Chapter Seventeen: A Father's Troubles

"Alright, understood. I'll finish writing out the characters I learned today and show you afterward." Hong Tao knew perfectly well why his father hid his face behind the newspaper, and he was intimately familiar with the words he spoke. In his later life, whenever he did something that made his father proud or was forced into a deep conversation after some mischief, he would always hear this phrase. Yet he never truly understood the sentiment or intention behind his father's words, nor did he take them to heart. Only after he turned thirty and started his own family did he finally begin to grasp their meaning.

His father had lived an unsatisfactory life. Outsiders might have seen him as relatively fortunate: after the fall of the Gang of Four, he regained his job and returned to teaching at the university, eventually becoming a professor. During his time spent in the factory for labor reform, he befriended many others from various branches of the education system, forming genuine bonds forged in adversity. After their rehabilitation, many of these acquaintances became influential figures in their respective institutions; the highest climbed all the way to ministerial rank, and in later years they offered the Hong family considerable support.

But his own father was never truly happy. He came from a poor background, virtually unloved by his maternal family, relying solely on his own efforts to get into university and remain there as a teacher. But this only made him a "filthy intellectual," forced to labor in factories, subjected to public criticism by workers, receiving neither respect nor esteem. In those days, people never mentioned intellectuals without appending that derogatory adjective. Even his marriage prospects suffered; no girl would marry him, and he was forced to live with his wife's family.

This arrangement, seen through modern eyes—especially in the cities—was hardly noteworthy, and few would even mention it. But back in the seventies, even in a city like Beijing, it was a blow to any man's pride. Although his maternal family never brought it up, the knot remained in his father's heart and was never untied.

His father was also ambitious, proud, and cared deeply about appearances. His youth had been squandered, and when he finally had time and opportunity, he found himself locked in a struggle with Hong Tao, leaving him with little leisure to pursue his own dreams. Hong Tao never knew what those dreams were, but everyone harbors their own aspirations, and his father was no exception.

So his father pinned all his hopes on Hong Tao, wishing his son could live better, be more capable, and earn greater respect than he ever had. To put it bluntly, it's a familiar story: his father suffered too many blows to his self-esteem in his youth, lost too much dignity, and now sought desperately to reclaim it—hoping his son would help him restore what he could not regain on his own. And how much would be enough? Hong Tao suspected that nothing would ever suffice.

"Ah... Since I have another chance, let me help my father reclaim a little more." In his previous life, Hong Tao hadn't managed to win much respect for his father. His mischievous streak lasted through high school, and he only scraped into his father's university thanks to family connections, barely earning a diploma. As for his earnings after graduation, those meant nothing to his father. Now, granted a second life, he had no grand ambitions—never once did he dream of becoming a scientist. Such fantasies belonged to children under ten; beyond that age, unless you're a genius or a simpleton, they're best abandoned.

After the conversation between Director Bai and Hong Tao's father, his father finally released his grip and let Hong Tao go his own way. In truth, even without Bai's visit, Hong Tao could have achieved this, though it would have taken a little longer. His daily progress and assignments were real and measurable, and his father, being a teacher, could easily assess whether his son was truly studying each day.

But freedom was not entirely easy. Hong Tao forced himself to rise at six every morning and exercise at the school playground. This was a special arrangement approved by Director Bai. Neither his father nor Bai thought it wise for a four-year-old to train in the desolate Ditan Park before dawn, but the alley offered no suitable venue, so the school, separated from Hong Tao's home by only a wall, became his gym.

Every morning, the gatekeeper would unlock the small door in the iron gate, letting Hong Tao enter the playground to run, do push-ups, and use the horizontal and parallel bars—the only equipment available.

After exercising, Hong Tao would wash off with cold water in the school's ground-floor restroom, then head to his grandmother's for breakfast. Director Bai and his father disapproved of his cold showers, and his mother was firmly against it, fearing the cold would make him ill. Catching a cold was trivial, but pneumonia would be serious.

Only his grandfather supported the cold showers, praising his grandson's toughness. According to him, he had always drawn water from the well and bathed, summer and winter alike, which was why he was so robust. Even now, rarely catching cold and never suffering a fever, despite giving up cold baths.

With his grandfather's backing, Hong Tao need not worry about his parents or Director Bai—his grandfather could handle them all. There was no point arguing with him; he never argued by reason. If you could best him, he'd accept defeat, but otherwise, words were useless.

After breakfast, Hong Tao studied until lunchtime. Originally, Director Bai had wanted him to audit at least four lessons each day, but Hong Tao resisted with his argument about learning interest. On this, his father gave him limited support, partially agreeing that the most important thing for a child was to cultivate curiosity and passion for learning, not to force-feed knowledge. With interest and enthusiasm, learning would naturally follow; without them, pressing a child's head to study would be futile.

His father took this theory further, believing children should also explore and observe, broadening their horizons. Only by encountering more things and developing curiosity could their minds grow sharp and agile. So, he began using Sundays to take Hong Tao out, visiting parks, malls, universities, and even his workplace, the Shougang steel factory.

Wherever they went, his father encouraged Hong Tao to ask questions about anything. If he could answer, he did so immediately; if not, he would seek out others and return with an answer a few days later.

Hong Tao had no objection to this method of stimulating intelligence—it was entirely sensible. Broad experience leads to wisdom, while rote memorization is neither true knowledge nor intelligence. Yet it was uncomfortable for him. He was not less experienced than his father; in some areas he surpassed him, except for topics like advanced mathematics. But he had to feign innocence and ask all sorts of questions. One couldn't simply tell his father, "I understand more than you do."

Questions like "Why are wheels round? Why do cars run? How does steel pour from the furnace?"—asked repeatedly—made Hong Tao feel his intellect wasn't improving, but rather deteriorating. His face ached from the constant forced smiles, and Sundays became the days he most despised. Yet, to satisfy his father's sense of achievement, he endured it, never shirking, and even had to show eager anticipation on Saturday nights.

"Being an underground agent is truly not easy!" Hong Tao felt he had gained something at least: he finally understood how heroic spies embedded in enemy ranks must be. He was merely deceiving his own father, with little risk of exposure or psychological stress, yet found it so exhausting. Those agents and spies, constantly surrounded by strangers and adversaries, must possess extraordinary fortitude. Hong Tao admitted he could never survive in such a profession—within half a year, he'd be driven mad, ruined before the enemy even caught him.

With his father's support, Hong Tao only needed to audit two classes each morning, choosing between math and language as he pleased. No one interfered. Director Bai had tried to persuade him to follow a class and sit at the back, but Hong Tao refused, fearing it was a covert strategy to make him a formal student. He guarded this boundary fiercely; any attempt to cross it provoked intense resistance.

After auditing his two classes, Hong Tao would spend time in Director Bai's office, reading newspapers, reviewing lessons, and occasionally completing first-grade assignments. On this point, his opposition was useless; Director Bai, his father, and his grandfather all voted in favor, leaving him isolated.

In fact, the strongest opposition came not from Hong Tao, but from his young uncle. This uncle was no model student, regularly punished by teachers. If he was sent out of the classroom, it was no big deal, but if Director Bai caught him, he had to stand outside the office of the education department. Meanwhile, his nephew sat comfortably in the director's chair reading newspapers and sipping water, while the uncle stood outside in disgrace. Teachers and students alike found it hilarious. Many teachers would pass by and tease, "Uncle, you're standing at the door again?"