During his half-hour lunch break, he missed six calls, all from the manager of the Jining store. Zhou Haikuo settled at the bow of the boat, preparing his revitalizing tea. He glanced at his phone. If Cheng Nuo called again within five minutes and couldn’t provide a compelling reason for his urgency, he’d consider giving him a few months off to rest at home. After working with Cheng Nuo for five years at the Gold Brick Museum, Zhou thought he had managed to wear down his impulsive nature.
But after just one year, the fiery temperament resurfaced. The “Little Museum Boat” meandered slowly along the canal. Even though it was slow, it was still faster than a cargo ship. At this pace, it would take two hours to reach the Jining store. The “Little Museum Boat” was somewhere between a pleasure boat and a speedboat, with two floors and a modest appearance. It didn’t look luxurious from the outside, nor was it extravagant inside, but it was comfortable and simple.
The name “Little Museum Boat” was borrowed from Mi Fu’s calligraphy. This was Zhou Haikuo’s designated mode of transportation for inspecting his chain of boutique guesthouses. The twelve chain guesthouses were all located along the canal, stretching from Suzhou southward to Hangzhou, Shaoxing, and Ningbo, and northward to Jining. If he continued further north to Liaocheng and Linqing, he would dock the “Little Museum Boat” at the small pier of the Jining store. Since the canal was impassable beyond that point, they would have to travel by car.
The guesthouses were also called “Little Museums,” part of the chain of boutique guesthouses.
Zhou Haikuo had barely taken his second sip of tea when, four minutes and thirty seconds later, Cheng Nuo called again.
“Has the sky fallen or has the guesthouse collapsed?”
Cheng Nuo must have detected a hint of chilliness in his boss’s tone, but he had no choice. “Mr. Zhou, that gentleman is pressing too hard. He’s hoping to redeem the compass within half a second. He’s breathing down my neck at every turn.”
“Two questions: Firstly, it’s not called redemption, it’s called buying; we can sell, or we can choose not to sell, there’s no obligation to do so. Secondly, can’t we find an excuse to delay?”
“Mr. Zhou, I’m sorry. I know you might be on your lunch break, but that guy is in a hurry to hit the road. The boat is waiting at the dock and every minute counts. He used the word ‘redemption,’ and I just followed suit. I wasn’t conscious enough, my mistake,” Cheng Nuo’s voice grew softer.
It was a rare virtue to attend to others’ urgencies. Zhou Haikuo thought about it and decided to let it go. “Tell him I need to discuss this in person. If it can’t wait, we’ll talk next time I pass by; or, find out how much the two-hour fee is, I’ll pay him shortly.”
He put down his phone and continued to sip his tea. There was a book titled “Museum Without Walls” on the nearby chair. The canal in late April was beautiful. Coming from Suzhou, the journey was adorned with blossoms and scenic views, deepening the spring atmosphere with each step. Especially the locust flowers in the northern regions, clusters of them, half of them pure white. Whichever direction the wind blew from, the rich and sweet fragrance wafted past his nostrils, almost good enough to suffice as a meal. The willows on the banks were tall and flourishing, and the canal flowed like a tamed python, gliding gently. At times like these, Zhou Haikuo felt like he was flowing within the veins of the earth.
The guy planning to “redeem” the compass was named Shao Xingchi, and he had only been sold to the Little Museum Guesthouse for a year. The transaction had been effortless, a doorstep delivery. One day, Zhou Haikuo was in the tea bar of the guesthouse arranging a pair of couplets he had purchased from a teacher’s home seventy kilometers away. The content was a late-life academic self-encouragement from Mr. Feng Youlan: “Elucidate the old country to assist the new life, to reach supreme wisdom and follow the Middle Way.” The characters weren’t written by Mr. Feng himself, nor were they from any renowned calligrapher or scholar.
Zhou Haikuo searched online based on the signature but found no information about the calligrapher. He had consulted Mr. Tian, who was equally clueless, mentioning it was an heirloom from his father, who must have had it for twenty years or so. Mr. Tian’s father was a geologist, and he had traveled extensively throughout his life, making friends with calligraphers from out of town entirely possible. The characters were indeed excellent. Mr. Tian asked for five thousand, and Zhou Haikuo gave him eight thousand: five for the couplets, and the remaining three for their content.
This self-encouragement was something only Mr. Feng could have written. He hung it in the most prominent public space of the guesthouse, where guests could see it while drinking tea or reading. As the staff had hung it crookedly, he was correcting it while Cheng Nuo entered the tea bar. A young man arrived outside, with something to sell.
The young man pulled out something from his bag. Opening a red cloth, then a layer of yellow cloth, revealed a round box made of huanghuali wood. Before even opening the box, Cheng Nuo whispered in Zhou Haikuo’s ear softly, “Compass.”
Indeed, it’s a compass. The Italian words on the compass made Zhou Haikuo’s heart suddenly race. Even though the glass surface of the compass was covered with capillary-like cracks, he could still tell it was something good. Something good in an old object. The young man selling the compass was Shao Xingchi. He said he urgently needed money, thirty thousand.
“Where did it come from?” Zhou Haikuo asked.
“It was passed down from my great-grandfather. My dad passed it on to me.”
“Why do you want to sell it?”
“I’m going into business with a friend, but we’ve run into some trouble and need to fill a hole.”
Zhou Haikuo poured Shao Xingchi a cup of sunlit green tea and asked him to sit for a moment in the small conference room. He called Cheng Nuo outside. Cheng Nuo said that six months ago, a female artist staying at the inn, both painted and photographed, walked along both sides of the canal from early morning until late at night. When she returned early in the evening, she would order a pot of aged Pu’er tea at the tea bar, read a book, or edit photos.
On a rainy day with few guests, when he finished his work, he sat down opposite the female guest and started chatting. He covered the tea expenses. The reputation and returning guests were crucial for the inn. The female artist was importing photos from her digital camera into her computer, and he took a look at a few. Among them was a photo with this compass.
She had captured the wedding of boat people, a series that was quite beautiful. Because of the small museum, he considered himself half a canal person, and the canal life in the photos sparked his imagination: she accurately depicted what you could only vaguely sense with your eyes. The sense of history, vicissitudes, and destiny of a thousand-year-old river. An artist is an artist. She told the story of this compass, capturing the moment of its inheritance and passing in a photo.
“Do you know this is an Italian compass?” Zhou Haikuo asked.
Cheng Nuo shook his head, “We’re not like you, Mr. Zhou, born into an Italian-speaking family.”
The two returned to the small conference room, and Shao Xingchi’s tea was long gone.
“A family heirloom, are you sure you want to sell it?” Zhou Haikuo asked.
“No matter how good something is, if it’s not useful, it’s just trash.”
“Do you know this is a foreign-made product from Italy?”
“Whether it’s local or foreign, as long as it points in the right direction, it’s useful. If it points in the wrong direction, even if it’s made by aliens, it’s worthless.”
“With all due respect,” Zhou Haikuo said, “this is a family heirloom, so it’s best to consult your parents’ opinion.”
Shao Xingchi stood up from the sofa. “If the cracked glass affects its appearance, we can lower the price a bit. Twenty-eight thousand? At least twenty-five thousand. Can’t go any lower. It’s already lucky it didn’t break completely when it fell.”
Zhou Haikuo refilled Shao Xingchi’s tea. “No rush, finish this cup before making a decision. Take your time to think it over.”
Shao Xingchi picked up an empty cup, poured the tea back and forth between two cups twice, blew on it, then drank it in one gulp.
“Alright,” Zhou Haikuo said to Cheng Nuo, “pay him.”
Behind the inn’s bar was a wall with a built-in alcove, and the compass was placed at the center of the alcove. If one were to choose a signature collection for the Jinjing Museum Inn in Jining, it would undoubtedly be this compass. Cheng Nuo had custom-made a wooden stand for it, tilting it outward with the broken glass facing out. Good things weren’t afraid of being damaged.
Every guest who first entered the inn would be puzzled by its name, but once they stayed, they would quickly appreciate it. “Jinjing Museum” indeed didn’t sound like an inn’s name, but once you understood the inn’s specialty, you wouldn’t fuss over the name. Its specialty was its collection, like a museum, featuring locally sourced vintage items. Currently, the inn has twelve branches, stretching from Ningbo, Shaoxing, and Hangzhou along the canal north to Linqing.
Each branch only collected rare and valuable vintage items specific to its location. These items had deeply participated in the local historical development, daily life, and spiritual construction. Before disappearing from the world entirely, “Jinjing Museum” endeavored to preserve a vivid micro-history of the local area. The inn sourced vintage items through various channels categorized them, and decorated the lobby, guest rooms, tea bar, and small conference rooms accordingly. Each inn had only about a dozen guest rooms, no more than twenty, so the antiques had to be carefully selected—rare, precious, and with regional characteristics.
Zhou Haikuo was an expert in collecting. The Jinjing Museum had been operating for eight years and was a rising star in the themed museum industry, with ingenious concepts in collecting, venue design, and display arrangement. This “Jinjing” was not the “big yellow fish” or “little yellow fish” found in banks and jewelry stores, but unique bricks fired specifically, also known as imperial kiln gold bricks, treasures in the traditional Chinese kiln brick industry. In ancient times, they were exclusively used for paving important buildings such as imperial palaces, measuring two feet square, with a solid texture that produced a metallic sound when tapped, hence the name “gold brick.” There were 4718 gold bricks laid in the Hall of Supreme Harmony in the Forbidden City.
People in the know would know that gold bricks were produced in Suzhou because the fine texture and abundant colloids in Suzhou’s soil made it highly malleable, resulting in dense and sturdy gold bricks when fired. Suzhou was also close to the Grand Canal, making transportation convenient. After being packaged, they were shipped out, heading straight to the capital. Good things also had their misfortunes.
By 1908, during the thirty-fourth year of the Guangxu Emperor’s reign, the era of gold bricks as a special commodity for the imperial garden ended; that year, Emperor Guangxu passed away, and gold brick production ceased. Pu Yi, the emperor who followed, didn’t rule for many years, and the Qing Dynasty ended, with no need to repair the imperial city of the capital. Fortunately, the craftsmanship of gold brick production was passed down and survived to this day.
Suzhou still retained several gold brick kilns as production bases for luxury items, although they had long become sunset industries and museum artifacts, some of them thrived because palaces in the capital and many ancient capitals needed occasional repairs, in addition to the beautiful new buildings and the lavish home renovations.
Among these, there was a kiln owned by the Zhou family. The Zhou family kiln was not considered a major taxpayer in Suzhou, but it was well-known in the industry. The Zhou family’s kiln started somewhat unexpectedly. Zhou Haikuo’s father had experienced the turmoil of the “Cultural Revolution” when he was young. He fled to the northeast and hid in the primitive forest, burning charcoal with the locals for several years. After the chaos subsided, he returned to Suzhou with the skill of charcoal burning.
After one of the gold brick kilns was destroyed during the “Four Olds” campaign, it had not recovered. Seeing that the kiln fire had completely died out, Zhou Haikuo’s father came to the kiln site and reignited the fire with the same passion and skill as charcoal burning. The fire burned brighter, and more bricks were produced. The kiln grew larger, and Zhou’s father took over the kiln. It started as a factory, then became a company, and now it is a group. In addition to kiln firing, they ventured into the catering industry, real estate, healthcare, and education.
They initially earned money as thin as bamboo poles, but now it rolled like a snowball, turning into a big shot. His father had started grooming Zhou Haikuo early on, the family business, to be taken over by the eldest son eventually. But Zhou Haikuo didn’t like it; he wanted to do something leisurely and quiet. Negotiating with his father, he delegated gold brick handling to his younger brother. Balancing production and marketing overwhelmed him. Desiring a museum role, he envisioned preserving gold bricks historically.
His father’s refusal left him with no choice. Counting money, like any other profession, required passion; otherwise, it wouldn’t work. The more he counted, the slower he would become, and the less he would count. His father was very supportive of his idea to start a museum, although he hadn’t finished college due to being influenced by his father, who was an Italian language professor. Zhou Haikuo ended up being a rough person, but the Zhou family was ultimately a scholarly family, with both historical and present-day sentiments. His father pushed a check toward him, urging him to continue the legacy, as it was a matter of a century, and he should fill in the amount himself. Zhou Haikuo found a piece of land near the old dock where the gold bricks were loaded onto ships and built the Jinjing Museum.
Collecting was his passion, so the museum was well-made; collecting was his expertise, so the Jinjing Museum Inn was well-managed. One year, he went to Dali and stayed in a chain of inns called “Buddha’s Smile.” After staying at “Buddha’s Smile” in Dali, he went to stay at “Buddha’s Smile” in Lijiang, then in Chengdu and Hangzhou. This chain of inns inspired him.
The innkeepers were intellectuals, well-versed in a wide range of knowledge and with profound insights, and they perfectly utilized the element of “books.” Most decent inns were filled with books, mostly bought by weight from old book markets, neatly stacked on shelves or arranged in racks, for show. Rarely could “books” be organically integrated into an inn, becoming an integral part of it. “Buddha’s Smile” achieved this. Books were embedded in the courtyard walls.
The stones on the garden paths were opened books. Glass-framed mirrors adorned the walls of the corridors, holding valuable ancient editions upright. Each inn had a uniquely styled reading room, with books carefully selected by experts, where you wouldn’t find any common titles. The coasters for tea and coffee in the book bar were shaped like the shadows of “The Iliad,” “The Divine Comedy,” “Faust,” “War and Peace,” and “Dream of the Red Chamber.” Each guest room had a differently shaped bookshelf, with ten books recommended by a renowned author from home or abroad.
If the author of any of these ten books was still alive, the book in your room would surely be a signed copy by the author. The proprietor explained that obtaining these signed copies alone had cost them a considerable amount of manpower, resources, and funds, but they considered it worth it. After checking out, guests could take any one of the ten books with them free of charge, while signed copies and rare, valuable editions required payment of the necessary costs.
Because of the books, “Buddha’s Smile” stood out from numerous other inns. This inspired Zhou Haikuo. During the preparation for the Jinjing Museum, he visited all the ancient kiln sites along the canal where bricks and tiles were fired for the royal palaces, such as several ancient kilns on Dayao Road in Wuxi and the kiln sites in Dezhou where bricks were fired for the Forbidden City. While exploring these ancient kiln sites, he unexpectedly salvaged many historical details lost over the centuries along the canal.
These historical details materialized into objects, scattered bits and pieces. Zhou Haikuo understood the importance of historical details and couldn’t bear to discard them, so he categorized them and brought them back to Suzhou. However, keeping these things at home wasn’t feasible; they kept accumulating. And since he had tasted the sweetness of uncovering lost historical details along the canal, he couldn’t stop himself; he always wanted to hop on a boat and venture out.
It was an obsession, a very refined one, but still an obsession. Especially for Zhou Haikuo’s father, this obsession needed to be cured. The Jinjing Museum only burned money without making any, but that was necessary work and had to be done. But running around along the canal all day buying these odds and ends, burning money without making any, that wasn’t right. Even landlords didn’t have surplus wealth; no matter how much money, it was earned through hard work and sweat; it couldn’t be squandered like this. Friends suggested either doing it or not doing it at all, just building a museum in one place. But that wasn’t feasible either; public museums were grand and luxurious, and their collections could directly link to archaeological excavations.
According to the law, anything dug up thousands or even tens of thousands of years ago had to be sent to such museums. Even if you built something grand and magnificent, you weren’t qualified to touch it; you could only pick up odds and ends that others didn’t want. Zhou Haikuo was frustrated; he came to express his unfulfilled ambitions between Cangshan and Erhai, staying at “Buddha’s Smile.” Seeing so many “books” in the inn, his mind brightened, just like when his father lit a fire in the cold kiln pit all those years ago; why couldn’t he damn well build a chain of inns himself?
He visited several other distinctive inns and then consulted experts in detail. When he returned to Suzhou to meet his father, he held a feasibility report in his hands. His father brought his younger brother, and the three of them had a meeting. His younger brother said, “Feasible. Brother likes it, so we can do it.” His father asked, “The inn industry has been booming in the past two years, which is a good sign. But it involves management; do you have any problems with that?”
“Interest is the best internal drive,” Zhou Haikuo replied.
“Perfectly, Brother likes traveling along the canal,” his younger brother said. “If you start a chain of inns, you can be on the boat every day.”
Finally, their father asked, “What do you plan to name it?”
“If the registration is successful, it will be called ‘Little Museum.'”
Just because of this name, their father was reassured; that his son would take it seriously as a career. With the Jinjing Museum leading the way, the three of them raised their tea cups to toast to the new industry opened by the Zhou family, tasting the latest Biluochun tea.
The Jinjing Museum was a public welfare undertaking, open to the public for free. With daily management in place, Zhou Haikuo could step back from administrative work and devote most of his energy to selecting locations, construction, trial operation, and normal operation of the chain of inns. Over four years, twelve “Little Museums” were gradually established along the canal, and now most of them were operating smoothly. Every one or two months, he would take the “Little Museum” boat from south to north for routine inspections. If any of the stores encountered special problems, he would handle them accordingly, sometimes making two or three trips in a month.
He had a special attachment to the Jinan store. When choosing the location, he went against everyone’s advice and placed it in the current location that no one thought highly of. To secure this location, he got drunk for the first time in his life, waking up and pondering where he was for half a day before realizing it. Among the twelve inns, he was most satisfied with the collection at the Jinan store—not because the items were rare or valuable, but because the existing collection could already outline the historical context of daily life in Jinan as a major town along the canal. He valued the Jinan store and assigned Cheng Nuo, who had been with him for five years, as the store manager there.
The Jining store was located near an ancient town by the canal. For the sake of foot traffic, existing inns were clustered in the town itself. However, the “Little Museum” was set a bit further away, situated at the intersection of the main river and a tributary. This location had an open view, surrounded by reeds and cattails that grew as tall as a person, green in spring and summer, and yellow in autumn and winter, creating a naturally pleasant environment. Zhou Haikuo was attracted to this spot because of its wild charm. As he repeatedly walked this section of the waterway, he noticed many young people coming to the reed marshes to watch wild pheasants and ducks and to take photos. But the area was so wild that they came cautiously and left early, especially in the evening.
Zhou Haikuo thought that if an inn were located here, it would naturally attract people and, with some light landscaping and design to enhance the wild charm, it could become a small natural park, attracting visitors on its own. He enlisted a friend from Tongji University who specialized in design to create a simple design plan. After reviewing it together, they found no issues and decided on it. He gave his father and brother because the potential of inns needed to be explored in all directions.
This decision proved to be entirely correct. Within six months of opening, a second inn opened nearby, followed by a third—“Little Museum” had pioneered a new area and naturally became the leader.
After choosing the location came the land acquisition. This piece of land belonged to a village three miles away and was owned by several villagers. Because it was far from the village, it had been left uncultivated for years. While it could lie fallow, using it was another matter, and a mutually satisfactory price had to be negotiated. Initially, subordinates were sent to negotiate, but after three attempts, the villagers remained firm, asking for an outrageous price. They didn’t understand the market but saw an opportunity to ask for a hefty price.
Zhou Haikuo decided to handle it personally. He parked his car at the village entrance and walked to the home of the villager named Lu.
Lao Lu was the same age as Zhou Haikuo, but the hardships of life under the sun and wind made him look forty. It was an August evening, and Lao Lu, in his large shorts and bare upper body, was sitting on a millstone in his yard, staring at the sky. He had recently argued with his wife, who had angrily taken their child back to her parents’ home. Lao Lu wanted to go get her, but his pride held him back.
When Zhou Haikuo entered, Lao Lu was stewing in his anger, with his hastily prepared dinner stuck in his chest. He knew this visitor was another one here to negotiate the price, and he also knew that if he lowered his price a bit, the deal would be done. But he had to hold his ground. His wife’s habit of going back to her parent’s home every time they fought was because he hadn’t held firm in the beginning, spoiling her. Now, she wouldn’t come back unless he went to get her.
Zhou Haikuo was a straightforward person. He started, “Brother, how about we talk again?”
Lao Lu glanced at him with one eye, the other still fixed on the sky. “Let’s drink first, then talk.” He remembered he had two bottles of homemade grain liquor under his bed, originally intended as a gift for his father-in-law, but now his craving was too strong to resist.
Zhou Haikuo usually only drank a symbolic amount of red wine, and only from South America. But he decided to go along with it, “No problem, I’ll drink with you.”
Lao Lu jumped off the millstone and went inside to fetch the two bottles of liquor. Zhou Haikuo didn’t need to look closely to know it was cheap, blended liquor from a local, unlicensed distillery. Lao Lu put down the bottles and went back inside to get two unwashed white porcelain bowls. He bit open the cap and poured half a bowl for each of them. Then he lifted one and said:
“Drink.”
“We’re just drinking it straight?” Zhou Haikuo was a bit taken aback. “Should I go to the store and buy some snacks to go with it?”
“Still need some snacks to go with the drink?” Old Lu thought to himself, city folks sure have a lot of requests. He pulled a sickle from under the millstone and said, “Wait a moment.” Then he headed out the door with the sickle. Five minutes later, he returned with two sunflower heads tucked under his arm. “Here, one for each of you.”
They both sat opposite the millstone, cracking sunflower seeds while finishing off two bottles of liquor. The alcohol was incredibly strong, going down like a burning wire. Zhou Haikuo felt as if his esophagus was scorched, and he could smell something charred when he opened his mouth. He had never consumed such potent liquor, nor had he indulged to such excess. Drinking until he vomited and blacked out, he recalled everything before losing consciousness. He felt as if he had multiple faces, akin to layers for a Sichuan opera face-changing performance. When he touched his face, it indeed felt thicker. He said to Old Lu:
“Brother, we’re both this drunk, how about the price?”
“You see me as a brother, so you are my brother.” Old Lu’s speech was slurred, and his eyes were trying to look at the sky but couldn’t quite make it. He patted Zhou Haikuo’s shoulder with feeling. “Brother, you name the price, it’ll be that.” Zhou Haikuo opened his hand, his five fingers wobbling. Old Lu grabbed Zhou Haikuo’s fingers and said, “Whatever it is, it’s settled.”
Zhou Haikuo’s memory ended there. The next day, it took him half the day to realize he was in a hotel. His colleague, who had driven him, was waiting outside the village, left and right. With no sign of Zhou, he had to come looking. It was already dark when he found Zhou and Old Lu, both heavily drunk, each asleep on their half of the millstone. The colleague carried Zhou to the car and took him to the hotel, a process Zhou was completely unaware of. When he woke up, he asked his colleague what he had said while drunk. The colleague replied, “You didn’t say much, just said the deal was done, and it was done in no time.” Zhou laughed, clutching his throbbing head.
There’s not much to say about collecting; finding something good is a matter of luck, and not finding it is normal. He had always been proud of acquiring that Italian compass, which opened up a new dimension to the history of the local canal. Since Marco Polo, there must have been a constant stream of foreigners passing through, but having tangible artifacts is different from not having any. This compass gave him a justified reason to let his imagination run wild. Every time Zhou Haikuo visited the “small museum” in Jining, he would stay an extra day or two just to take a few more looks at the compass.
The current issue was that the guy who sold the compass was determined to buy it back.
Two hours later, Zhou Haikuo met Shao Xingchi at the small museum’s inn. Shao was cradling his right arm with his left, holding a phone in his right hand as he paced the lobby, glancing occasionally at the compass on the display shelf. “Mr. Wu, just wait a bit longer,” Shao said. “It’ll be ready soon, very soon.” Seeing Zhou Haikuo, he said into the phone, “He’s here, he’s here.” He hung up and extended his hand to Zhou. “Sorry, Mr. Zhou, but I have to buy back the compass.”
“What do you mean by ‘buy back’?” Zhou Haikuo sat on the sofa and invited him to sit as well. “Bring Mr. Shao some tea.”
Cheng Nuo said, “I offered him tea earlier, but he refused.”
“That was then, this is now,” Zhou Haikuo said to Shao Xingchi. “Nothing so urgent that a cup of tea can’t fix. Let’s talk over tea.”
Shao indeed calmed down a lot, holding the teacup and rotating it in his palm. “You’re right, Mr. Zhou. As you said, no reason is big enough to serve as an excuse to buy back the compass. I understand that very well. But if you’re interested and patient, I’d like to briefly explain why I need to.”
“Sure, I’m all ears. Let’s talk over tea.”
“Two reasons: first, as you know, this is a family heirloom; and second, I’ve started sailing again, and a sailor can’t do without it.”
“Go on.”
Shao Xingchi didn’t hold back. Circumstances had brought things to this point. He had been forced to sell the compass because his partner wanted to withdraw from their ship repair business halfway through. Back when he was sailing, he thought the master mechanics at the repair yards were incredible. Even the regular workers did their jobs based on their mood—if they were in a good mood, they’d spend more time on repairs; if not, they’d rush through. If you didn’t treat them well and made them unhappy, you’d end up paying more. They’d replace parts that didn’t need replacing, and you couldn’t refuse, because the cost of having your ship break down midway would be even higher. If it stopped, it was bad enough, but if it sank instead of moving forward, what then? His partner had high hopes.
But once they actually started the business, they realized things were different. There weren’t many ships needing repair. Most of the boats on the canal were running smoothly. Sometimes, the shop would go ten days or half a month without a single customer. In the past, on the boat, they were constantly surrounded by the smell of gasoline and diesel. Now, he had to open an oil drum himself just to get a whiff of it. When he was sailing, he’d spend day and night at the control panel, barely having time to relieve himself. He dreamed of the day he could sit on shore, sipping tea with his legs crossed for twenty-four hours straight. Now, he could indeed drink tea all day, but the more he drank, the more anxious he became. Drinking tea all day, what would he eat?
After six months of operation, his partner reviewed their business volume and calculated the shipyard’s financials, even multiplying the results by an optimistic factor to project their future operations. After complex calculations, the results were disheartening. Shao Xingchi was more optimistic than his partner, constantly painting a grim picture of the declining water transportation on the canal, trying to bolster his partner’s morale. The partner held on for another three months before giving up. He recalculated and showed Shao the big picture. Unless some unforeseen event occurred—like the canal water suddenly becoming corrosive and damaging all the machinery, or an alien attack on the canal boats—their business would see a 50% reduction in assets due to low demand. This didn’t even account for equipment depreciation and wear. If those were included, they’d be lucky to retain a third of their assets.
The numbers were stark, and the partner pushed the report in front of Shao Xingchi.
“Usually, things aren’t better than we imagine,” Shao Xingchi said, “and they certainly aren’t worse.”
“What about when they aren’t ‘usual’?”
“What do you suggest?”
“Quit.”
“Our entire fortune is tied up in this,” Shao Xingchi said, walking around the factory and touching each piece of machinery.
“If we quit now, we’ll only lose our assets. If we keep going, we might lose everything.”
Shao Xingchi sat back down across from his partner. “What will we do then? Go back to sailing?” His nose itched intensely as if a tiny bug was crawling inside. He pinched it hard with his fingernails, trying to squeeze the imaginary bug out like a pimple. “There are fewer and fewer boats on the river. River transport is already a sunset industry.”
“If river transport is a sunset industry,” his partner said, “then ship repair is completely over. We have even less reason to continue.” His partner suddenly burst into laughter, pounding the table and knocking over a cup of tea, spilling Pu’er all over the floor. Shao Xingchi forgot about the oil on his hands from touching the machines and ended up with a black nose. But even a black nose wasn’t something to laugh so hard about. He just watched his partner laugh. After what felt like the time it takes to smoke a cigarette, his partner finally stopped, tears streaming down his face. Wiping away the tears, he said nasally, “Brother, I don’t want to give up either. This is my first independent venture. It’s not that we didn’t work hard, but it’s come to this.” He was now crying tears of sadness.
Shao Xingchi, who had been angry a moment ago, also felt a wave of sadness. He patted his partner’s hand on the table with his oily hand. “We were just born too late.”
The golden age of river transport has passed. The golden age of the canal is also over.
“Is your only standard for judgment slowness?” Zhou Haikuo refilled Shao Xingchi’s tea.
“Isn’t one slow enough?”
“Speed is just a state of mind,” Zhou Haikuo said. “I like slow. Sometimes, what seems slow might be fast, and we just don’t realize it. Similarly, what seems old might be new. Take this compass, for example. Placing it in this new inn hasn’t made the inn old; it has made it new. Because of these old items, our little museum has gained a stellar reputation in the industry.”
Zhou Haikuo was speaking the truth. Due to the valuable collections at the Jining branch, the small museum had become a star in the bed-and-breakfast industry. Not only guests, but professionals from all over the country often came to visit and learn. The old items were the most valuable new additions to the establishment.
His fondness for slowness was also genuine. Every year, when new employees joined, he would tell them a story about a boat and a bicycle.
He grew up by the river in his grandfather’s secluded water town. The primary mode of transportation was by boat, and every house had a small dock behind it. Untie the rope, jump into the boat, and he could row to any place with water. He was ten years old, and it was a slightly overcast Dragon Boat Festival day. He remembered it clearly because a Japanese painter had come to the town to sketch, spending the entire morning at his family’s dock. At noon, his mother cooked zongzi and asked him to deliver three to the painter.
The painter bowed repeatedly to express his thanks, and in his flustered state, Zhou kept bowing back until he felt dizzy and then ran away. Many years later, he saw a book titled China’s Canals and realized that the painter was Mitsumasa Anno, a world-renowned picture book artist who had won the Hans Christian Andersen Award for illustration. In Anno’s watercolor paintings, Zhou found his family’s boat and Hu Tou’s bicycle.
In that pre-modern water town, bicycles were rare—not because they couldn’t be bought, but because they were unnecessary. Despite being impractical, bicycles, as a significant modern transportation tool, were highly regarded. His classmate Hu Tou had one and boasted daily about how fast it could go. Finally, fed up, Zhou said:
“Can your bicycle fly?”
“Even if it can’t fly,” Hu Tou said, raising his eyebrows, “those two wheels are like wind and fire wheels compared to your boat. Let’s face if you don’t believe me.”
And so they did. Zhou put on the electronic watch his father had bought and practiced in the canal every chance he got, timing how long it took to row from his dock to Zhuangyuan Bridge. The Dragon Boat Festival was the day of their showdown. That morning, his boat was at the dock, and Hu Tou’s bicycle was on the stone road by the river. Both were sketched into Anno’s painting. Zhou gave Anno three zongzi and ate five himself; he needed to be full for the afternoon race. He won in the end. The bicycle was indeed faster, but Hu Tou had to dismount and carry the bike up and down the stone steps at Xiucai Bridge and Jinshi Bridge, which took time.
If the route were smooth, Hu Tou could have won, but near Zhuangyuan Bridge, his front wheel got stuck in a four-finger-wide gap between the stones, and he was thrown into the canal. Zhou tried to pull him onto the boat, but Hu Tou refused, insisting on swimming to shore to continue the race. By the time Hu Tou climbed ashore, Zhou had already calmly rowed his boat under Zhuangyuan Bridge. The kids who had been watching and cheering along the way erupted in excitement.
“I was very proud of that race when I was ten,” he would often tell the newcomers years later. “Not because I won, but because I maintained my rowing rhythm throughout the entire race. To others, it might have seemed slow, but I knew that every stroke was full and steady, like walking step by step with solid and secure footing. This feeling made me realize I was moving quickly. And indeed, I was fast.”
So now, he told Shao Xingchi, “Slow can also be fast.”
“Mr. Zhou, you’re right. In many things, slow can indeed be fast,” Shao Xingchi said. “But in freight transport, fast is just fast. Can I smoke?”
“Go ahead.” Zhou Haikuo pushed the ashtray towards him. “I understand that perfectly. What I’m trying to say is, why has speed become the only metric in this world? Or rather, do we still have the ability to turn slow into fast?”
“That’s something for intellectuals to ponder.”
“Then why did you start sailing again?”
“We broke up. My friend refused to continue no matter what. He quit, and I couldn’t hold it up alone; even if I tried, I wouldn’t last long, so we just split up.”
“You could do something else.”
“I can’t. I’ve been tied to the boat and this river since I was a kid. To be blunt, Mr. Zhou, I know a boat better than a woman’s body.”
“Are you willing to keep wasting away like this?”
“Of course, I’m not willing to accept it. If there’s a workaround, I’d rather not do it. I’m adjusting my mindset, as Mr. Zhou suggested, pondering if we can transform slowness into efficiency. While I can’t accelerate the boat, I can reassess why I compare its speed to airplanes and trains. Sailing a boat, why must I compete in speed? If I find the best cargo within the suitable range for shipping and the best route among all routes, isn’t that equivalent to turning slow into fast? In the past, I always compared the speed of swimming in water to running on land and flying in the sky. Now I realize they’re not the same thing. Each has its characteristics and limitations, as well as its advantages. Instead of condemning it outright, I should recognize its limitations and expand its strengths.”
“So you want to reclaim the compass?”
“I must.”
“As far as I know, from Hangzhou to Jining, there’s only one road to follow; you don’t need a compass at all.”
Shao Xingchi pointed to Zhou Haikuo’s neck, where only a black string was visible, with the pendant hanging beneath it. “Not everyone has to wear a pendant, but I believe Mr. Zhou’s pendant is not optional.”
Someone peeked their head outside the shop door and quickly withdrew. Zhou Haikuo didn’t see who it was. Shao Xingchi noticed Zhou Haikuo looking towards the door, so he turned to look as well, but there was no one there. The faint sound of the wind blowing over the canal waters flowed into the inn. Facing this young man with a weather-beaten face, Zhou Haikuo realized he hadn’t gained any advantage; he was right—his pendant never left his body, year-round.
Each descendant of the Zhou family had a pendant made of gold, silver, or jade, shaped like a tiny book crafted from various materials. Engraved on each book was the same Italian word: “lingua.” Regardless of the font, it always read “lingua.” It was said to be a rule set by their ancestors. Their family was indeed known for their proficiency in Italian, even if they weren’t engaged in professions related to Italy or the Italian language. His “lingua” was made of ancient jade from the pre-Qin period.
The jade to him was as important as the compass to Shao Xingchi, but Zhou Haikuo still couldn’t bear to part with the compass. It was the treasure of the inn; without it, the Jining branch of the small museum inn would suffer greatly. Rumor had it that the inn industry was preparing to hold a “Most Authentic Inn” competition, and with the compass, the inn had a good chance of competing for the “Most Distinctive Award.”
“I understand the importance of the compass to you, but…” Zhou Haikuo said, rubbing his chin awkwardly, “We have a rule in our inn that once an acquired item is sold, it can only be bought back at twice the price.”
“You didn’t mention this rule before,” Shao Xingchi replied.
Cheng Nuo instantly understood and explained to the boss, “We didn’t expect you to change your mind. Initially, you couldn’t wait to get rid of it.”
That was indeed the truth, and Shao Xingchi couldn’t deny it. He pulled his right earlobe, which had been said to be auspicious since he was a child. One pull was worth ten thousand, and five pulls were worth fifty thousand. It wasn’t a small amount, but he had made up his mind. Shao Xingchi slapped his knee suddenly, “Alright, fifty thousand it is. Agreed?”
Cheng Nuo looked at Zhou Haikuo. Zhou Haikuo closed his eyes in anguish and nodded. He didn’t need that fifty thousand, but he had already committed. He should have demanded triple, quadruple, or even quintuple the price before he could change his mind.
Shao Xingchi’s phone rang again. He answered, “Boss Wu, I’m not taking it. I’ll be right back.”
Zhou Haikuo shuddered, but he reminded himself to stay calm.
Cheng Nuo asked, “Mr. Shao, are you saying you’re not taking it?”
“Yes, the money isn’t enough,” Shao Xingchi stood up, slinging the old leather bag diagonally across his body, “I’ll come back when I have enough money. We’ve already agreed. Don’t you trust me?”
Zhou Haikuo felt his gut twist at these words. It’s not that I don’t trust you; I don’t trust myself. As Shao Xingchi left the inn, Zhou Haikuo couldn’t even bring himself to stand up. He just waved goodbye from his seat. When Shao Xingchi disappeared outside the door, he let out a heavy sigh and collapsed back into the armchair, muttering a curse in Italian.
A thin, elderly man walked in through the door. His hair, streaked with white from river winds, spoke of a lifetime’s passage. His skin, not dry, held wrinkles etched by the wind. A slightly hunched back, likely from rheumatism, hindered his agility. The knuckles of his hands, grasping the faux leather strap of his bag, were swollen and twisted, unmistakably indicating a severe case of rheumatism to an outsider like Zhou Haikuo. The man who had just bobbed his head earlier was him.
“I am Shao Xingchi’s father,” the old man said, pulling out a card from his pocket, “My name is Shao Bingyi, and this is my ID card. How much is needed to redeem the compass my son bought? I’ll make up for it.”
Zhou Haikuo stood up and took off his coat. He had been talking to Shao Xingchi in a suit for quite some time, which explained why he felt a bit warm. Now, with Shao Xingchi’s father suddenly appearing, he felt a sudden layer of sweat on his back. Cheng Nuo took the boss’s coat and said to the old man, “Sir, it’s not redemption. We don’t run a pawnshop.”
“Sorry, I meant to say buy it back,” the old man apologized humbly.
Zhou Haikuo invited the old man to sit down, but Shao Bingyi insisted on standing, saying a few words standing would suffice. Zhou Haikuo reminded him that standing for too long could worsen his rheumatism, so Shao Bingyi reluctantly sat down. “It seems the boss understands the canal quite well, to have noticed my rheumatism at a glance. Thank you,” Shao Bingyi said. “Then the boss must also understand why my son wanted to buy back the compass.”
Zhou Haikuo asked Cheng Nuo to serve tea to the old gentleman. As Cheng Nuo brought the tea, he whispered to Zhou Haikuo, “This old gentleman has been here before, asking about the price of the compass, wanting to buy it.”
Shao Bingyi’s hearing was sharp, catching Cheng Nuo’s whisper loud and clear. “I have been here before. To be honest, I wanted to buy it back the last time,” he admitted.
Three months ago, Shao Bingyi learned that his son had sold the compass. A fellow boatman heard from a relative who was aboard that there was a Western compass displayed in this inn. He informed Shao Bingyi, saying there was also one in a small museum, perhaps related to theirs. At first, Shao Bingyi paid no heed, but when Xingchi came aboard their small boat to visit, Shao Bingyi casually inquired about the compass. His son’s evasive response made him realize something was amiss. Without a word, he observed for a while before coming here alone by boat.
Upon seeing the cracked glass surface, he recognized the compass as theirs. When he asked about the source and purchasing price, Cheng Nuo insisted on keeping it confidential for the party involved. When he inquired about the resale price, Cheng Nuo stated that they generally did not sell, but if they did, it would be at a price set by Mr. Zhou. Exiting the inn, Shao Bingyi felt the urge to give his son a good thrashing. However, after sitting by the riverbank for half an hour, his anger subsided. His son had it tough too, and he wouldn’t resort to such foolishness unless necessary. Yet, in his view, such foolishness should never be done at any time. Rising from the riverbank, he boarded another boat back, determined to find a way to redeem it himself.
He scoured every nook and cranny for money and arrived at the inn with his faux leather bag in hand. Passing by the river mouth, he saw Boss Wu’s boat anchored halfway, guessing that his son might be there. With Xingchi and his friend’s boat repair shop closed down, they couldn’t afford another boat with the remaining money. He didn’t intend to start afresh immediately; he planned to work on someone else’s boat for a while, sorting things out before thinking long-term. Coincidentally, Boss Wu’s boat lacked a helmsman. The thought of his son returning to the boat gave Shao Bingyi a glimmer of warmth. Arriving at the inn’s entrance, he peeked inside and indeed saw Xingchi. He hid outside, catching bits and pieces of conversation, waiting for his son to leave before emerging from behind the wall.
As Shao Bingyi opened his bag and took out the first bundle of money, Zhou Haikuo intercepted his hand as he reached for the second bundle. “Sir, is it necessary to retrieve the compass?” The bundle consisted of bills of various sizes and colors, ranging from one hundred to fifty to twenty to ten to five to one yuan and even fifty cents; the old man had collected all the money he could find.
“Don’t worry, boss. I have some big bills,” Shao Bingyi said. “There’s a bundle of one hundred yuan bills.”
Zhou Haikuo covered the bag. “It’s not necessary, sir. Please take the compass.”
“You haven’t counted the money yet,” Shao Bingyi insisted. “Even if I take it, let that little scoundrel come and pick it up. He’s trampled on our ancestors’ faces; he should pick them up himself. Don’t tell him I’ve made up the money, just say the price has been reduced.”
“It’s still twenty-five thousand. We don’t have a doubling rule,” Zhou Haikuo replied firmly.
Cheng Nuo hesitated. “Mr. Zhou…” He couldn’t just blurt out the truth.
Zhou Haikuo smiled at him and turned to Shao Bingyi. “Sir, our ancestors also worked on boats.”
Shao Bingyi’s eyes lit up as if he had heard a secret code. “Which generation? What kind of boats?”
“It’s been over a hundred years. Houseboats, some places call them stack boats, for passengers. They ran half the Grand Canal back in the day.”
Shao Bingyi reached out his hand, insisting on shaking Zhou Haikuo’s hand, not for himself but for their ancestors. The Shao family’s ancestors began working on boats over a hundred years ago. The first trip on the waterway took the Grand Canal from south to north. Though initially working as a chef on board, it was on the second trip that the Shao family’s ancestors truly began running boats. Even then, a handshake was necessary to honor their shared heritage of living on the water.
“How many years has your family lived on the water?” Shao Bingyi asked.
Zhou Haikuo couldn’t say for sure.
In theory, the history of the Zhou family should have been as clear as black and white, passed down from generation to generation, as they were all educated people.
It was said that after their ancestor Zhou Yiyun, every generation of the Zhou family spoke Italian. In the prosperous countryside around Suzhou, it was quite legendary for a small corner like theirs to have such an interest and ability. Yet precisely because they generated literary heritage, they understood better than anyone how to sever and erase history: what could be left behind was proudly and openly passed down to future generations; what was inconvenient was demagnetized by time, as if overnight silence could erase years of history.
Zhou Haikuo, of course, knew the reason. In the tumultuous history of the past century, speaking Chinese had often brought trouble, let alone foreign languages. For instance, his grandfather, a university professor teaching Italian, suddenly found himself labeled a reactionary. One morning, after brushing his teeth and washing his face, his grandfather habitually recited a passage from the original “Divine Comedy” before breakfast. A group of young people barged into the house, pushed his grandfather’s arms behind his back, and forced him onto a “plane.”
A tall paper hat, labeled “Reactionary Academic Authority” in the front and “Colluding with Foreigners” in the back, with “Traitor” on the left and “Spy” on the right, was prepared for him. Many years later, his grandfather told him about this experience, first expressing embarrassment and humility, saying the young revolutionaries had overestimated him. He wasn’t some reactionary academic authority; he was quite young and had only become an associate professor a few days earlier. Then he remarked that the fourteen characters on the paper hat were written quite ordinarily, but the layout was very reasonable, and the words were clear and neat, without conflicting with each other.
Zhou Haikuo’s grandfather was the elder figure who lived alongside him. Going further back, Zhou Haikuo had never met any of his ancestors and had no idea how many truths were buried with them. He heard that his grandfather had passed down an Italian-language notebook, with a cover made of lambskin, filled with handwritten entries. The earliest member of the Zhou family to learn Italian was Zhou Gong Yiyun, who ran boats over a hundred years ago, and the Italian-language notebook was handed down from him.
When Yiyun was just a teenager, his parents pulled him out of school to apprentice and make a living, following his master on long-distance trips by water. By a stroke of luck, they hosted an Italian guest traveling from Suzhou to Gaoyou by boat. The foreigner took a liking to young Zhou Yiyun, and they hit it off. Recognizing Yiyun’s linguistic talent, the Italians taught him Italian during their journey. When the Italian guest reached his destination, to thank Yiyun and to encourage him to continue learning Italian, he gave his notebook to Yiyun. That Italian, akin to Marco Polo, and his notebook filled with Italian became the source of the Zhou family’s proficiency in Italian.
For over a hundred years thereafter, not only Zhou Yiyun but also every generation of the Zhou family spoke Italian. Learning Italian became a family tradition, a compulsory subject. Those who had the means studied abroad; those who didn’t studied domestically. Those who could enter university studied in foreign language departments, while those who couldn’t had to self-study at home. Zhou Haikuo’s father, influenced by his father, left for distant lands early on and had no opportunity for university education. However, thanks to the little bit of martial arts he absorbed as a child, he managed to reach a decent level of proficiency in Italian during his time burning charcoal in the deep forests of Northeast China, using the few Italian books he carried with him. Now, when dealing with Italian clients, he didn’t need a translator at all.
Zhou Haikuo took out the jade pendant around his neck and showed it to Shao Bingyi. It was a thumb-sized piece of green jade with rust-red veins, crafted in the shape of a book. Zhou Haikuo pointed to the same word engraved on the front and back covers of the jade book: Italian, Language. Shao Bingyi stretched his neck, unfamiliar with foreign languages, and afraid of damaging the jade, so he withdrew his hand.
“Is that notebook still around?” Shao Bingyi felt a sense of inferiority about the cultural heritage of the Zhou family but also expressed his curiosity openly.
“No, it’s gone,” Zhou Haikuo shook his head regretfully.
Zhou Haikuo had asked his grandfather about this too. His grandfather had seen it when he was young; the lambskin cover still felt good to the touch. However, the pages had turned yellow, and some of the handwriting had become blurred. Even in the humid weather of the south, the paper remained crisp, but it was fragile, and flipping through it could easily damage it. After attending university, his grandfather would occasionally take it out and look at it. However, after becoming a teacher, he gradually forgot about the notebook.
It wasn’t until he became a “reactionary academic authority” and was dragged out for criticism sessions and public humiliation that he suddenly remembered the notebook. To be precise, it was his parents back home who remembered it. Both of them worried that someone would come to their hometown to search for evidence of their son’s reactionary behavior, so they quickly found the notebook and buried it in a safe place. They didn’t tell their son where they buried it, fearing he might accidentally reveal its location if he were tortured.
If the notebook were discovered, it would only be destroyed, but if it were found after being dug up, it would become evidence against him, making matters worse. They also worried that if their son found out, he couldn’t keep it to himself, which would constitute deceiving the organization. By the time Zhou Haikuo’s grandfather was completely rehabilitated, both his great-grandfather and great-grandmother had passed away, and no one knew what had become of the notebook. After his grandfather’s rehabilitation, he dug up every possible safe place around the old house in the hometown but didn’t find it. In his later years, one day while he was eating, he suddenly set down his chopsticks and said:
“Why didn’t I ever think that the notebook might have been burned?”
The family suddenly realized. Indeed, burying the notebook might have been just to comfort their son. Their cherished family treasure was endangered, and if it were destroyed, the ancestors would hold their son accountable. But leaving it in the world was like carrying a time bomb in their arms, never knowing when it might go off. So, the old couple willingly took on the role of villains and set it ablaze to prevent future troubles. By telling their children and grandchildren that they buried it, they also relieved themselves of their psychological burden. The more the family thought about it, the more it made sense—oh, the heartache of parents everywhere. The next day, their grandfather, a staunch atheist, took his children and grandchildren to the cemetery and burned two paper offerings for his deceased parents, then kowtowed three times.
“What was written in the notebook?” Shao Bingyi asked.
“I don’t know,” Zhou Haikuo replied, offering Shao Bingyi a cigarette. “Even my grandfather couldn’t remember. It was probably just a log of voyages on the canal, maybe mentioning Marco Polo. But for us descendants, what was written in the notebook is not important. It’s more like a token and a reminder, urging the Zhou family to carry on the legacy of the Italian language. Sometimes I wonder, if Zhou Gong Yiyun had encountered a French or German person and happened to be interested in French or German, would we, the descendants, have to learn French or German instead?”
“It’s still Italian,” Shao Bingyi exhaled a puff of smoke. “Otherwise, you might not even know where our compass came from.”
With Cheng Nuo joining in, the three of them burst into laughter together.
With that settled, they agreed that when Xingchi came next time, he could retrieve the compass at the original price. Zhou Haikuo implied that if Xingchi was short on funds, he could take the compass first, and they could settle the payment later, or even waive it altogether. Shao Bingyi firmly refused, stating that if that were the case, he wouldn’t want the compass anymore. Cheng Nuo chimed in, saying, “Hey, it seems like we’re back to square one. Is the compass important or not?” The three of them burst into laughter again.
When Shao Bingyi took his leave, he still felt a bit guilty, pondering how to make amends. He remembered chatting with the captain during his boat ride here about the collection at the Little Museum Guesthouse. The captain mentioned that in their region of Shandong, there was no shortage of antiques to be found. They were currently excavating, claiming it was for archaeological purposes. Sometimes they would say they found an ancient tomb, and other times they would claim to have unearthed a pile of porcelain. Both the government and private individuals were getting involved in the excavation frenzy. Where there was open ground, people were digging, and it was said that they had found plenty of odds and ends along with jars and pots. If someone liked collecting odds and ends, they could go there to collect, plenty to go around.
“It’s not far ahead, just a few dozen kilometers,” Shao Bingyi gestured, “I heard it used to be a tributary of the canal, but I’m not sure when it was abandoned. Right there.” Old Bingyi drew a circle on an imaginary map.
Zhou Haikuo glanced at Cheng Nuo. Cheng Nuo shrunk his neck and said, “I’ve heard about it too, Mr. Zhou. I’ve been so busy talking about the compass that I didn’t get a chance to report it to you.”
“Alright, after seeing off the guest, you better give me a detailed report.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Zhou,” Cheng Nuo whispered to Zhou Haikuo, making a V-sign gesture and lowering his voice, “There’s good news.”