao Boluo asked Xie Pingyao.

“I’d first find a friend to rest for a bit, then find somewhere others can’t find me.”

Xiao Boluo nodded thoughtfully, stroking his beard. “Hmm, that makes sense.” His cane struck the ground, making a dull sound. It was getting damp. Behind them, they heard a few more dog barks from the village. Xie Pingyao looked back; the village was completely dark, and everyone had laid down.

A lantern hung on the mast, warning the boats behind not to collide. Shao Changlai was asleep. The second disciple was also asleep. The boat owner sat at the stern, smoking. Every time the smoke pot lit up, it revealed his wide-open eyes. He was looking in the direction they came from. There were no night navigation boats in sight for the time being. The canal was devoid of any taboos. Nevertheless, he reminded himself to be cautious. As before, he arranged the night watch duty: he would keep watch for the first half of the night when there might be passing boats; his two disciples would take over for the latter half of the night when things were quieter.

Primarily, it was the eldest disciple’s duty; the second disciple was younger and could afford to sleep longer. The boat had four sleeping compartments: the boat owner and the youngest disciple shared one, Shao Changlai and the eldest disciple shared another, and Xiao Boluo and Xie Pingyao had one each. Xiao Boluo and Xie Pingyao were next to each other, and if anything happened in the middle of the night, a knock on the thin wooden wall would alert Xie Pingyao. Xie Pingyao could hear Xiao Boluo’s snoring.

After washing up, Xie Pingyao sat on the narrow bed and read Gong Ding’an’s “Miscellaneous Poems of Ji Hai Year” by the dim light of a small lamp. He had to lean in close to see the oil lamp. In one poem, Mr. Ding’an wrote: “In youth, fencing and playing the flute, the sword’s spirit and the flute’s heart are all dispersed. Who can distinguish the desolation upon returning to the oar, where a myriad of sorrows and joys converge today.” This poem was Mr. Ding’an’s self-reflection: in his youth, he excelled in fencing and playing the flute, but now he couldn’t do either.

Now, riding a boat back south to his hometown, feeling desolate and melancholic, a myriad of sorrows and joys converged unexpectedly. It struck Xie Pingyao deeply, making his heart sink. Mr. Ding’an’s self-reflection seemed to mirror his situation on the boat. The only difference was that Gong Zizhen returned south while he headed north; returning south was to his hometown, but heading north was to an unknown place. With this realization, Xie Pingyao felt a glimmer of hope after hitting rock bottom.

Next door, Xiao Boluo shifted the table slightly, causing the boat to rock a little more, and he began writing in his diary. Xiao Boluo wrote every evening, sometimes during the day as well. His Italian script was elegant and flowing, especially with his shiny Parker pen. To the second disciple, there was a sense of magical ritual in the scene. He often leaned against the cabin wall, watching Xiao Boluo write in his leather-bound notebook from a distance. Once caught, he would shyly smile and dart away. Now, Xiao Boluo began his routine journaling.

He had many things to record, and many words to say.

After lunch, Xie Pingyao’s mind slowed down. It took three or four times longer to read a line of text, and worse, he often forgot where he left off. He felt as if he were on a boat, swaying gently on the water. The sunlight was golden on the river’s surface, casting shimmering reflections through the cabin windows. He contemplated closing his eyes. When he reopened them, he realized they had been closed for a while; the book had slipped under the bed, and the sunlight had shifted to the other side of the room. Then, Sha Changlai knocked on his door, pointing outside where Xiao Boluo was looking for him.

The boat had stopped. On the shore lay a sea of golden flowers, a vast expanse of rapeseed blossoms, spreading like spilled paint. Xiao Boluo had rolled up his pant legs above his knees, bending over with his camera, shouting excitedly. He couldn’t wait for the boat to dock, so he waded into the rapeseed field. Sha Changlai didn’t know why he was looking for Xie Pingyao, except for “Mister Xie,” which he understood. Xiao Boluo’s words were incomprehensible.

Xie Pingyao stepped to the stern of the boat, where he had to remove his shoes and socks. The boat had stopped in an awkward spot, a bit far from the shore, and the gangplank wasn’t long enough. The second disciple explained that this stretch of the bank was shallow, so the boat could only get this close. The water reached Xie Pingyao’s knees, and the sensation jolted him awake from his post-lunch drowsiness.

Along the way, I’ve seen scattered patches of rapeseed flowers, but never before have I witnessed such a vast expanse resembling a flood of water. Perhaps I’ve passed by similar scenes before, but most of the river embankments are significantly higher than the surrounding land, blocking the view of the wilderness. Sitting on the boat, it’s impossible to catch a glimpse. Xiaoboluo exclaimed in amazement, “Breathtaking, truly breathtaking.” This reminded him of his hometown Verona, and the rapeseed fields he and his father saw on their trips between Verona and Venice.

Back then, he thought those fields of rapeseed were expansive, but compared to the sea of flowers before his eyes now, it’s like Verona compared to Beijing. Though he hasn’t yet reached Beijing, based on hearsay and various descriptions on paper, he believes the relationship between this magnificent city and Verona is akin to the relationship between these rapeseed fields and those of his homeland. He used to roll around in the rapeseed fields back home. Inhaling deeply, he remarked, “It smells just like homesickness.”

He asked Xie Pingyao to get up because he wanted to take some photos of him. Additionally, he requested Xie Pingyao to inform the other people on the boat, as well as any passing boats willing to stop, that he intended to take some pictures of them. His goal was to capture images of himself with Chinese people in the rapeseed fields by the canal, develop them, and send them to his parents back in Italy.

The allure of the rapeseed field was irresistible. When Xie Pingyao mentioned it to the other four people on board, everyone except Lao Xia felt tempted. Lao Xia expressed concerns about the anchor not being secure enough and needing to stay behind to guard the boat. Besides, being older, he felt it wouldn’t be proper for an old man to frolic in a field of flowers. However, he added something that made the younger folks happy. He said, “Twenty years ago, I once waited at a lock for four days. While waiting, I went ashore and the first woman I met was sleeping in a rapeseed field near the lock. Hehe.”

Xiao Boluo raised his eyebrows and asked, “So, how many women have you slept with?”

Lao Xia replied, “Not many.”

Xiao Boluo pressed, “How many is ‘not many’?”

Lao Xia chuckled, “Just not many, that’s all.”

The eldest and second apprentice perked up their ears, eager to extract some valuable information, but their master remained tight-lipped. Finally, after some murmuring between them, the second apprentice timidly spoke up:

“Master, is it about Shaobo Lock?”

This time, their master didn’t scowl. He replied, “Snap your photograph, and beware that thing might snatch your soul away.”

The second apprentice lowered his head in silence. The eldest apprentice, however, slowly began to smile towards the north, his face filled with longing for Shaobo Lock. Twenty years ago, their master was his age now. He had his first experience with a woman. The eldest apprentice swallowed hard. Apart from holding hands with a neighbor girl when he was young and foolish, he had never truly touched a woman. Their master sent him on this long journey with one condition: to find him a wife upon return. The South may be peaceful, but chaos still reigns in the world.

No matter how many routes they take, it’s certain that the further north they go, the more dangerous it becomes. Their master couldn’t lie with open eyes. So, he admitted honestly that he was afraid too. It took him nearly half his life to earn this boat. But these foreign devils are generous. One journey and you’ve made your mark, start a family, and your life is settled. Enthralled by the promise of stability, the eldest apprentice headed north.

It was the first time for him to take a photograph, and except for Xiaoboluo and Xie Pingyao, everyone who stepped in front of the camera was doing so for the first time. Xie Pingyao shouted at passing boats on behalf of Xiaoboluo, but most of the boatmen thought it was a joke. The sun was shining, it was the perfect time to travel, what was the point of taking pictures in a rapeseed field? They chuckled a bit and sailed on. But some took it seriously.

Some were afraid, having heard that the device could capture one’s soul. It was said that when the Eight-Nation Alliance entered Beijing, they first aimed that thing at the Boxers, the Emperor, and the Empress Dowager, and after a few flashes, the Boxers fell one by one. Although our Qing Emperor and Empress Dowager didn’t fall, they lost half their souls; on their flight westward, they looked like paper figures, floating along the road; even sitting in the dragon sedan or the ox-drawn carriage, they hung their heads, the Emperor Guangxu’s hat constantly slipping down to cover his eyes, and the Empress Dowager’s phoenix crown slipping down as well, unable to straighten their waists.

Then there were those curious ones, wondering how the people standing in front of the camera ended up inside the machine, transformed into inverted little figures. They wanted to see for themselves. But when Xiaoboluo said “OK,” they hesitated again, stepping off the boat onto the shore but staying on the periphery.After Xiaoboluo took photos of Xie Pingyao, Shao Changlai, the eldest apprentice, and the second apprentice, no outsider dared to try. Sure, you didn’t charge for it, but who knows if it cost something else—maybe even your life.

Finally, the first outsider to try was a prisoner. It was hard to determine his age; his hair was disheveled, his cheeks so thin they seemed ready to pierce through his skin, wearing ankle shackles and a wooden collar, one pant leg longer than the other, the shorter one used to bandage a wound temporarily torn off. There was a scar the size of two silver dollars on his dark ankle. He didn’t come off the boat out of interest; he didn’t have that freedom. The escorting officials wanted to see the real deal, so they dragged him off the boat together. Once off the boat, the officials didn’t dare to be the first to go up, so they urged the prisoner to try first.

“To reach the outskirts, you still have thousands of miles ahead,” the official, despite his effeminate demeanor, forced out a voice of authority, speaking solemnly to the prisoner, “Along the way, you may be exhausted to death, starved to death, frozen to death, or even die from illness. If not, you might fall prey to bandits. Go ahead and try; even if you die, you’ll die close to home. But if you don’t, damn it, you’ll gain some glory. How many exiles have had their picture taken? And how many crawled out of those foreign machines alive? Once you’re out there in the outskirts, among that bunch of criminals, damn it, you’ll be the boss. You’ll be on par with me.”

The exile pondered over the words. The official had a point. Death by photograph was as good an end as any, but surviving would be a jackpot. He pounded his chest with the wooden collar, saying, “I’m with you, sir! I’ll give it my all!” Then, he handed the wooden collar to the escort, saying, “Sir, you can’t expect me to wear this for the photo, can you? If I’m going to die, I want to do it cleanly. If I end up in the underworld, how can I face my parents?”

The official surveyed the surroundings; the chances of escape were slim. So, he unlocked the wooden collar. As he unlocked the leg irons, he squatted down and then stood up again, saying, “Damn it, I almost fell for your trick. Standing in the rapeseed field, damn it, you might as well be on a chariot of fire; no one can see anything.”

The exile reluctantly stood amidst the rapeseed flowers, wearing the leg irons, and had his photo taken. Despite summoning the courage to face death, he was visibly nervous. Not being accustomed to facing a camera, his features and cheekbones seemed stiffer than usual. Nevertheless, Xiaoboluo found a good angle. In the photo, the exile was surrounded by gleaming rapeseed flowers, with the canal stretching behind him. In the foreground and background, there were a total of eleven boats captured in the scene.

Nothing changed; he was still the same exile before the photo. The official asked, “Damn it, are you dead yet?”

“Reporting to you, sir, I seem to still be alive.”

“Well, that’s good. Put the wooden collar back on yourself. Doesn’t hurt, does it?”

“I don’t feel a thing. Mister, are you sure you’ve taken the photo? Do you want to take another one?”

The exile’s actions uplifted everyone, and those who wanted to try took a half step forward. Xiaoboluo instructed everyone to stand apart in a scattered manner for a group photo. Then, Xie Pingyao operated the camera, and they took a group picture. In this photo, Xiaoboluo crouched in the front; if he stood up, he would have been taller than everyone else. The others stood casually behind him. The background was the canal, a necessary inclusion, with two boats conveniently blocking most of the crowd, totaling fifteen boats. At this moment, the river was bustling with activity.

After packing up their belongings, a pair of brothers finally brought up the request for Xiaoboluo to take a photo of them together. Due to livelihood reasons, the younger brother was heading to Tianjin. The journey to Tianjin was long and arduous, and this parting might lead to a separation of countless miles. They were accustomed to the concept of life’s departures and farewells, and perhaps this would be one such instance. It seemed necessary to preserve a memory. Although they couldn’t physically hold the photo, by taking a group picture, they completed a solemn and dignified farewell ceremony in their hearts. Xiaoboluo agreed. They reopened the camera.

He didn’t just take one photo for the brothers, but three. He directed them on how to pose and suggested gestures that would better express their brotherly affection. Additionally, he made them promise that no matter how busy or difficult their lives became, they would regularly meet up. Life is fleeting and ever-changing, and every meeting counts. As he spoke passionately, his speech naturally accelerated, and he unintentionally slipped into Italian. Xie Pingyao had to ask him to repeat it in English.

They continued their journey on the boat. It was still early evening, a time when Xiaoboluo typically sat at the bow, sipping tea. He invited Xie Pingyao to join him, and this time they drank Longjing tea. The conversation turned to photography. Xie Pingyao was a novice, so he listened intently to whatever Xiaoboluo had to say. Xiaoboluo mentioned that his Kodak camera had accompanied him across much of Europe, but unfortunately, due to the heavy luggage this time, he couldn’t bring along the excellent photos he had taken. He confidently asserted that based on his photos alone, he could write a contemporary world history. It was a job he would surely do sooner or later. He explained that while photos freeze individual moments, they also string together memories, unfolding past events into the future. Just as you can see today and tomorrow within history. Then he said:

“Do you know, when I was a child, my younger brother and I used to play hide and seek in a rapeseed field, but as we played, he would disappear?”

“Where did he go?”

“You never knew where he would go. Have I ever told you about my younger brother?”

“No.”

“I do have a younger brother. A real one.”

“Oh.”

Xiaoboluo subconsciously tapped on the tabletop. “My brother always loved to disappear. On January 8, 1883, the statue of King Vittorio Emanuele II was unveiled. I remember it so clearly because it was also my brother’s birthday that day. We had cake early in the morning just so we could go see the unveiling. After the unveiling, there was a grand parade. It felt like all of Italy’s army had marched through. Every street in Verona was packed, teeming with people.

There were infantry, cavalry, artillery, and even logistics personnel carrying pots and pans. The entire city came out to watch. I didn’t realize there were so many people in Verona. I suspect not just Veronese; half of Italy must have shown up. Can you imagine, a child lost in a sea of people? I was completely insignificant, like a drop of water in the Adriatic Sea. Both my brother and I wanted to see the parade. Before leaving, our parents made sure I held my brother’s hand tightly, warning that if we got separated, we might never find each other again. I promised my parents that I would complete the mission successfully.

To ensure nothing went wrong, I tied a rope around both our waists, thinking if I lost grip of his hand, at least the rope would keep us together. But that day, there were so many people; I’ve never seen so many in my life. I held onto my brother’s hand tightly, but we still got separated in the crowd. The problem was, when we were separated, the rope not only didn’t help, but it hindered me from reaching my brother. He had already untied his end. Every time I tried to reach for him, someone stepped on the rope, anchoring me in place. My waist was firmly tethered. My brother disappeared again.”

“And then?”

“I couldn’t even focus on the rest of the parade; I kept searching until the streets were empty. Garbage littered the ground. Verona, in Latin, means a highly elegant city, but that day, it felt like everywhere was just trash. I didn’t dare to go home. When night fell, I met my parents and servants under the grand San Zeno Cathedral. They said they had mobilized all the relatives and friends they could contact. Most of them went to the outskirts. If they encountered anyone on the streets, they were all helping to find my brother.”

“They didn’t scold you?”

“No, who had the time to scold me? Have some tea.” Xiaoboluo evenly poured the last bit of tea into two cups. “We went to the Arena di Verona, visited Juliet’s house, and even searched Juliet’s tomb. And you know where we found him in the end? This little rascal fell asleep in a bridge arch over the Adige River. That kid!” Xiaoboluo burst into laughter, tears streaming down his face before he could finally calm down.

Xie Pingyao finished his tea. He didn’t find anything amusing.

“My brother is gone,” Xiaoboluo’s voice turned somber. He opened the teapot lid, pouring out the tea leaves, and arranging them neatly on the table. “I mean, my brother, he’s dead.”

“It’s a bit unexpected. But one could have guessed if they tried hard enough.” Xie Pingyao expressed his condolences. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“How did he die? When we were kids, I used to hate him for always playing disappearing acts. Now, it would have been better if he truly vanished. As you Chinese say, I’d be willing to burn incense for the Buddha every day.”

“We Chinese also have a saying: Life and death are determined by fate, and wealth and honor are bestowed by heaven,” Xie Pingyao said. “Shall I brew another pot of tea?”

“Halfway through dinner, the gatekeeper notified him that someone was looking for him. He went out and never came back.”

“Who was looking for your brother?”

“Who knows? The gatekeeper didn’t recognize him either. From his description, some say it was the Mafia. But the Mafia is everywhere.”

“I see.”

He didn’t know who Xiaoboluo’s brother was, or whether he was truly dead. If he was indeed deceased, he didn’t know when, where, or how it happened. All he could do was remain silent, unsure of what to say, even though silence didn’t seem appropriate at the moment. He wasn’t quite accustomed to Xiaoboluo’s personality; usually, he was all jokes and laughter, but suddenly, he would open up and pour his heart out.

Xiaoboluo also realized he had said too much unintentionally. He quickly adjusted his facial muscles, forcing his eyes and cheeks to smile along. He chuckled, rubbing his chin, and said, “At least one of the three photos I took of those brothers turned out good, damn it.”

When they woke up, they had passed Zhenjiang. More accurately, they had missed it. The scenery along the waterway and the landscape were similar to before. Regrettable, but tolerable. Xiaoboluo regretted not being able to enter Zhenjiang city or take a serious look at the junction of the Grand Canal. He had slept through it, Xie Pingyao had slept through it, and even Shao Changlai had slept through it. The only ones awake were Lao Xia and the eldest apprentice.

In the dead of night, they quietly steered the boat out of the dock, raised the sails as the night wind picked up, and headed northward. Sailing at night was not easy; the sky was dark, and the canal even darker. However, because of the darkness, they could distinguish the water from the surroundings. With fewer boats at night, they kept their eyes wide open, but the journey was smooth and safe. It was said that traveling faster at night was an illusion, but based on the experience of the master and apprentice, it was indeed faster this time.

When Xiaoboluo and Xie Pingyao were awakened by the loud voices from the nearby boat, it was already early in the morning. At meal times, there were lightweight small boats constantly shuttling back and forth in the busy waters. At this moment, the loud boss lady was repeating the breakfast menu over and over again: soy milk, pancakes, fried dough sticks, tofu pudding, porridge, steamed buns, steamed dumplings, steamed buns, noodles, as well as pickled vegetables, dried tofu, and hot and sour peppers.

Xiaoboluo pushed open the window and saw several boats meandering on the misty river, like sailing through a fairyland. Because of the swirling mist, the boss lady standing at the bow banging on the bowls and pans sounded suddenly distant, while in Xiaoboluo’s eyes, the short, stout, and sturdy boss lady appeared graceful and elegant like a fairy. On the distant shore, indistinct reeds and wild grasses were growing, compared to the clear night scene before he went to bed, the misty scenery in front of Xiaoboluo made him a little confused, feeling as if he was in a different world. He knocked on the wall to ask the neighbor where they were now. Xie Pingyao had just woken up, and he came out and asked the boatman.

The second apprentice, who had just finished a night shift and had slept soundly, said with a smile, “We’re heading towards Yangzhou.”

“What about Zhenjiang?”

“You guys slept right through it,” the second apprentice said cheerfully, quite pleased with his quirky remark. It was as if he had been awake the whole time, watching Zhenjiang come and go inch by inch.

Xie Pingyao slapped his palm. In Xiaoboluo’s plan, they were supposed to go around Zhenjiang City and take a good look at how the Grand Canal intersected there. He regretted not reminding Lao Xia in time, but he also remembered that he seemed to have mentioned it. Even if he didn’t specifically instruct, such an important place shouldn’t have been omitted. He was hesitating about how to explain it to Xiaoboluo when Lao Xia came over and said:

“Sorry, I made the decision. The expenses for this section can be separated and counted on me.”

“It’s not about the money.”

“I know,” Lao Xia said, “It’s about fate.”

Xie Pingyao stopped, preparing to translate it to Xiaoboluo after Lao Xia finished speaking. Lao Xia took a deep breath, “Last night when I went ashore to buy food, I ran into that guy in the short-sleeved shirt.” Xie Pingyao waited for him to continue. Lao Xia added, “He’s from the canal gang.” Xie Pingyao fell silent.

Cao Bang was too sharp-minded. He hailed from Qingjiangpu, right from the heart of it. Officially, he worked as a translator, but he was no stranger to the happenings of Cao Bang in his daily life. Since its inception in the second year of Emperor Yongzheng’s reign, Cao Bang had indeed accomplished some beneficial deeds for canal transport and societal welfare. In the face of corruption along the waterways and the bullying and deceit in society, where official intervention fell short, Cao Bang participated in governance in the manner of a grassroots guild. Agile and swift, they made an immediate impact, resembling a clean stream flowing along the canal. However, as the saying goes, every forest has its pests; as power grew, it became increasingly difficult to control. Gradually, it acquired the characteristics of a gang.

When Xie Pingyao arrived at the Cao Yun governor’s office and Qingjiangpu, due to the decline of canal transport and government control, Cao Bang was no longer what it used to be. Slowly, its members transitioned from the water to the land, and the once-established rules had long since dissipated. Those with a fiercer bite could proudly claim to be part of Cao Bang. Thieves would boast about their association, as would bullies and those who preyed on others. The mere mention of it was enough to deter, emboldening many rogues, proletarians, and seasoned criminals.

Xie Pingyao often dined at a noodle shop near the shipyard. It was common for a couple of burly men to enter, finish their meal, pat their mouths, declare, “I’m from Cao Bang,” settle their bill and leave without another word. The shop owner’s small eyes would flicker nervously as he forced a smile, waiting until they were out of earshot to curse them and their ancestors. The first few times Xie witnessed this, his sense of justice flared, prompting him to inquire why the shop owner didn’t demand payment.

“Who knows if they’re genuine or not,” the boss said, “If they happen to be real Cao Bang members and upset them, they might bring a gang of thugs to smash up my little shop. Who can I turn to then?”

“Turning a blind eye will only make matters worse.”

“You’re from the government, don’t you handle these things?”

Xie Pingyao was left speechless.

“None of you intervene, so how can we common folks dare to step up? Doing so would be courting death.”

“Can I also claim to be from Cao Bang and get a free meal?”

“You’re a respectable gentleman, I trust you wouldn’t stoop to that.”

Xie Pingyao blushed intermittently, unsure if the boss praised or scolded him.

On another occasion, when he was still at the government office, the leader of the Cao Bang responsible for the waterways between Baoying and Huai’an came to cause trouble, demanding an increase in the tolls collected at the checkpoints. Their reason? “Our brothers can’t make ends meet anymore.” The appeasing official was puzzled, “Wasn’t it just raised by one point two months ago?” The troublemaker retorted, “In these two months, the number of our brothers has increased by two points.”

With a dismissive wave of his sleeve, the appeasing official replied, “That’s your problem.” The troublemaker countered, “We’re just timely reporting to you, sir. How to handle it is up to you.” “If our brothers are starving and accidentally break something, Your Excellency has plenty, so please be understanding.” They, being of low rank, lacked long sleeves to wave, so they shook their hands and left. Next, it was the turn of the appeasing official to pace around a pomegranate tree. After dozens of laps, he stopped and said to his subordinate who was holding pen and paper:

“D*mn it, raise it by one more point.”

The subordinate dipped his pen in ink, “Sir, should I really raise it?”

“If we don’t, who will take the blame if things go south? Yours or mine?” Facing towards the direction of the imperial city, the official clasped his fists, “As loyal subjects, we should prioritize the prosperity of the nation and the people. We should serve the court with benevolence and soothe the hopes of the elderly.”

From this, Xie Pingyao grasped the underlying message from Old Xia regarding Cao Bang crystal clear.

The boat owner’s encounter with the short-sleeved thug was purely coincidental. At dusk, they arrived at the largest dock near the city of Zhenjiang. Experienced captains and sailors, having amassed considerable knowledge, adhered to a few key practices: unless necessary, avoid mooring in cities at night. Cities are crowded, making docking and departure troublesome, and the costs are higher. Docking fees are steep, and the expenses for purchasing supplies are also elevated. It’s common knowledge that prices double just ten meters past the city moat.

As evening approached and they were still some distance from the city, Old Xia decided to rest and moor at an ancient town near the city. After securing a good spot, Old Xia instructed his first apprentice to guard the boat while he took his second apprentice and Shao Chang to the market. Xie Pingyao accompanied Xiao Boluo for a nearby stroll ashore, planning to return to the boat for dinner when the time was right.

Xiao Boluo and Xie Pingyao visited an old mansion in the town, built by a scholar during the Southern Song Dynasty. Unfortunately, a few generations later, the scholar’s family line ended, and the grand house was occupied by various people over time. It fell into disrepair about fifty or sixty years ago due to persistent rumors of hauntings. Locals said that on the nights of the first and fifteenth of every month, cries and songs could be heard simultaneously in the courtyard, with strange, ancient-sounding voices that seemed to traverse time and space, arriving dust-laden in this vast estate.

When Xiao Boluo and Xie Pingyao entered the mansion, they saw the dilapidated buildings, with peeling paint on the once intricately carved beams and pillars, and felt a pang of sadness. The only signs of life were the overgrown weeds and about a dozen beggars and vagrants who had taken shelter there, unafraid of ghosts. Also unafraid were the foxes and weasels that roamed the estate, who arrogantly raised their bushy tails upon seeing the foreigners.

Near the market was a cargo dock. After buying everything they needed, Old Xia, his apprentices, and Shao Chang were ready to head back. However, Old Xia, out of curiosity, decided to see what kind of goods were being loaded and unloaded at the Zhenjiang docks. Given the uncertain times, passenger boat business was becoming increasingly difficult, and he had long been considering switching to cargo transport. His second apprentice and Shao Chang waited on the wet stone steps while Old Xia, with his hands behind his back, inspected the cargo boats one by one.

One boat, loaded with marble, was docked. Though the boat was small and carried only a modest load, it sat deep in the water. He pondered for a while, thinking about where the marble might be headed. It was well-known among boatmen that marble-laden boats were extremely heavy, making them fragile; a collision could cause them to break apart. Hence, these boats were always given a wide berth. Transporting marble was a tough job, earning the crew hard-earned money, and disputes were often resolved brutally, with boatmen risking their lives, even using the stones as weapons.

As Old Xia finished his inspection and continued walking, he looked up and noticed, in the dim evening light, a man in a short-sleeved shirt. The man was still wearing a short-sleeved shirt, but this time in a different shade of gray. Despite the poor lighting, Old Xia caught a glimpse of the man’s gaze, which meant the man had seen him too. Lowering his head, Old Xia pretended to be in a hurry and quickly left the cargo dock. As he walked, he replayed the scene in his mind: first the short-sleeved man, then his gaze, and then the people around him.

How many were there? Five? He closed his eyes and saw six. One in a long robe, five in short attire, six unfamiliar faces. Then he saw a makeshift canopy behind them, supported by four wooden stakes and covered with the rain tarps commonly used on boats, with a table and a few chairs underneath. Lastly, he noticed a red triangular flag embroidered with a golden “Cao” character, and immediately broke into a sweat. He had seen many such flags, varying in color and shape but all signifying the same thing: Cao Bang. Five to ten years ago, seeing such a flag would be akin to meeting a relative; now, encountering one meant bad luck, like running into a ghost.

He didn’t make a sound. Returning to the boat, he started a fire to cook dinner. After eating and tidying up, everyone went about their business. He stayed awake with his first apprentice, waiting for the others to fall asleep and the dock to quiet down. They untied the boat and raised the anchor, pushing off gently to ensure the boat drifted silently away, as if in a dream.

The boat skirted around the outskirts of the city, moving smoothly as the night turned to dawn.

Xiao Boluo opened the window and asked, “What’s going on?”

“To avoid the Cao Bang,” Xie Pingyao said, standing by Xiao Boluo’s bed. Xiao Boluo, who liked to sleep naked, was sitting up, shirtless. To quickly convey the potential seriousness of the situation, Xie Pingyao added, “This Cao Bang, you know, is sometimes like the Italian Mafia.”

Instantly, goosebumps rose on Xiao Boluo’s skin, and he flopped back onto the bed, saying, “Damn, okay.”

As they approached Yangzhou, the boat captain reminded Xiao Boluo and Xie Pingyao to prepare to disembark. “Take your time looking around,” he said. “Yangzhou is a slow city; you can make up for the time lost in Zhenjiang.” Then, with a sly smile, he added to Xie Pingyao, “And there are beautiful women.” Xie Pingyao translated this for Xiao Boluo, who snapped his fingers and grinned, “Of course. Marco Polo praised Yangzhou, and all of Europe knows this place has beautiful women.” Xiao Boluo even explained why Yangzhou was known for its beauties: simply put, where there are many men traveling north and south, there will be many women, and naturally, many beautiful women. As an international metropolis along the canal, the center of canal transport, Yangzhou was a true “gold sink,” much like Venice.

Old Xia didn’t shy away from talking about women. Having spent most of his life on the water, he had experienced the loneliness and monotony of long journeys down to his bones. In his view, men needed women just as boats needed water. Xiao Boluo was even less reserved about such matters. Li Zanqi had specifically mentioned that Xiao Boluo was a “normal man.” Coming from the same homeland as Romeo and Juliet, it was normal for him to have more emotional and romantic needs.

Xie Pingyao responded by asking, “What is an ‘abnormal man’?” Li Zanqi clarified, “Not abnormal, just not ‘normal.'” He explained that they had a tendency to extremes—either stripping themselves bare with little provocation or covering themselves in layers, both physically and mentally, to the point where it was impossible to fully undress. “Don’t be embarrassed,” Li Zanqi had said, “we’re both like that.” Xie Pingyao didn’t argue, knowing that Li Zanqi was absolutely right.

Before entering Yangzhou, Xie Pingyao harbored some hopes regarding women, but the outcome was disappointing. He and Xiao Boluo went to the right place but met the wrong people. This misadventure occurred because they stopped by a closed-down printing house called “Cangjie” on their way to the “Zhong Guniang Jiaofangsi” (The House of Many Girls).

Had the Cangjie printing house not been on their route or had it not gone out of business with a sign reading “Old Woodblocks for Sale at Discounted Prices” hanging at its entrance, they wouldn’t have been tempted to stop by. The character “鬻” on the sign especially intrigued Xiao Boluo. Up to that point, it was the most complex character he had seen on any sign, notice, or slogan in China. He guessed that such an elaborate character must have a profound meaning. Xie Pingyao explained that it wasn’t so profound, having mainly two meanings: one was “porridge,” and the other was “to sell.” The place used to print books but had gone out of business, and now they were selling off their printing tools at discounted prices.

Xiao Boluo insisted on going inside, saying, “Issues of the lower body are important, but so are issues of the upper body.”

Xie Pingyao thought to himself, “That’s the damned difference.” If it had been him speaking, he would have phrased it as a comparison: “Issues of the lower body are important, but issues of the upper body are more important.”

It was truly a pity that the Cangjie printing house had closed. The intact woodblocks were impressive enough, but the broken and damaged ones being sold off left Xie Pingyao astounded. Among them were blocks for works like “Annotations on the Poems of Su Dongpo,” “The Twenty-Four Histories,” Bai Juyi’s “Bai Shi Changqing Ji,” “The Classic of Mountains and Seas,” “Commentary on the Water Classic,” Gong Zizhen’s “Jihai Miscellaneous Poems,” and “Zhu Xi’s Record of Flowers in Jiangnan.” The shop owner specifically recommended the latter to Xie Pingyao, showing him a printed book made from those woodblocks.

Xie Pingyao had heard of this book before. During his school days, a friend who loved obscure and esoteric books had once enthusiastically discussed it with them. The book was published during the Tongzhi era, authored by a group of scholars, detailing the top eight brothels in the Zhuxi area of Yangzhou. It was both a thorough survey of the brothel industry of that time and the most reliable guide to procuring services. The authors described the forty-six famous courtesans from these brothels in such vivid detail that many men would start drooling at the mere mention of the book.

Xie Pingyao wanted to buy it, but he didn’t have enough money; even with a discount, the woodblocks weren’t cheap. The shop owner, understanding this, suggested he recommend it to Xiao Boluo, as foreigners usually had more reliable finances. Xiao Boluo liked everything he saw, but since he couldn’t read Chinese, any woodblock was as good as another to him. He told Xie Pingyao that there was too much to carry, and he had only traveled a small part of the vast Qing Empire. While good items shouldn’t be missed, he could only take a token few. Besides, they were about to go somewhere else anyway.

Xie Pingyao then recommended a damaged woodblock from “Jihai Miscellaneous Poems” to him. It contained one of his favorite poems, which he had just reread a few days earlier:

In youth, I wielded a sword and played the flute,

Sword’s spirit and flute’s heart both faded away.

Who divided the desolation after the oar returned?

A thousand sorrows and joys gather in this moment today.

Xie Pingyao chose a woodblock from Kang Youwei’s “Examination of Japanese Bibliographies.” It wasn’t large, but he was delighted to discover that he had stumbled upon a rare find. He had read a version of this book published by Shanghai Datong Translation Bureau four years earlier (in the winter of 1897). Although the book was ostensibly about examining bibliographies, it contained many of Kang Youwei’s ideas, which later influenced the Hundred Days’ Reform. Xie Pingyao hadn’t expected to find it at the Cangjie printing house.

The shopkeeper carefully wrapped the woodblocks first in xuan paper and then in cotton cloth. Each man carrying a woodblock, they proceeded to the Zhong Guniang Jiaofangsi. Old Xia had recommended the place, saying that it was popular among the educated. Even the name suggested culture. Historically, the Jiaofangsi was an imperial institution for managing music and dance, which later became a training ground for accomplished courtesans. By now, however, it was just a name, no different from the eight brothels detailed in “Zhu Xi’s Record of Flowers in Jiangnan.”

But the name “Zhong Guniang” (Many Girls) was truly charming, evoking a sense of abundant springtime pleasures. “Jiaofangsi” added a veneer of respectability, as if draping a veil over the term “brothel.” It must be admitted that having this veil made a significant difference. Men who visited the Jiaofangsi felt justified, believing the place to be elegant and refined.

The decor of the Zhong Guniang Jiaofangsi was indeed elegant, devoid of any overtly sensual or lustful atmosphere. Xie Pingyao initially thought they had entered a scholarly academy, as the walls were adorned with calligraphy and paintings by famous literati, including almost the complete set of works by the “Eight Eccentrics of Yangzhou.” Xiao Boluo also felt they might have come to the wrong place, remarking to Xie Pingyao that the refined setting made him feel “chilled down below.”

The madam came forward to welcome them, addressing them as “Sir,” “Master,” and “Lord,” making it seem like only people of high status frequented the place. She briefly introduced the establishment, explaining that all the girls were not only beautiful but also talented. The private rooms were divided into two themes: the literary side, with room names derived from the “Book of Songs,” such as “Guan Guan Ju Jiu,” which sounded quite refined; and the martial side, with more evocative names like “Willows Hear the Orioles.”

Before Xie Pingyao could figure out the difference between the literary and martial sides, Xiao Boluo, unable to wait any longer, gestured his preference for women who were round, plump, and large. Without needing Xie Pingyao to translate, the madam understood Xiao Boluo’s taste and directed him towards the martial side, bowing slightly and saying, “This way, Foreign Master.”

Xiao Boluo didn’t hesitate. He handed his woodblock to Xie Pingyao, wiggled his hips, and followed the madam, carrying his cane in his hand and urging her to hurry. The madam, after taking a few steps, turned back and instructed another woman who was approaching, “Sister Tianxiang, take good care of this gentleman.”

Tian Xiang was a bit younger and very pretty. She asked Xie Pingyao, “Sir, are you from around here or there?” As she spoke, a little fang peeked out from the left side of her mouth.

Xie Pingyao was already sweating. This wasn’t his first time in a brothel. When he was at the translation office, he had gone to a Shanghai brothel twice with a few bachelor colleagues. But those were group outings, where the shame and unease were shared among everyone, leaving little for him to bear. Both times, they visited the same place, whose decor screamed its line of business. The moment you stepped in, you could feel that bodily pleasure was paramount, an absolute truth.

The rooms were adorned not only with old erotic paintings but also with crude Western-style nude oil paintings. Every detail encouraged and urged you to indulge, to open up, to explode; restraint and tranquility were illegal there. Despite the overwhelming encouragement, Xie Pingyao still felt awkward. He couldn’t overcome one obstacle: two strangers, suddenly becoming so intimate, and then parting as if they’d never met. The feeling was strange, almost surreal. He couldn’t help but wonder what the other person was doing before and what they would do afterward. So, both times, he wasn’t very successful. The second time, he felt he had made some progress. While he was getting dressed, the girl, whose stage name was Huan Cui and who was three years younger than him, cheekily slapped his butt and said, “Brother, you’re just starting out.”

“I say, sir, why don’t you try the martial arts performance as well?”

In Tian Xiang’s sly smile, Xie Pingyao saw a mix of worldly wisdom and desire. He couldn’t tell if she was in charge or simply working there. He felt a sudden surge of confidence. If he were to pin this woman named Tian Xiang down now, he was sure he could handle everything with a mix of explosive passion and composed control. Yet, he felt sticky and uncomfortable. He unbuttoned the top clasp at his neck and said:

“It’s spring. I want to cool off first.”

Tian Xiang laughed, took his left hand, and with a knowing and affectionate gesture, scratched his palm. “Please, follow me.”

In the reception room, two old men were talking. They wore long gowns and melon cap hats, and were sitting cross-legged while drinking tea. Four grand armchairs were lined up, and Xie Pingyao sat in the third one, separated from a man wearing a silk vest over his long gown by a redwood tea table. The man was around fifty years old, with a long, thin mustache that kept getting in the way as he drank tea, so he constantly brushed it aside. Xie Pingyao placed two carved blocks on the table between them with a thud. The man in the silk vest glanced at them, then continued talking to the man in the melon cap.

“It’s a long story,” said the man in the melon cap.

“What’s so complicated?” snorted the man in the silk vest. “In my opinion, there’s only one solution: harsh measures in chaotic times. Don’t just give them a taste; open a whole dye shop!”

Tian Xiang poured tea for Xie Pingyao and said, “If you need anything, just call for me.” As she left, she lightly brushed Xie Pingyao’s hand again. This small gesture didn’t go unnoticed by the two men.

The man in the melon cap commented, “Looks like Tian Xiang still favors the young ones.”

The man in the silk vest pointed his chin towards Tian Xiang and said, “You old rascal, don’t you always cozy up to the young and pretty ones too?”

Tian Xiang daintily raised her hand, feigning shyness with a soft whimper, “You two are so naughty, having your eyes on others while eating from your own bowl.”

“The taste in the bowl is one thing,” said the man in the melon cap, “and the taste in the pot is another.”

Tian Xiang waved her hand and gracefully glided out the door.

“Youth is indeed a good thing,” the man in the silk vest glanced again at the carved blocks on the tea table. “Sir, what are these square objects? Some kind of treasure?”

“Woodblocks,” Xie Pingyao replied after taking a sip of tea. His embarrassment had almost subsided. After another cup of tea, he would go find Tian Xiang. If she preferred literature, he would discuss literature; if she preferred martial arts, he would discuss martial arts. “They’re from the Cangjie Woodblock Printing House.”

The mention of the Cangjie Woodblock Printing House piqued the man’s interest. “Their establishment—can one have a look?”

Xie Pingyao pushed the parcel over. The man in the silk vest opened it and held the woodblocks at a distance to examine them. “Oh, Gong Ding’an’s work. They specialize in this.” He read the poem even when it was reversed. Setting it aside, he opened another package. Examining it from various angles, he muttered to himself, “Who wrote this? The style seems somewhat familiar.” After scrutinizing it for a while, he concluded, “I haven’t read this. What’s the book?”

“Japanese Bibliography,” Xie Pingyao replied. “By Mr. Kang Nanhai.”

The reception room suddenly fell silent. It wasn’t until the man in the silk vest slammed the woodblocks onto the table with a loud bang that Xie Pingyao realized the two men in melon caps had been quiet for a while.

“It’s this Kang Youwei, ruining the traditions of my Qing Dynasty!” the man in the silk vest exclaimed, slamming down the woodblocks and rising from his seat.

“And that Liang Qichao too!” the man in the melon cap added, also standing up.

Discussing current events in a brothel caught Xie Pingyao off guard.

“I’d like to ask, why did you buy woodblocks of these two?” the man in the silk vest asked Xie Pingyao. “Gong Zizhen and Kang Youwei, they seem to be on the same path.”

One of Xie Pingyao’s experiences was never to discuss politics with those whose minds were rusty. “Just happened to come across them, so I bought them.”

“Wasn’t it just a coincidence to buy woodblocks of Zeng Guofan and Lord Xu Tong? Even those of Li Zhongtang and Li Daren?” the man in the silk vest pressed.

“I didn’t come across them.”

“It’s not that simple, is it?”

Once you’ve made up your mind, no amount of explanation will suffice. Xie Pingyao thought, rather than argue with them, he’d go straight to the root of the problem. “Whether it’s Kang Nanhai, Xu Tong, or Li Zhongtang, what does it have to do with us? We’re just patrons.”

“I don’t like that kind of talk. We’re not the same,” the man in the silk vest retorted. “The women I patronize aren’t reformist prostitutes. They have bound feet and adhere to the traditional virtues. They haven’t embraced reform yet!”

Hearing the commotion, Tian Xiang entered the room. She had no interest in national affairs, didn’t care who Kang Youwei or Li Hongzhang were; she just wanted peace and prosperity. “Gentlemen, please don’t debate important matters in our establishment. It affects the mood. When the mood sours, as you all know, ruining a good thing is secondary; harming your health is the main concern.” She first comforted the two men in melon caps. “You two, have a few more drinks. The tea is on the house, courtesy of Tian Xiang.” Then she pulled on Xie Pingyao’s sleeve. “Sir, I see you’ve dried off enough from your sweat. Time is fleeting, and if you don’t hurry, that foreign gentleman’s good time will end. We don’t understand his Javanese language, you know.”

The man in the silk vest asked, “Tian Xiang, what foreign gentleman?”

Tian Xiang realized she had slipped up and quickly tried to rectify, “There’s no foreign gentleman, that sir’s surname is Yang.”

But the man in the silk vest was reluctant to believe. “Tian Xiang, matters concerning the national interest require careful words.”

Tian Xiang covered her mouth. In a gust of wind, the man in the melon cap had already left, his voice echoing in the lobby, “Where’s that foreign devil?” Xie Pingyao followed suit, as Xiao Boluo was under his care. As Xie Pingyao exited, the man in the silk vest followed, grabbing the woodblocks as he went, one in each hand. Xie Pingyao saw the madam stomping her foot in the lobby, calling for help. She had been caught by the man in the melon cap, questioned about the whereabouts of the foreigner. To catch her breath, she revealed Xiao Boluo’s chamber, “Mandarin Ducks Intertwined.” The man in the melon cap turned the corner at the end of the hallway. The man in the silk vest skillfully caught up, saying, “Hold on, I’ve got something for you!” Xie Pingyao followed closely behind the man in the silk vest.

Since its opening, the Courtesan Guild had never encountered such absurdity. A patron invoking national righteousness and patriotic sentiments? The outcome was as follows: the man in the silk vest handed the woodblock of Kang Youwei’s work to the man in the melon cap, who promptly kicked open the door to “Mandarin Ducks Intertwined.” Poor Xiao Boluo was in the midst of his final sprint atop a plump, fair-skinned woman when, in an instant, the woodblock from the man in the melon cap met his forehead.

With only one chance, the man in the melon cap attempted another blow, but Xiao Boluo had already leaped from the bed. As he grabbed the man in the melon cap’s arm, he remembered to cover the breathless, screaming woman with a blanket. Both the man in the silk vest and Xie Pingyao witnessed Xiao Boluo’s still towering lower half, as well as the moment he exerted force, sending the man in the melon cap flying beneath the bed.

The man in the silk vest also attempted to charge forward with the woodblock, but halfway there, he was kicked back barefoot by Xiao Boluo. This Xiao Boluo, with his stiff and muscular body covered in disheveled hair, knocked down two men before wiping the blood from his forehead with the blanket and tidying his hands, eagerly grabbing his clothes to put them on. As he dressed, he asked Xie Pingyao, “Did these two blocks get bitten by a mad dog? Just because of them, they think they can murder me?”

Once dressed, the escorts for the courtesans arrived. The madam didn’t give the man in the silk vest and the man in the melon cap a hard time; they were obviously regulars, perhaps even held some status. Apologies were out of the question, and they staunchly refused to cover any medical expenses. The madam could only offer on behalf of the courtesans. She had Xie Pingyao translate for Xiao Boluo, expressing regret and stopping the bleeding was the least they could do. Additionally, Xiao Boluo’s bill for this visit would be waived.

“Damn, I’ve wasted my time!” Xiao Boluo exclaimed angrily. “What a mess! I worked diligently for half the day, and yet, achieved nothing!”

“Sorry, sorry,” the madam said. “You’re always welcome to come again, even today. We’ll offer a special deal, buy one, get one free.”

“I’m in a bad mood,” Xiao Boluo replied. “Let’s go.” He picked up his cane and left the Courtesan Guild with Xie Pingyao, feeling disgruntled. As they reached the end of the street, Xiao Boluo asked Xie Pingyao, “What about you?” Xie Pingyao shrugged. Xiao Boluo chuckled, “Even though doing half a job is worse than doing nothing at all, knowing there’s still plenty left undone makes doing half a job not too bad.” Xie Pingyao shrugged again. As they left, Tian Xiang lightly scratched his palm. It itched in his hand, but he clenched his teeth to resist scratching, biting down as he left with Xiao Boluo. He didn’t forget the two woodblocks.

Back on the ship, Xie Pingyao went to his own cabin to find the Longquan seal paste. The paste, containing cinnabar, pearl powder, and other ingredients, had anti-inflammatory and hemostatic properties. One of the earliest well-known seal paste brands, the Eight Treasure Seal Paste from Zhangzhou Lihua Zhai in Fujian Province, was originally used as a “Eight Treasure Ointment” for treating external injuries. Holding the seal paste, he knocked on Xiao Boluo’s cabin door. It took Xiao Boluo quite some time to open the door, making rustling noises inside. Xie Pingyao caught a faint smell of blood. Xiao Boluo didn’t shy away from it, pointing to the river outside the window with a grin.

“All because of a few milliliters of mischief. Get rid of it, and we’ll be respectable again.”

The noises of the market surged in from outside the window, and no one would notice if a few milliliters of strange liquid had fallen into the water. The canal flowed on, and any strange liquid would just be water added to water. Xie Pingyao opened the seal paste, picked out a lump, and applied it to Xiao Boluo’s forehead. It was important to prevent inflammation and stop bleeding.

The list was long, with plenty to do in Yangzhou. Xiao Boluo took the pen and first marked the yamen near Ziteng Street, convinced that Marco Polo had been involved there. Then he marked the Church of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, followed by the imperial wharf and other places. As they left, he changed his mind again, deciding to go to the church first.

Xie Pingyao had accompanied two Belgian experts on their visit to Yangzhou and had heard about the Church of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. At that time, the church hadn’t been fully completed. Officials from the yamen had escorted them to Fuchun Tea House for breakfast, where the tantalizing aroma of layered oil cakes and jade-colored dumplings filled the air. The under-construction Catholic cathedral became the hottest topic among the locals because of its location next to the breached city gate, earning it the nickname “Breached Catholic Cathedral.”

At that time, they had only heard its name and hadn’t seen it. This time, when they saw it, they found the church to be quite intriguing. It was a fusion of Eastern and Western styles: a medieval Gothic-style church, facing west with two seventeen-meter-high bell towers; a Chinese-style gate and screen wall in front of the church; the gate tower carved from bricks, with the words “天主堂” (Church of the Sacred Heart) inlaid in the center. Further ahead were two not-too-thick banyan trees known as “French plane trees,” which were rare in Yangzhou. They had been transplanted from Shanghai just a few years ago. While banyan trees in Shanghai were originally imported from England, they became known as “French plane trees” because they were more commonly found in the French Concession and their leaves resembled those of plane trees.

The heavy doors of the church were tightly closed, and it was eerily quiet all around. Only by straining one’s ears could distant voices selling tofu and dried bean curd be heard, occasionally punctuated by a few bird calls that didn’t seem to come from the banyan trees. Xie Pingyao knocked on the door, but there was no response. Xiao Boluo tucked his cane under his arm and pushed the door open directly. Despite the noonday sunlight filtering through the stained glass, the interior of the church was dimly lit by candles on the ten large candlesticks protruding from the pillars and on the altar in the middle.

The statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus on the altar flickered softly in the candlelight. What startled Xie Pingyao was the dozen or so people standing quietly with bowed heads in front of the altar—two foreigners and the rest Chinese, the women wearing voluminous clothes and the men with braids. As the door slowly opened with a low creak, they turned around in fear, their eyes wide open, collectively facing the doorway. It seemed more like they were startled by the constantly growing, shifting shape of the bright light block than by the sound of the door opening.

A tall priest dressed in black robes spoke in English, “Who are you?”

“I’m from Italy,” Xiao Boluo replied.

A small, slender priest beside him asked in Italian, “Where in Italy?”

“My name is Paolo Di Marco, from Verona,” Xiao Boluo replied in Italian as well.

From then on, they continued to communicate in Italian. Xie Pingyao didn’t understand Italian, so he could only sit on the side and nod politely. Whenever they needed him to explain something, they would switch to English to ask him. Similarly, the tall priest didn’t understand Italian either; he communicated with his slender colleague in German. When the tall priest spoke to Xiao Boluo, his German was translated into Italian by the shorter priest before being relayed to Xiao Boluo. In other words, unless a topic directly involved Xie Pingyao, he would only hear English. Otherwise, the languages he heard around him were German and Italian, which he couldn’t understand. Soon, he realized they were tactfully avoiding him. After a cup of tea, with courtesy fulfilled, he excused himself to explore other parts of the church and left the tall priest’s reception room.

As he closed the door, he saw the tall priest standing up excitedly, clenching his fist tightly, his chubby face suddenly tensing up like dough. Although Xie Pingyao didn’t understand German or Italian, they belonged to the same Indo-European language family as English, and some words and sentence structures were similar. Some key words could also be guessed with reasonable accuracy. In their conversation, he caught mentions of the Boxer Rebellion, anti-foreigner sentiment, the Eight-Nation Alliance, Beijing, the embassy, the Emperor and Empress Dowager of the Qing Dynasty, and several mentions of the same name: Federico, Federico Di Marco.

At this moment, a group of Chinese men and women were seated in rows on benches, with a bespectacled, scholarly man explaining the Bible to them. When Xie Pingyao entered, they were very cautious, but upon hearing that Xiao Boluo could speak foreign languages, they relaxed slightly. Only when they entered the reception room with the priest did they truly settle down. Now Xie Pingyao sat in the back row of chairs, and they only glanced back briefly before returning their attention to the lecture. The bespectacled, scholarly man was telling the story of Moses leading the Israelites through the Red Sea.

The Egyptian cavalry surged over the hill, their horses’ hooves and chariots kicking up clouds of dust that rose into the air. From afar, they closed in rapidly. Moses planted his staff into the ground, and suddenly, the skies darkened as if at his command. The Red Sea began to churn, massive waves rising on either side along a clear line. Rising like walls from the earth, the waves grew higher and larger until they became towering barriers: the Red Sea itself held back by waves, seawater separated by seawater.

Between these angry walls of water lay a dry seabed strewn with sand and stones. The dim water turned day into night. Moses withdrew his staff, turning to the Israelites, and raised his arms, calling out, “Follow me!” The Israelites ignited torches where they had been cooking, lifting the flames high as they followed Moses. The roar of the sea quieted, the world fell into a hush, “The Lord is with me,” only the reverent chant of many voices could be heard as they crossed the Red Sea.

Years ago, Xie Ping had read the Bible, but he couldn’t recall this particular passage from memory. Surely, it differed from how the bespectacled, scholarly man recounted it, but Xie Ping had to admit, his delivery was majestic and vivid, much like the church itself. When he finished, the others began to whisper among themselves, and the scholarly man with glasses sat down beside Xie Ping. “Bad, wasn’t it?” he said.

“No, I’m in awe,” Xie Ping replied.

“Do you believe the Lord is with us?” the scholarly man asked.

Xie Ping shook his head. “But you believe, so He is.”

The scholarly man nodded to him respectfully. Someone called out to him, and they had new questions to ponder. Xie Ping decided to wait for him to return; he believed they could have more meaningful conversations. Just then, Xiao Boluo and two priests emerged from the reception room. They had to move on to the next site.

The yamen entrance was guarded by two soldiers, their helmets askew, spears and sabers crossed over their chests. A place of official business, unauthorized personnel were not allowed in. The yamen gates stood open, their vermilion paint peeling, and the lions flanking the entrance seemed far more imposing than the soldiers. Xiao Boluo tilted his head to one side, maneuvering his neck past the spears and sabers to peer inside. He glimpsed the paved path beyond the lofty threshold, grass sprouting between the cracks, with scattered trees lining the way—pines, pagoda trees, and crabapples. Further ahead lay the main hall, where tables and chairs could faintly be seen, along with a plaque hanging on the wall. Whether it read “Bright Mirror High Hanging” was unclear due to the dim lighting. This courtyard ended here. Beyond lay several more courtyards, their purposes and inhabitants left to speculation.

Xiao Boluo withdrew his head and remarked, “Would Old Ma really serve as an official here?”

“That’s what he said himself,” came the reply.

“The Venetian claims he made a fortune in Yangzhou, with a room full of gold and silver, and fourteen exquisite maidens accompanying him at every meal,” Xiao Boluo relayed to Xie Ping, instructing him to translate for the guards. The statement seemed rather dull, and translating it to the guards only added to the boredom, but Xie Ping complied nonetheless. The soldiers’ reaction was exactly as Xie Ping had expected.

Their faces remained stern, as if they hadn’t heard a word, their only response being to straighten their askew hats. Xiao Boluo felt a bit disappointed, muttering to himself, “Well, I believe it anyway.” This statement didn’t need translation, but Xie Ping translated it anyway, almost involuntarily. One soldier chuckled, then the other followed suit. Why they laughed, Xie Ping couldn’t say, but they seemed amused by Xiao Boluo’s “belief” as if it were a joke. Xiao Boluo turned to Xie Ping and said, “Whether you believe it or not, if I say a few more words, even the stone lions by the gate will laugh.”

They circled around the yamen. Xiao Boluo wanted to take another lap, but there was no difference between one lap and two. Aside from the vermilion walls, there was nothing more to see. They headed to the Western Garden of Tianning Temple, where the imperial pier was located.

“Whenever emperors traveled south along the Grand Canal, they would disembark here,” Xie Ping told Xiao Boluo as they discussed “Dream of the Red Chamber.” In China, “Dream of the Red Chamber” is akin to Dante’s “Divine Comedy,” authored by Cao Xueqin. Cao Xueqin’s grandfather, Cao Yin, served as an official in Suzhou’s textile industry, as well as in the salt administration of Jiangning and Lianghuai. Xie Ping couldn’t quite explain what exactly those positions entailed to Xiao Boluo, but they seemed significant enough, given that Kangxi himself wouldn’t have allowed him to receive guests at the imperial pier in the Western Garden otherwise. In the Western Garden, Cao Xueqin’s grandfather was also tasked with engraving “The Complete Tang Poems” by imperial decree.

Chinese culture is vast and profound, and despite Xiao Boluo’s eagerness to learn, he found it quite challenging to follow along. Eventually, he drifted off into a daydream. They spent the remainder of the day in the Western Garden, but there wasn’t much noteworthy to mention. In Xiao Boluo’s diary entry for that day, most of the words were dedicated to a Manila cigar with a square head. He described sitting on the stone steps of the imperial pier, realizing how tired his legs, body, and mind were, and then lighting the cigar. It was the most fragrant one he had ever smoked.

With each puff, he felt as if his soul was transported to another realm, an indescribable pleasure akin to the first two seconds of orgasm during lovemaking. He vividly felt that each part of his body had its own soul, from his head to his toes. Inhaling and exhaling the smoke, all the souls, big and small, floated out leisurely. It was beautiful. He wrote that the scent of the cigar attracted many smokers from Yangzhou, who sat around him, heads tilted back and eyes closed, as if in a dream, relishing his secondhand smoke. Even two stray dogs, normally aggressive towards foreigners like him, remained silent that day. They lay on the lower steps of the pier, intoxicated and entranced, struggling to even open one eye.

Though Yangzhou was enjoyable, the road still beckoned. Xiao Boluo had a knack for finding pleasure wherever he went, relishing every moment spent in one place, yet ready to move on at a moment’s notice. On the boat, he was just as content, sipping tea, engaging in conversation, jotting down notes, snapping photos with his camera, and even pretending to consult a compass when encountering a branching waterway. If he found his own tobacco lacking, he’d happily borrow Old Xia’s pipe for a more satisfying smoke.

The scent of aged tobacco in Old Xia’s pipe, accumulated over many years, was intoxicating, and Xiao Boluo even tried to negotiate buying the pipe, which was over a foot long, from him. Old Xia refused to sell, knowing that on long journeys, abstaining from alcohol and rare encounters with women were easier to endure with the comfort of his pipe. Without the occasional puff to cloud his mind, a journey from south to north would surely drive a person mad. In his younger days, Xiao Boluo traveled with a dog, pampering it with good food and drink, but after three or four months on the road, even the dog couldn’t bear it and jumped into the water, preferring to become a stray rather than continue the journey.

The boat continued its journey, with meals eaten on the move. As they departed Yangzhou, the prime time hadn’t yet passed, and by mid-April, the weather had become even warmer. The banks were lush with vibrant greenery, tinged with a translucent hint of yellow, so beautiful it almost brought tears to one’s eyes. In stark contrast to the fertile fields, a few beggars wandered sporadically along the river embankment, their ragged clothes hanging loosely, trousers rolled up above their ankles.

Adults leaned on wooden sticks, their bodies bent with poverty and despair, drained of vitality. Apart from food, there was little that could spark light in their eyes. Yet, among them, the children’s eyes shone brightest, their only source of radiance due to their small stature, making their eyes appear larger as they watched each passing boat with curiosity. Xiao Boluo instructed Shao Chang to bring a pile of steamed buns and pancakes and, upon spotting them, he greeted them with a hearty “hello” and threw the food onto the embankment with force.

After passing a sunken ship, Old Xia reminded them that Shao Bo Ancient Town and Shao Bo Lock were up ahead. Houses and villages began to appear along both banks of the river, with numerous docks of various sizes. The southern-style buildings reflected hazily in the water, and indiscernible figures and animals moved about as if there were another world beneath the canal’s surface. According to the plan, they needed to stock up on provisions in Shao Bo Town before waiting at the lock.

The river stretched leisurely, and upon rounding a bend, they indeed spotted a vast expanse of water in the distance. Countless boats dotted the expansive surface.

The second apprentice exclaimed, “Oh my, how long will it take to get through all of this?”

Xiao Boluo knew they had encountered the legendary situation. He stood up from his chair, visibly excited. Shao Bo Lock was a crucial hub on the canal, where ships from the north and south converged. However, due to the geographical difference between the south and north of the Qing Empire, the water levels varied significantly here. Shao Bo Lock had to use a series of three gates and two chambers to raise and lower ships for passage. Three sets of gates, two chambers: raise, lower, raise again, lower again, in a continuous cycle.

The chambers were small, unable to accommodate many boats at once, resulting in a backlog of vessels on both sides. While it was possible to navigate on a slow day, during the peak seasons of shipping or in times of drought when the water levels were too low, delays of ten days or more were not uncommon. Old Xia recounted how he once waited at Shao Bo Lock and ended up spending the first night of his life with a woman without any issues; with so much waiting, there was ample time to start a family. With so many boats backed up, the prospect of a long wait made everyone anxious. Xiao Boluo, however, remained unperturbed. Since waiting was an inevitable part of traversing the canal, why not embrace the experience fully?

They disembarked in Shao Bo Town. Based on Old Xia’s experience, they could expect to wait at least four or five days with so many boats ahead of them. Therefore, Shao Chang was tasked with stocking up on food, daily necessities, and water. Shao Chang returned with a cart full of supplies. Xiao Boluo and Xie Ping also took a stroll around the town. When the boat departed, they squeezed their way into the midst of more boats.

They found themselves at the back of the queue. Xiao Boluo had never witnessed such a spectacular scene before. While Venice had its fair share of boats in the lagoon and gondolas weaving through the city’s canals, it couldn’t compare to this. Some flat-bottomed cargo ships formed convoys of twenty or thirty boats, connected from bow to stern, stretching for miles. There was a variety of boats—transport ships, merchant vessels, official boats, passenger ships, general cargo ships, and even private vessels for personal use.

Some were rowed, others were propelled by poles, oars, or sails, and there were even two steam-powered paddleboats. The appearance of the boats varied greatly; some had exaggeratedly high keels, while others had flat bottoms so shallow that a two-pound fish could splash water onto the deck with a flick of its tail. Some ships had red lanterns hanging all around, which piqued Xiao Boluo’s curiosity—he had heard they were brothels. Then there were short-distance pleasure boats adorned with intricate carvings and paintings. Even while waiting at the lock, the boat owners ensured that the music continued, drawing the attention of onlookers from other boats.

There were also dignified vessels whose occupants were unknown—whether high officials, wealthy merchants, or distinguished ladies and their entourage—all windows tightly shut, curtains drawn, the details within obscured from view. Even the servants on board were rarely seen moving about, and the entire ship remained as silent as a house built on water. However, the temporary mega-dock was bustling with noise, as every person seemed to be talking at once, creating a cacophony akin to a boiling pot. People accustomed to life on the water had booming voices, and conversations could be heard even across a boat’s distance. Xie Ping sat on a bamboo chair at the bow of the boat, feeling as though the cacophony ahead might boil the canal, and their boat could be bounced around by the roiling river at any moment.

Xiao Boluo kept Xie Ping busy, enlisting his help along with Shao Chang to assist him in taking photographs. One moment, he was snapping shots on the deck, then darting to the stern, and next, he would climb up the mast to capture the entire scene of the moored boats. He photographed from every angle—up, down, front, back, left, and right—ensuring he covered every inch of the scene. Some onlookers spotted him clinging to the mast like a clumsy monkey and shouted encouragement or whistled from afar. He couldn’t quite discern whether they liked him or found him bothersome, so he responded by blowing kisses in their direction.

Once he had finished his flurry of activity, and his passion for photography had waned with the setting sun, the air was filled with the aroma of dinner rising from the cooking fires on the water’s surface, enveloping the entire Shao Bo Lock in a comforting fragrance.

After dinner, there was a call from the front—movement. Half an hour later, the boats ahead of them began to slowly inch forward. They followed suit, but after moving less than ten yards, they came to a halt again. The other boats in their line of sight also stopped, and the lock entrance reverted to being a bustling dock filled with moored boats. Old Xia informed Xiao Boluo and Xie Ping that they could sleep if they felt tired; the next forward movement might not happen until midnight, and it depended on the mood of the lock’s official.

If the official was in a bad mood, this might be the last movement for the day. Xiao Boluo and Xie Ping sat on the deck, sipping tea absentmindedly and engaging in sporadic conversation. They couldn’t recall what they had talked about once they had finished speaking. Half of the boats around them had lit candles or lanterns, while the other half remained dark. In the darkened boats, there were usually one or two flickering lights—evidence of boat owners, sailors, and passengers smoking. Xiao Boluo also lit a cigarette and thought about inviting Old Xia to join him for a smoke, but Old Xia declined, saying he wanted to rest for a bit, as he might need to get up in the middle of the night. If the lock gates were opened for passage, he didn’t want to miss a single moment.

Then, overcome by drowsiness, he stood up, bid Xiao Boluo goodnight, and made his way to his cabin.

The next morning, Xie Ping couldn’t tell if they had moved forward during the night. The surrounding boats remained the same; if there was any movement, it was collective, more like a lateral shift. However, Old Xia informed them that they had indeed moved forward, around midnight. Dozens more boats had joined the queue overnight, making the line longer and longer. For over a thousand years, this time of year had always been the busiest on the canal. When he was at the Office of the Inspector General of Transport, an old superior had told him that if the canal were stagnant, the friction from the passing boats during the spring and summer would heat the water and even bring it to a boil.

Xiao Boluo climbed up the mast again, marveling at their boat being engulfed within the vast procession of boats ahead and behind. “It’s absolutely magnificent!” he exclaimed. He felt incredibly fortunate to be the only person from all of Verona to witness the might of the Chinese Grand Canal. Well, not just Verona, but all of Italy, all of Europe. However, as he clung to the mast, he wrinkled his nose at an odd smell. Turning to Xie Ping, he asked, “What’s that smell?”

“Urine and feces,” Xie Ping replied.

As the sun rose in the east, mist continued to rise from the water’s surface, carrying with it the unpleasant odor of human waste. Overnight, the smell of urine and feces from the river had risen along with the water vapor.

The lock chamber was still a considerable distance away, but the water surface was already contracting, resembling a funnel. The tightly packed boats slowly arranged themselves into two columns and moved forward. The progress was so sluggish that if you focused solely on this activity, it became unbearable, feeling less like slow movement and more like no movement at all. After repeating the same tasks over and over and going ashore three times, by the morning of the third day, Xiao Boluo’s curiosity and patience had finally run out.

He went ashore for the fourth time, with Xie Ping following suit, jumping from one boat to another until they reached the riverbank. The eldest apprentice also requested permission from his master to go ashore for a while. He remembered his master mentioning having slept with a woman at this place. However, he wasn’t as fortunate as his master; upon reaching the shore, Xiao Boluo suddenly felt the urge to see what kind of lock gate could be so slow.

The riverbank was covered in short dry reeds, green grass, and various wildflowers. A path had been worn into the ground by countless footsteps. As they walked farther, the terrain grew increasingly elevated, culminating in the sight of three lock gates and two lock chambers at the highest point. Just before the first lock gate, they spotted a massive iron ox lying prone, emitting a faint black glow reminiscent of polished steel. An hour later, a friend of Xie Ping’s, who was on duty at the lock chamber, introduced them to this iron ox, with its slightly upturned face and sharp horns: it was about 1.98 meters long, 1.1 meters tall, and weighed two tons.

As they continued forward and reached the highest point, the entire structure of the ship lock became clear, with three gates and two chambers visible at a glance. They arrived just in time to witness a convoy of ships carrying bricks and tiles preparing to pass through the lock. The convoy consisted of eighteen boats, stretching out in a long procession. Before entering the lock, the convoy disbanded. As the first gate of the lock was raised, one boat after another entered the first chamber of the lock. The gate was nestled between two large stone piers.

Dozens of men, bare-armed, pushed the capstans, their sweat glistening as it rolled down their tense backs, the sunlight shining down, casting a gleam on each body. The gate slowly lifted. One side of the chamber was filled with the convoy. Once they were all inside, each boat was secured to the chamber wall with thick ropes, fastened to iron hooks embedded in square brackets on the wall. With the boats securely in place, the first gate was lowered, and the second gate opened. The higher water level of the second chamber flowed into the first, gradually lifting the boats. When the water levels of both chambers were equalized, the boats sailed out of the lock, reentering the canal, and the convoy resumed its formation.

As they exited the second chamber, the open gate was closed behind them. Meanwhile, a new set of boats had already entered the first chamber. This process repeated itself. At the same time, boats traveling south followed the same procedure, passing each other in opposite directions with boats traveling north. Between the raising and lowering of the gates, the filling of the chambers, the equalizing of the water levels, and the passage of the boats, only the command flags of the gate commander waved, and only the synchronized chants of the men operating the capstans echoed. The ships on the canal had to navigate up and down accordingly.

Xiao Boluo pursed his lips and shook his head, sighing deeply. “The natural force is irresistible indeed, but it’s only because it hasn’t encountered the timely intervention of human wisdom. Without the Shaobo Lock, I would never have been able to sail north along the canal. Without an effective lock system to regulate and control water levels, the canal would flow downhill, becoming a one-way river impassable for northbound travel. I’ve never seen such ingenious hydraulic engineering anywhere else.” He gave a thumbs-up to the young flag signaler and exclaimed, “Great!”

His enthusiastic outburst caught the attention of a man who emerged from the command room, looking like a leader. Initially intending to usher away these individuals disrupting official business, upon approaching, he realized that the tall figure was a foreigner, and the bespectacled Chinese man seemed familiar. He gestured up and down with his index finger towards Xie Pingyao several times before suddenly speaking:

“Excuse me, aren’t you Mister Xie, the Governor of Maritime Transportation Office?”

“That’s correct.” Xie Pingyao clasped his hands together. “May I ask for your name, brother?”

“I’m Zheng Qianshan. Perhaps Mister Xie doesn’t remember, but several years ago, I accompanied Mister Tan and Mister Xie, along with two foreign gentlemen, on a tour of the Huaiyang Canal.”

Indeed, that’s the case. However, there were too many people accompanying us at the time, and he only remembered Mister Tan Haitan. The two of them got along famously, finding common ground on many real-life issues. Sadly, after parting ways for years, they drifted apart in their mundane lives and never reconnected. “Where is Mister Tan now?”

Zheng Qianshan glanced around warily before responding, “Mister Tan was imprisoned early last year and there’s been no news since.”

“Please tell me more,” Xie Pingyao said, gesturing toward his eldest disciple. “This brother here is also one of our own.”

Tan Hai was three years older than Xie Pingyao. When they first met at the Shaobo Lock, he had already been working there diligently for eight years. Positioned at a crucial point, the Shaobo Lock received more information than even the passing ships. Few lower-level officials like him had such breadth of vision and understanding of worldly matters. Hence, Xie Pingyao found their conversations engaging.

Tan Hai was upright and not hesitant to point out flaws, which sometimes rubbed people the wrong way. Last year, he fell victim to this trait. After the failure of the Wuxu Reform, supporters of the Qing Dynasty scattered and fled. The Shaobo Lock had received strict orders from above to thoroughly investigate and ensure no one slipped through the cracks. However, Tan Hai was caught accepting bribes and aiding Qing loyalists to escape to Hangzhou on southbound cargo ships, allowing them to divert to Fujian and eventually flee to Japan.

His explanations fell on deaf ears. Sheltering Qing loyalists was a serious crime, and higher-ups were inclined to believe the accusations, as it was difficult to prove innocence. Fortunately, in the end, they couldn’t substantiate the claims, so he narrowly escaped capital punishment and was swiftly sentenced to prison.

“It’s truly heart-wrenching,” Zheng Qianshan said with a sigh. “A missed opportunity, indeed.”

Xie Pingyao inquired about Tan Hai’s family’s well-being. Zheng Qianshan shook his head sadly, stating that without their pillar of support, Tan Hai’s family struggled to make ends meet. Hearing this, Xie Pingyao felt even more distressed. He reached into his pocket, retrieving the spare change he had tucked away during his last shore visit. He also borrowed some money from Xiao Boluo and his eldest disciple, intending for Zheng Qianshan to pass it on to Tan Hai’s family. In such difficult times, every little bit of support mattered.

Zheng Qianshan expressed his gratitude and mentioned recent directives from higher-ups. Foreigners carrying their national flags were given priority clearance for urgent matters. He asked Xie Pingyao if they wanted to give it a try. Xiao Boluo, upon hearing this opportunity, eagerly agreed.

They returned to their boat, and soon a small boat with the words “Shaobo Canal” emblazoned on it rocked over. After the routine inspection, it stopped beside them. Zheng Qianshan and two armed guards stood on the boat. Xiao Boluo remembered he had brought along a small flag of Italy, but after searching through his luggage, he couldn’t find it. Lao Xia found a flag in the cluttered storage room, with three horizontal stripes of red, white, and blue, and three vertical stripes of the same colors, resembling a colorful chessboard, making everyone’s head spin.

Last year, he had transported a foreigner in Suzhou, from an unknown country, who had left the flag as a souvenir. Xie Pingyao couldn’t recognize which country’s flag it was, and neither had Xiao Boluo seen it before. To him, it didn’t matter which country’s flag was displayed, as long as they had one. No one dared to question it. The second disciple hoisted it up the mast, proudly flying above the other boats. Zheng Qianshan clasped his hands together and declared loudly:

“Mister Shang has issued an order that urgent matters for foreign friends are to be given priority, to demonstrate our country’s goodwill towards distant friends and friendly relations with other nations. Please follow me.”

Lao Xia and the eldest disciple maneuvered the boat with poles, following Zheng Qianshan’s slow lead. Despite the imposing flag flying overhead, there were still murmurs wherever they went. It was understandable; waiting endlessly without progress made anyone anxious. Zheng Qianshan instructed Xiao Boluo and Xie Pingyao to stay in the cabin and keep quiet about their plan to make money. Xiao Boluo brought tea sets into Xie Pingyao’s cabin and discussed the itinerary after the Shaobo Lock. As the boat swayed gently, the second disciple knocked on the door, entered with a flushed face, and handed a piece of paper, asking Xiao Boluo and Xie Pingyao to write down the names of everyone on the boat in Italian and English respectively.

The second disciple had attended a private school for two years and had read a few books. To support his family, his parents pulled him out of school and handed him over to his current master. He had always been curious about the curly foreign letters. Xie Pingyao thought it wasn’t surprising that the second disciple often approached during reading and conversations. However, he only came closer but never too close. Xie Pingyao assumed it was Lao Xia’s caution with foreigners, assigning the second disciple to keep an eye on them. The second disciple shared his master’s, his eldest brother’s, and his formal names with them, then stood shyly to the side, rubbing his hands, waiting for them to write them down in foreign languages. Normally, Xie Pingyao was addressed by Lao Xia and the eldest disciple as “Xiao Lunzi,” which was his nickname; his formal name was Zhou Yiyang.

“Do you know the great poet of the Northern Song Dynasty, Zhou Bangyan?” the second disciple, Xiao Lunzi, said. “I’m just one character away from him.”

“If you were exactly like him, what would happen?” Xiao Boluo asked.

“I would write just as well as him,” Zhou Yiyang said, puffing out his chest. After speaking, his chest slowly deflated, and his voice trailed off. “But unfortunately, my parents didn’t let me continue my education.”

The boat suddenly jolted with a thud. Then they heard the voice of a man in a short-sleeved shirt: “Is this the boat of the foreign gentlemen?”

Xie Pingyao pushed open the door and stepped out. Indeed, he saw the man in the short-sleeved shirt standing steady on the deck with his arms crossed and legs apart. Due to the higher deck and backlighting, the man in the short-sleeved shirt looked imposing, almost towering. Their boat came to a halt. Zheng Qianshan’s small boat also stopped. Xiao Lunzi hurriedly went out to see his master, who was at the stern, using the pole.

Xie Pingyao asked, “What can I do for you?”

“No special requests, just curious why others have to wait for three or five days, but when a foreigner gets on board, they can be given priority?” The man in the short-sleeved shirt spoke with only his mouth moving. He was still wearing his shirt. “Just because some people are serving foreigners, they become foreign slaves? Bullshit, they’re just country bumpkins!”

Zheng Qianshan explained, “This is Mister Shang’s order. It’s to show the benevolence of our celestial empire to foreigners.”

“I don’t care about your hierarchy. I’m just asking about the rules,” the man in the short-sleeved shirt continued, his entire body moving with his mouth. “Thinking that serving foreigners makes you a foreign slave? Bullshit, you’re just a peasant slave!”

One of the armed guards half-drew his waist knife, but Zheng Qianshan restrained him. People on the surrounding boats craned their necks to see what was happening. Zheng Qianshan had the small boat pushed alongside Xie Pingyao’s boat, then he jumped aboard and said to the man in the short-sleeved shirt, “Brother, let’s have a word.” He led the man into Xie Pingyao’s cabin.

Once inside, Zheng Qianshan said, “Speak, what’s on your mind?”

The man in the short-sleeved shirt still had his arms crossed. “Do foreigners’ time is worth more than ours? Can they have priority while we Chinese have to wait patiently?”

“What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything. I just want to see what the foreigners can do.”

“What if I don’t agree?”

“Then you decide. Unless you want to kill me right now, otherwise, if every leader on these thousand boats shouts once, I’m sure we can bring down this lock.”

Lao Xia also squeezed into the room, clasping his hands together. “Are you planning to target us, brother?”

The man in the short-sleeved shirt didn’t mince words. “Right now, yes.”

“No room for negotiation?”

“None.”

Zheng Qianshan waved his hand. “Alright, now shut up! Follow behind this boat. If anyone asks, say it’s Mr. Dimak’s cargo.” Without another glance at the man in the short-sleeved shirt, Zheng Qianshan left the cabin.

The three boats proceeded along the empty waterway. When someone asked the man in the short-sleeved shirt how he managed to jump the queue, he replied, “Brother, you gotta watch your words. Jump the queue? We just concluded a business deal and sold a whole boatload of marble to the foreign gentleman at a discounted price. This is his cargo, and we’re his people now.”

Before entering the lock chamber, they had to pay the lock tax. Lao Xia handled this task, and a settlement was made based on the lock tickets. The tax collector joked with Lao Xia, “Old buddy, you’re ferrying foreign ships now, unlimited trips within ten days, huh?”

“Nonsense!” Lao Xia retorted grumpily, “There are so many boats, it’s like frying dumplings. If I can make one round trip in ten days without running into trouble, that’s good enough for me.”

As the first batch of boats entered the lock chamber, they waited for their turn. They entered the chamber, secured the ropes, waited for the water level to rise, and then proceeded as the second gate opened. It took an hour for the whole process. Zheng Qianshan’s small boat had already docked in the nearby alley, and he went into the command room. Xiao Boluo’s boat and the boat with the man in the short-sleeved shirt entered the lock chamber one after the other, peacefully coexisting in the middle. After re-entering the canal, the man in the short-sleeved shirt waited ahead for Xiao Boluo’s group. He thanked Xie Pingyao for their cooperation.

Lao Xia said, “Thanks are unnecessary. Can we consider this matter settled?”

“It’s not settled,” the man in the short-sleeved shirt replied.

Xie Pingyao was incensed. “What exactly do you want?”

“It’s not about what I want,” the man in the short-sleeved shirt said. “It’s about what I want to avoid. My brothers from the north won’t agree to this.”

Xiao Boluo asked Xie Pingyao what he meant. Xie Pingyao explained, “He’s not just talking about the canal workers; he’s probably referring to the Boxers as well.” As far as he knew, after the suppression of the Boxer Rebellion, many Boxer sympathizers couldn’t find a place in their hometowns and headed south. Places like Qingjiangpu had quite a few of them.

Lao Xia spat loudly into the water and cursed in Suzhou dialect. Then he said to his two disciples, “Raise the sails, row with all your might. Let’s go!”

The master and disciples each took their positions, and in no time, they were half a boat length, then a full boat length ahead. The boat with the man in the short-sleeved shirt was heavily loaded and sat low in the water, quickly falling behind.

They sped along the waterway. As they approached Gaoyou’s border, Lao Xia began hammering and knocking around the boat, and he suddenly lowered the sails and stopped. He asked Xie Pingyao to relay to Xiao Boluo that something wasn’t right, and he needed to do some maintenance, which might affect their journey. Xie Pingyao and Xiao Boluo were both amateurs when it came to boats; even geometry diagrams made their heads ache during their studies. They assured Lao Xia to proceed as he saw fit. While the speed didn’t decrease much, the frequency of Lao Xia’s hammering and presence on deck increased, leaving Xiao Boluo with little mood to enjoy the scenery.

Spring came fiercely, and waking up to the sensation of the skin was different. The wilderness thickened day by day, with lush vegetation. Many wildflowers bloomed on the riverbanks, and the willow branches grew dense, often blocking out the midday sunlight, casting shadows like massive iron lumps on the ground. Xiao Boluo lit a cigarette on the deck, and Lao Xia passed by him twice.

After lunch, the drowsiness of spring hit, and Xie Pingyao returned to his cabin to lie down for a while. The door was pushed open by his second disciple, who entered without knocking. “Sorry to disturb your rest, Mr. Xie,” Little Wheel said, scratching his head. “I’ve noticed you enjoy copying books. Could I borrow some of what you’ve copied to read?” The sound of snoring came from next door where Xiao Boluo slept. Xie Pingyao often copied things into small characters when he had nothing to do. First, because he enjoyed it—there was something comforting about the pen tip touching the paper. Second, some of the books were borrowed from friends or masters.

By copying them, he could return the original and keep a copy for himself, allowing him to read whenever he pleased. Since Little Wheel wanted to read, he naturally felt happy. He rummaged through the desk and pulled out a copy of Yan Fu’s translation of “Evolution of Heaven,” the December 1897 edition from the Tianjin “Guowen Compilation.” This book was his own, one he cherished. During his idle days on the boat, he had intermittently copied it, managing to complete an entire volume.

He decided to give the original version to Little Wheel, grateful to have encountered someone who genuinely loved reading on the boat. Little Wheel took it, flipped through it, and respectfully returned it to Xie Pingyao, saying, “Thank you, sir! This original version is a treasure, and Little Wheel does not accept it. If Mr. Xie agrees, could I request a copy of what you’ve transcribed? It would make me overjoyed.”

Xie Pingyao thought to himself that this kid knew his stuff; with his experience, reading a handwritten copy did indeed have more feeling than the original book. He retrieved a thick stack of folded rice paper from under the bed and handed it to Little Wheel. Little Wheel expressed his gratitude and promised to bind it neatly, absorbing every word into his heart. As he left, Xie Pingyao heard Lao Xia cough and ask him why he was wandering around instead of working. Little Wheel replied that he wasn’t just wandering around; he was reminding Mr. Xie that if there were any noises during the boat repairs that disturbed their rest, Mr. Xie should please be understanding.

Gaoyou Town wasn’t large, but it was surrounded by water, with reeds and rushes growing abundantly. The main canal and its banks were also flourishing with reeds, water grass, wild chickens, ducks, and herons. Xiao Boluo was tempted to pick up his gun and shoot some game, but he worried about making too much noise with so many boats around, so he restrained himself. Lao Xia came to find Xie Pingyao, still with some issues regarding the boat.

If it couldn’t be resolved, they might need to find a nearby shipyard for repairs. He rattled off a bunch of boat-related jargon; although Xie Pingyao had once translated between workers and foreign experts in Qingjiangpu, he still didn’t fully understand these terms. After Lao Xia spoke for a while, his meaning boiled down to one thing: getting the boat into a shipyard for repairs was a big deal, and it would cost money. Could Mr. Dimark pay for this segment of expenses in advance?

After all, this bill would eventually have to be settled, and it would also prevent him from being strapped for cash at the shipyard. Xie Pingyao thought it made sense and explained the situation to Xiao Boluo. Xiao Boluo swiftly responded with an OK and efficiently opened his money pouch. He also told Lao Xia that if the expenses weren’t enough, he could ask him anytime. Lao Xia, of course, replied with a string of thanks.

They docked at the pier in Gaoyou Town. They heard there was a ship repair master named Zhu who was skilled; he could solve the difficult problems that even the big shipyards couldn’t handle. As the day grew longer, it was still early for dinner when they got off the boat. Xie Pingyao took Xiao Boluo to stroll around the town; Lao Xia and the eldest apprentice went to invite Master Zhu; Shao Changlai and Little Wheel stayed on the boat to prepare dinner.

They visited the usual places that outsiders often went to: Cheluoba, Nanmen Street, Zhenguosi, Pingjinyan, Yangjiawu, Wanjiatang, Yumadou, and Mapengwan Iron Bull, among others. At first, Xiao Boluo was walking with a cane, but after visiting Zhenguosi, Pingjinyan, and Yumadou, he got a bit tired. Xie Pingyao hired two pedicabs, and they rode around the remaining places. It was just a quick visit. By the time they returned to the pier, it was already dark.

The lights on the dock shimmered on the water and the damp cobblestone pavement, creating a serene atmosphere of celebration. Yet amidst this tranquility, the dock itself was alive with activity. Vendors haggled, rickshaw drivers solicited passengers, and people sat at the bow of boats drinking, eating, gambling, and arguing. Children cried women quarreled, and in the alleys, fireworks girls came aboard to sell their wares, adding to the lively bustle and glamour of the scene.

Xie Pingyao and Xiaobo searched along the dock for their boat, moving from the first one on one side to the last on the other, but found nothing. Returning to where they started, they still had no luck. They inquired around the area they vaguely remembered, asking about the people on board the ships. A woman said she had seen someone resembling Shao Changlai sitting by the river not far from here, guarding a pile of luggage. They hurried to find him.

Sure enough, Shao Changlai was sitting by the river, huddled over, clutching himself tightly, chin resting on his knees. Trembling with fear, he seemed to shrink even smaller, ready to burst into tears at any moment. When he heard Xie Pingyao call his name, the small dark figure immediately stood up and burst into tears.

“They’re gone!” Shao Changlai cried, “They forced me off the ship. They’ve abandoned us!”

Xie Pingyao understood immediately. He should have anticipated this; the further north they went, the greater the risks. He said to Xiaobo, “They’re worried about the Boxers.”

“Just because of me?” Xiaobo asked.

“Yes, because of you. They’ve spent their whole lives earning this boat. If something happens to it, they lose everything.”

“What did they say?” Xiaobo asked Shao Changlai, seething with betrayal.

“Lao Xia said he’s truly sorry, but he has a family to look after, and he must be cautious. The eldest apprentice said he must go back with the master, who promised to find him a wife on this trip back.”

“And what about Little Wheel?” This was what Xie Pingyao was most curious about.

“Little Wheel kept alternating between apologies and gratitude. He said he’ll remember the two of you. If he gets the chance, he wants to thank you both for the gifts.”

“Just writing a few Italian names, what kind of gift is that?” Xiaobo fished out his pipe, “If we knew they were leaving, we would’ve given him a proper gift.”

“Oh, a tobacco pouch!” Shao Changlai squatted down to rummage through the luggage and pulled out a long pipe pouch. “Lao Xia said giving Signor Di Marco his tobacco pouch would be enough to make amends.”

The three of them sat by the dark canal, the breeze of the willows brushing gently against their faces. Unidentified lights danced on the water’s surface, and occasionally, a fish would break the surface, creating ripples that folded and unfolded in the waves. Xiaobo lit a cigarette with Lao Xia’s long pipe pouch, took a deep drag, and exhaled slowly.

“I suddenly have a feeling,” Xiaobo said, “that an ancient China is like the rich aroma of this old tobacco pouch. The nicotine, the aged tobacco, it smells good, but it’s also genuinely harmful.”

At this moment, Xie Pingyao had two things on his mind: finding accommodations for the night and figuring out how to hire another reliable boat.

After finishing their smoke, the three-headed into town, first finding a restaurant to have dinner. Xiaobo ordered a large jug of rice wine, which they shared. Then he persuaded Shao Changlai to use the kitchen facilities to whip up a quick stir-fry. They enjoyed a hearty meal together. Later, they found the “Xiankelai” Inn recommended by the restaurant owner, and booked three rooms.

Once settled, Xiaobo sat down to write in his journal, only to discover that his notebook with the leather cover was missing. He knocked on the doors of Xie Pingyao and Shao Changlai, asking if they had mistakenly taken his luggage. They rummaged through their belongings but found nothing. Beads of sweat formed on Xiaobo’s forehead; his journal contained many things not fit for others’ eyes. Even more anxious than Xiaobo was Shao Changlai, who had been with Xiaobo since they were both kicked off the ship. Sweat pooled on Shao Changlai’s forehead, dripping from the tip of his nose.

“Little Wheel?” Xie Pingyao hesitantly suggested.

“Yes, Little Wheel!” Shao Changlai clapped his hands together, the sound of water dripping. “He said Mr. Xie’s gift was precious, as was Signor Di Marco’s. Could it be… that journal?”

Xiaobo nodded at the invisible face in the void. It must be Little Wheel without a doubt. He had kept it hidden until the least likely moment to lose it. Unpredictable. He sighed inwardly. Life was a damn game of predetermined outcomes, no matter how you planned or schemed, hoping for a stroke of luck, it could all amount to nothing. That’s fate.

“Should we try to retrieve it?”

Xiaobo waved his hand. It was fate. Well, a new life was beginning. But where was the person they needed to find?