Chapter 2064 - The "Heshengcheng" Paper Shop
"Come, come—maybe one day we'll actually be able to spend money without carrying any cash around, ha!"
"What kind of autumn daydream is that..."
"Here, here—another cup of Gervas. It won't go to your head..."
"I don't want that sweet water! Look at this fruit wine—the real stuff, authentic Australian goods straight from Lingao!"
Fawenniu had already consumed quite a lot of Gervas, and after mixing in the fruit wine, it wasn't long before the combined effect made itself felt. Seeing darkness gathering and still thinking of matters awaiting him at home, he made his excuses and left his companions behind.
Fawenniu's home lay in the southern quarter of the city. Leaving the restaurant, he felt the river breeze on his face—his drowsy head cleared somewhat, though his legs remained treacherous, causing him to stagger unpredictably. He stopped and started in lurching intervals, and with considerable difficulty made it to the entrance of Papermaker's Street. One misstep sent him careening into a passing sedan chair—the collision forceful enough that both bearers stumbled and nearly overturned their burden.
The accompanying servant seized Fawenniu by the collar and snarled, "Are you blind? How do you walk?"
The two bearers rolled up their sleeves menacingly, preparing to confront him.
Fawenniu could tell at once that the sedan likely carried some "master." In the old days—even if he hadn't been in the wrong—he would have had to bow and scrape with profuse apologies. But the times had changed. Australian constables patrolled everywhere now, and if it came to blows and they were all hauled off to the precinct station, no amount of status would protect anyone. These days, even the gentry and great households dared not make scenes in the streets. Besides, he was a "properly registered" "Opinion Guide" carrying an Australian pass—he was practically one of their people now. The wine emboldened him, and he stiffened his neck defiantly: "The road belongs to everyone—why didn't your sedan watch where it was going?"
The two servants bristled with indignation, preparing to "teach him a lesson," but a man's voice emerged from within the sedan: "He's drunk. Don't quarrel with him—just go."
At the master's command, the servants reluctantly released Fawenniu. With lingering resentment, they lifted the sedan and departed. Fawenniu, swelling with self-satisfaction, called after them: "This Guangzhou doesn't belong to you lot anymore..."
The man in the sedan did not hear this parting shot. The chair moved briskly through the evening shadows, entering Papermaker's Street and soon arriving before a shop front.
The street bore its name from having once been renowned for its concentration of paper merchants. But ever since the Australians had begun flooding the market with various types of "Lingao paper," traditional papermakers had suffered catastrophic setbacks. Nine out of ten of the old establishments had vanished; those that remained either worked as distributors for Australian paper or specialized in certain niche products. The street had grown quiet and desolate—a ghost of its former prosperity.
The shop before which the sedan halted possessed a modest facade, its signboard simply reading "Paper Shop." Evening had fallen, and the clerks were busy putting up the shutters and taking down the shop banners. Seeing the sedan approach, they stood at respectful attention. The manager hurried out from inside to greet them: "Master..."
The man in the sedan said nothing, merely nodding. The sedan was carried directly through a large gate beside the shop.
The chair settled in the rear courtyard. Hao the Second stepped out—a man in his early forties, handsome and refined in bearing. Because he was a second son, everyone called him "Hao Er" or "Second Master Hao." On the Guangzhou industrial and commercial tax registration rolls, Hao Er was listed as proprietor of the "Heshengcheng" Paper Shop.
He did not exchange pleasantries with the manager or clerks, but went straight into the shop's rear compound, attended only by his personal servants.
The rear courtyard served as his residence. Here, however, there was no wife or family—Hao Er's household, it was said, resided at their country estate. The only occupant was a "chamber maid" kept for "daily necessities."
Seeing him enter, the chamber maid hurried out to greet him with a curtsy: "Master."
"Light the lamps," Hao Er ordered. "Have a meal prepared and bring it to the study. After that, you may eat and rest as you please—there's no need to attend me further this evening."
He came to this place seven or eight times monthly, and each visit followed the same pattern. The chamber maid thought nothing of it and went off to comply.
After issuing these instructions, Hao Er and his two personal servants entered the side courtyard where the study was located. From this moment forward, except for the chamber maid who would shortly deliver his meal, no one else could enter this courtyard.
One of the servants went ahead into the study and lit the "Australian oil lamp." Instantly, the dark room blazed with harsh white light.
"Too bright. Turn it down," Hao Er ordered. "Hao Ping, you stay and keep watch here."
With that, he led the other servant—Hao An—toward the back of the study.
Behind the study lay a small courtyard, dotted with artificial rockeries and decorative trees. One rockery featured a grotto entrance. Inside, the space proved unexpectedly elegant: stone-lined walls all around, a stone table in the center, four stone stools, and various refined ornaments artfully arranged. Hao Er nodded approvingly. Hao An set down his lantern and moved one of the stone stools aside. Beneath it lay revealed an iron ring.
Hao An grasped the ring and pulled. A stone slab rose—revealing a passageway beneath. A damp, cold draft rushed upward. In the faint light of the lantern, stone steps could be glimpsed descending into darkness.
Master and servant descended in silence. After a dozen or so steps, they reached the bottom and continued forward. Before long, the sound of flowing water became audible, and the sight of an underground channel emerged—a narrow boat moored at a stone landing.
This was a branch of the Six Meridian Canals. At this moment, Hao Er and his servant stood beneath Papermaker's Street itself—an ancient conduit dating to the Song dynasty. Apart from the now-deceased Wang Daniao, no one in Guangzhou knew this subterranean passage still existed.
Hao An poled the boat with a bamboo staff. The small craft glided slowly through the murky water. In the pitch-black channel, only the lantern hung at the bow provided illumination.
Its dim glow revealed the grimy, stained walls of the conduit—the accumulation of centuries. Occasionally, gnarled tree roots and ant burrows could be seen penetrating the stonework. The boat drifted silently through the fetid water.
The channel had once, several hundred years ago, been a natural river navigable by boats—an inland waterway threading through the city. Over the ages, as it became clogged with refuse and sewage, it had been roofed over to become a covered sewer. In the early days, teams had regularly dredged it; later, as years passed and official attention waned, decades of neglect had allowed garbage to accumulate like mountain ranges. Sometimes the boat could barely thread its way between heaps of refuse and excrement protruding above the water; sometimes it ran aground entirely on mounds of muck and filth, requiring vigorous poling to break free.
Swarms of rats scurried among the garbage and sewage, foraging for scraps. Decomposed animal carcasses—gnawed and rotted beyond recognition—lay everywhere. Occasionally, human remains could be spotted as well: some had drowned in the open canals and drifted inward; most had met violent ends and been dumped here to decompose in anonymity.
The stench and filth defied description. Both men wore masks heavily padded with medicinal herbs to ward off miasma, yet even so, the air left them gasping and short of breath. Were it not for the occasional shafts of light and fresh air filtering in from the drain grates above, they might well have suffocated.
The boat finally pulled up beside a stone stair. Hao An raised his lantern and led the way, glancing back periodically. Hao Er followed, hands clasped behind his back. After several turns, they reached a dead end—an age-blackened wooden door.
Hao An tapped a brief sequence. A small viewing panel in the door slid open abruptly.
Hao An lifted his lantern to his face, letting the person inside verify his identity. Moments later, the sounds of bolts and locks being drawn back echoed in the confined space. The door swung open.
Behind it loomed a row of cabinets, their backs facing outward. They pushed the cabinets aside and stepped into what appeared to be a storeroom, its shelves laden with bound books and mounted paintings. The wooden staircase creaked beneath their feet as they climbed; at the top, Hao An lifted a trapdoor. They emerged into a warehouse of sorts, its racks piled high with printed books and framed artwork.
"Master, the coast is clear," Hao An said softly, peering through a crack in the warehouse door.
Hao Er nodded. He pushed the door open.
They stood in an ordinary courtyard. Several large trees, decades old, cast the yard in perpetual shade; at night it was utterly dark. To the east lay a row of workshops for processing paper pulp. Opposite stood racks for drying freshly-made paper. To the south was a street-facing shop—a framing and mounting business that also dealt in works by notable calligraphers and painters.
To the north stood a row of stone-walled buildings where the managers and master craftsmen resided. Master and servant headed straight for the main hall, then turned into an eastern side room.
Hao An pushed aside a decrepit cabinet, revealing a wooden door fitted with an iron ring. He pulled the ring.
The door swung open.
(End of Chapter)