Chapter 5: The Price of Beauty
The phone buzzed at 6:45 a.m., a sharp, insistent vibration on the cheap laminate of his dorm desk. Li Wei was already awake, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. He’d been staring for hours. The taste from yesterday—the vinegar, the shrimp, the shame—was a phantom flavor on his tongue.
He picked up the sleek device. 10 a.m. The Liang Gallery. Black suit. The car will collect you at 9. No greeting. No signature. Just the command.
He owned one suit. A cheap, boxy thing he’d bought for a scholarship interview two years ago. It hung on him differently now. He’d lost weight. When he put it on, the shoulders sagged. He looked like a boy playing dress-up in his father’s clothes. The memory of the hotel uniform, how it had made him feel crisp and professional, was a sharp, distant ache.
The car was the same. The driver was the same. The city flowed past, but Li Wei didn’t see it. He was mentally rehearsing. Observation before speech. He would be a ghost, a piece of furniture. He would not kneel today. He wouldn’t have to.
The Liang Gallery was not what he expected. No grand banners, no crowds. It was a converted mansion in the old French Concession, all white stone and severe lines. Discretion was the only advertisement. A man in a tailored suit checked his name against a list on a tablet and nodded him through.
Inside, the air was cool and still, smelling of lemon polish and old money. The main hall was a vast, white cube. Chairs were arranged in neat rows, but most of the two dozen or so attendees lounged in a cordoned-off VIP area at the back, sipping sparkling water and speaking in murmurs that echoed off the high ceilings. That’s where he found Mr. Zhao.
He was standing before a large canvas, a violent splash of crimson and black, deep in conversation with a gaunt European man. Li Wei approached and stopped a polite distance away, hands clasped behind his back. Hotel posture. Mr. Zhao glanced over, his eyes doing a quick, dismissive sweep of Li Wei’s ill-fitting suit. A flicker of something—annoyance? amusement?—crossed his face before he returned to his conversation.
“The violence is too literal, Jean-Claude,” Mr. Zhao said. “I prefer my anguish abstract. More expensive that way.”
The European man laughed, a dry, rustling sound.
The auction began. The rhythm was hypnotic, a monk-like chant of numbers in multiple currencies. Lot 12. A massive bronze sculpture. Lot 18. A set of ink-wash landscapes. Mr. Zhao didn’t raise his paddle. He watched, arms crossed, a faint smile on his lips as others competed. It was a different kind of feeding.
Then came Lot 27.
“A rare Ming Dynasty white jade hairpin,” the auctioneer intoned, her voice mellifluous. “Carved in the form of a cicada perched upon a lingzhi mushroom. A symbol of immortality and resurrection. Provenance includes the collection of a former palace eunuch.”
A spotlight illuminated the piece on a velvet pillow. It was maybe four inches long, milky white, tinged with a faint, greyish smoke. It was delicate, severe, and ancient. Li Wei felt a cold prickle on his neck. He’d seen pins like that in museum textbooks, in reproductions of palace portraits. They were not worn by men.
The bidding started high and climbed quickly. A woman in a severe jacket raised her paddle. A man on the phone nodded to a proxy. Mr. Zhao watched, motionless, until the increments slowed.
He lifted his paddle. A lazy, almost bored flick of the wrist.
A counter-bid from the phone.
Zhao raised again. No hesitation.
Silence fell. The auctioneer’s hammer hovered. “All done? Then, sold to Paddle 7 for two point three million.”
A soft ripple of applause. The woman in the severe jacket shot Mr. Zhao a look of pure venom. He ignored it.
The next lot was brought out, but Mr. Zhao turned away from the floor. He walked back to the VIP lounge, Li Wei trailing silently. A attendant materialized, presenting the hairpin on its pillow on a low marble table between the sofas. Mr. Zhao didn’t pick it up immediately. He sat, crossed his legs, and lit a cigar, the match flaring and dying.
“You know what that is,” he stated, exhaling a plume of smoke.
“A hairpin,” Li Wei said. His voice sounded small.
“Context, Li Wei. Observation. What is it?”
Li Wei swallowed. “From the Ming Dynasty. Worn by… by women of the court.”
“By concubines,” Mr. Zhao corrected, his tone pleasant, instructional. “Specifically. A gift from the emperor. To wear it was to signal his favor. To be chosen. It was both an honor and a collar.” He finally reached out and picked it up, holding the pale jade between his fingers. It caught the light, glowing faintly. “The cicada sheds its shell. It’s reborn. A pretty story they told those girls while they locked them away.”
He leaned forward then, his eyes locking onto Li Wei’s. The predatory amusement was back, bright and chilling. “This will look perfect in your hair,” he said, his voice dropping, but not enough. The words carried in the hushed space. “When I take you to the opera tomorrow.”
A silence. Then a titter. A muffled, feminine laugh from a velvet sofa a few feet away. Li Wei didn’t turn to see. He felt the eyes of the lounge upon him—the gaunt European, the severe woman, a couple sipping champagne. They looked at his cheap suit, his young face, and then at the jade pin in Mr. Zhao’s hand. The calculation was instant, the story assembled and understood. Their smiles were thin, complicit.
Li Wei’s face was frozen. The humiliation was a cold wave this time, not a hot flush. It was deeper, historical. He wasn’t just being made to kneel; he was being fitted into a centuries-old costume.
Mr. Zhao watched him, savoring the reaction. He placed the hairpin back on the pillow. “The opera is Turandot. Appropriate, don’t you think? A story about a cruel prince who beheads his suitors. But it’s the slave girl, Liu, who dies for love. She’s the only real character. Everyone else is just pageantry.” He stood, smoothing his suit. “The car will take you back. Be ready at seven tomorrow evening. Wear the suit you wore to the breakfast. It has… history.”
He walked away, joining the European man, leaving Li Wei alone beside the jade hairpin on its pillow.
Li Wei didn’t move. He looked at the pin. Two point three million. For an object to shame him with. The numbers were abstract, meaningless. But the intent was crystalline. He wasn’t being paid. He was being purchased. Piece by piece.
The attendant approached, gloved hands ready to box the piece. Li Wei’s hand twitched. A wild, impossible thought flashed: to snatch it, to dash it against the marble floor. To hear the priceless, ancient thing crack.
He didn’t. He just watched as the attendant fitted it into a box of padded black silk.
The taste in his mouth now was dry, metallic. Like old coins. Like blood. He realized, walking back through the silent, gleaming gallery, that he was no longer just learning the cost of things.
He was starting to understand their price. And he was beginning to suspect that Mr. Zhao was wrong about one thing.
The humiliation wasn’t a currency he was earning. It was a debt he was being forced to owe. And debts to men like Zhao always accrued interest.