WSMTATMC C106

Chapter 106

 

By dawn, before first light, Chen Bo drove the mule cart in from outside the city, piled high with fresh vegetables.

At the gate, the inspecting clerk gaped. “What season do you think it is—where did you get vegetables this fresh?”

Chen Bo produced the deputy prefect’s pass token. “These are brought from a manor by Lord Wang’s nephew; there’s a warm spring there, so they can grow vegetables even in winter.”

At that, the clerk hastily withdrew the hand he’d been stretching toward the produce and waved them through at once.

This cover story was one Wang Ying had drilled in advance. Whether or not the deputy prefect had a nephew was beside the point—no gate-guard would dare go verify it.

Later, when people inevitably inquired about the source, this identity would naturally be the explanation; anyone tempted to make trouble would think twice after weighing the backing behind Wang Ying.

Of course, this was Wang Ying’s worst-case planning. With luck, the tiny shop wouldn’t attract notice at all—quietly making money would be best.

The cart stopped at the vegetable shop. Wang Ying and the others were already waiting at the door. “All smooth at the gate?”

Chen Bo nodded and handed over the token. “The moment I said we were Lord Wang’s kin, the gate clerks waved us in—didn’t even look closely at the cart.”

Relieved, Wang Ying said, “Unload and set it all out—we’ll open shortly.”

“Yes, sir.” Ma Qianzi and Tian Daniu moved up to help.

Around the Mao hour, Li Shi and Qingyun arrived with Yuanbao; Mutou, Chunsheng, and the two Huang boys came along to add to the bustle on opening day.

Many hands made light work. Soon the display was full—a selection of common greens: cucumbers, long beans, coriander, lettuce, spinach, chives, celery, and so on.

Though ordinary, they were dazzlingly fresh—leaves a glossy green, still beaded with dew—eye-catching at a glance.

And it was already Cold Dew on the calendar; most rural households had long since run out of fresh produce. Only the wealthy, with heated frames, might still taste a few greens; most everyone else was down to cabbages and radishes.

Prices had been set and inked on wooden boards—clear and open.

The priciest were the cucumbers—sixty cash per jin—likely beyond most commoners’ reach. That basket, picked at dawn, weighed thirty jin; sold out, it would bring one string and eight hundred cash.

The cheapest were chives—ten cash per jin. Chives grew too quickly; even without speed-ups, just by tweaking temperature and humidity, a new flush came every three days, and if not cut, they went tough.

As for tomatoes, few were ripe yet; Wang Ying kept them in the field’s store. The prefectural city had never seen such things—best to wait until regulars multiplied before bringing them out.

Without even lighting the celebratory firecrackers, people began drifting over to ask what the shop sold.

When they learned it was fresh vegetables, many came in to browse. Curious though they were, most didn’t pry into the supply—after all, that was the shop’s business, and asking wouldn’t mean getting an answer.

A quarter hour before the Chen hour, the deputy prefect’s steward finally arrived.

Wang Qi came by carriage. As it stopped, Wang Ying led the family out to greet him. “Thank you for coming yourself.”

“No need for such courtesy. The master had business and couldn’t come; he asked me to have a look and to bring a signboard for the young gentleman.”

A page presented an ebony plaque carved with the characters “Prosperous Business.” Overwhelmed, Wang Ying had it taken in at once and hung upon a nail in the wall.

Wang Qi walked a circuit of the shop. He had expected dried goods—fresh vegetables surprised him.

“Only the day before yesterday the Madam was sighing there were no fresh greens. Your timing is fortunate—we’ll have the servants come and buy in future.”

Wang Ying hurried to fill a basket. “Please—choose whatever you like. These won’t cost you a coin.”

“I appreciate the kindness. But the residence consumes no small quantity of vegetables; if we take them daily, will you have anything left to sell?”

Wang Ying scratched his head. “Then take these for free—taste them. If they suit, come again.”

The steward did not refuse again and had the page take the basket. “There’s much to do at the residence. If there’s nothing else, I’ll return.”

Wang Ying had hoped to invite him to a meal, but seeing he had no time, he saw him back to the carriage.

Just then, the moment had arrived. “Shall we light the firecrackers?” Tian Daniu called.

“Light them!”

Crackling filled the air. The children clapped hands over ears, squealing. Passersby turned to see what the fuss was and flocked over to ask what was being sold.

“Fresh vegetables,” Wang Ying called. “Summer greens—we’ve got them all. The blossoms still on the tips, dew still clinging!”

People poured in. Some balked at the prices and left; others, unconcerned with a few extra coins, bought a little to try.

Within an instant, five hundred cash were in the till. Qingyun kept accounts—she’d done this work back in the market town—and with practiced ease counted and strung the coins, joy bright in her eyes. She hadn’t expected business on the very first morning.

The shop was crowded; Li Shi led the younger ones home. The older Huang boy, Twelve, chose to stay and help.

He was already twelve—at the manor, boys his age were put to work—and he had learned a year of five-element boxing. He was small, but strong for it.

No one is a bodhisattva, Wang Ying thought. One cannot feed unrelated people forever. Better they saw the world. There—

—

Meanwhile, Wang Qi returned to the residence with a basket of greens, just as his master came back from the yamen.

“Where are these from?”

“From Wang Ying’s new shop, my lord. He insisted I take a basket to try.”

The deputy prefect picked up a cucumber, its skin gleaming with moisture, rubbed it, and took a bite. “Mm—crisp and sweet. Quite fresh. Where did he get them?”

“I didn’t pry. Likely brought from elsewhere. If my lord likes them, I’ll go buy more.”

“No—if you go, he’ll refuse payment. Send the house purveyor to buy. They’ve come a long way and set up a little business—it’s not right that we eat them out of profit.” With that, he chuckled and strode into his study.

—

By noon, three strings had been made. Wang Ying bought wontons from the next-door stall; once everyone had eaten, their energy returned.

After the meal, the owner of Yang’s Trading House across the way came to introduce himself.

Yang’s was among the largest firms in the prefectural city, with shops in grain, oil, and wine.

The owner, Yang Deguang, was a man in his forties, not tall, clad in a brocade robe with a swarm of jade pendants and sachets at his belt, which jingled as he walked—impressive, to be sure.

So much so that Wang Ying barely heard his words—his eyes were on the dangling finery.

After a few pleasantries, Yang said, “This morning, I saw someone from the deputy prefect’s residence come—and a plaque gifted as well?”

Wang Ying pointed to the board on the wall. “Yes. Uncle sent it over. He himself was busy.”

Hearing Wang Ying call the deputy prefect “Uncle,” Yang’s face warmed perceptibly. “Your accent is from outside. If anything confuses you in our prefectural city, come ask me!”

Wang Ying thanked him with measured politeness. When he left, Tian Daniu muttered, wary, “We don’t know that man. Why so friendly? He’s up to something.”

“You dolt,” Ma Qianzi rapped him. “He’s not here for our master.”

“Then who?”

“For the deputy prefect’s ‘nephew,’ of course.”

Wang Ying gave him a “teachable child” look. An out-of-town smallholder hardly merited courtship—only the connection did.

In the afternoon, even more customers rolled in. The city’s purchasing power was astonishing. Cucumbers that stuck at twenty cash per jin in the market town flew at triple the price here—no one blinked.

As the baskets emptied, faces grew more relaxed. They sold until dusk—nearly everything was snatched up, with latecomers left empty-handed.

“Boss, will there be fresh vegetables tomorrow?”

“There will. Just come early—if you’re late, we might be sold out.”

“Save me two jin of celery then—I want to fold dumplings.”

“Alright!”

Wang Ying hadn’t expected such a rush. By day’s end, only a few torn leaves remained—swept up to feed the animals.

They barred the door and carried the cashbox home. The tally was thirteen strings for the day; subtracting rent for the day, they had cleared nearly ten strings.

If they could keep this pace daily, it would be three hundred strings a month, three thousand a year—a license to print money.

But that was only theory. In practice, fresh vegetables would sell best only four months. Seasonality would cut demand by the third month next year, as gardens revived.

And the experimental field’s area was limited—even if Wang Ying wanted to sell more, there was only so much to harvest.

The field was five mu in total; fruit trees took some; the rest was in vegetables.

The soil was rich, immune to flood and drought, and free of pests; yields were two to three times ordinary land. But plants still needed time; one crop could not immediately follow another.

Two hundred strings a month was already the limit—which was more than enough for a household’s needs.

Perhaps they truly basked in the deputy prefect’s reflected light: since opening, everything went smoothly—no one even asked for credit.

When the time felt right, Wang Ying brought out the tomatoes.

Tomatoes were a post-Ming maritime import in later ages; in this Wǔ dynasty, the crop did not exist—no one had tasted them.

He planned first to recommend them to frequent patrons.

Yang’s Trading House’s gentleman was one such regular. At first, Yang had sent him to buy vegetables merely to cultivate ties with Wang Ying and curry favor with the deputy prefect; over time, he learned the vegetables were indeed good. In this season, when even grass was not green, to eat greens at all was rare.

With elders and children in the house, palates grew picky. A day without vegetables made the meal taste flat.

For their household, a few coins more were nothing. That day, the gentleman came with two maids.

He spotted the tomatoes on the counter at once. “What are these?”

Wang Ying stepped forward. “Called xi hong shi—‘western red persimmons.’ A wild fruit from the mountains where we’re from. It doesn’t yield much, so we haven’t offered it before. The flavor is excellent—slice and sprinkle with sugar, or fry with eggs.”

He lifted one to his nose. “How are they sold? Give me a couple to try.”

Wang Ying placed two in his basket. “Take them first—see how they taste. If you like them, we’ll set some aside next time.”

The gentleman didn’t refuse. Ten cash either way was nothing; if it suited, he’d buy more next time. “Very well. I’ll try them. If they’re good, I’ll buy some.”

The maids chose seven hundred cash worth of vegetables, paid, and left. After he went, several familiar faces arrived, and Wang Ying gave each two tomatoes as a taste.

Unexpectedly, tomatoes caught fire in the prefectural city all at once!

Footnotes:

• Pass token etiquette: Gate officials typically honored tokens and names from higher offices without verification; leveraging perceived patronage was a common protective tactic. 
• Pricing context: “String” (贯) denotes a nominal 1,000-cash cord; in practice, strings varied. Jin is a traditional weight unit (~500g).