At this time of year, spring bamboo shoots were plentiful—truly a seasonal delicacy from the mountains.
Qin Xiaoman’s household had a bamboo grove, and many farmers in the county also had their own. As the two drove the ox cart into town, they passed other sellers with scattered bundles of bamboo shoots.
Du Heng inquired about prices at several stalls. Most ranged from two to three wen per pound, quite cheap—over half the price of fresh winter bamboo shoots.
The lower price made sense: spring shoots were abundant and easy to collect, and a single shoot weighed as much as several winter shoots.
“Let’s sell them at two wen per pound—no need to charge higher,” Qin Xiaoman decided.
Most small vendors sold at this price. Those charging three wen typically bought from villagers and resold at fixed market stalls. With the ox cart, they didn’t have to carry heavy loads or set up a stall. They could sell while transporting the bamboo shoots.
“Fresh spring shoots!” Qin Xiaoman called from atop the cart, hands on his hips, projecting his voice as loudly as possible. He felt no embarrassment.
The town streets were noisy and bustling—if he didn’t shout, no one would hear. Du Heng held the ox, worried that sudden movement might cause Qin Xiaoman to fall. Nearby vendors also raised their voices, as if engaged in a silent battle of volume.
Despite the effort, few customers initially approached. Du Heng thought selling in this manner was tough; he wished they had a loudspeaker. As he gazed around, he noticed a bookstore by the street.
Qin Xiaoman’s throat was dry from shouting. Squatting on the cart, he was about to fetch some hot water from his gourd when, surprisingly, someone handed it to him—with the lid already removed.
Qin Xiaoman smiled at Du Heng and drank several swigs.
“You rest for a bit. I’ll do the shouting,” he said, wiping the gourd with his sleeve.
“You have a soft voice; shouting like this isn’t for you,” Qin Xiaoman added.
“No problem, I can manage. You just tend to the customers,” Du Heng said. He knew Qin Xiaoman would never let him take over shouting entirely—he was always careful and a bit timid by nature.
“Try this,” Qin Xiaoman said, lowering his eyes. Du Heng had crafted a thick paper tube, narrow at one end and wide at the other, resembling a morning glory flower from the fields.
Du Heng demonstrated: “Speak into the small end.”
The sound coming through the tube was slightly hollow, but noticeably louder. Qin Xiaoman was fascinated and tried it himself. His voice was still quieter than Du Heng’s, but curious onlookers were drawn in by the spectacle of him standing with one hand on his hip and the other holding the paper tube.
Crowds gathered, asking, “What is this for?”
“Fresh spring shoots, just dug from the mountain, two wen per pound,” Du Heng replied, handing shoots to interested buyers.
“Even with the husks on, two wen per pound?” a customer asked.
“Yes! We leave the husks to keep them fresh. You pick, and we’ll peel them for you,” Du Heng explained.
“That’s reasonable,” the customer said.
“See how upright and proper this young man is? Pick one,” Du Heng encouraged. Using his long, slender fingers, he peeled a shoot. Onlookers marveled—his dexterity almost like a performance.
Customers were naturally drawn to a busy stall. The more people crowded around, the more others assumed the goods were superior—whether for price, freshness, or both.
They worked for over an hour. By midday, the crowd thinned. The cart, loaded with about a hundred pounds of shoots, now had a large basket of peeled shoots and only a few smaller, imperfect ones left.
“These half-peeled shoots can’t keep long. Sell them to me for one wen per pound,” an elderly woman requested.
Earlier, Du Heng had refused such a discount in front of other customers. Now, seeing no one else around, he agreed: “For waiting this long, I’ll sell you half a shoot at a lower price—but don’t tell anyone else.”
“Thank you, thank you!” she replied. Du Heng placed the remaining shoots in her basket and finally exhaled.
“Not bad! We earned sixty-three wen today,” Qin Xiaoman said, sweaty from shouting and peeling. Du Heng wiped his forehead, satisfied with the effort.
“It’s not as much as we earned selling pickles before, but it’s the most I’ve ever made selling bamboo shoots,” he said.
Qin Xiaoman pocketed the coins and handed the purse to Du Heng. “Let’s go shopping now.”
They set out to pick a wedding gift for Qin Xiaoman’s eldest cousin. Close relatives typically gave bedding, dinnerware, and similar items. Since the uncle had no plans to split the household, tables, chairs, and other furniture were unnecessary.
Still, a newlywed couple would have their own room. Qin Xiaoman decided bedding would be an appropriate gift—something they could use privately.
“Bedding and wardrobes are probably something the new bride’s family will provide as part of her dowry.”
“Then what should we give?” Qin Xiaoman hesitated for a moment.
Du Heng replied, “The bride is moving into a new home, and it’s natural for her to feel some unease and apprehension. We should think about gifts she can actually use. Receiving a thoughtful gift from you will show her that she has congenial relatives in the Qin family.”
Qin Xiaoman immediately slapped his thigh. “You always think of everything!”
The two of them went to the fabric store and bought four bolts of fine material—two patterned for men and two for women.
In addition, they purchased a complete trousseau, which included various items for the bride’s personal grooming. Qin Xiaoman had little experience with such things and rarely fussed over himself, but he knew a trousseau was meant for women, though his younger sister Qin Xiaozhu also had one.
They examined the set: wooden combs, hair ties, hairpins, and a few boxes of rouge and powder. Altogether, the four bolts of fabric and the trousseau cost nearly four hundred wen.
Du Heng calculated that although this didn’t match the value of the gifts their second uncle had given when Qin Xiaoman and he married, their family had three children. The gifts for the other two weddings would balance things out.
After earning a few dozen wen that day and spending several hundred, Qin Xiaoman had no desire to buy meat for wontons. They decided to restrain themselves and save treats for the wedding feast.
Around noon, they bought two large flatbreads and ate lunch on the ox cart while leaving the city.
“I’ll drive,” Qin Xiaoman said, noticing how tired Du Heng looked after shouting for half the day.
Qin Xiaoman handed him the reins and the bamboo stick whip. Though he had initially thought Du Heng needn’t handle such rough work, since he wanted the experience—and the ox was theirs—he let him take the reins.
As Du Heng pulled on the ropes, he felt the ox’s strong force tugging him forward. He tightened the ropes, worried the animal might break free. But when he pulled, the ox didn’t move.
He tapped the ox with the bamboo whip, yet the big yellow ox still stood firm.
“Is it hungry?” Qin Xiaoman laughed at Du Heng’s bewildered face. “You tapped it lightly, and it probably thought you were scratching it!”
Flushed, Du Heng whipped the ox more forcefully. With a bellow, the ox swung its tail and galloped forward, nearly yanking him off the cart. Fortunately, Qin Xiaoman’s hands caught him.
Du Heng wiped the sweat from his brow and saw Qin Xiaoman laughing.
“See? The ox won’t listen to you,” Qin Xiaoman teased.
Du Heng covered his mouth to stop him laughing, but the soft touch sent a shiver through him. He froze for a moment before Qin Xiaoman bit his hand gently.
Du Heng’s mind wandered to their earlier intimacy in bed, when playful bites had caused sharp, surprising sensations.
Embarrassed at thinking such things in broad daylight, he looked away, ears red.
“Did it hurt?” Qin Xiaoman asked, noticing Du Heng’s frozen reaction. He examined Du Heng’s hand and saw a faint row of teeth marks, slightly red against his pale skin. He rubbed the area gently.
“I just nibbled lightly. Your skin is too soft—after all the work, your hands aren’t even rough.” Qin Xiaoman chuckled, but Du Heng didn’t hear a word.
Finally, Qin Xiaoman’s voice softened as he leaned closer. “Are you mad?”
Du Heng subtly licked his lips. “Mmm.”
“Oh, I was only joking. Don’t be upset.”
Qin Xiaoman held Du Heng’s hand in his and coaxed him for a while.
“All right. Once you teach me to drive the ox properly, I won’t be mad,” Du Heng said.
“Fine, fine. Don’t worry, this ox is very gentle. Just learn to gauge the force, and it’ll be easy,” Qin Xiaoman replied.
They spent some time driving the cart, and by the time they reached the entrance to the village, Du Heng could handle the ox himself. Proud, he said, “I understand the ox now. Come autumn, I’ll manage the livestock for plowing too.”
Qin Xiaoman leaned against the cart, smiling quietly.
Du Heng playfully poked his waist. “Am I doing well?”
“You’ve been learning for half an hour—of course you’re doing well,” Qin Xiaoman replied.
By the time they returned home, it was already late. They unloaded the remaining bamboo shoots, peeled and sorted them on a separate tray. The shoots left to dry on the stove the night before had lost most of their moisture; another two or three days of roasting would make them ready for storage.
Passing by a small shop, Du Heng checked prices; dried shoots now sold for six or seven wen per pound, meaning they could later sell their stock for a good profit.
That night, Du Heng stir-fried some bamboo shoots. Though there was no meat, the dish was enough to enjoy multiple servings.