FVN Chapter 82 No Money
Chapter 82 No Money
"A single sheet of gold worth a hundred taels is equivalent to a thousand taels of silver." Song Quyou shook his head with a bitter smile.
Song Quyou took out two money pouches from his bosom. These were all the money he had on him. After going in and out, he had about a hundred taels left. In addition, there were two mermaid pearls he found on the beach, each worth a hundred taels of silver. Putting them together, he couldn't even afford half a single tael of silver, let alone a whole one.
"Sir, may I...?"
He wanted to haggle a bit more, but before he could finish speaking, Mr. Xu resolutely shook his head.
Song Quyou remained silent for a moment, and was about to get up to take his leave when a middle-aged man suddenly pushed open the door and entered.
"Old Xu, do you want a wife or not? Just say the word, and I'll bring her out for you to meet."
Song Quyou looked up and saw that the man had a scroll under his arm. Judging from his clothes and build, he looked somewhat like Mr. Wu, who painted door gods at the North Gate last night.
At this moment, the big yellow dog beside Song Quyou wagged its tail and barked at the middle-aged man.
The man looked down at Big Yellow and laughed loudly, "I just found you a good family yesterday, how come we meet here again today?"
The middle-aged man was wearing a faded blue cloth robe with several ink stains on the cuffs. His face was flushed, and he reeked of alcohol, indicating that he had been drinking.
Mr. Xu frowned and scolded in a low voice:
"Wu Chengfeng, what are you yelling about? There are guests here."
Mr. Wu then noticed a Taoist priest sitting in the main room. After a moment's surprise, he burst into laughter, stepped over the threshold, and pointed at the large yellow dog on the ground, saying:
"What a coincidence! My little boy told me that the dog gave away a Taoist priest."
Song Quyou stood up, cupped his hands, and said, "Thank you for the dog, senior."
Mr. Wu slapped his forehead and waved his hand, "Don't blame me, don't blame me. It's not a gift. Didn't the Taoist priest help me get the tiger demon's blood?"
After exchanging greetings, Song Quyou put away the money pouch on the table and said, "I won't bother you any longer, farewell."
Mr. Xu returned the greeting with a cupped hand, saying, "In that case, Daoist Master, you have prepared everything. Let's talk again."
"Hey! What's going on? I know the Taoist priest too, he has to wait for me to go together."
Mr. Wu stopped Song Quyou and pressed him back into his chair. "Taoist priest, please sit down and see how good this old man is at putting on an act."
After saying that, he put the scroll on the table, pulled up a chair, sat down, crossed his legs, and kicked Mr. Xu:
"Don't hide it anymore. I saw the fine Yunyu Bai tea that your grand-disciple gave you when I came here yesterday. Quickly brew some for your matchmaker."
Mr. Xu snorted and got up to pour Mr. Wu a cup of cold tea: "Yun Yubai is available, but no matchmaker has been hired."
Mr. Wu was not annoyed, nor did he touch the cold tea. Instead, he picked up the scroll, went to the display shelf next to him, and hung it up to unfold it.
A woman with a hairpin askew in her hair, a cinnabar mole between her eyebrows, a half-smile on her lips, slightly upturned eyes, and eyes that were both misty and tender.
As for the clothes, due to the special nature of the paper, it is difficult to see the style clearly amidst the shifting clouds and mist, but there should be some.
Suddenly, Da Huang ran up to Song Quyou and growled softly at the painting.
The eerie light in Song Quyou's eyes faded, and he patted Dahuang's back: "It's alright, it won't bark."
……
"You're being silly again." Mr. Xu's voice was low, his fingers trembling slightly, yet carrying a hint of barely perceptible embarrassment.
Mr. Wu chuckled mischievously, pointing at the figure in the painting: "Tell me, does a woman of such beauty and appearance deserve the cloud-patterned black paper you gave me?"
Mr. Xu turned his face away and didn't reply, but the tips of his ears turned slightly red.
He walked to the display shelf, took down the portrait, carefully rolled it up, and placed it on top of the shelf with gentle movements.
After Mr. Xu put the portrait away, when he turned around, the faint blush on his face had completely faded, and he once again had a cold and aloof appearance.
He sat in the round-back chair, picked up the cup of cold tea, took a sip, and said calmly, "No matter how well it's drawn, it's still just a person on paper."
Upon hearing this, Mr. Wu immediately glared, leaned forward, and slammed his hand on the table, reeking of alcohol.
"What's wrong with a person on paper? Can't a person on paper be your wife? After we leave, open it and take a look, and you'll see how powerful I am."
"You stingy bastard, hurry up, I'm not drinking your tea anymore, give me a few sheets of cloud-patterned black paper."
Mr. Xu frowned, but still got up and went to the inner room.
Before long, he brought out a long, flat camphor wood box. The box was dark and the copper clasp was polished to a shine. He placed the box on the table, opened the lid, and inside were about ten sheets of paper neatly stacked.
The paper was brighter whiter than the Song Dynasty's "Quyou Hutian" paper, with subtle cloud patterns flowing within it. Under the candlelight, it flickered, as if a layer of living mist was sealed inside the paper.
Mr. Wu leaned over to take a look at the contents of the box and reached out to take it, but Mr. Xu slapped his hand away.
"Two, that's all." With that, Mr. Xu picked out two bills and pushed them in front of Mr. Wu.
Mr. Xu glanced at Song Quyou again, sighed softly, and pulled out a bill: "Three hundred taels. Taoist priest, you don't need to talk nonsense about today's events."
Song Quyou held the cloud-patterned black paper in his palm and placed the two money pouches from his bosom back on the table:
"Thank you for your understanding, Mr. Xu. I will certainly not speak recklessly."
Mr. Xu waved his hand, closed the camphor wood box again, the copper clasp making a soft click as it closed, then held it in his arms and walked into the inner room.
Mr. Wu had already tucked the two sheets of cloud-patterned black paper into his pocket, and stood up contentedly: "Brother Xu, farewell."
"Get out of here! If the old man is watching from heaven, and he knows that his grand-disciple is doing nothing but drawing erotic pictures to exchange for paper, he'll probably beat you to death."
Mr. Wu wasn't annoyed at all; instead, he burst into laughter.
"The patriarch wouldn't blame me. His successor doesn't flatter the powerful and wealthy, but earns his own living by exchanging paintings for paper. When I'm old and pass away, the patriarch will surely pat me on the shoulder and say, 'Young man, you have backbone.'"
Furthermore, this painting of a beautiful woman has no signature or inscription, so how could it be my work? It's clearly you trying to smear me."
After saying that, he looked at Song Quyou and said, "Little Taoist priest, let's go. This guy is too stingy; he won't even give us tea."
Mr. Wu grabbed Song Quyou's sleeve and left the Xu family's courtyard. A night breeze blew through the alley, and most of the smell of alcohol dissipated.
He glanced back at the hastily closed wooden door of the Xu family's house and lowered his voice:
"Young Taoist priest, don't be fooled by Old Xu's tough talk, uprightness, and seriousness. It's all an act. He's itching to see that painting right now."
……
After leaving Tingyu Lane, Song Quyou intended to say goodbye and go home, but Mr. Wu insisted on having another drink with him.
Unfortunately, he couldn't refuse.
The two strolled slowly along the long street, where the night market was bustling. Steam rose from the bamboo awning of the wonton stall, and the aroma of scallions and lard mingled with the night breeze, enticing Big Yellow to tilt its head back and sniff.
Mr. Wu, familiar with the place, slipped into a tavern, picked a table facing the street, and ordered two jugs of wine, a plate of salted peanuts, and a plate of braised meat.
"Taoist priest, please try this. This place's green wine is a specialty of Qiantang."
Song Quyou filled a bowl, and the emerald green wine in the wine pot turned red in the bowl, with a fine layer of foam rising to the surface, and a sweet aroma wafted out.
Song Quyou picked up the bowl and took a sip. It was smooth and soft on the palate, but had a strong aftertaste, sending a warm sensation down his throat and into his stomach. Da Huang lay on the table leg, its chin resting on his shoe, its tail occasionally lazily sweeping across the bluestone slab.
After three bowls of wine, Mr. Wu, who was already talkative, became even more so.
He claimed to be a descendant of the Sage of Painting, and said the Hanlin Academy of Painting was no place for humans. Even painting a bird required following a set formula, with a fixed number of feathers on each wing; it wasn't painting, it was abacus calculation. He couldn't stand it and complained a bit, which led to him being reported and imprisoned. Fortunately, a benefactor rescued him, sending him here to paint door gods as atonement.
Mr. Wu picked up a peanut and put it in his mouth, chewing it with a crunching sound. "When I came from Chang'an, I would paint for whoever gave me money. I would paint door gods, kitchen gods, and beauties."
At first, I was so embarrassed to draw those things, afraid people would recognize me. It got much better later. Anyway, the person who draws that stuff isn't surnamed Wu.
Mr. Wu downed another bowl of wine, the liquid dripping down his beard. He wiped it haphazardly with his sleeve, picked up a piece of braised meat, and teased the big yellow dog under the table.
"It's strange how this little thing came about. One day I passed by a Dog King Temple and was moved by the Dog King's loyalty in putting out the fire with his body soaked. So I painted this little dog on the spot. But who knew that the golden ink passed down by the patriarch would suddenly disappear into the painting and the dog in the painting would come to life."
He moves freely within the painting, and possesses a warm, fleshy body, completely different from the spirits I've created in paintings before; he can eat and drink.
Mr. Wu sighed softly, "I don't understand this puppy. If it weren't for the master's instruction to give it to you, I really wouldn't be willing to part with it."
"However, since I'm giving it to you, I'll take it. The patriarch must have had his reasons."
"Your painting skills are already divine, senior. You will surely be able to paint it again," Song Quyou said.
Mr. Wu shook his head, popped a peanut into his mouth, chewed for a while, and then said, "Daoist, you flatter me. My ancestor painted the dragon's eyes, and the dragon broke through the wall and flew away. That's what you call divine. My meager skills are at most accidental, just benefiting from the ancestor's golden ink."
After a few rounds of drinks, both men were somewhat tipsy, but when it came time to pay the bill, they looked at each other and neither was willing to pay.
Song Quyou touched his nose and looked at Mr. Wu, saying, "Sir, I've spent all my money on paper, and I don't have a single copper coin on me."
Hearing Song Quyou say this, Mr. Wu was even more embarrassed: "Young Taoist priest, you may leave as you wish, I will pay the bill."
Song Quyou glanced at him but didn't move.
Mr. Wu grew anxious and lowered his voice, saying, "Master, you must believe me. I really do have money... but I was in such a hurry when I left that I forgot where I put it."
He searched his entire body and found he didn't have a single copper coin.
Song Quyou looked at the shopkeeper and said, "I bought the sandalwood paper and incense burner for thirty-five taels of silver. I'll use that as payment for the wine today, and I'll redeem them tomorrow when I get some more money."
The tavern owner, a tall, thin man, glanced at the stack of sandalwood paper and bronze incense burner on the counter, then at the two customers looking at each other blankly, and sighed.
"Gentlemen, my shop is small and operates on thin profit margins, so I don't offer credit. I'm not an expert in paper and stoves either, and I'm afraid I'll have trouble explaining myself if I accept them."
Mr. Wu's face flushed red, and he suddenly slapped his thigh, pulling out the two rolls of cloud-patterned black paper from his pocket:
"Shopkeeper, look at this fine piece of paper, worth a hundred taels of gold. I'll leave it here as collateral, and I'll come back with the silver to redeem it tomorrow!"
Upon hearing this, the shopkeeper wiped the sweat from his brow with a rag and laughed:
"Gentlemen, please don't tease me. No matter how beautiful the paper is, it can't be used as money."
Besides, what kind of paper is worth a hundred taels of gold? Even the gold foil paper used by the emperor isn't worth that much. If you two don't have the money, just say so, and you can go wash dishes to pay off your debts later.”
Mr. Wu sighed softly, "Shopkeeper, I'm really short of money today, but I'm not very talented, so how about I paint a picture of the Kitchen God for you to offset the cost of this meal?"
The shopkeeper sized up Mr. Wu and said, "We in Qiantang value scholars and literati the most. If your painting is truly excellent, not only will this meal be waived, but we will also not charge you a penny if you come to eat and drink here for the next seven days."
But if you don't draw it well...
The shopkeeper tossed his handkerchief over his shoulder and said, "Then you two gentlemen can wash the dishes for seven days. You can decide for yourselves."
Upon hearing this, Mr. Wu sobered up somewhat and glared at her, saying, "Shopkeeper, bring me pen and ink!"
The shopkeeper didn't hesitate. He called out to the kitchen, and a waiter hurriedly brought over a brush, ink, and inkstone. He then cleared the table to use as a painting table.
Mr. Wu rolled up his sleeves, picked up his brush, dipped it in ink, but did not rush to write. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, his drunken state had vanished completely. His gaze was deep and unfathomable, and his aura suddenly changed.
Lay out the paper, move your wrist, and write.
In a short while, the Kitchen God, wearing a square crown, a red robe, and holding a jade tablet, with a kind face and a righteous air of authority, leaped off the paper as if divinely inspired.
The Kitchen God's eyes were so expressive that when Song Quyou stood there, those eyes seemed to be looking at him; after moving a few steps, those eyes followed him, and no matter which angle he looked from, he felt that the Kitchen God was staring at him.
The shopkeeper looked at it and exclaimed in surprise, "Three parts majesty and seven parts kindness, sir, this painting... it's just so-so."
"Shopkeeper, is the Kitchen God satisfied with this?"
The shopkeeper nodded repeatedly, but then hesitated, rubbing his hands together and saying:
"The painting is truly excellent, but...sir, which Kitchen God is depicted here? The Kitchen God statues here always have ingots in front of them, but yours is holding a jade tablet without ingots in front of it. I'm afraid our ancestors won't recognize it if we offer it up."
Mr. Wu laughed heartily: "Don't worry, shopkeeper. Just offer the food. If your stove isn't burning well or the food isn't delicious tomorrow, come back to me to wash the dishes."
Upon hearing this, the shopkeeper felt embarrassed and instructed the waiter to carefully put the painting away. He then personally went to the kitchen and brought over two bowls of hot hangover soup, refusing to accept any more money.
After drinking the hangover soup, the two left the tavern. A night breeze blew, and they were mostly sobered up.
The lanterns along the long street gradually went out, the night market closed up shop, and only a few wonton vendors were still packing up their belongings.
They exited through the north gate together, and the two bowed to each other, saying:
"Don't send it..."
"Don't send it..."
The two fell silent at the same time, both stunned.
Mr. Wu coughed lightly and scratched the back of his head: "Please go first, Taoist priest."
"Please go first, sir."
Mr. Wu suddenly laughed and pointed outside the city gate: "Stop passing the buck. I am currently staying at Lingfo Temple in the north of the city."
"I also live in the north of the city, but in a courtyard at the foot of Lingfo Temple Mountain."
The two stood outside the north gate, looking at each other, and then burst into laughter at the same time. The laughter drifted on the night breeze, and the lanterns of the night watchmen on the city wall swayed, probably because they had heard the noise.
Mr. Wu tucked his hands into his sleeves, took a few steps, and then suddenly stopped: "Young Taoist priest, if this dog does anything strange again, just come and find me, but you'd better bring a pot of wine with you."
Song Quyou couldn't help but smile and shook his head, saying, "Mr. Wu, if you encounter any demonic or supernatural matters in the future, you can come to me, but it would be best if you also brought a pot of wine."