Chapter Twenty-Four: Self-Reliance

If you wanted to buy a bicycle or a watch without getting married, no one would pay you any mind except your parents, and they'd gossip behind your back, calling you a show-off. In later years, comedians would joke about how the only household appliance in the home was a flashlight, but this wasn't really a joke—at the time, many families were like that. Take Hong Tao's family, for example; his grandmother's home was a bit better, boasting a radio in addition.

No meat, no extra eggs, not even tofu to eat as much as desired—where was Hong Tao to find nourishment? The people had their ways: they raised chickens at home for eggs, not for meat, just as his grandmother did. Three big hens were kept locked in the coal shed, producing eggs, but the meat was off-limits. And Hong Tao wasn't the only child in the house. His youngest uncle, though often scolded, was truly cherished by his grandfather; Hong Tao was only doted on because he was young. If he were in his teens, his grandparents wouldn't have spoiled him so much.

Even if his grandparents gave all the eggs to Hong Tao, it wouldn't be enough. The chickens didn't lay eggs every day; relying on them for nutrition was unrealistic. Hong Tao had to find his own way. Fortunately, his mind worked well: after pondering for a few days, he came up with a clever plan, one that broke neither national law nor family rules and wasn't difficult at all—at least not for him.

Hong Tao first went to Di'an Park and found a straight bamboo stalk. He asked his youngest uncle to help him break and sneak it out—"steal" it, strictly speaking, because that bamboo grove belonged to the management office right at its entrance. But his uncle had his ways, and by nightfall, he brought home a bamboo over three meters long, adult-finger thick, yellow-green and perfectly straight.

But bamboo alone wouldn't do—it held moisture and needed to be roasted. Hong Tao couldn't manage that himself; his arms were too short to reach the stove, so his grandfather took over. An old master mechanic, his grandfather was skilled and roasted the bamboo expertly.

With the bamboo rod ready, Hong Tao needed two more things. First, strong thread, which was hard to find. Most thread at the time was cotton and snapped easily. But that didn't stump him. Next to his school were the BJ Children's Clothing Factory and the BJ Canvas Factory, both of which had sturdy synthetic thread. For a few coins, his uncle would sneak out a spool for him.

Last, he needed a fishhook made from sewing needles—but Hong Tao was picky. He didn't use ordinary sewing needles, but stole several steel shuttle needles from the canvas factory, which his grandfather then took to work to fashion into barbed hooks and quench. These were far stronger than hooks made from sewing needles.

By now, it was clear what Hong Tao intended: he planned to revive his favorite skill from later years—fishing! Hong Tao had figured it out: of chicken, duck, fish, and meat, chicken and duck were out of reach, meat was scarce, but fish held promise. Why? Because two hundred meters north of the school was the Second Ring Road, and beside it the city moat.

Were there fish in the moat? Hong Tao could swear by the lamp—there were, and big ones, swimming in schools. He'd seen them himself as a child, catching birds and dragonflies by the riverbank. He didn't know what those dark, whiskered fish were, so ignorance bred fear—he'd scurry away lest one bite him.

But as he grew, Hong Tao learned what they were: catfish! Genuine four-whiskered catfish! He never understood, even as an adult, why people were so desperate for meat but never ate the big catfish from the moat. His grandparents had passed away by then, so he couldn't ask them. When he asked his father, he got no clear answer—only that perhaps the moat was too dirty, so no one wanted to eat the fish.

"Catfish! You want to catch catfish! My dear grandson, you can't eat those, so why bother?" When Hong Tao asked his grandfather again, the old man was surprised.

"Catfish aren't edible?" Hong Tao was puzzled.

"Catfish from the city moat aren't edible. Listen, grandson, in the old days, the moat always had dead bodies—those who starved, those who died of illness, some murdered. People would toss them into the moat. Those bodies, in the end, were eaten by the catfish. Think about it—they grew up eating corpses. Would you dare eat them? Be good, tomorrow I'll ask your grandmother to make dumplings with meat for you. Don't fret about those fish." His grandfather explained, as if recounting