WSMTATMC C107

Chapter 107

After leaving the vegetable shop, the Yang household’s gentleman went straight home. By chance, guests were visiting that day, and Master Yang kept several to dine.

He instructed the kitchen maids to slice the tomatoes he had bought and sprinkle them with fine white sugar, serving the dish cold.

At table, the plate of crimson tomatoes drew attention at once. Yang Deguang tapped it with his chopsticks. “What is this dish? I’ve never seen it.”

The attendant beside him replied, “Young Master bought it this morning—they call it xi hong shi.” Note 1

Several guests said, “It does look unusual—no idea how it tastes.”

“Come—try it.”

Each took a wedge, cut like a tangerine segment, and paused after the first bite. This tasted nothing like any fruit they knew.

The sugar blunted the tartness; juice burst on the tongue—bright-sour and sweet, genuinely surprising.

Praises tumbled out. “Delicious! Where did you buy it?”

“From Wang’s Produce,” the attendant said.

The silver-shop owner, seated nearby, frowned. “A new place? I’ve not heard of it.”

The proprietor of Xianghe Restaurant could not resist adding, “It opened recently—opposite Master Yang’s trading house—sells fresh vegetables. No one knows where they’re sourced.”

As a restaurateur, he paid close attention to food. He had sent a boy to poke around right after the opening but learned nothing. If only he could secure such greens—winter business would soar.

Yang Deguang cleared his throat and said, half-mysterious, “Best not to set sights on Wang’s shop.”

“How so?”

“On opening day, I saw the deputy prefect’s carriage arrive to present a ‘Prosperous Business’ plaque, and the shop’s keeper called the deputy prefect ‘Uncle’.”

At that, several merchants’ faces paled. Wang the deputy prefect—Wang’s Produce—it must be that the official was the backer.

Folk don’t fight officials; merchants even less. They scramble to curry favor, not risk rebuff for a scrap of profit.

By meal’s end, Wang Ying’s identity as the deputy prefect’s “nephew” was thoroughly cemented. No one dared entertain designs on the shop anymore. The tomatoes, though, thoroughly won hearts. Several merchants went home and told their spouses.

The next morning, seven or eight houseboys came the moment the doors opened, asking by name for tomatoes.

Seeing this, Wang Ying set the price at forty cash apiece, with a maximum of fifty sold per day—come late, wait till tomorrow.

The “scarcity tactic” worked. Tomatoes went viral in the prefectural city—tasting them became a fashion.

Do not underestimate the ancient taste for novelty; it rivals the modern. People queued to get a bite; “scalpers” even emerged, buying in line and reselling dear—pocketing dozens of cash per fruit.

Wang Ying had to add a new rule: five tomatoes per person per day, no more.

Some even wrote poems afterward. Most notable was a prefectural-academy student named Song An, whose “Red Persimmon” went:

“Vermilion spheres, round and sleek,

A tart-sweet coolness seeps the teeth.

At first a trace of astringent bite,

With lingering sips turns pure and bright.”

The poem boosted the tomato’s fame again. Soon even out-of-towners had heard: in Jizhou one could buy a singular fruit—flavor unique, price dear, supply short.

New preparations appeared: thin slices layered with hawthorn; or pounded to a paste for sauce—the earliest tomato “ketchup,” born.

Business stayed hot; Wang’s Produce became a sensation. In half a month they cleared over two hundred strings, to the envy of neighboring shops.

Envy or not, none dared act. The shop’s ties to officialdom were known—who’d pick a fight with the yamen’s friends?

—

That night at home, washed and rested, Wang Ying went early to the experimental field to tend the plots.

The field did have one-click sowing, weeding, and harvesting—but thinning seedlings still took hands.

After a while, Chen Qingyan arrived.

“Perfect timing—help thin these celery rows. Too dense and they’ll go leggy.”

“Aye.” He doffed his outer robe, rolled his sleeves, and set to.

Thanks to Wang Ying, the former bookish youth—averse to labor and ignorant of farming—had taken to country work with real skill. He thinned deftly; earlier, before there was one-click harvest, he’d swung a sickle through wheat like a seasoned hand.

After half an hour, three beds of celery were done. Wang Ying fetched two ice pops from the cold zone, and they sat under the peach tree, eating and talking.

“How’s business these days?”

“One look, and you’d know,” Wang Ying said. “We can hardly keep up.”

“Good.”

“Very. The prefectural city is wealthy; spending is high. No matter how I set the prices, someone snatches it up. Those tomatoes—ten cash each in town and folk balked; now at forty, and they rush them!”

“That is a surprise,” Qingyan admitted. “A palm-sized fruit fetching such a price.”

“Someone even wrote poems!” Wang Ying recited two; Qingyan laughed out loud.

“Take care of yourself,” Qingyan added, looking him over. “You’ve grown thinner.”

The opening weeks had worn Wang Ying out, but with rich returns, his anxiety eased with every copper piled in the cashbox.

At this rate, at least the year’s rent would no longer be a worry.

With money sufficient, Wang Ying returned the jade pendant to Qingyun. It was a keepsake from her maternal grandfather—too meaningful to pawn without dire need.

“Once we get through this stretch and the shop runs itself, I’ll let Xiao Ma mind the floor. He reads people well—nothing big will go wrong with him watching.”

“Xiao Ma—who?”

“Ma Qianzi—the lad who used to buy our popsicles by the batch.”

“He’s with you in the prefectural city?”

“Yes—him, Tian Daniu, and Chen Fang. Thank heavens for them; without their help, Chen Bo and I couldn’t manage a shop this size.”

Qingyan nodded. “We’ll be heading back soon as well. Teacher says we should turn north at month’s end.”

It was nearly the eleventh month. Snow fell in the north; trees were still green in the south. In recent days, Qingyan had found two fruit trees for the field—a loquat and a mandarin.

“As they say,” he smiled, “south of the Huai, it’s an orange; north, a bitter trifoliate.” Note 2 The Huai was the dividing line. For climate alone, oranges north of it turned sour and bitter; south, they were sweet-tart and lovely.

In times past, poor transport meant mandarins rarely reached the north. Raising one in the field meant fresh oranges thereafter.

Wang Ying rested his head on Qingyan’s shoulder. “Come back soon. Even though we see each other here, without you beside me I never feel settled.”

“I feel the same.” Qingyan drew him close and kissed his crown. “I wish I could open my eyes in the morning and see you there.”

Wang Ying lifted his face for a kiss. Warm, soft mouths touched; breath mingled, and they parted at last, flushed and panting.

Qingyan’s voice was husky. “Someone’s knocking—I’ll go.”

Wang Ying wiped his mouth corner with a thumb. “Go on.”

Qingyan slipped from the field and opened the door. Chen Qinghuai stood there, eyes red and alarmed. “Brother… may I sleep with you tonight?”

“Come in. What’s happened?”

After a silence, Qinghuai choked out, “Just now… I had blown out the lamp and dozed… and suddenly a girl barged into my room, took off her clothes, and climbed into bed—said… she wanted to be my concubine…”

Qingyan’s temper flared. “Did you touch her?”

“No! I was terrified—I ran straight to you.” Seventeen he might be, but at heart he was still guileless; such a thing reduced him to tears.

Qingyan stood at once. “Come—we’re going to Teacher.”

“Brother…”

“This touches your honor. We must have it addressed tonight.”

He drew Qinghuai toward Master Liang’s courtyard. The elder had been abed; Liang An received them. “So late—what brings the young sirs?”

Qingyan told him. Liang An blanched. He hurried in to wake the master.

Moments later, the crash of porcelain sounded within. “Yan’er, Huai’er—get in here!”

They entered. Master Liang was furious—clutching his chest, coughing hard. Liang An patted his back. “Please, sir—don’t agitate yourself. The young sirs are unharmed.”

“Fetch Third,” Master Liang snapped.

“Yes, sir.” Liang An dashed off; Qingyan poured tea and offered it.

After a sip, the elder steadied. “Qinghuai, tell me exactly what happened—again.”

Qinghuai wiped his eyes and recounted: after supper, as usual, he returned to his room, read a while, grew drowsy, and lay down. Not long after he blew out the lamp, the door creaked. In the dark, he couldn’t see who entered. He asked who it was; the person said nothing—only, in haste, stripped and lunged for the bed.

“I cried, ‘Who are you—what are you doing!’”

A coy voice answered in the dark. “Do not fear, young master—I mean no harm. I beg your favor—take me as your concubine.”

The sound of a woman turned his scalp to ice. In a panic, he shoved her away and fled to Qingyan’s room.

“Did you see her face?”

He shook his head. “Too dark.”

“To use such a base trick!”

Of the three pupils, Qingyan was married; Qingsong was still a boy; only Qinghuai was of marrying age. If a woman had “fallen” into his bed and the rice “cooked,” then he—unwed and defiled—would have his name stained.

The Wu dynasty holds chastity and reputation as bedrock. Even were he later to pass the provincial exam, such scandal would remain a blot. A man of no virtue would never enter the Son of Heaven’s eye. How could Master Liang not burn with anger?

Notes:

1. Xi hong shi: The Chinese name for tomato (literally “western red persimmon”), reflecting its later introduction as an exotic fruit-vegetable. 
2. “South of the Huai orange; north, trifoliate”: A classical adage marking the climatic divide at the Huai River—citrus thrives south but turns bitter north due to temperature and soil.