Chapter Twenty-Six: Life at This Moment

“Glutton, throw the fish bones into the latrine. If someone finds them, there’ll be no more fish for us. I’m warning you! Don’t go telling anyone. The two of us barely have enough as it is. If you bring someone else in, they’ll eat from your share, not mine!” My young uncle patted his round belly, thoroughly satisfied, then opened the door and stepped out of the restroom, ready to head back to the classroom and nap on his desk.

“Grandma! I don’t even get enough myself. Why would I invite anyone else? Am I an idiot? Ask your nephew where he got the fish from!” Tiger Egg’s eyes went wide at the thought of someone daring to compete with him for meat.

“Why don’t you go ask him yourself? What, you want to get your own? Think you’re capable?” My uncle was none too pleased with his friend’s nosy curiosity.

“I wouldn’t dare. Your old man would chase me down and beat me up. Besides, I’ve got nowhere to get it from. I’ll just wait for your nephew to bring more. Oh, time passes so slowly—if only tomorrow would come right now!” Tiger Egg walked toward the classroom, savoring the fishy scent still clinging to his fingers.

Hongtao didn’t keep Tiger Egg and his uncle waiting long. Two days later, he caught another catfish from the moat, cooked it at home, ate his fill, and packed the rest into a lunchbox to bring to school. As before, they devoured it together in the boys’ restroom, as quickly as possible.

As for why they always ate in the restroom, Hongtao understood perfectly. The school corridors stretched from one end to the other, wide open with no place to hide. And in those days, people had incredibly sensitive noses. Fish was pungent enough—if they didn’t hide in the restroom, the smell would soon bring every student and teacher on the floor. Compared to the joy of eating fish, putting up with the restroom’s faint odor was a small price to pay.

From that day forward, Hongtao made it a habit to take his grandmother’s bamboo baby carriage to the moat every three days or so. He’d bring back one or two fish, depending on their size—just enough for himself and his uncle. How much Tiger Egg ate was his uncle’s problem; Hongtao made sure his own share was never short.

Winter soon arrived in Beijing. Hongtao adjusted his routine a little. He kept up his early morning exercise, but no longer took cold showers—not something you could get used to in just a year. That took several years of persistence. After exercising, he’d eat breakfast at his grandmother’s, timing his arrival at school with the end of the morning calisthenics broadcast, then slip into Class Three of the first grade, taking his usual seat at the back corner. He’d attend two lessons—no matter the subject, not a minute more—then head to the teachers’ lounge on the second floor and read newspapers by himself.

After school at noon, he’d return to his grandmother’s for lunch, take a brief nap, and then set off with his little cart. By around two o’clock, he’d return victorious, deliver the fish to school, and just catch the second period. If he wasn’t fishing and the weather was nice, he’d wander around Beixin Bridge. He didn’t venture far—not for want of courage, but because he shouldn’t. Even if he avoided zealous police officers, he couldn’t risk crossing paths with the neighborhood committee aunts patrolling the streets with red armbands. In some ways, those aunts were tougher to deal with than the police.

If the weather was bad, he’d stay in his father’s study, flipping through advanced math and analytic geometry books. Although he’d long since forgotten what he learned in college in his previous life, reading the books and looking at his father’s students’ exam papers helped jog his memory, though progress was slow. But Hongtao didn’t mind. He was not yet five years old—if he could grasp one problem a day, he’d have several thousand days until he finished high school. That would be more than enough.

Still, he was careful not to leave any trace of his self-study for his father to find. He always returned the books and exam papers exactly as he’d found them. He could handle his father’s questions about other matters, but anything related to his father’s field would expose him instantly. If his father discovered that he could already solve first-year college math problems—even just one—it would hardly be a pleasant surprise; more likely, his father’s blood pressure would spike, he’d suffer insomnia, and his nerves would be shot.

Hongtao also took on a vital task for both his own family and his grandmother’s: waiting in line to buy daily necessities. In those days, so many things were rationed, even winter cabbage could not be bought freely; every family was allotted a set amount. And these supplies weren’t available every day. When they arrived, you had to queue up immediately—any delay meant you’d miss out or only get leftovers.

In double-income households like Hongtao’s, both parents worked six days a week, leaving home early and returning late, with no time for shopping. On their single day off, the man of the house would queue at the co-op, coal yard, or grain store for rationed goods, while the woman would drag out a large basin from under the bed, pile in a week’s worth of dirty laundry, and sit on a small stool to scrub it all clean with a washboard.

By the time the man returned with the goods, the woman would still be buried in laundry, and he’d have to help her finish. When the last piece was done, they’d look up to find it nearly dinnertime. Days off were more exhausting than workdays.

Conditions in Hongtao’s family weren’t bad. At least they had their own tap and drain, so they could wash clothes whenever they wanted. Most people, though, lived in crowded courtyards, with everyone sharing a single tap—usually set in the yard’s center, above a cement basin and drain.

Anyone wanting to do laundry had to carry a big basin to the tap. On weekends, the tap was the busiest spot—people queued to wash clothes, vegetables, or mops, taking turns for everything. In summer, it didn’t feel too bad; housewives gathered to wash and chat, swapping gossip and stirring up a little trouble for fun.

But winter was another story. In Hongtao’s memory, the Beijing winters of the 1970s were far colder than those of the 21st century. Not a day passed without a northwesterly wind; every few days, a sandstorm would sweep through. The wind was not just cold but fierce—you couldn’t even keep your eyes open bicycling into it, and you’d arrive home with sand in your mouth, grinding between your teeth.

So back then, women would always cover their heads with a scarf to keep out the sand—red was the most popular color.

Scarves could keep out sand, but not cold water or freezing temperatures. In winter, the tap’s base would be a solid block of ice; elderly folks with unsteady legs wouldn’t dare venture out, so the spot became an impromptu skating rink for children, who tumbled and rolled with delight.

The women doing laundry, though, suffered terribly—their hands became as red and cracked as carrots, with fissures all over, and there were no good skincare products, just a little clam oil for relief.

Hongtao’s mother had a touch of OCD. Even with their private tap and the option to wash indoors, she still had loads to do. Not just the family’s clothes—she washed bed sheets and curtains every week, too, so she didn’t get off easy either, especially since the running water was always cold. But Hongtao couldn’t do much to help her. He was too small to wring out heavy clothes or lift the big basin, and didn’t have the money to buy her a washing machine. Even if they could afford one, there was no way to get one—industrial models were impossible to find—and so they had to make do.

Still, Hongtao did his best to lighten his parents’ load, handling all the chores he could. He couldn’t wash clothes, buy coal, or haul winter cabbages, but he was up to the task of queuing for peanuts, sunflower seeds, mahjong, sesame oil, cooking oil, premium rice, fine flour, meat, eggs, and the like.

Of course, had he openly volunteered, his parents would never have allowed it. They worried he’d lose the money, ration coupons, or certificates, or drop and ruin the goods, or get bullied in line. After all, the queues were full of all sorts of people—even adults argued over a spot or a product, let alone a child.

Hongtao never told his parents outright. He knew where the family kept their money, documents, and ration coupons. There was only one five-drawer chest in the house, and all their valuables were in the middle drawer, which wasn’t even locked.

Worried about theft? Impossible. Every household was like that—just a padlock on the door, maybe another on a drawer. No one worried about burglars. Not that there weren’t any, but they were exceedingly rare.

Because at that time, the household registration system was strictly enforced—without the proper paperwork, outsiders couldn’t survive in Beijing. You could manage food with special ration tickets, but without a Beijing ration book, even the nationwide coupons wouldn’t help you find accommodation. Hotels and inns were all state-run; to stay, you needed your household register and a letter of introduction. No? Then you’d better find somewhere else to stay. Renting was out of the question—nobody would dare rent out their place. The “special period” had only just ended, and private renting was seen as a capitalist tail—no one wanted that label.

Even staying with relatives was tricky—neighbors would be suspicious. If a stranger appeared in the courtyard, the neighborhood committee aunts would know within ten minutes and come by with questions: Who are you? What’s your relationship to this family? Why are you in Beijing? How long will you stay? They’d know your daily schedule inside and out. The eyes of those housewives in the courtyards and alleys were sharper than any secret police—more effective, too!