Once you pass thirty-five, everywhere feels good. If every desire to grit my teeth and buy a house to live in seclusion could be realized, I’d need at least 365 properties across the 9.6 million square kilometers of our great land. Yan Lin says it’s a sickness; as one age, unhealthy desires to become an old landlord keep surfacing. I think Teacher Sun’s criticism is spot on. When I was younger, I had no interest in the isolated, pre-modern life. I enjoyed living in high-rises, squeezing into elevators, opening heavy steel security doors, and being part of the bustling crowd commuting to and from work. That was modern life, keeping up with the times.
But in recent years, my tastes have changed. Now, I drool at the sight of small, charming courtyards, imagining myself sipping tea, growing flowers, reading books, and listening to birds and cicadas in such a place. Teacher Sun has been supervising me to suppress these decadent desires, but when I arrived at the Little Museum Inn, I couldn’t help but think how wonderful it would be to own such an inn. I’d be the carefree manager, and Teacher Sun could be the lady boss, keeping everything in order. Spending the latter half of our lives running this small business wouldn’t be bad at all.
“Dream on!” Yan Lin gave me a sideways glance. “A small business? Their monthly revenue could fund all your films for the rest of your life.”
I fell silent. Nowadays, Yan Lin sponsors all the money for my films. She sold a batch of paintings. I told her, “You’ve supported me with so much money; I might not be able to pay you back.”
She said, “It’s a free sponsorship for now, but if you don’t want me someday, you’ll have to pay back double.”
“How could that happen? You’re irreplaceable, and I need more of your support.”
“How much more do you need?” She nibbled my ear. “For each person you want, the repayment doubles. As long as you can pay, take as many as you want.”
“I think I’ll stick with just you.”
This girl truly surprised me; once she made up her mind, she threw herself into it completely, running to Beijing right after her classes. That’s her style—when she decides to do something, she gives it her all. She believes that regret and half-hearted efforts are the biggest stains on one’s life. I’m not sure if this bit of motivational wisdom is her own or borrowed. She thought that a great project like “The River’s Tale” would be even better if treated as the last film of one’s career.
So, she suggested broadening our approach and handling the ancillary content of the film well. Who says we have to tailor it strictly for that TV show? Only bad films bend over backward to fit program requirements. Good work sets its own rules and makes the program adapt. “Isn’t it just money? I’ll sell all my paintings,” she said boldly. Besides grabbing her and tossing her onto the bed, I couldn’t think of a more sincere and elegant way to thank her.
After getting out of bed, we made a major decision: to go to Jining.
Yan Lin arranged for us to stay at the Little Museum Inn, where she had previously stayed. We wanted to experience Jining’s canal firsthand and examine the many old artifacts collected in the inn. She also contacted Zhou Haikuo, the CEO of the chain of inns, whom she had heard about through store manager Cheng Nuo. Additionally, she reached out to Shao Bingyi and Shao Xingchi, a father-son duo, and their family’s compass. We hoped their stories would enrich our filming.
I liked the Little Museum Inn, unable to shake my decadent thoughts. But after being chastised by Teacher Sun, I felt so inadequate that I doubted I’d even be competent as a doorman. So, I decided to focus entirely on preparing “The River’s Tale.” I worked with the entire team at the inn to perfect the script, with Yan Lin occasionally offering her input.
Zhou Haikuo was on his way. His planned inspection of a Huai’an inn was supposed to be his last stop for the month, but he altered his schedule for “The River’s Tale,” continuing north to Jining. Shao Bingyi lived nearby, spending his days fishing and raising ducks with his wife, waiting for his son’s return to join us. Shao Xingchi’s boat was on its way back, having already reached Nanwang Lake.
The day before everyone gathered, an archaeologist arrived. He wore black-rimmed glasses, had a neatly parted hairstyle, and wore a white short-sleeved shirt tucked into dark blue trousers, along with matte black casual leather shoes. Even without an introduction from Manager Cheng, I could tell he was an archaeologist. His entire attire and demeanor reminded me of intellectuals from the 1980s—clean, pure, and confident that the world was steadily improving. The archaeologist’s surname was Hu, and we addressed him as Professor Hu. He had a rare mix of cleanliness, innocence, and curiosity in his eyes—traits scarcely seen in middle-aged men nowadays. Additionally, there was an inexplicable air of sophistication about him, suggesting that perhaps one of his ancestors had a foreign lineage. Professor Hu was humble and always prefaced his speech with a gentle smile.
He was there to examine various old artifacts. We encountered him at the tea bar after returning from scouting locations by the canal. Professor Hu had just come downstairs, and since the rooms upstairs were still unoccupied, Manager Cheng took the opportunity to show him the room collections. He also quickly browsed through the tea bar’s artifacts.
We only had time for a brief greeting. I had the idea of inviting him to appear on camera, but just as I was about to, his phone rang—a colleague was calling. He apologized, waved goodbye, and headed out, promising to return the next day to finish viewing the rest. He spoke highly of the Little Museum Inn’s collection, noting that while some collections are merely beautiful objects, valuable in their own right, others, like those at the inn, go beyond their physical forms to reveal flowing time and past histories, presenting a complex, long, and expansive local history.
By lunchtime the next day, everyone had arrived.
None of us had met Zhou Haikuo before. He was refined and personable, with an air of modern speed reflected in his well-coordinated attire. However, his scholarly yet slightly weary expression seemed to slow down this speed, affecting the surrounding environment as well. He had a presence that suggested he could control the situation with ease. When we shook hands, he said:
“Don’t be formal, we’re here for the same river.”
The Shao father and son duo were exactly as Yan Lin had described. Shao Bingyi, after taking a puff of his cigarette, would open his mouth wide and let the smoke slowly flow out, savoring it. Yan Lin had mentioned his nicotine-stained teeth; the difference now was that a tooth was missing from the bottom, and one of his upper canines had also fallen out in the past two years. Shao Xingchi was still a strong young man with a tanned complexion from the river breeze. When he raised his arm to shake my hand, the muscles in his upper arm flexed, and his pectoral muscles jumped under his crew-neck T-shirt. His Mandarin had a thick Shandong accent.
“Your hair is shorter,” Yan Lin commented.
“You’ve got a good memory, sister,” Shao Xingchi said with a chuckle. “Back then, I was young and full of spirit. Long hair made me look cool.”
“And you dare to talk about being old in front of a bunch of old-timers?” Yan Lin laughed.
“It’s not about being old, it’s about not feeling young anymore. Running on the river for so long, you often forget you’re still young.”
“That’s right,” Shao Bingyi chimed in. “You’re sailing on a thousand-year-old river; it’s hard to stay reckless.”
I treated them to a meal at a nearby restaurant. At the table, Shao Xingchi took out the compass he had redeemed from his backpack. We had arranged for him to bring it; in this film, the compass, like them, was one of the main characters. Even with a crack in the glass face, it was still quite beautiful—a meticulously crafted item. It needed a 360-degree, no-dead-angle close-up shot. The value of an artifact lies not only in its age but in the stories it carries.
Thinking about the layers of fingerprints from Italians and the Shao family ancestors to the present on this compass, I couldn’t help but feel a deep respect for it. It embodied the souls of generations navigating the waters. I raised my glass for a second toast. I said this one is not for “The River’s Tale,” but for myself. You all are matchmakers who brought Teacher Sun to my side. Shao Bingyi responded:
“We’re just minor matchmakers; the Grand Matchmaker is the Grand Canal. You must toast the canal before we dare to drink.”
That’s the rule on the water. When a boat leaves the port, you toast the heavens, the earth, and the river god.
After toasting the Grand Canal, everyone drank together. Shao Xingchi, feeling it wasn’t enough, encouraged Yan Lin and me to drink arm-in-arm; the eternally flowing river outside the door would be the ultimate witness. So, we did. Our arms intertwined, and even Yan Lin, who never touched alcohol, solemnly drank her glass of Wuliangye. Night fell outside the window, with the distant sound of thunder and the wind shaking the bamboo grove, leaves tapping against the glass like a crowd of curious onlookers trying to get in.
A summer thunderstorm was imminent. The room’s air conditioner was turned up a degree. Shao Xingchi, still in high spirits, pushed for more, suggesting a kiss, claiming his role in this romance as the younger brother-in-law. Zhou Haikuo’s phone call provided a timely distraction. Manager Cheng called, informing us that the archaeologist, Professor Hu, was at the inn and would like to meet us if we were available in the afternoon.
Zhou Haikuo gave us an inquisitive look. Everyone welcomed the idea; good wine and good company, of course, everyone should join in.
Professor Hu pushed the door open and entered, half of his body soaked. The walk from the inn to the restaurant was only about five minutes, but the wind was fierce, and the fat raindrops were whipped directly onto him. As soon as he entered, he apologized, not having wiped the rain from his glasses, explaining that he didn’t know when we would finish and didn’t mean to intrude. He was heading back to Beijing that afternoon and wanted to finish viewing the inn’s remaining collections before going to the train station; he had even brought his suitcase with him.
The archaeological dig had concluded successfully, and his work was done. Earlier, he had seen a letter on the treasure shelf in the inn’s lobby, which raised a lot of questions for him. We added a chair next to Zhou Haikuo and invited him to sit. Professor Hu took out his phone and showed us a photo of the letter. Zhou Haikuo glanced at it and said:
“Oh, that letter in Italian.”
The inn had recently acquired a letter written in Italian, dated July 1900, though it didn’t specify the exact day in July. The author of the letter was named Fedele. This name didn’t ring a bell for Professor Hu, as he didn’t understand Italian, but he noticed another name in the letter: Ma Fude. When he read it out loud, the pronunciation startled him. Ma Fude? That was the name of his great-grandfather.
The letter wasn’t long, just about the size of an A4 sheet, framed behind glass. It had been placed where the Shao family’s compass had previously been. Professor Hu asked Cheng Nuo about the letter’s content. Cheng Nuo didn’t know Italian either and could only roughly relay what Zhou Haikuo had told him, adding some embellishments of his own:
The letter was from an Italian sailor named Fedele, part of the Eight-Nation Alliance, who had fought against the Boxers and Qing forces. Shot in the leg, he wrote this letter to his family from the hospital. He mentioned that he might end up crippled but would likely be sent back to the front lines, though he was utterly sick of war. Additionally, he mentioned that a friend had given him a Chinese name, Ma Fude, which he liked.
He wrote that this war might cost him his life, and if he didn’t return to Italy, it would mean he had died in China, as it was so easy for people to die these days. If he did die, he suggested they consider it as if he never existed; in fact, dying wouldn’t be so bad because his soul could wander along the Grand Canal like Marco Polo once did. This letter could be considered a final farewell, telling his parents and brother not to grieve and to accept his fate calmly, expressing his love for them all. And so on.
“That’s all?” Professor Hu asked Zhou Haikuo.
“Pretty much,” Zhou replied.
“Is there anything else?”
Zhou glanced at him.
“Sorry, I want to know if the letter specifies the three Chinese characters for Ma Fude?”
Zhou examined the photo again and said, “Fedele DiMarco wrote in the letter that David said Fu and De are characters that Chinese people like. The first character is often written and pasted on doors during the Chinese New Year, and the second character represents a highly valued moral quality in Chinese culture. So, it should be the characters for ‘Ma Fude’.”
Professor Hu drew a sharp breath.
We asked him what was wrong. He ran his hand through his hair, scratching his head repeatedly and shaking it. “Strange. It’s a bit strange.”
“What’s strange about it?”
Professor Hu didn’t explain but instead asked Zhou Haikuo, “How was this letter acquired?”
“It was brought to us by a seller.” Zhou suddenly realized something. “It’s not considered illegal trafficking of cultural relics, is it?”
“Please, go on.”
Twenty days ago, when the seller arrived, Zhou was attending an academic seminar on bed and breakfasts in Beijing. Cheng Nuo called him, saying someone had come to sell a letter written in a foreign language, which they couldn’t identify, but the date and signatures were clear, over a hundred years old, though they couldn’t verify its authenticity. Cheng Nuo briefly explained the situation to Zhou. The seller had dug up an almost rotten walking stick while laying a foundation.
When he tried to use it, it broke, revealing a tube sealed with red wax at both ends. The wax wasn’t even red anymore, more like a dull gray. Inside the tube was a finer iron tube, also sealed with red wax, and within that was the letter. Zhou asked if the walking stick and the tubes were still available, and what material they were made of. He wanted to check for forgeries. Cheng Nuo handed the phone to the seller.
The seller said the walking stick was rusted and rotten, covered in black mud, and he discarded it after it broke, not knowing some kid might have picked it up to play with. The red wax seal was real; the outer tube’s wax seal was quite discolored, but the inner iron tube’s wax seal was still clear. The larger tube’s material was unrecognizable to him, dirty and rusted, and he threw it away because it seemed useless.
Zhou Haikuo asked Cheng Nuo to take photos of the letter and send them to him via WeChat. After examining the photos, Zhou called Cheng Nuo again and asked to speak to the seller, as he had more questions. He felt that hiding such a letter in a walking stick was suspicious. Zhou told the seller that as long as the letter could be authenticated as an original from 1900, he would buy it and the price would be negotiable, but he hoped the seller would tell the truth. The seller, a man who stuttered when nervous, felt relieved when asked to be honest and smoothly revealed all the concealed details.
The walking stick wasn’t found while digging the foundation. After the fake antique bronze censer incident, people along the canal became highly active, with many getting up early and working late to dig around, hoping to find treasures. The seller was one of them, blending into the crowd of treasure seekers and digging wherever others did. He followed others’ advice, targeting low-lying areas near the river, which were believed to be old riverbeds or tributaries from decades or even centuries ago. Indeed, others had found things in such places, so he dug there too, and found the walking stick. He did discard the walking stick, fearing a crackdown from the authorities, knowing full well that looting cultural relics was illegal and he couldn’t keep incriminating evidence.
However, besides the letter sealed with wax, the walking stick also contained another item: a jade handle.
“Where’s the jade?” Zhou Haikuo asked.
“Sold,” the seller replied. “Recently, a traveling antique dealer offered a high price and bought it.”
“How much?”
“Two thousand. He offered fifteen hundred, but I insisted on adding another five hundred. I ended up winning.”
Zhou Haikuo chuckled, “You’re a straightforward guy. Why didn’t you sell it to him?”
“That dog of a man didn’t want to. He insisted on buying a worthless piece of paper, claiming it had some significance because of the jade. An old man’s head drawing.”
“For a hundred?”
“He said he was being generous giving me ninety. I refused. Lack of education, you see. They said, ‘You guys are cultured,’ so I came here.”
“How much do you want?”
“Five hundred more.”
Zhou Haikuo could almost hear his gritted teeth. “Fine, call my colleague.” After hearing Cheng Nuo’s voice, he said, “Go ahead. Offer him eight hundred.”
“Mr. Zhou—”
“It’s just a matter of travel expenses and a decent lunch.”
“I meant, the authenticity issue.”
“Don’t worry. Faking that paper and handwriting would cost much more. Find a skilled framer, and place it in the compass’s vacant spot. It’s a good find.”
I glanced at the framed letter. Not understanding Italian, I just glanced, not even catching ‘Ma Fude.’ “Mr. Hu, do you know Ma Fude?”
“My great-grandfather was called Ma Fude. According to my father, he was also disabled and didn’t look like a Han Chinese. But my father said everyone claimed my great-grandfather was a camel trader from the northwest, of Hui ethnicity.” Mr. Hu opened his phone’s album, showing Zhou Haikuo pictures of his mother and sister. “My mother used to say she and my sister looked like my great-grandfather.”
Zhou Haikuo examined the photos closely, then held the phone farther away to get a better view. “Mr. Hu, I only spent a year in Italy, so my judgment might not be accurate. From a distance, based on intuition, if you didn’t tell me this was your mother and sister, I’d truly think they were Italians. But upon closer scrutiny, the Han Chinese features become more apparent. I’ll listen to the opinions of the other teachers as well.” He passed me the phone.
My impression was quite similar to Zhou Haikuo’s; the mother and daughter looked like a blend of Chinese and Western. Yan Lin and Shao Bingyi agreed. Shao Xingchi said, “Oh, Mr. Hu, you must have overseas connections.”
Mr. Hu remained silent. After a minute and a half, he said to Zhou Haikuo, “Mr. Zhou, could you do me a favor and translate this letter for me, not leaving out a single word?”
Even if the translation were vivid and detailed, it wouldn’t hold much significance for Mr. Hu beyond the essential information. “Italy, Italy, Italy” He repeated these three words on his tongue like peculiar candies, then suddenly stopped, tapping his forehead with his right hand. We heard a loud smack. Everyone at the table craned their necks. Despite our extremely limited information, we understood that such an eerie connection must have a profound story behind it.
“My mother’s original name was Ma Siyi,” Mr. Hu said softly, his eyes fixed on the bamboo swaying in the wind and rain outside the window. “Si from ‘yearn,’ and Yi from “Italy” In her later years, she insisted on reverting to it. Before that, I only knew her as Ma Siyi.” Our necks stretched even longer. Just as we were about to retract them, Mr. Hu continued, “I understand now. Hu Nianzhi. Hu Nianzhi. That’s my name.” His expression grew increasingly sorrowful, possibly on the verge of tears.
We finally learned that Mr. Hu’s name was Hu Nianzhi. It seemed like we also grasped something else: Si, Yi, who were they? Italy? Ma Fude, the Italian? Our necks stretched longer still. Well, my intelligence was struggling to keep up.
“Did your mother ever mention anything about Italy to you?”
“Never.”
“Perhaps your mother, like you, sensed some kind of connection but found it hard to substantiate?”
Mr. Hu took off his glasses and repeatedly wiped them with a napkin.
“But,” Yan Lin interjected, “trying to force connections back to a predetermined outcome, claiming that God is sitting beside us, is like presuming guilt. It’s reaching.”
Mr. Hu’s expression returned to that of an intellectual from the 1980s. “Sun’s reminder was timely,” he said, putting on his glasses and smiling awkwardly. “I got too carried away. Sorry, this issue has been bothering me for too long.”
However, we couldn’t completely dismiss the possibility just because Sun and Mr. Hu suddenly regained their clarity. “Let’s suppose—I mean, let’s suppose,” Shao Xingchi said, “suppose this Ma Fude who wrote the letter is indeed Mr. Hu’s great-grandfather Ma Fude. What about this cane? Whose cane is it? After writing this letter, it should have been sent out long ago. If it was in Italy, what’s the place called? Right, Verona. It would be easier to understand if this letter was dug up by the canal in Verona.”
“It’s as understandable as getting dizzy after drinking, but do we all need to waste our time here? Mr. Hu already figured it out long ago,” I said. “But, Mr. Hu, I think we might as well dare to imagine since there’s no tax on being wrong anyway. For example, this letter and your great-grandfather, the Italian; or the Italian compass passed down in Uncle Shao’s family; or Mr. Zhou, with a tradition from his ancestors requiring fluency in Italian; or in my family, it’s said my ancestor Xie Pingyao was an interpreter, accompanying foreigners all the way north to the capital, and he supposedly spoke decent Italian too; and also, Yan Lin, your ancestor, Sun Guocheng, might have been a bodyguard, perhaps even an Italian gentleman.”
“At least we need two Italians,” Zhou Haikuo said. “One to write the letter and another to hold it.”
“People are not the issue. At that time, the canal,” Shao Bingyi said, “could accommodate hundreds of thousands, even millions of Italians.”
“Ma Fude wrote the letter, but who held it?”
Mr. Hu fell into contemplation, like a historian deep in thought. At my urging, he lit a cigarette. I just felt a bit sorry for him, with his tumultuous family history weighing heavily on him. He didn’t partake in our eating and drinking because he had already eaten lunch. While everyone else was busy serving drinks and tea and helping themselves with food, he had nothing to do, so I helped him light a cigarette. Mr. Hu wasn’t accustomed to smoking and choked after just three puffs.
“I chose the right profession,” Mr. Hu said as he stubbed out the cigarette. “To understand where we come from, you have to engage in archaeological excavations. Mr. Zhou, if you don’t mind, could I get a copy of that letter?”
“No problem. If it turns out this Mr. Ma Fude is indeed your great-grandfather, I’ll give you the original too.” Zhou Haikuo called Cheng Nuo to prepare a copy. “It’s sad to think that in just a hundred years, we don’t even know who we are. When I go back, I’ll have to figure out my ancestors too.”
I glanced at Yan Lin, who shrugged. “A tangled mess. But sometimes a mess is better. Lay all the accounts out in the open, and with just one glance, you can see hundreds of years with perfect clarity. Maybe that’s the point of human existence.”
Shao Xingchi looked at his father, who said with lowered brows, “In our Shao family, whether it’s clear or not, it’s all on this river.”
“What about you, Director Xie?”
Me? In this section of “River Tales,” the snowball has grown bigger and bigger—alright then, I’ll aim for the biggest target. I want to connect everyone’s stories. The reality is this river, and so is the fiction; why not go all out and give it a shot? Old Bingyi said it well, “It’s all on this river.” At the dinner table, I extended the invitation once again to everyone, including Hu Nianzhi. I thought a scholar in archaeology might struggle with fiction, but to my surprise, Mr. Hu was very supportive. “Strong fiction can give birth to truth,” he said, “that’s one of my experiences from years of archaeology.” He also had another insight about fiction: fiction often leads to the most effective path into history; since our history often originates from fiction, only fiction itself can unlock the secrets of fiction. I felt reassured.
The rain stopped, the wind calmed, and the sound of thunder faded into the distance. The Shao father and son, along with Zhou Haikuo, returned to the inn to rest, while Mr. Hu went to retrieve the copy of the Italian letter. Yan Lin and I walked north along the riverside promenade. A rainbow appeared in the sky, spanning across the canal in seven colors.
We grew more and more excited as we talked. Each isolated fragment of the story is pieced together to form a complete narrative epic. It felt as if we were witnessing it firsthand—a mighty river surging from Qiandang, flowing against the current, upstream, downstream, and then upstream again, repeating this cycle.
Through the vast passage of time, the river finally pierced through an ancient empire. But with this, the investment in “River Tales” would need to be stepped up. Yan Lin held my hand and dug into my palm, “I’m here.” I stopped. She had already sold part of her paintings. She dug into my palm again, “To do the right thing, you need unwavering support. Sun Guocheng from your family also understands this.”
I stared at her face, glancing left and right.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
I couldn’t express anything more. “Sun Guocheng is as beautiful as the canal.”
She pinched my hand in response. “Stop being conceited, it’s not about you! Can’t I care about the canal?”
My phone rang, and I pressed the answer button. It was my former boss, who had cut off my funding. He said on the other end of the line, “Brother, where are you?”
“Out,” I replied tersely.
“Alright, don’t be mad. The funding is back. Not only will you get the same amount as before, but the station has decided to double it. Get ready to roll up your sleeves and get to work.”
I was a bit confused. What was wrong with my boss’s head?
“Haven’t you seen the news?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“The Grand Canal was listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site! It was just announced in Doha.”
“It passed?”
“I already told you, it’s listed! The money is not a problem, it’ll be there in no time. But the higher-ups are pushing for it to be broadcast these two days. Quickly send over the edited footage for approval. Hurry up, it must be fast!”
Yan Lin leaned in close to my ear, teasingly elongating her voice as she whispered, “Don’t—mind—him.”
I gave her a mischievous smile and turned back to deal with my former boss. “What? Hello? Hello?” I said, “What did you say?”
“I said hurry up and send the footage for approval! The sooner, the better!”
“What? What did you say? I can’t hear you. The signal is bad. I can’t hear anything—”
I hung up the phone, and unconsciously started swinging my arms and tapping my feet.
Yan Lin chuckled. “Excited?”
“Excited,” I said. “Does this count as instant poverty alleviation for me?”
“River Tales” was definitely in the clear. But of course, there was something even more important. I suddenly realized that this river in front of us was also a crucial opportunity, one that could determine life or death, one that required a more practical and effective examination, reflection, and awakening. When a river comes to life, there’s a possibility of going against the flow of history, and those ancestors who once traversed its waters might have a clearer hope in sight.
I grabbed Yan Lin’s hand and rushed back to the inn. I wanted to catch Hu Nianzhi, the Shao father and son, and Zhou Haikuo before they left, to take a photo together by the water. This memory had to be preserved. If this day could indeed be considered a great celebration for the Grand Canal, then it should also be a festival for all the children of the canal.
July 23, 2018, Anhe Garden, Finished writing
August 21, 2018, Anhe Garden, Finished revision