Before he knew it, dusk approached.
Chen Qi checked the time, gathered the few pages of manuscript paper he had written, and tucked them under his bedding.
As the soft glow of the sunset fell across the table, the large courtyard, quiet all day, finally came alive. The chiming of bicycle bells, the clamor of children, and the clattering rhythm of kitchen knives chopping against cutting boards mingled together as wisps of cooking smoke drifted everywhere.
“Mom, you’re back!”
“Did you buy anything good to eat?”
“It’s not New Year’s or a holiday, so what good food would I buy? Just cabbage, potatoes, and pickled vegetables.”
Yu Xiuli had clocked out right on time. Paying no mind to anything else, she slipped off her coat the moment she walked through the door and immediately got to work, directing him as she went: “Put the pickles on a plate, and take out the half-block of tofu left over from this morning!”
“How do you want the tofu cooked? Boiled with pickles?”
“Boil your head! Just scald it in hot water and mix it with paste!”
There were two kinds of pickled vegetables: pickled cucumbers and sweet-and-spicy dried radish, both from Liubiju.
Liubiju used to be called the Red Flag Pickles Outlet. When Japanese Prime Minister Kakuei Tanaka visited China in 1972, his delegation requested a visit to Liubiju, and only then was the historic old shop plaque rehung.
The small kitchen was built outside the house—a crude shed cobbled together from bricks and asphalt felt. A single stove and a dish cabinet filled the space to the brim. Next to the kitchen was an area for storing honeycomb coal briquettes, likewise covered with asphalt felt and stacked in neat, tidy rows—a hallmark of a family that valued cleanliness.
Lazier folks simply dumped their briquettes anywhere, and on rainy days, pools of black water would puddle around the coal piles.
Chen Qi took the initiative to help out.
He had only transmigrated a few days ago, so what deep feelings could he possibly have for these parents?
None, naturally, but since they treated him well, he saw no reason to be stingy with his response. Cooking briskly, Yu Xiuli glanced at him now and then, privately puzzled. A few days ago, this boy had been lying around like a salted fish, so how had he suddenly perked up like a carp leaping from the water?
By the time night began to fall, dinner was on the table, and his ready-made dad, Chen Jianjun, had returned.
He was also in his forties, tall, thin, and rather scholarly in demeanor. Though his clothes were worn, they were neat and clean, with a fountain pen clipped into his chest pocket.
Chen Jianjun was a distributor.
Xinhua Bookstore was the nation’s largest book distribution enterprise. Whenever a book or magazine was set for release, the publishers had to contact various distributors. The distributor would make an initial assessment based on the contents and report a figure to the bookstore—say, a thousand copies. The bookstore would place an order for those thousand copies first and see how the market responded later.
Later, however, the distributor’s role shifted to sales, because the book industry opened up and the monopoly vanished.
“Dad!”
“Did you go to the meeting?”
“I did!”
“Good. We’ll talk after dinner.”
Chen Jianjun smiled. Even his smile was refined, the sort belonging to a man who had never uttered a vulgar word in his entire life.
Dinner was very simple: potatoes and cellophane noodles stewed with cabbage, plain tofu, and pickled vegetables.
It was not that they couldn't afford meat, but that there was none to buy. Urban residents were rationed a mere three to five liang of pork per person each month. During the Three Difficult Years, the capital’s annual pork supply was just eight and a half liang per person; other places had it worse, without even a single speck of meat to show for it.
Both his parents were educated and carried a certain refinement in their bones, never discussing serious business over a meal.
Only after they finished eating did Chen Jianjun ask, and Chen Qi repeated the contents of the meeting.
“What are your thoughts?”
“I...”
Just as he was about to answer, someone shouted from outside, “Is Chen Qi home?”
“Oh, Auntie Wang!”
“Please come in, please come in! What brings you by?”
The visitor was an elderly woman with graying hair and a kindly smile—a street committee cadre. She sat down with unhurried poise and smiled. “We had the big meeting this morning, and this afternoon we divided up the assignments. The street office assigned me thirteen youths and told me I must find jobs for every one of them.
“I figured everyone would be home tonight, so I came over to check in. You folks are my first stop.”
“We’ve really troubled you, keeping you busy so late into the evening without any rest...”
Yu Xiuli poured her a cup of water, eager to ask about this very matter. “Auntie Wang, I heard from the boy that they’re planning to set up a production and service cooperative. But as you know, those are collective enterprises and never receive much respect. Not that I’m saying collective units are bad, mind you, but doesn't our neighborhood have the No. 3 Garment Factory? Couldn’t the factory take them in?”
“Oh, you make it sound so easy! Do you know how many youths awaiting employment we have in our district?”
Auntie Wang slapped her thigh and gestured with her fingers. “Eighty thousand! Where on earth is the government supposed to find eighty thousand jobs? Everyone from the top down is worried sick. On top of that, many of them are already twenty-five or twenty-six and have been without work for years. We have to prioritize them.
“As for that No. 3 Garment Factory, we pleaded and begged just to squeeze in a little over a hundred people. You can forget about that one.”
“Then what do you have in mind for them to do?” Chen Jianjun asked.
“Here’s what I’m thinking...”
Auntie Wang took a sip of water and said, “Qianmen is a prime location. Locals love strolling there, and folks from out of town love it just as much. Countless visitors arrive every year on business, and they always drop by to have a look around, don’t they? Yet with so many shops in Qianmen, there isn’t a single place selling drinking water! When people get there, they can’t even find a mouthful to drink.
“Now, if you want to buy an Arctic Ocean soda, that costs fifteen cents and requires ration coupons, which most people can’t bear to part with. I saw it with my own eyes—someone was drinking straight out of a rubber hose used for watering flowers!
“So we thought, if we set up a stall in Qianmen to sell tea and hot water, there will definitely be customers.”
Selling tea water???
The parents exchanged dumbfounded glances. This... this was simply beneath their dignity! Both of them were cultured intellectuals working at Xinhua Bookstore, yet their son was supposed to go sell tea water on the street? In the old society, that was work for the lowest class of people!
Just how low?
In *Camel Xiangzi*, it was written that when an old man grew too feeble to pull a rickshaw, his only choice was to shoulder a pole and peddle tea along the streets to barely scrape by—a miserable existence. Just look at that: selling tea water was even lower than Xiangzi! Xiangzi at least had a room (rented), a rickshaw (bought three times, lost every time), and a wife (who died in difficult labor).
“Auntie Wang, is there really no other opening?”
“There are technical posts. Does your boy know carpentry?”
“No!”
“Does he have tailoring skills?”
“No!”
“Can he handle a wok and toss food like a cook?”
“He can’t!”
“Well, then that settles it!”
“...”
The parents looked at each other again, feeling a wave of embarrassment. *So our son is completely useless?* What was even more maddening was that the useless boy was actually smiling, as if they weren’t talking about him at all.
“All right, talk it over among yourselves. I have to head to the next household!”
Auntie Wang rose and promptly took her leave.
The family of three fell silent for a moment before Yu Xiuli spoke up. “Say something! What are you actually thinking?”
“I’ll obey the organization’s arrangements. I’ll do whatever they tell me to do!” Chen Qi replied.
“If they tell you to sell tea water, you’ll just go? And right in Qianmen, of all places! How far is that from the bookstore? My coworkers would laugh me to death!”
“They won’t, because their kids will be selling tea water right alongside me.”
*Pfft!*
Yu Xiuli was nearly choked with fury. “Quit the smart talk! Tomorrow I’m going to apply for early retirement, and you can take over my post!”
“I don’t need you to retire. If you file for retirement, I’ll set up my street stall tonight.”
“Xiao Qi, stop being so glib,” Chen Jianjun, who had remained quiet all this time, finally spoke up. “Give us an honest answer. Why do you actually want to go?”
“No special reason. I just believe labor is glorious, and one can contribute bricks and mortar to the motherland anywhere. It’s your old-fashioned mindset that looks down on tea sellers. Shi Chuanxiang shoveled night soil and still became a deputy to the National People’s Congress and a National Model Worker! What’s wrong with selling tea water? In the future, I might even stand in the Great Hall of the People and shake hands with the national leaders!”
Good grief, Chen Qi’s Party spirit was practically radiating blinding light.
Shi Chuanxiang was a night-soil collector in Chongwen District. On National Day in 1966, he had stood atop the Tiananmen Rostrum.
Back then, a craze of voluntary night-soil shoveling swept through the capital. University teachers, students, writers, journalists, and actors queued up just to shovel manure alongside him. Supposedly, a female student from Tsinghua University couldn't secure a spot in line, so she posed as Shi Chuanxiang’s goddaughter, finally getting her wish to muck out cesspools with her “godfather.”
Shi Chuanxiang’s story used to be featured in primary school textbooks, though who knew if it was still there now.
Those were the days when the working class truly reigned supreme!
Faced with such an unassailable declaration, Chen Jianjun was struck speechless. He glanced toward Yu Xiuli, his eyes practically saying: *Should we find some time to have another child? This boy has gone completely mad!*
The spirit of self-sacrifice was always something preached to others.
When it came to oneself or one’s own family, stepping forward to sacrifice without looking back was what made someone a model—and most people simply couldn't do it.
With the conversation grinding to a halt, there was nothing left to do but go to bed.
There was no television in the house, and power outages were frequent; aside from a battered old radio, there was virtually no entertainment.
The courtyard gradually grew quiet. Moonlight shone against the window curtains as spring insects chirped softly outside. Lying on the bed in the outer room, Chen Qi could hear the low whispers coming from the inner room—they were undoubtedly still agonizing over his job prospects.
He truly didn't want Yu Xiuli to retire early, because he knew he wouldn't stay in that post for long, which would make her sacrifice a total waste.
Besides, he had no interest in working at Xinhua Bookstore. Other families boasted three generations of tobacco workers, three generations of oilmen, three generations of power plant operators, or three generations of bankers. Was he supposed to boast three generations of booksellers?
“...”
Chen Qi rolled over and closed his eyes.
In truth, selling tea water or doing anything else made no difference to him. He was ready to pack up his bucket and bolt at a moment’s notice.
Chapter 3