Thirty Seconds to Price It

He came out of the Bi family's gate. The wind blew the medicine smell back at him, forcing him half a step backward.

The beads were back on the old man's wrist. He had held them, seen that night — the saw stroke after stroke, the shavings curling onto sleeves. He'd loosed his hands and confirmed nothing, only lost a small thing.

That blue porcelain cup with the chipped mouth on the windowsill. Now, he found, he couldn't even connect to what it looked like. Not forgotten — that stretch of vision had had a frame pulled out from its middle. The first time his father spread that signboard's rubbing before him as a child, such a cup had stood on the sill. At this moment he couldn't piece together what it was.

He walked out along the alley. The afternoon light was white and parched, curling the wall's plaster. He touched the one-thread bead in his pocket — cool. Two stretches of memory, one the smell from his mother's stove, one his father's hand at blending incense, both had a gap in him. Today another had gone missing — the look of that blue cup. He didn't count how many were gone; he could only recall what remained. The one-thread bead against his thigh sent its coolness seeping up, bit by bit. He suddenly felt that the beads he'd handled these two days were clearer than the days in his own hands.

He thrust his hands into his pockets. Two things — one in his pocket, one on the old man's wrist — very likely came off the same block. Yet his surname was Liu, and the Liu family shop's signboard was a Liu's too. Two threads, wound once on that block fifty-eight years ago. Bi Yuchen had watched for the other branch of the Lius for fifty-eight years. His own shop still lay under the sealed notice, sinking deeper each day.

Bi Yuchen's words still weighed on him. This strand isn't my family's. Fifty-eight years ago, two young men carried this block into the capital, one a Liu, the other a Liu too.

So he had to do the thing Bi Yuchen had hinted at. Give this strand the price it deserved. Not to talk it up — but to count in everything that ought to be counted.

Bi Shunli's call came at noon. The son still meant to pawn it. The old father couldn't stop him, and set just one condition: let that young man from the Liu shop look at it first, name a figure, and only then discuss pawning.

"My father says you see true," Bi Shunli said on the phone. "He says I'm only to trust it once you've looked."

He heard the resentment in it. The son wanted to sell; the father blocked him; failing to block, he stepped back and demanded a figure he'd accept. A young man whose shop was barely his to keep had been trusted by an old man who'd worn his beads fifty-eight years — trusted over his own son. He didn't ask much, only where to meet.

After hanging up, he stood on the curb and thought. An old man who'd rather trust a young outsider than fully trust his own son — this strand weighed heavier in the Bi house than he'd thought. Bi Shunli's wanting to sell wasn't unfilial; he was simply strapped, and he'd heard that hesitation in the call. But it wasn't his business. The only thing he had to do was reckon the price full, and let the father and son weigh it themselves.

The pawnshop was the same one. Glass counter, the light inside yellow. Behind the counter, the same old master.

The old master looked up, saw it was him, and his brow twitched. This trade knows faces. Last time he'd spoken wrongly here, and the old master remembered. What the old master remembered better was the old grievance between him and the young man's father — a feud he'd only heard of, meeting face to face for the first time today. The old master didn't raise it, nor did he ask. Old scores weren't settled in this moment.

Bi Shunli stood to one side, hands in his trouser pockets, knuckles white. He could tell: this young man hadn't come to sell an object, but to sell off a stretch of days that lay heavy on him. The bead strand on the glass, the old master under the lamp, and he wedged between them, helping no one — only helping a true figure.

Bi Shunli set the bead strand down on the glass. The beads gave a soft click; the old master didn't lift his eyes.

"You again," the old master said.

He knew this face. Last time he'd stood here, with that line "this strand must not be taken apart," he'd run the price up to where Bi Shunli couldn't refuse. That time he'd been a hindrance, and he'd remembered this face. This time was different. This time he'd been invited.

Bi Shunli pushed the beads over. "Have a look."

The old master put on his loupe and turned the strand over and over. What he looked at wasn't the oil lines, but the gaps.

"One bead missing," the old master said. "The red cord's been broken too, joined three times."

He said nothing.

"Missing one, cord broken — this isn't a complete strand anymore," the old master pushed the beads back a little. "A pawnshop takes a thing, not a story. The price goes down."

Bi Shunli's face darkened with that sentence. He opened his mouth, and made no sound.

He reached out and cradled the strand. Eighteen beads, the guru bead present, the Buddha-head facing out, three spacers, the counter beads all there. His thumb ran across the flesh-side.

"The bead it's missing was lost later, not never strung," he said. "Worn on one wrist for fifty-eight years, its wear marks are a ledger, keeping one and the same person. The cord broke three times, and every joining's groove runs one way, toward the palm. That means from first to last it was one thing — it never came apart."

The old master looked up; behind the lens his gaze was cool.

"Now the origin. Sheng — a living tree wounded, resin walking out on its own, not dead stock soaked to resell. The eighteen oil lines enter one way and leave one way; it was sawn from a single block. Yesterday I checked each bead under the lamp, and the opposing holes still radiate from one center. The man who sawed it knew his layout — he cut for a full strand."

He paused.

"And it's non-renewable. A strand like this, sawn from a block that was still living, worn fifty-eight years — that tree's long gone. The night it was cut is nearly sixty years past; no second strand can ever be assembled."

Behind the counter, silence for a while.

The old master took off his loupe. "What you're saying, the pawnshop doesn't recognize. A pawnshop recognizes a thing — one missing is one missing. On what grounds do you call it non-renewable, on yesterday's one look under a lamp?"

"On the night it was sawn — I saw it," he said. "I held this strand and saw the night someone sawed it from one whole block. Two men held the block, one pulled the saw, oil slowly weeping from the grain. That block was alive. Saw open dead stock and the oil won't walk out on its own."

The old master stared at him, and said nothing.

"I'll stand behind it," he said. "I'll name the figure."

He named a figure. Far above the one the old master had pressed down.

The old master frowned. "Name that figure and you sign."

Bi Shunli suddenly looked at him. "Why are you helping me?"

"I'm not helping you," he said. "I want to know where it truly came from. Your father says this strand is kept for someone, and the other branch of the Lius is the true owner. My surname is Liu; the Liu family shop's signboard is a Liu's too. I want to find out which of the two who carried the block into the capital fifty-eight years ago was of my family."

Bi Shunli asked no more.

"I'll sign," he said.

When the nib went down, he noticed his own hand. The nib pointed toward himself. Once this line was signed, every word about this strand would press on him. Get it wrong, and he'd pay till he broke.

The old master took the paper, and looked at him once. "Sign, and every word on this strand is yours from now on. Think clear."

He had thought clear. He wanted to know where it came from more than anyone.

The paper was pushed back. Bi Shunli stared at that appraisal sheet, a long time.

"I won't pawn it," Bi Shunli said. "Something my father wore fifty-eight years — I trade it for money, and when he comes to, I've no way to account for it. Besides, my father's not been well these recent years; we need to keep some cash on hand for emergencies. It's not that we must sell it."

He nodded, and stepped out of the pawnshop door.

The cost was quiet. He'd signed, and from then on bore joint liability for this strand. No one in the trade would forgive him an error now. Every word he spoke, he'd carry himself. Before, an error at most cost him face. Now an error would cost his whole estate. He thought of the last time at this counter, when his loose mouth had run the price up and only hindered — that time at most cost face. This time his name was on paper, in the eyes of everyone in the trade. From here on, whenever he spoke the origin of any strand, someone would hold this appraisal sheet up against him. Right, and he'd have to be right to the end. One wrong word, and this strand's debt was his.

He'd just reached the street corner when the phone rang.

His shop had been forced open. The money and the goods were untouched — what was lost wasn't those.