Chapter Twenty: The Earthquake Shelter

"Who could possibly teach me that? Who could know when your name would be cleared, or how much back pay you’d receive? Your suspicions lack logic, and you call yourself a math teacher! Rest assured, your son doesn’t need anyone else to teach him. Whatever he ought to learn, I’ll make sure he learns, and what he shouldn’t, he absolutely won’t."

Hong Tao raised a hand, swearing solemnly to the ceiling that he had no instigator behind him.

His father still felt uneasy, but over the past half month, his son had behaved remarkably well—no mischief, not a single incident. Many parents in the alley had grown unaccustomed to this, asking if Hong Tao was ill, their underlying meaning clear: Why hasn’t your boy been out bullying others lately?

"Just consider what I said. If you look at it objectively, doesn’t it make sense? Let me break it down for you. You see, Mom doesn’t let you smoke in the main room. That used to be fine; if you wanted to smoke, you’d just go to the small room. A few words here or there, we’d bear it. But your job has changed now. Your colleagues or friends ought to visit, shouldn’t they? Yet, when they come, the main room is off limits, and smoking earns you dirty looks. All your authority is gone. You’ve always told me: lead by example! Your words have reached me, but your actions fall short. If I grow up to fear my wife like you, then we’d be two cowards in the family! If I have a son, he might follow suit, and this would become a hereditary trait in the Hong family! With this small room, you can finally hold your head high—a king in your domain. No one will complain if you read late into the night. Smoke all you want, out of sight and out of mind. Guests will have a place to chat and play chess. Isn’t that better?"

Hong Tao knew there was no cleaning up this mess, so he kept spinning his tale. His real motive for coaxing his father into building a new room wasn’t for his father’s image—it was for himself. He wanted a legitimate claim to the small room and its bed.

"Your mother will never agree!" His father finally succumbed to his son’s persuasive tongue, his tone softening, now seeking an objective excuse.

"We won’t say it’s for you; we’ll say it’s for me. I’m growing up—I can’t sleep with Mom forever. Once it’s built, I’ll say it’s uncomfortable, bad feng shui, whatever, and hand it over to you as a study. Mom won’t have a word to say. At worst, you buy her a pair of leather shoes—twenty-some yuan for peace of mind, a fair trade!"

Hong Tao’s head seemed ready to sprout horns. To claim the small room, he was now teaching his father how to trick his mother.

"Will she really agree just because it’s for you? This isn’t a matter of a few yuan—it’ll cost at least two hundred with materials and labor." His father still had doubts.

"I’ll handle Mom. You just need to support me, no need to say a word. I’ll talk to Grandfather, have him speak to Mom, guaranteed success! Besides, it won’t cost that much. I haven’t calculated exactly, but it won’t even be half. Let me show you."

Hong Tao sidled up to his father, counting on his fingers as he began his budget.

"First, we don’t need to buy all the materials! There are plenty of bricks at the Temple of Earth. The earthquake shelters are abandoned, people have started hauling timber home, and bricks are everywhere. We borrow a tricycle and haul them ourselves, but we must hurry—there aren’t many as clever as your son, but plenty enough to get ahead of us. With bricks and wood in hand, and since we’re not building a big room—about thirteen square meters—the main beam is at Grandma’s, propped behind the coal shed. Rafters come straight from the earthquake shelters. If luck holds, we can salvage window and door materials there too, maybe even enough for sofas and bookshelves. The rest is trivial: some lime, sand, hemp, tar paper—costs next to nothing."

He spoke as he scribbled on a sheet of paper.

"You actually know how to build a house!" His father nearly pulled the cigarette butt into his mouth.

"Didn’t you take me to your factory last week? They’re building there—I watched for a while, and those were the materials. And we don’t need to worry about labor; Uncle works in the Housing Authority, with plenty of workers. We won’t take advantage, but bring a few more on Sunday, get up early, and finish the roof in a day. Doors, windows, furniture can come later; if not one Sunday, then two. Find an old stove, fire it up for a few days, and before winter sets in, you’ll have a study! How can a scholar be without a study? Am I right?"

Hong Tao grinned so widely his already small eyes nearly disappeared. He’d always puzzled over how his parents both had big eyes, yet his were small, even single-lidded—must be those recessive genes at work. Winning the lottery would be easier!

"Do we have to trouble your uncle?" His father hesitated again.

"Don’t worry. Asking favors won’t require you; Grandfather will handle it. Dad, pride is one thing, but business is business. We follow the rules: meals where appropriate, wages where due. You’ve always told me, people live within society and must adapt to it, not the other way round. The more often you visit relatives, the closer you become; the more favors you exchange, the deeper the bond. This isn’t about dignity, just a way to adapt to life. Grandfather’s still awake; I’ll talk to him now. Tomorrow, when Mom returns, I’ll talk to her. We can’t delay—once it gets cold, building will be impossible."

Hong Tao knew his father’s temperament: he hated asking for help, enduring hardship alone unless absolutely necessary. This trait wasn’t bad, but it didn’t fit the direction society was heading. Hong Tao planned to influence him gently—not to change him completely, just enough to be flexible.

His father probably didn’t even notice when Hong Tao left the room. Tonight, his son had startled him, leaving him unsure who was the parent and who the child. To argue would break their recent agreement: whoever’s right, the other listens. But not to argue—his son’s commotion was too much; he couldn’t let a child under five run the household. Most striking was how his son spoke about marital dynamics and social connections with such reasoned insight. He’d never taught him that, nor had the teachers at school. Where had he learned it? Could someone truly be born wise?

Hong Tao’s plan went smoothly. Grandfather was easy to persuade and delighted with the proposal. It was a rare opportunity: neither exploiting public resources nor breaking the law, while benefiting the family. He decided on the spot—not only would Hong Tao’s family build an extra earthquake shelter, but Grandfather’s family would too!

Thus, Hong Tao’s idea became Grandfather’s, transformed into the patriarch’s decision. It was unquestionable and unchangeable—the final verdict of the Supreme Court for both families.

With Grandfather’s decree, Hong Tao’s task was easier; he didn’t need to convince his mother. Once she returned, she’d receive Grandfather’s orders, and there was only one choice: strict execution. Otherwise, she’d face Grandfather’s wrath directly.

The next day, Grandfather took leave from work, called back the eldest uncle, kept the youngest uncle from school, and the three borrowed a tricycle. Led by Hong Tao, Grandfather’s loyal henchman, they marched off to the Temple of Earth Park.

Before 1976, Beijing’s alleys were neat and orderly, homes kept to their original form, and most families hadn’t built any private additions. This wasn’t due to civic virtue. First, families had no money to buy building materials. Second, the allocated houses were generally sufficient, making extra construction unnecessary.

But as time passed, families grew larger—every household had three or five children. At first, the space sufficed, but as children grew, the issue became sharper. Grown daughters definitely couldn’t share a bed with parents, nor with brothers, so rooms had to be partitioned. The houses were state-assigned, and the supply wasn’t endless. Population could grow, but housing couldn’t keep pace. Crowding became a major problem for ordinary people.

After the 1976 earthquake, the government gathered building materials and distributed them to neighborhood committees or directly to residents for constructing earthquake shelters. People were enthusiastic, understandably—survival was at stake. But after the shelters were built, they became a nuisance. Who would dismantle them? They couldn't just stand there forever, dilapidated and unsightly.

Building required manpower, and so did dismantling. When construction was needed, a single call from the neighborhood committee had everyone pitching in, hardly requiring government intervention. But when it came to demolition, no one wanted to help, and the government lacked funds, so the shelters remained—left standing for now.