Chapter 14: The Pigeon Market in Town

Xiao Weiguo suddenly realized that there might be a black market nearby, perhaps in the town. The black market, also known as the Pigeon Market, was a product of the times.

He turned against the flow of people and walked for three minutes, arriving at a patch of dense woods. From the outside, it was impossible to see what was happening within. Single individuals continued to emerge, one after another.

Xiao Weiguo was certain he’d found the black market’s location, though it seemed to be winding down for the day. He followed the example of others, using a burlap sack to cover part of his face, then moved forward.

At the entrance to the woods, a voice suddenly sounded from beside a tree on the left.

“Buying or selling? Entrance fee, one dime.”

The price of five bowls of thin porridge.

A young man with a grey cloth covering his face addressed Xiao Weiguo.

“Buying, I’m here to buy,” Xiao Weiguo replied hurriedly. “You charge the same fee, so why ask if I’m buying or selling?”

“Tsk, first time here, huh? If you’re selling, you’ll get a certificate based on what you’re selling—so people know you’re a seller and what you’re offering,” the young man explained further. “It’s just about to end. You’d better go home and come back tomorrow.”

Xiao Weiguo wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip away. “I’m just here to exchange a few ration tickets. Here’s a dime. Let me see if anyone’s willing to trade.”

The young man sized him up once more, took the dime, then led him a few steps inside, pointing at another young man leaning against a tree. “Go to him if you want tickets.” With that, he returned to his post.

Inside the black market, Xiao Weiguo saw that several trees formed an irregular clearing. Small groups of people squatted on the ground, each with a bamboo slip set before them—presumably their seller’s certificate.

The items beside each certificate varied: one had an egg, another a handful of millet, and another, astonishingly, a small piece of meat.

He guessed they were selling eggs, millet, and meat respectively.

He withdrew his gaze and walked toward the young man the sentry had indicated.

“Hey, what tickets do you want to exchange? I’ve got everything, satisfaction guaranteed,” the ticket seller greeted Xiao Weiguo.

“What kinds of tickets do you have? If they’re suitable, I might buy more,” Xiao Weiguo replied.

“Ha! Forgive me, I didn’t recognize a big buyer. You can just call me Stick.” Stick rattled off a list as if reciting a comic dialogue: “Ration tickets, meat tickets, sugar tickets, cloth tickets, pastry tickets, liquor tickets, oil tickets, watch tickets, bicycle tickets... you name it, I’ve got it.”

Xiao Weiguo was thrilled—at last, he could solve his problem of missing tickets.

“What are your prices?”

Stick glanced at him, saying, “Here for fun, are you? The market’s closing soon. Just tell me what you need, and we’ll discuss the price.”

Xiao Weiguo realized he was being unreasonable; Stick had listed dozens of tickets—naming prices for each would have been impossible.

“I want some ration tickets, meat tickets, sugar tickets, and oil tickets.” He planned according to his immediate food needs.

“Ration tickets, fourteen cents a pound. Meat tickets, ninety cents a pound. Sugar tickets, one dollar a pound. Oil tickets, eighty cents a pound. How much do you want?” Stick quoted his prices.

Xiao Weiguo calculated quickly. “Give me twenty pounds of ration tickets, two pounds of meat tickets, one pound of sugar tickets, and one pound of oil tickets.”

Stick was pleased—a big deal right at closing time.

“Generous! Twenty pounds of ration tickets, two eighty; two pounds of meat tickets, one eighty; one pound of sugar tickets, one dollar; one pound of oil tickets, eighty cents. That’s a total of six forty.” He drew a bundle of tickets from various pockets and made to hand them over.

Just as Xiao Weiguo reached out, Stick pulled back and said, “Rules of the trade—money and goods in one hand each, everyone checks their own, and both sides are satisfied.”

“Oh, right, my mistake.” Xiao Weiguo reached into his pocket and handed over exactly six dollars and forty cents.

“Now that’s proper. Here you go!” Stick passed the tickets to Xiao Weiguo with his left hand, counting the money with his right.

Xiao Weiguo, using the morning light, checked the tickets—no problems.

“All set, friend. Money’s good. Next time you need tickets, come find me. I’ll get you anything you want—even if I don’t have it, I’ll get it for you the next day,” Stick promised.

Xiao Weiguo nodded. “Alright, next time I’ll look for you.”

Having bought the tickets, he’d accomplished his main goal for the day. But since he was here, Xiao Weiguo wandered around the market.

He stopped at the egg seller’s stall, manned by an elderly woman whose face was uncovered.

He suddenly thought of his own grandmother—since his second uncle had stolen the family’s chickens, eggs had become a luxury; just tasting one was a rare treat.

He addressed the stall owner, “Grandma, how much are your eggs?”

“Two cents each, young man. I have twenty-two left. If you take them all, I’ll give them to you for forty cents,” the old lady replied.

“That’s fine, I’ll take them all. And could you give me the basket?”

“The basket’s not for sale. Don’t you have a sack on your head? Use that to carry them,” she said, eyeing the burlap covering his face.

Xiao Weiguo was embarrassed. Showing one’s face here was forbidden; showing one’s backside would be tolerated, but never the face. This old lady was mischievous.

He pretended to rummage in his trouser pocket, instantly producing a small burlap bag from his space, and said, “Here’s another bag, Grandma. I’ll use this. I can’t expose my face—everyone here covers theirs, so why don’t you?”

“I’m all alone now, son. My three boys all died on the battlefield. I fear nothing anymore. I sit here every day, and they’ve never charged me for the stall. Good kids, all of them.”

“Grandma, my condolences. Here’s fifty cents—no change needed.” Hearing her story, Xiao Weiguo was at a loss.

He was a kind soul; sad stories always moved him, sometimes to tears.

“What are you doing, son? What I say is what I charge—business here is as good as a nail driven by spit. Besides, it’s been so many years.” She handed him back ten cents.

Then, picking up her empty basket, she staggered away.

Xiao Weiguo held the ten cents in his hand and sighed softly, turning to look at the other stalls.

He found most of the other vendors had left, save one selling cornmeal and millet.

He thought of the chickens and rabbits in his space—though they could survive on dirt, it didn’t seem reliable.

So, he decided to buy some cornmeal and millet—not only for himself, but also to feed them.