Chapter Three: The Ghost Market

Over the years, Jin Yitiao had traveled far and wide, and naturally seen far more than I had. Yet his claims of having personally witnessed a Treasure Seeker skin a red fox demanded closer scrutiny. Setting aside the improbability of such an encounter, even if he had come across one, no one would display their skinning prowess in the depths of the wild right in front of him.

I snatched the iron wire hook from his grasp and tucked it into my pocket, changing the subject. “Never mind all that—explain to me first, what’s the story behind this five-clawed Red Dragon carving?”

He feigned ignorance. “What Red Dragon carving?”

I flipped the jade sculpture over and set it before him. “Five-clawed Red Dragon. You sold it to me for eighty thousand. If Chu Yuping had carried this thing out of the Liao tomb, Sun Dianying would have smashed his prized jade watermelon and used it as a chamber pot, wouldn’t he?”

Jin’s eyes, ever sharp, immediately caught sight of the extra claw on the dragon’s foot. He stared, wide-eyed. “Is this the piece that left my hands six months ago?”

Arms folded, I leaned back in my chair. “What do you think?”

He wiped the sweat from his brow and forced a self-deprecating laugh. “How could I have missed something this obvious?”

“Honestly, where did you get it?” I pressed.

He glanced at me. “Bought it off a grave diver.”

I noticed a tremor in his voice. I pulled out the skinning tool, tossing it in the air a couple of times in jest. “Surely you don’t think I know nothing at all.”

It seemed I’d thrown him off. He chuckled awkwardly. “Picked it up at the West Market Street Ghost Market.”

I resisted the urge to use the tool on him, took a deep breath, and asked, “The seller—can you still find out who it was?”

He nodded. “Guy’s surname is Niu—people call him Niu the Second-Bang. I’ve dealt with him before. He’s not the type to cheat me.”

Seeing him lost in thought, I checked the time. “I have an idea. Tomorrow’s Monday—the Ghost Market at West Market Street will be busy. We’ll go together, you find Niu the Second-Bang, and ask him where this piece came from. Don’t mention the five claws. Just find out who sold it, and I’ll pay for him to introduce us to the original owner. If we can’t meet, so be it, but you must get to the bottom of this Red Dragon’s provenance for me.”

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he stared at me in alarm. “It’s just a piece worth a few tens of thousands—you don’t need to kill me over it, do you?”

“Get lost,” I waved him away.

He threw me a glance, then rose, muttering, “I’ll come back tonight.”

After Jin left, I sat staring blankly at the skinning tool in my hand, one thought circling in my mind: why would a Treasure Seeker take an interest in my humble shop?

Anything that caught the eye of a Treasure Seeker was no ordinary thing. The root of the problem lay with the five-clawed Red Dragon carving. Last night, when the old man bought that item for twenty thousand, I realized, according to the ways of the trade, he’d been scoping out my shop—just like the southern bandits who, after the founding of the country, disguised themselves as peddlers to spirit away the Dividing Waters Sword at Sancha River. Once these people set their sights on something, they’d never give up. They possessed boundless patience and uncanny skills.

The entire next day, I sat behind the counter, meticulously paging through the “Record of the Top Scholars,” hoping to find some unknown history or deeper meaning related to the five-clawed Red Dragon. At the same time, I was waiting for the old man to return and collect the deerskin bundle and its contents. I ran a small business, surviving precariously in this world of mixed goods and shady deals; I couldn’t afford to be caught out and lose everything.

But night fell and the old man never returned. Jin brought some skewers from the apartment building, and the two of us sat in the shop, eating and watching the time. Well past midnight, we tidied up. Jin started up his battered Jeep, and together we headed for West Market Street.

Old Tianjin folks called it the “Ghost Market” because most of the goods sold there had dubious origins—stolen, looted, or dug up from graves, or counterfeit items passed off as real. Business was done before dawn, in the dim light, when details were harder to see. Those hoping for a bargain would come in the dark, and buyers and sellers haggled in whispers or with hand gestures, coming and going in a hurry, as if this were a marketplace for spirits.

I remembered an old hand saying even the “children for sale” in the Ghost Market were fakes. Unwrap the baby’s diaper, and you’d find a bundle of excrement—but you’d also see a tiny penis. Because the crotch was smeared with filth, you could only look, not touch. Pay up, take the baby home, wash it clean, and only then realize it’s a girl—the “little boy” part was handmade.

There were three “Ghost Markets” under the nine rivers in old Tianjin; the biggest was the one on West Market Street. It stretched along the old city wall from north to south—when business was booming, stalls lined a two-li stretch. Anything could be found there, all mixed together, with no clear divisions. Whoever came first picked the best spots.

Jin parked under the city wall, and we walked into the alleyway of the market. I’d learned the ropes here, so I knew the place well. Niu the Second-Bang was known as a hawker of peculiar goods, fairly well-known in the area, so I figured he wouldn’t be hard to find.

The alley was dark, pressed up against the wall, with figures loitering and squatting in the shadows. Jin and I wandered through, keeping an eye out. The Ghost Market was rife with fakes, but there were genuine goods too. It was just past three a.m.—prime time for good finds. Many insiders only shopped at this hour; after four, all the best items would be gone, leaving mostly counterfeits behind.

Jin, a cigarette dangling from his lips, spent five hundred yuan on a piece of translucent green jade shaped like a toad, with a natural red spot on its head. The young vendor swore the thing was unlucky—ill-gotten wealth, he said, should be let go, or it would bring disaster. His family had been down on their luck since his grandfather acquired it, so he was looking to sell.

Jin ignored the story and asked if he’d seen Niu the Second-Bang, the man with the baskets.

The vendor pointed deeper into the alley. “Saw him, by the wall. Better hurry, though—he said some ‘Master Buddha’ took a fancy to his wares and he’d leave as soon as he sold out.”

“Master Buddha” in Tianjin and Beijing slang often referred to big shots or, at times, notorious thieves.

Jin and I exchanged a glance, quickly making our way to the wall. The basket was still there, but the man himself was gone.

I shone my flashlight into the basket—it was empty. The goods had already changed hands.

Jin looked at me, then asked the vendor nearby where Niu had gone.

“He went to get paid—said he’d be right back.”

The vendor muttered the answer, then turned away to attract customers. Jin and I decided to wait behind the basket, lighting cigarettes, settling in for Niu’s return.

Under the glow of his cigarette, Jin took out the jade toad. “How much do you think this could fetch?” he asked.

I glanced at it. Though small and of average quality, the natural red spot was rare—bought for five hundred, it could easily turn over for two or three thousand. Yet for some reason, the toad’s shape reminded me of a toad I’d seen before, making my stomach churn. I ignored him.

Sensing my mood, Jin grinned, wiped the toad with his hand, put it away, and joked, “What did Niu the Second-Bang step in this morning? Got his basket emptied as soon as he arrived. Why does luck like that never come my way?”

“Maybe there’s too little dog shit at your door—no fox spirit can catch your scent to find you.”

Ghost stories ran rampant in the market, the most famous being the tale of the fox spirit shedding its skin. It was said that when Empress Dowager Cixi celebrated her sixtieth birthday, she demanded fox furs from her eunuchs. With the country in peril, where could they find such things? Facing execution, the desperate eunuchs burned incense and prayed, and their prayers were answered. Under cover of night, they bought the finest fox fur at the Ghost Market. The seller vanished in a puff of smoke, and the fur was still warm to the touch—the eunuchs realized, too late, that the seller had been a fox spirit, shedding its pelt to save them.

The story’s setting varied—sometimes it was Tianjin, sometimes Beijing’s Panjiayuan. No matter the version or its credibility, such legends only added to the market’s mystique, delighting both merchants and visitors alike.

We waited for over half an hour, watching the crowd thin. Finally, I pulled out an unopened pack of China-brand cigarettes and offered one to the nearby vendor with a smile. “Did Niu the Second-Bang go off to haul gold bricks? He’s been gone so long.”

The vendor sniffed the cigarette before replying, “How should I know? Maybe check the public toilets up ahead—I saw him head that way with someone.”

Jin and I exchanged glances. I told him to wait while I checked, which suited me as I needed to relieve myself anyway.

There was only one public toilet on West Market Street, used by the day and night traders. No one bothered cleaning it, except for the occasional manure cart that did a basic job. At this hour, you didn’t even need a flashlight—the smell would guide you straight there.

After handling my business, I stepped outside and lit a cigarette to mask the stench. I’d barely taken two puffs when I spotted a figure standing in the shadows against the city wall.

There had been two—one had just left. The remaining figure stood with his back to me, head bowed, seemingly counting something.

I was certain this was Niu the Second-Bang. I stubbed out my cigarette and hurried over, calling his name.

He spun around as if he’d seen a ghost, clutching a bundle to his chest, and ran!

Stunned, I sensed something was wrong and chased after him, shouting, “Niu the Second-Bang, don’t run! I’m here to buy goods!”

But he didn’t listen, sprinting faster and faster. Just as he was about to reach the end of the city wall, he suddenly turned back, running straight at me. Startled, I dodged aside, but as he drew near, he thrust the bundle into my arms, turned away, and vanished into the night.

I stood in disbelief at the foot of the city wall, staring at the bundle in my hands. The knot had just come loose, revealing a round, heavy object.

A freshly severed, blood-soaked human head.