Volume One, Chapter 13: The Schedule Must Be Accelerated

Gao Yuemin was not a rigid man; he smoked and drank. At first, he only drank, not smoked. He picked up the habit of smoking after being sent to labor in the countryside, feeling depressed and occasionally lighting a cigarette to ease his mood. Unexpectedly, the occasional cigarette turned into a full-blown addiction. Gao Yuan also smoked and had quite a strong habit.

Seeing his father head into the inner room, Gao Yuan snatched an eighth of a pack of economy cigarettes from Wang Liwei’s hand and took a deep drag, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke. Ah, that was satisfying.

Wang Liwei stared in disbelief, pointing at him as if to say something. “Shh! Calm down, it’s just a cigarette, nothing to make a fuss about,” Gao Yuan whispered, handing the cigarette back.

“You little brat, you’re learning all the wrong things. How old are you already and you’re already smoking?” Wang Liwei took the cigarette back, laughing and scolding him.

“Do you need to learn how to smoke? Just watching is enough. Liwei-ge, this cigarette is terrible, every puff fills your mouth with smoke foam.”

At that moment, a little rhyme came to mind: “Save Zhonghua, economize on Mudan, high-ranking cadres smoke Liaoye. Young lads do great production, workers stick to two or three cents. Poor and lower-middle peasants smoke big pipes; little kids have eight-cent cigarettes.” The “eight cents” referred to the economy cigarettes.

Gao Yuan didn’t understand. Logically, Wang Liwei, as a state cadre, shouldn’t be smoking such low-grade cigarettes. With his salary, he couldn’t afford Zhonghua or Mudan, but smoking slightly better brands like Daqianmen, Glory, or Pegasus wouldn’t be a problem.

Wang Liwei gave a wry smile. “You think I don’t want to smoke something smooth? I’m from a rural home. My parents are in their sixties, and I have four younger siblings. I’m the only one working in Beijing. The family burden is heavy; I have to send money home every month. If I have a pack of cigarettes to smoke, I’m content. I dare not ask for more or hope for brand-name cigarettes.”

Gao Yuan patted his hand and didn’t press the matter further. Everyone’s life was tough at this stage. Farmers had their hardships, and some words, when spoken, don’t comfort but only add to their troubles.

Gao Yuemin brought over a bottle of Erguotou liquor. Gao Yuan took it, unscrewed the cap, and poured a small glass each for his father and Liwei-ge. The cups, called “eight qian” cups, held less than an ounce each and were common in ordinary Beijing households.

With the glasses full, Gao Yuemin smiled and asked Gao Yuan, “Aren’t you going to have some?”

“Can I… have some?” Gao Yuan asked his father, stunned.

Gao Yuemin laughed, “You’ll be eighteen after the new year, old enough to drink. I won’t restrict you from smoking or drinking; just know your limits.”

Gao Yuan beamed, grabbed a cup himself, raised it to clink with his father and Liwei-ge, and took a small sip. Ah, how pleasant.

“Try the carp that Xiaoyuan cooked. I think it tastes pretty good. Don’t be shy, eat while it’s hot,” Gao Yuemin said, picking up chopsticks and sampling a slice first. The fish had absorbed the sourness of pickled vegetables and the spiciness of pepper, the sour and spicy freshness immediately conquering his palate. He drank two more spoonfuls of the soup and found it even more delicious.

Gao Yuemin gave Gao Yuan a thumbs-up. “You really learned well from Uncle Zhang; your skills are authentic.”

Wang Liwei and Li Fengzhi also ate a few pieces and praised Gao Yuan’s cooking.

Gao Yuan was modest. “You flatter me. I like simple food. After exams, I’m just bored at home. If the weather’s good, I go fishing. Once I catch some, I cook a few times.”

Wang Liwei was also interested in fishing. “Let’s find a Sunday to go together. By the way, Xiaoyuan, where did you catch these fish?”

Gao Yuan didn’t hide it. “From Houhai.”

“I thought so. Houhai’s water is clear, providing a perfect environment for fish to grow deliciously. Fish from the moat or Tonghui River taste too fishy and no matter how you cook them, they’re not tasty.” Wang Liwei said, scooping some soup into his mouth.

Gao Yuan smiled, raised his glass to clink with him again, and took another sip.

The meal left the four with greasy, satisfied mouths. The large bowl of fish had been devoured, along with the pickled vegetables and fish soup, not to mention the two plates of side dishes Fengzhi brought. Even the fish roe, Gao Yuan gave entirely to his father.

Having arranged to go fishing that weekend, they saw the time was late, so Wang Liwei and his wife politely took their leave.

The next morning, Gao Yuan woke up.

His father had already left for work. Rain or shine, wind or cloudy, he left at five-thirty sharp every morning without fail. Gao Yuan admired his father’s diligent and conscientious attitude toward work.

After getting up and dressing, he went to the yard to wash up, then returned inside to empty the chamber pot, also taking care of his morning bowel movement. Feeling refreshed, he noted that at this hour, there was no need to queue.

It was only at the public toilet before work that things got busy. People lined up patiently, but if someone inside took too long, those waiting outside would start shouting slogans, cursing. This daily spectacle of yelling inside and outside was like a farce.

No wonder Gao Yuan felt living in the hutongs was hard, even going to the bathroom was inconvenient.

Some period writings claimed that in the 1960s and 70s, with prices low, one should hurry to earn money to buy a courtyard house, then wait for its value to rise and sell it for a comfortable life. Pure nonsense.

Firstly, most courtyard houses were state-owned then, with very few private residences, and even those were not allowed to be traded privately.

Secondly, ask any old Beijing native how many would willingly live in the hutongs forever.

No need to argue sentimentally about courtyard houses being down-to-earth or nostalgic.

Thirty years later, when the government’s relocation policy came, local natives within demolition zones flocked to the housing office like moths to a flame, clutching their deeds, afraid they’d miss out on good apartments.

That was the real attitude toward courtyard houses among old Beijing folk.

With flush toilets and separate kitchens available, no one wanted to share kitchens or cram into public toilets, having to empty chamber pots every morning.

By the way, Wang Fei had also emptied a chamber pot, proving she too got up at night sometimes.

Returning to the present, Gao Yuan happily returned to the yard after his morning routine.

After washing the chamber pot, he found himself with nothing to do.

Sitting at the three-drawer desk, he began pondering what he could do.

There was still a month before the college entrance exam results were announced; he couldn’t just do nothing.

Originally, he planned to wait for the results before carrying out his next plan, but now he changed his mind—the schedule needed to be advanced, or he’d be bored stiff.

What to write?

He immediately ruled out short stories, essays, and poetry. The reason was simple: whether short stories or poems, the word count was too low to earn much.

Also, long novels were out of the question—not only were they time-consuming and laborious, but few newspapers or magazines were willing to publish them then.

He recalled some details: poetry wasn’t counted as a lot. The state stipulated that twenty lines of poetry counted as a thousand words, paid ten to twenty yuan per thousand words.

Thus, there were verses like:

For you, I write poems

For you, I stand still

For you, I do the impossible

For you, I learn to play piano and write lyrics

For you, I lose my reason...

Poets practically freeloaded!

With that in mind, Gao Yuan’s only option was to write scripts.

More precisely, not write, but copy.

Having read widely and watched many films in his previous life, he vividly remembered some classics.

He felt no guilt about plagiarizing classic films and TV works from the future.

If he didn’t engage in some literary plagiarism, what was the point of rebirth?

But in this era, which scripts were appropriate to copy?

“Lushan Love”?

No, though the core was strong, it was a love story and probably wouldn’t pass censorship in the next year or two.

“The Smiling Troublesome Man”?

No, it depicted in detail the persecuted during the Cultural Revolution. Although films of the time were surprisingly permissive, Gao Yuan prudently decided to pass on this one.

“The Gunshots of the Secret Bureau”?

That was a good story. He considered it a candidate but felt it wasn’t time yet to bring it out.

He was a bit troubled. Finding a script that fit the times, stayed realistic, and was watchable and popular with the masses was difficult.

Looking up at the wall clock, nearly ten o’clock had passed.

Gao Yuan gave up thinking, got up, went to the kitchen, and took an axe to crack the thick ice in a bucket with a series of sharp blows.

He broke the ice, pulled out a blackfish, wrapped six or seven crucian carps weighing over three taels tightly in newspaper, put them in a net bag, and headed out to the textile factory to find his aunt.

“Sir, busy now,” came the voice from the guardhouse at the textile factory gate. Gao Yuan took out half a pack of Qianjin cigarettes and offered one to the gatekeeper.

The old man grinned broadly on seeing him, took the cigarette, and lit it. “Not busy. Here to see your aunt again? Light this first, then I’ll call her for you.”

Gao Yuan lit a cigarette, struck a match, lit the old man’s, then his own. He shook it slightly, the flame went out, and he dropped the match on the ground, chuckling, “Sorry to trouble you.”

“You’re a sensible kid, unlike some young ones who have no respect. Wait here; I’ll call the production workshop and have your aunt come out.”

The old man was clearly a straightforward character. Taking a bribe meant real help. He picked up the receiver, turned the crank until sparks almost flew, then loudly said, “Third Workshop? Tell Comrade Gao Yueran to come to the gate. Someone’s here to see her.”

“Who’s looking for her?”

“Do I have to report to you? Hurry up! Don’t delay the leader’s matters or the leader will make you pay!”

After speaking, he hung up decisively and winked at Gao Yuan.

Gao Yuan laughed heartily. This old man had character and humor—daring to claim leadership authority falsely. Impressive!

He gently placed the remaining ten or so cigarettes on the table behind the window.

The old man caught on, opened a drawer, and with a sweep of his hand, swept half a pack into it. This was no first time; his movements were practiced.

Gao Yuan laughed again.

When Gao Yueran came running to the gate, she spotted her nephew chatting with old Qi at the guardhouse. The old and young were exchanging words, and Qi’s eyebrows were crooked in laughter.

Gao Yueran felt a flush of irritation. What was this guy up to? How dare he impersonate a leader?

She walked over, grabbed Gao Yuan by the ear, and scolded angrily, “You little brat, you’ve got some nerve, daring to impersonate a leader! Are you courting death?”

Gao Yuan yelped, turned his head, and seeing his aunt, hurriedly explained, “It’s not my fault, really not. Aunt, even if you lent me some courage, I wouldn’t dare. Uncle, please explain! I’m innocent!”

The old man laughed out loud. When he stopped, he said to Gao Yueran, “Let go of him, girl. It’s not his fault. It was me who called you out under the leader’s name, not your nephew. You’ve wrongly accused him.

I just think your workshop director is a bit full of himself. I didn’t want to bother with him, so I lied to get you out here.”