Chapter Eleven: Observing

While eating breakfast, Hong Tao leafed through the two first-grade textbooks: one for Chinese language, the other for arithmetic. Both had covers made of slightly thicker pale yellow paper, printed with an image of three children playing with a drill press, and marked as Beijing Primary School Textbook, Arithmetic or Chinese, Volume Nine. He had no recollection of these at all—couldn’t remember whether he’d used such books when he was little.

He skimmed a few pages. The first lesson in the language book began with Chinese phonetics; the arithmetic book started with Arabic numerals. Hong Tao was thoroughly reassured—these were things he could guarantee he knew one hundred percent. If he’d forgotten even this much, he might as well die and spare future university students the embarrassment.

After breakfast, he sat around the house for a while, then went to the kitchen to check if the family’s coal stove had been properly sealed. Only then did he lock the door, tuck the two books and a small notebook under his arm, grab a pencil, and head off to school. As he walked, he pondered one question: how long should he actually stay at school?

Hong Tao’s claim to his father that he was going to attend classes was just a ruse. If he truly needed to listen to such lessons, he might as well return to the nursery and sleep. Still, he couldn’t skip entirely. The school was very close to home, and two teachers lived in the same alley as his grandmother—just a dozen meters away. His father knew these teachers; they all shared the same profession, even if one taught primary school and the other university. Teachers, after all. They were quite familiar with each other, always stopping to chat when they met. Hong Tao worried the teachers would expose his deception if he didn’t actually go to school.

In the end, Hong Tao decided that for the first few days, he’d attend two classes, making sure the teachers saw him. This would lend credibility to his story. Once his father was convinced of his learning ability, he could cut down his time at school, or stop altogether—it wouldn’t matter then.

“Hey, little boy, who are you here to see?” The old man at the gatehouse saw Hong Tao swaggering in and called out from the window.

“I’m looking for Hu Shiming. My grandmother sent me to give him the house key! He’s in Class Five, First Year.” Hong Tao lifted the key hanging from his neck and waved it at the old man.

“Do you know which floor?” the old man asked.

“Third floor. I’ve been here many times—you’ve forgotten me!” Hong Tao walked up to the gatehouse window, looking up at the old man.

“So many kids come and go every day. How could I remember them all? Go on, but don’t wander around!” The old man leaned out for a closer look, then waved Hong Tao through.

Hong Tao strolled inside. The schoolyard was large; the classrooms were behind it. He ran up to the third floor and peered into his uncle’s class. From the back door, he saw his uncle propping the textbook upright to hide his face, napping on his desk. Hong Tao didn’t disturb him and wandered back down to the first floor. He slipped under the stairs, rummaged among broken desks and chairs, found one serviceable enough to sit on, hoisted it up, and set it outside the back door of a first-grade classroom.

It was already mid-September, more than half a month into the school year. The class was in the middle of a language lesson, teaching the letters l, m, n. Hong Tao opened his textbook to the page the teacher was using, placed it on his lap, and scribbled a few lines of l, m, n in his notebook, intentionally uneven and crooked. Then he leaned back in the chair for a nap—he’d gotten up too early and needed a bit more sleep.

Perhaps because he was so young, or simply exhausted, Hong Tao soon drifted off, slumped in his chair. At that moment, a middle-aged woman descended the stairs from the second floor. She was thin, wore a bob cut, and black-rimmed glasses. She had intended to leave through the main entrance, but as she passed the corridor, she caught sight of someone in the corner of her eye. She stepped back for a look, puzzled by the sight of a student sitting alone in the hallway, and walked over to Hong Tao.

“Teacher Yu, did all your students arrive today?” The woman stood before Hong Tao for a moment, glanced at his textbook and notebook with the phonetic letters, then flipped a page to inspect the handwriting on the back. Still unable to figure out what he was doing there, she approached the classroom’s front door to ask the teacher.

“Director Bai, everyone’s here. We just took roll during morning exercises. Is there a problem?” The female teacher was confused by the question.

“Oh, nothing, just asking… Carry on, I’m off to a meeting at the neighborhood office.” Director Bai checked her watch, glanced once more at Hong Tao dozing in the hallway, then left the building without another word.

The piercing ring of an electric bell jolted Hong Tao awake from his dream of the Duke of Zhou. The class was over. He quickly picked up the chair, returned it under the stairs, and waited by the stairwell.

“Little Tao! What are you doing at school? Did someone bully you again? Uncle’s in class now, but at noon we can get revenge!” His uncle soon appeared on the stairs, instantly spotting Hong Tao below, and pulled him aside.

“No one bullied me. I don’t have to go to nursery anymore, but I have to study at home. Some things are hard to learn alone, so I came here to listen to first-grade lessons.” As he spoke, Hong Tao pulled a five-cent coin from his pocket.

“You’re asking for trouble. Why skip nursery for self-study? If it were me, I’d go to nursery every day and never come to school—my backside would be sore from sitting, ha ha ha…” His uncle’s eyes lit up at the sight of the coin.

“But you have to promise: if anyone bullies me at school, I’ll come find you. If I get beaten up, I’ll tell Grandfather you didn’t help me and just took my pocket money!” Hong Tao withdrew his hand, dodging his uncle’s grasp.

“Of course! Even without your money I’d help you—you’re my nephew, aren’t you? If anyone asks, just say my name. You know what your uncle’s called, right?” His uncle pulled his hand back and declared his stance with righteous conviction.

“Deal. It’s yours. I’ll go to the bathroom, then listen to one more class before heading home.” Hong Tao stuffed the five-cent coin into his uncle’s jacket pocket and trotted off toward the boys’ restroom at the end of the hall.

When the second class began, Hong Tao carried the little chair back to the first-grade classroom door, leaning against the wall to catch a bit of the teacher’s voice inside, then started flipping through the book again.

“Little student, which class are you in?” The bespectacled middle-aged woman entered the building once more, about to ascend the stairs, but caught sight of Hong Tao and turned toward him, speaking quietly.

“Hello, Director Bai. I’m not a student here.” Hong Tao had noticed her as soon as she entered, and recognized her. But she was too close now, and had already seen him; to run would be inappropriate, so he steeled himself for the encounter.

“Not a student here? Which school, then? You know me?” Director Bai was surprised, pulling him aside to the stairwell so their conversation wouldn’t disturb the class.

“My uncle is in Class Five, First Year—Hu Shiming. He told me you’re the school’s academic director.” Hong Tao decided to throw his uncle under the bus—five cents was not easily earned, and one must take the hit when necessary.

“Hu Shiming! He’s your uncle? And the Mr. Hong who attends his parent-teacher meetings—how is he related to you?” Director Bai’s expression darkened as she questioned Hong Tao in detail.

“That’s my father. My name is Hong Tao.” Hong Tao understood whom Director Bai meant. His father always attended his uncle’s and aunt’s parent-teacher meetings; Grandfather never went, fearing the teacher’s reprimand and his own temper getting the better of him.

“Oh, so you’re Mr. Hong’s son. The first-year Hu Yumei is your aunt, right? Where do you go to school? Why are you here?” The dark lines on Director Bai’s brow lightened, evidently familiar with Hong Tao’s father.

“I haven’t started school yet—I’m four years old. I didn’t want to go to nursery, so I told my father I’d study at home. But some things I can’t understand, so I thought I’d come to my uncle’s school for a few lessons. I only listen to two classes, don’t talk or make noise, and leave afterward. My father knows this; he even borrowed the textbooks for me.” Hong Tao recounted everything truthfully. Lying was pointless and unnecessary, mostly because he understood teachers’ temperaments of this era. He was quite sure such honesty wouldn’t harm him—might even bring some benefit.

Teachers of that time truly deserved the title. They were utterly responsible toward their students. If you excelled, they encouraged you but didn’t indulge you. If you struggled, they were more anxious than your parents, constantly seeking ways to spark your interest in learning—calling your parents to school every few days or visiting your home after hours.

Whether inviting parents or conducting home visits, their aim was never to complain but to discuss how to help the student focus on learning, and to ensure parents promised not to punish their child at home. Even when Hong Tao was in junior high, such teachers still existed. He’d encountered one who established a communication notebook with his parents, recording his daily performance at school and requiring a parent’s signature, with replies brought back to the teacher the next day.