pjbooks Chapter 8 Antique Shop
Chapter 8 Antique Shop
Meanwhile, on Luther's side...
He drove his old Chevrolet north along Wellesley Street, then north through Newton, and finally into the Alston-Brighton district, after which he entered the Boston metropolitan area.
This stretch of road is only about 20 kilometers long, but it took us a full hour to travel. There was no way around it; there was no highway yet.
Even in a place like Boston, most of the roads are paved with gravel, and some are even just dirt. It's okay on sunny days, but on rainy days the roads are muddy, full of potholes, and impossible to walk on.
The scenery along the way was picturesque and beautiful, especially the towns of Wellesley and the neighboring town of Newton, both of which are considered wealthy towns.
But once you enter the Alston-Brighton area, the atmosphere changes completely.
This change is visible to the naked eye.
Compared to the villas and estates of the wealthy, the residents here are in a much worse situation.
The streets were lined with ordinary wooden houses, and some were makeshift shacks made of planks. The utility poles stood crookedly by the roadside, covered with a jumble of wires and tangled wires.
Besides, the pedestrians on the street were different from Wellesley.
Most of the men wore faded linen overalls, many with tears in them, and many had just finished get off work, their faces still covered in grime. The women weren't in much better shape; most wore cotton skirts, headscarves, and hurried along carrying shopping baskets.
Unlike later generations, women in this era couldn't find jobs and usually stayed home to do odd jobs, earning less than a dollar a day.
Occasionally, a few young women would walk by, dressed in bright colors and flamboyant attire, eager to find a wealthy husband.
Luther watched for a while, and felt as if he were in another world.
This is America in 1927, America in a roaring era.
On the one hand, the stock market is booming, consumerism is on the rise, and everyone is dreaming of getting rich.
Cars, radios, Hollywood, and jazz were all standard features of this era.
But if you look closely, you'll find that beneath the massive body of this empire, it is already riddled with holes.
Workers' incomes have not increased for ten years, while prices have been rising. Farmers are in an even worse situation, with their incomes decreasing instead of increasing. They may not even earn $500 a year now because crops are not only not cheaper, but they simply cannot be sold. Some farmers have even gone bankrupt.
The crisis is already brewing in the shadows, but those living in a bubble of light haven't realized it yet.
Luther sighed, looked away, and stepped on the gas to continue driving.
Soon the car passed through the Alston-Brighton district, crossed the Charles River, and finally entered downtown Boston.
Compared to the drab blue-collar neighborhood we just saw, downtown Boston presents a completely different picture.
High-rise buildings stand tall, traffic flows like a river, and well-dressed men and women stroll through the streets.
The tram clanged past, its tracks gleaming silver in the sunlight.
On the corner newsstand, the Boston Globe's headline read "Hoover is poised to run for president," accompanied by a large photograph of Hoover.
This guy is definitely capable of being president, but he's also good at creating drama.
Luther slowed down and kept looking at the house numbers on the side of the road as he drove.
William gave him the address 127 Cambridge Street, near Boston Public Garden, which shouldn't be hard to find.
Sure enough, after turning two street corners, Luther saw a three-story brick building. It was a typical late 19th-century commercial building, with red brick walls and light-colored stone trim. The ground floor storefront was small, with two floor-to-ceiling windows, but dark velvet curtains were drawn inside, making it impossible to see what was displayed. Above the glass doors of the windows, in gold cursive script, were the words:
"Boston Antiques and Art Shops - Est. 1886"
Below that is a smaller line of text: "Buying all kinds of European antiques, manuscripts, silverware, and oil paintings at fair prices."
Luther parked the car on the side of the road, turned off the engine, and got out.
He straightened his suit, pushed open the door, and went inside.
Behind the door is a small shop, about 60 or 70 square feet, with dark wood flooring that creaks when you step on it.
The walls and display cases are filled with antiques, some of which are portraits of noblewomen, some are silverware, and some are porcelain from China, which is said to have been looted from the Old Summer Palace.
The most terrifying thing is that there is a Thangka hanging here, which comes from the snowy region and is said to be made from the material of a rebellious slave.
At that moment, a middle-aged man wearing glasses walked out from behind.
He was wearing an old suit with a pocket watch clipped to his vest. He looked to be in his early fifties, with thinning hair, but it was still neatly styled. He was clearly a respectable man.
He first sized it up, like an eagle sizing up its prey, before politely saying:
"Welcome! I'm the owner, Morris. Sir, do you have anything interesting to sell?"
"Yes," Luther nodded, "there's something I'd like you to see."
He took a brown kraft paper envelope from the inside pocket of his suit, carefully opened it, and pulled out a few pages of paper.
To be precise, this is not paper, it is a letter.
The original Luther had planned to do this business, so he made preparations before coming to the United States.
Europe is in dire straits right now, and antiques are selling for virtually nothing. On the contrary, nouveau riche in the United States are snapping them up, and the auction figures are getting more and more staggering.
As an old aristocratic family, how could the Luther family be without antiques?
So after some thought, he still brought some small items, such as these letters.
Firstly, it's easy to carry, and secondly, it's easy to pass customs inspection, so the risk is very small, making it worth a try.
But when it comes to the specifics of these letters, their origins are far from simple.
The letter was written by Ludwig I, King of Bavaria, who reigned from 1825 to 1848.
This king was similar to Emperor Huizong of Song in China; he was a famous artist-emperor, and in the fields of art and culture, if he claimed to be second, no one would dare to claim to be first.
This guy wasn't interested in money or war; all he was interested in was art, poetry, and beautiful women—a spitting image of Emperor Huizong of Song.
During his time in office, this guy transformed Munich into Germany's "art capital".
He built countless museums and galleries, amassed a vast collection of artworks, and upheld the reputation of the University of Munich and the Academy of Fine Arts of Munich.
He himself was a terrible poet; he wrote poems all his life, but only one of them became famous, and it was so ridiculous that people laughed their heads off.
As for the beautiful women, they are even more famous.
His list of lovers included Spanish dancers, Irish courtesans, and French aristocratic ladies—the most famous of whom was a courtesan named Laura Montez.
Rumor has it that this woman was unrestrained and daring, not only performing erotic dances in Munich but also nearly triggering a palace revolution.
Ludwig I almost sacrificed the entire Kingdom of Bavaria for her sake, and was ultimately forced to abdicate during the revolutionary wave of 1848.
The letter in his hand was a private letter written by Ludwig I to his cousin—Ludwig's great-great-grandfather.
In these letters, the artist-king shed all his royal mask and poured out his grievances to his brothers like an ordinary person.
He complained that his ministers were heartless, saying that they would oppose any woman he fancied.
He lamented that he was born at the wrong time, wishing he had been born during the Italian Renaissance;
He also used long passages to describe in detail how beautiful his new mistress was, what color her hair was, what shape her eyes were, and how her smile made him lose his mind.
The most outrageous part is the ending of this letter.
Ludwig I seemed to be in high spirits, and inspiration struck him, so he spontaneously composed a poem.
He carefully copied the poem at the end of the letter, and even drew a horizontal line under the title, afraid that his cousin would not see it.
The poem is called "The Song of Breasts".
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