In the small town lived quite some craftsmen, each having their own masterstroke. Only those who had a masterstroke could earn a decent life and public admiration.
Su Menyao was a man with a masterstroke. He sold tofu he made on his own by picking ingredients, washing and grinding soybeans, and adding coagulants. His tofu was silken, tender, and tasted of fresh beans. He had dealt with no competition in town for many years. However, this was not his masterstroke. The most impressive thing was his accurate cutting of tofu. When a customer came to him and told him how much tofu he wanted, Su Menyao would make a clean cut in the tofu at the sound of the order. He would repeat the order while placing the chunk on the pan and lift the steelyard to show the balance. Then, with the longer end of the balance bar tilting slightly upward, the chunk would slide into the container brought by the customer, who left satisfied.
Su Menyao never made an approximate cut of tofu: He only cut with accuracy. So, why did he still weigh the chunks every time? It was to confirm customer trust in him. This was the masterstroke upon which his decent life in town relied.
There was another man in town with the masterstroke of accurate cutting. He was Dou Chenliang, a Chinese date cake vendor. Unlike Su, he never weighed the chunks of cake he cut. He directly wrapped the chunk cut as required in a lotus leaf and tossed it into the customer’s basket. Anyone doubting his accuracy could check it themselves. He promised compensation of cake ten times the weight of any amount cut short, but no one had ever asked him for this.
People argue for the best singer when birds sing, bicker over the most radiant flower when flowers blossom: Competition is in the blood of humans. There was a long history of a private rivalry between Su, master tofu cutter, and Dou, master cake cutter, for the town’s best cutting craftsman. They opened and returned verbal fire on each other whenever they met on the street, which happened often.
“Hey, Master Su.” Giving Su an ill-intentioned grin, Dou said: “If the tofu can be white as chalk, how come the cutter is black as pitch?” Grinning back at Dou, Su retorted in kind: “My tofu is white, my knife is black. My business is as clear as black and white, unlike yours, Master Dou. I’m wondering if your cake tastes too sweet to be sour.”
One day, Su and Dou encountered each other head on in an alley as narrow as the width of one cart, which meant they would be stuck at this place unless one of them retreated. Dou pulled up his cart, untied the pipe hanging from his waistband, and started smoking while sitting on the edge of the cart. Su, understanding that Dou was not going to back down this time, parked and began hawking his product loud and clear: “Tofu, fresh tofu…”
The alley in midday received heavy traffic of passersby, who sensed a coming “bullfight” due to tension between the rivals. A growing crowd, curious at what would happen, soon packed the alley.
Dou puffed three packs of tobacco before he cast a glance at Su, and tied the pipe back on his waistband. He picked up his knife, and, with his eyes closed, chopped a large piece of cake into five smaller pieces. He pointed with his knife and said: “This one weighs 400 grams, this one weighs 550 grams, and this one is 950 grams… Take it if you want, and check it if you doubt the weight. Do you see the steelyard on Mr. Su’s cart? If it is off balance, my cart and the whole cake on it are yours as compensation for my mistake.”
Indeed, there were customers who paid for the pieces without further examining their weight, though there was one who bought a piece from Dou and brought it to Su, intending to use his steelyard. However, Su just packed his stuff and, step by step, retreated out of the alley with his cart of tofu. Dou laughed. He packed his stuff as well and, step by step, pushed his cart forward through the alley, hawking his product: “Chinese date cake, delicious…” His voice was louder and more high-pitched than ever.
Over the past decade, the hair of both Su Menyao and Dou Chenliang had turned grey. During the Lantern Festival that year, the town held a dragon dance competition, attracting neighboring villagers, who were crammed like sardines in the town’s main street. Whether divinely arranged or not, Su’s tofu cart was next to Dou’s Chinese date cake cart that day, separated by a three-meter-wide space. Their cutting competition started before the dragon dance competition.
The first to put on a show was Dou, who, with a few deft chops of the knife, while blindfolded, offered the crowd 10 pieces of cake, each weighing exactly 500 grams. These sold out in the blink of an eye. Then, again blindfolded, he chopped 10 pieces out of the cake; this time, each weighed exactly 750 grams. Again, the pieces sold out in the blink of an eye. Dou, a third time, blindfolded himself and raised his knife…
This time, Dou was interrupted by Su Menyao, who slowly lifted the cloth off a large tray of tofu as beautiful as fine white jade. He trimmed the tofu to make it into a block, which he divided into 16 cubes of the exact same size and 750-gram weight. Su simply made three horizontal cuts and three vertical cuts. “Bravo!” the crowd of onlookers yelled. During this praise, Su said to Dou: “Master Dou, now that you’ve made room for me, I’d like to give you a fresh cube of tofu as a gift.” Su, the master tofu cutter, carefully lifted a small cube of tofu with his knife and tossed it onto Dou’s cart three meters away: First cube, second cube, third cube…
The tofu cubes cut through the sky and landed on the wooden board once covered with Chinese date cake. They were as light as a feather floating in the air, as fluffy as cotton sitting on the floor. All 16 cubes were transferred and none broke or chipped. They rested on Dou’s board in a neat and orderly 4 x 4 arrangement. Waves of thunderous applause crashed around Su. The crowd could not stop shouting and cheering: “Superb! That’s the real masterstroke!”
Time passed quickly and both Su Menyao and Dou Chenliang grew old. They strolled and sunbathed together, but seldom did they mention their past rivalry.
One day, the grandson of Dou Chenliang ran to the Su’s place, crying: “Grandpa Su, my grandpa can’t make it this time. He’d like to see you now…” Su Menyao quickly left with his walking stick for the Dou’s place, where he saw Dou Chenliang lying in bed and struggling to breathe. He hurriedly grasped Dou’s hand, which Dou had extended toward him, and said: “Master Dou, just tell me anything you’re thinking. I’m here, listening.”
Dou had to take a break every few words: “Master Su, how did you… learn that… masterstroke? Did you learn it… from a master? That’s a town legacy!” Su pressed his mouth to Dou’s ear, whispering: “Don’t you remember that it was you who pushed me to the wall. My master, if any, is you, Master Dou.” Dou opened his mouth upon hearing this answer, seemingly trying to say something. However, he took his last breath before he could respond.
Su’s answer was not words of courtesy, or comfort, or a galling remark. He was telling the truth. It is universally true that masterstrokes cannot be learned. A skill learned is never a masterstroke. A masterstroke is what you rack your brain trying to improve, and what you find when you are driven into the corner. 
Selected from Chinese Flash Fiction, compiled by China Flash Fiction Society, and published by New World Press.
