Chapter Forty-One: Taking Pictures

Many people who wanted to buy Yuan Shikai silver dollars ended up becoming victims instead. Zhao Zejun returned to his room, grabbed a handful to weigh them, bit down hard with his teeth, then blew on one and held it to his ear to listen for a sound.

He couldn’t say for certain whether they were genuine, but at least they were definitely made of silver.

“Alright, I’ll take them for three thousand,” he said.

Money gives one courage; with it, nothing seems daunting. Zhao Zejun reasoned that even if it was just a pile of silver, it should be worth at least a thousand, and the workmanship appeared very fine.

Even if all of them were fake, buying them for his father to play with wouldn’t be a bad idea. Besides, if just a few were genuine, the price was justified.

“That’s true. Old Bai’s craftsmanship is impeccable. In the past, people even sought him out to buy counterfeits. You could take these home for fun, and when Old Bai eventually passes away, they might become cultural relics and appreciate in value. Anyway, you’re wealthy, Boss Zhao, and don’t care about a few thousand,” Ren Bida joked.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Ren, even if I’m short on cash, I’ll pay your brokerage fee in full, not a penny less,” Zhao Zejun replied with a shake of his head.

Two apartments, and Ren Bida accompanied him for a tour, earning seven hundred. That was more than a robbery, considering few people carried seven or eight hundred in cash these days.

Carrying the bag of Yuan Shikai coins, Zhao Zejun thought it over and decided not to give them to his father after all.

He spent five thousand on donations for the volunteers; that brought him peace of mind. As for the silver dollars, they were toys for his father, not important for now.

To be honest, Zhao Zejun was still a man of flesh and blood, and a bit of greed crept in—what if he really stumbled on a treasure?

When the weekend arrived, he brought the bag of coins to the antique market. As for Zhao Tao’s judgment, Zhao Zejun wasn’t exaggerating: his father could mistake the fake for the real and vice versa. Relying on him for authentication was unreliable.

“Boss Shen, I wondered why you never have customers whenever I visit?”

He pushed open the door; once again, Shen Lian was alone, sitting by the window reading a thread-bound edition of the Dao De Jing.

Shen Lian set aside his book, his face expressionless. “Yes, every time you come, I have no business.”

“Didn’t expect you to have a dry sense of humor,” Zhao Zejun laughed, walking over and pouring the entire bag of silver dollars onto the table.

“How did you get so many Yuan Shikai coins?” Shen Lian asked, picking one up and sniffing it under his nose.

“Could you check for me—how many are genuine, how many are fake, and whether any are valuable?”

Zhao Zejun vaguely remembered that Yuan Shikai coins had many varieties, with some versions being quite valuable. He clung to the slim hope that he might stumble upon one; if so, he’d make a real profit.

Shen Lian took out a magnifying glass, didn’t bother with the daylight lamp, and sat by the window, examining each coin in the sunlight.

Zhao Zejun waited in the room for over an hour. Shen Lian was meticulous, scrutinizing nearly every coin several times, finally picking out three and placing them aside.

“These three are valuable?” Zhao Zejun asked.

“Look here, there are two English letters, ‘LG,’ which none of the others have.”

Following Shen Lian’s slender index finger, he saw, indeed, two small engraved letters next to Yuan Shikai’s head.

“This is the designer’s signature, Luigi Giorgi, an Italian die engraver. Only a few thousand were produced; Yuan Shikai felt that having a foreigner’s name on Chinese currency was inappropriate, so production ceased. Signed versions like this are priceless in the market,” Shen Lian said without a trace of emotion.

“Huh?” Zhao Zejun was stunned. Though he’d hoped to find a treasure, hearing Shen Lian’s confirmation was almost unbelievable.

What luck—one apartment yielded an ebony table, another the rarest Yuan Shikai coin? Why bother buying a demolition flat? He could just visit every house and hunt for bargains.

Still, he couldn’t resist asking, “Priceless—how much, exactly?”

“If genuine, it’s priceless. But yours…”

Shen Lian tossed the signed Yuan Shikai coin back into the pile, dusted off his hands, and said expressionlessly, “The whole lot is counterfeit, not a single genuine coin. All replicas.”

Zhao Zejun actually felt relieved; this was how the story was supposed to unfold.

He hadn’t expected much from the start and was simply curious. He asked, “How can you be sure they’re all fake?”

“I can’t be certain, only by intuition,” Shen Lian replied, tapping one coin lightly with his unusually long finger. “I found no flaws at all, so I conclude they must be fake.”

Zhao Zejun protested, “That’s unreasonable. You find no problems, so you assume there’s a problem? That’s not logical.”

“You wouldn’t understand unless you’re in antiques. Think about it—antiques have endured decades, even millennia; no matter how well preserved, they can’t escape the ravages of time, and inevitably develop minor flaws. Take a vase you make today—will it be exactly the same a hundred years from now? Impossible, even trace elements in the air cause chemical changes and corrosion. Yuan Shikai coins are made of silver, which reacts easily…”

After Shen Lian’s long explanation, Zhao Zejun understood: these coins were too perfect.

It’s like a lie—perfect lies don’t exist, or rather, perfection itself is the greatest flaw. If every aspect of an event is flawless, it’s clear it was meticulously engineered. The girl in a matchmaking photo looks like a goddess; it’s either heavy filters or makeup, probably both, or else she’s a decoy…

True antique experts won’t buy perfect pieces.

“Currency is machine-stamped, and the mechanical precision in the Republic era was far inferior to today’s. There were bound to be defects. If I’m not mistaken, these coins are probably handmade replicas,” Shen Lian said, looking up. “Could you track down the maker?”

No chance; Old Bai left Yijiang City the same day he got paid, with no phone or contact info—who knows where he went.

If he really wanted to, Zhao Zejun might be able to find him, but he had no time for that now.

“Alright, keep these for now. Don’t sell them yet. I’ll take a few photos for research—rare high-quality replicas. If I don’t contact you in two months, just dispose of them. The whole bag should fetch at least a thousand.”

As Shen Lian spoke, he had already pulled out a small spy-like camera and began snapping photos.

While Shen Lian was photographing, in an underground casino on the outskirts of Yijiang City, Ren Jifu was also taking pictures, aiming his camera at a naked woman.

The girl was at most fifteen or sixteen, not fully developed, trembling in fear. Beside her stood a middle-aged man with a bruised face, head hung in misery.

Ren Jifu cursed as he snapped photos, “Damn it, spread your legs, put your hands down—how can I get a good shot if you’re covering up?”

Several thugs in the room laughed wickedly. One with a tattoo on his neck said, “Xiao Fuzi, you’ve got brains. Next time someone loses gambling and can’t pay, do this—bring their wife or daughter, take nude photos, and if they don’t pay up, plaster them all over town.”

“Exactly. Who dares owe Boss Song money? That’s suicide! Brother Hong, since I came up with this, can you cut me some slack on my debt?”

“Quit your nonsense. Who told you the place belongs to Boss Song? Keep your mouth shut—don’t go blabbing outside, or you won’t even know how you died!” Brother Hong sneered, then continued, “You really are shameless—wife ran off, and you came up with this trick. Your debt still stands; don’t worry about the principal, pay the interest first.”

“Thank you, Brother Hong. I promise not to talk.”

Ren Jifu’s eyes darted slyly. “Brother Hong, I’ve thought of a way to make money, but I need men. Can a few brothers from the casino help me out?”

“Who’s the target? Don’t bring trouble to me,” Brother Hong replied.

“Just a spoiled rich kid showing off,” Ren Jifu said.

Brother Hong yawned lazily, impatient. “Fine, but if you take them out, you pay for drinks and meals. I’m off for some fun now. You guys keep shooting!”

“Thank you, Brother Hong!”

Ren Jifu bowed and saw Brother Hong off. Turning back, he donned a fierce expression, yanked the girl’s hands from her chest, and viciously squeezed her undeveloped breast.

“Damn, not grown up but the tits aren’t small. When she’s older, she’ll definitely run off with some guy—a filthy little tramp!”