Chapter 23: The Far-Sounding Pot

President Ding swept his sleeves and left, leaving the other experts with varied expressions.

Whether he had insight or not, whether he was truly capable, no one could tell, but his calm composure and the subtle, concealed skills of a yin-yang master already matched about a third of Lin Changqing’s prowess.

Director Guan patted Lin Sicheng on the shoulder, his eyes twinkling with a smile: “The young man’s not bad!”

As to what exactly was “not bad,” Lin Sicheng himself wasn’t sure.

After a few words of encouragement, Director Guan said he had to return to his unit and even made a special point to greet Hao Jun, inviting him to the Forensic Center to examine a few items on a day when he wasn’t busy.

Lin Sicheng realized belatedly, “Senior Brother Hao, you’re a consultant at the city’s Forensic Center?”

“Yeah, your grandfather is too, as well as President Zheng from the Folk Arts Association.”

No wonder the case involving the cultural relics company was still under investigation, yet Hao Jun knew the details so well.

“But you didn’t mention it last time?”

How could he? How would he say, “I suspect you of stealing Professor Lin’s collection to secretly report you to your grandfather”?

Hao Jun chuckled awkwardly and changed the subject: “Let’s go.”

“Not going to look at the exhibits?”

“There’s a month left; no rush. If you’re free, come with me to Xicang to see something.”

He wasn’t exactly busy. He had taken a week off, didn’t need to be at school, and his father was at the hospital.

Lin Sicheng nodded and followed Hao Jun out of the exhibition hall. “What did President Ding do to annoy you?”

“Oh, he’s rubbed many the wrong way!” Hao Jun twisted the corner of his mouth. “Not very capable, but full of himself. Always saying academic types have stiff brains and aren’t even worthy of tying the shoes of practitioners.”

The antique world was full of all sorts of characters; Lin Sicheng wasn’t surprised.

The “academic types” Hao Jun referred to were those from universities who studied cultural preservation, archaeology, and appraisal—like his grandfather, Hao Jun himself, and Director Guan.

Of course, he counted among them.

“So you like to poke the bear?”

“I would, but ever since your grandfather gave him a lesson, that coward’s learned to play it sly—sarcastic remarks at most, never a direct challenge!”

Hao Jun patted Lin Sicheng’s shoulder. “So, from now on, the burden’s on you!”

So that’s how Grandfather scored those rare finds from You Ren’s calligraphy!

…

Hao Jun had a car, a brand-new Audi A4. In less than half an hour, they arrived at Xicang.

Once a state warehouse, then a military depot, after the military moved out, it became the largest flower and bird market in Xijing City.

Flowers, birds, fish, insects, cats, dogs, rabbits, foxes, turtles, lizards, snakes, frogs—you name it, all could be found there.

It was also the city’s second-largest used book and antique market, second only to Xiaodongmen, but with a longer history.

Of course, there were even more fakes.

Around the early 2000s, Ma Weidu visited Xijing to meet Chen Zhongshi. Old Chen took him to soak in the Chang’an atmosphere, starting with Xicang’s West Alley.

Ma Weidu wandered from morning till dark, only eating a meat sandwich at noon, yet didn’t find a single item to buy.

He later joked that he’d rather go to Panjiayuan than visit Xicang’s West Alley, which says a lot about its character.

With these thoughts in mind, Lin Sicheng followed Hao Jun into the market.

It was Thursday, market day, bustling and lively, with people coming and going, strange calls and cries rising and falling.

The scent of flowers and earthy musk mixed with the chaotic odors emitted by various animals, seeping into their nostrils.

Perhaps due to allergies, Hao Jun kept sneezing. They quickened their pace through the North Alley, arriving at the West Alley, which specialized in antiques.

Walking further in, reaching about the middle of the alley, they entered a small shop.

It was cramped, with a dim yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting a dull light.

There was no counter; shelves lined all four walls, packed full with jars and bottles.

Looking closer, it perfectly matched Xicang’s unique character.

“Ah, Secretary Hao, a rare visitor!”

The wind chimes jingled twice, and a hoarse, slightly aged voice called out. A figure stirred in a recliner inside.

He had a lean face, sharp, bright eyes, looking about forty but with a head full of silver hair.

Was it dyed?

Ha! Even the man was fake?

Hao Jun got straight to the point: “Old Song, is the teapot still here?”

“Of course!” Old Song glanced at Lin Sicheng. “Didn’t you say you’d bring an expert?”

“I said this one is the expert, believe it or not,” Hao Jun waved his hand. “Stop babbling and fetch the item quickly!”

“Good goods can wait; what’s the hurry?”

Old Song slowly rose and went into the back room. After a while, he returned carrying a box.

Before he even reached them, Lin Sicheng caught the scent of sandalwood. When Old Song opened the box, his eyes narrowed: a purple clay teapot?

The teapot was small, wider at the top and narrow at the base, nearly three inches tall, the mouth just under two inches, with a subtly grainy texture.

The shape was simple yet elegant—slender and upright, the curves skillfully flowing.

Most importantly, a few lines were inscribed on the body: “Drink while reading, do not fill the belly.” For Brother Yu Tongdao, Yuan.

There was also a seal in seal script: Chen Mingyuan.

Lin Sicheng’s eyelid twitched involuntarily: “Good heavens, a Chen Mingyuan aroma teapot?”

Who was Chen Mingyuan?

A master of purple clay from the early Qing dynasty, praised by Emperor Qianlong as “the finest red clay from ancient times to the present.”

In the Qing era, a Chen Mingyuan teapot was worth a fortune. According to Lin Sicheng’s knowledge, fewer than twenty of Mingyuan’s teapots with documented provenance survive: one in the National Museum, one in the Shanghai Museum, one in Taiwan, and the rest in private collections.

After 2010, four more appeared at auctions, the lowest price being 22.8 million at the 2019 Xiling Auction Fifteenth Anniversary Gala.

Though the current price wouldn’t be that high, anything under ten million and he’d consider it a steal.

Startled, Lin Sicheng leaned in slightly: “Senior Brother, how much is this teapot?”

Hao Jun held up two fingers.

“Twenty million?”

“Are you trying to outprice Old Song?” Hao Jun sighed. “He’s only asking two million!”

Two million for a Mingyuan teapot?

You can’t even buy the spout for that.

So if this one were genuine, Lin Sicheng would also bet his head on it.

But something felt off.

If Hao Jun was the general manager at Rongbaozhai, how could he not know how rare and valuable a Mingyuan teapot was?

Just as he was quietly suspicious, there was a soft “psst” sound as Hao Jun opened his bag, thrusting a magnifying glass and a strong flashlight into Lin Sicheng’s hands.

“Take a good look, be thorough!”

Lin Sicheng was taken aback: “You want me to check it?”

“I was going to ask your grandfather, but it’s a bad coincidence, isn’t it?”

“What about all those experts at the event today?”

Hao Jun shook his head: “You don’t understand!”

Who says I don’t? In the antique trade, snatching and bag-splitting are common.

For example, you invite Zhang San to inspect something. Zhang San knows it’s genuine but claims it’s fake, then turns and sends someone else to buy it.

So when you find a good piece, either keep quiet or bring in a well-connected expert to vouch for it.

What surprised Lin Sicheng was where Hao Jun’s near-blind trust in him came from.

“Don’t blame me if you lose money!”

“First, you check if it’s real or not. Buying is up to me.”

Lin Sicheng nodded and took the magnifying glass and flashlight.

The moment the light shone on the teapot, his eyes brightened: curious?

This pot seemed authentic.

Of course, not a Mingyuan, but judging by its condition, at least mid-Qing!