by Tess Johnston

It is cold and very dark. It is 1982 and I am with a friend in the very heart of old Shanghai, the area known as Old Town that dates back to the Ming Dynasty. I have parked my car on a side street and we are seeking a certain corner where there will be a Chinese man awaiting us.

There are no street lights, only dim lights shining out of the windows of the old and densely packed houses. Off each major street is a labyrinth of narrow lanes shooting off in all directions. There are no street signs and we have only a designated landmark to go by as we walk silently along.

We are both clad in gigantic and all-ecompassing Chinese army greatcoats, khaki in color and with high collars, and we have caps pulled down low on our faces. We are two Western women trying to blend into the surroundings. There are not many Chinese out on this frosty night and the few passers-by do not even glance at us. Our camouflage must be successful.

We spot our guide -- the only person standing on a corner we have seen so far - and he somehow recognizes us as his target. No words are exchanged but he motions us to follow a bit behind him as he swiftly moves into the warren of lanes, the alleyways becoming even narrower the farther into them we go. Will we ever be able to find our way out again?

Finally we enter through an old gate and ahead of us is a small house. A dim light shines out from the small window and a large figure stands in the shadows to the right of the door. He and our guide exchange muttered words and they motion us to enter. In any other country in the world we would be courting danger. We could easily disappear now and no one would ever know we had ever been here. The Chinese would say, in all honesty, that Westerners never come into this part of town and certainly no one has seen us this evening. What have we gotten ourselves into?

The door opens to our knock and we enter. There they are all waiting for us: the mother lying in bed with her new baby girl, the grandmother beaming at us from her seat on the bed. Mr. Wang, the father and the man we seek, comes to greet us. There is scarcely room to sit but he insists, pulling out benches from corners and pouring us glasses of hot tea. Our guide has left us; we never even saw his face. From now on Mr. Wang is in charge and he will lead us back out when we have finished our business.

And what is the mysterious matter than brings us here in the night?

Antiques.

Only a little more than five years have passed since the "Cultural Revolution," an epoch in which any connection with foreigners could be dangerous and the selling of any of China's treasures even more so. Mr. Wang is obviously a dealer; his small dwelling is overflowing from every nook and cranny with all sorts of Chinese treasures. In a loft built into the high end of the room piles of baskets and wooden objects reach all the way up to the roof. Shelves line every bit of available wall space, porcelain is on and under furniture and furniture is stacked on top of more furniture. Rolled rugs lean in corners and objects even hang from hooks fixed to the roof beam. One can only marvel that the occupants manage to live a normal life in their warehouse-cum-home.

We are so overcome by the sheer volume of the offerings that we can not even think where to start. Our eyes scan the room, we call for a piece of porcelain from here, a basket from there, a stool from under a stack of wooden bed parts. The bargaining starts but the prices are - at least to our Western eyes - so ridiculously low that we are almost embarrassed to offer less; but we do. Only I speak Chinese but my friend is adept at finger-counting, the simple system of using fingers for numbers from one ten, and she needs no help from me. In fact, I soon observe that she is the better bargainer.

We chat and drink tea and amuse our hosts, me with my squirrely Chinese and my friend with her firm determination to get the absolute lowest price. At times Mr. Wang rolls his eyes heavenward when the bargaining gets intense. We are all obviously having a grand time, but after about an hour we realize it is getting late, we are freezing and far from home. I glance at the large bed, which fills more than half of the room, and my eyes trail down to the floor beneath it. There are visible four wooden legs of a lovely golden hue (yellow rosewood? - I cross my fingers), legs that do not belong to the bed. They turn out to belong to a low table about a meter square, whose top lies on a blanket facing the floor. I see instantly that it is the perfect height for a coffee table.

I wonder about the condition of the top. Will it match the lovely quality of the legs or is it scarred and pitted? I ask that the piece be pulled out so that I can inspect it carefully. No way! The space beside the bed is so narrow that there is no way to extricate the table without shifting about half the objects in the room. Mr.Wang assures me that it is in perfect condition and I take his word for it. He has always played fair with me and I trust him not to change now.

This time I negotiate a bit harder and we arrive at a price that seems to greatly please both of us. He will deliver it tomorrow, after he has somehow extracted it from its tight quarters. Sure enough, it arrives by tricycle cart the next evening, in perfect condition as promised -- and gorgeous. The photograph accompanying this article shows it as the centerpiece in the drawing room of my fin du siecle flat in Paris.

We are sated with shopping and are beginning to run out of money, so we reluctantly call a halt. We watch while our many and sundry purchases are carefully wrapped in newspaper and then placed in large plastic bags, one for each of us, with Mr. Wang carrying the third and heaviest. He reconnoiters the lane: empty. We bid our farewells to the happy family and quickly slip out into the narrow alleyway, where we walk single-file in silence toward the larger lane ahead. Mr. Wang walks us to the vicinity of our car and then turns over his large bag to us. It is now late and the streets are fortunately empty as we stagger to the car and stow our purchases in the boot.

Our lives moved on, my friend left Shanghai, never to return, and I never saw Mr. Wang again. It gradually became, upon reflection, almost a dream; I wondered if I had ever really made such an excursion those many years ago. One day in 2001 as I walked along a side street near the Gascogne I spotted an antique shop that I had not noticed before.

The eternal collector, I of course nipped in to see what was inside.

To my amazement there stood Mr. Wang and his wife. To me they seemed not one bit older than I remembered them. They recognized me immediately and even remembered my Chinese name.

I pop by now and then and we reminisce fondly over that daring excursion into forbidden territory of twenty years ago. Mr. Wang still deals in antiques and, although his prices have naturally escalated quite a bit, he still has an interesting and eclectic collection on offer.

And the newborn baby girl we saw lying in the big bed with her mother those many years ago is now at university.

It does give you pause to reflect on the cycles of history, doesn't it?