Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Young Purchasing Agent

Just because outsiders couldn’t get in didn’t mean there were no thieves among the locals. That's impossible—every place has its thieves, and Beijing was no exception. But these thieves, too, were caught in the vast net of the people. From the moment you stepped into an unfamiliar alley, countless watchful eyes were upon you. Someone would invariably come forward to ask which family you were seeking, their surname, what they did, and why you were there.

You’d best not grow impatient or leave out a single word. The housewives would instantly communicate your suspicious behavior with a glance, wordlessly passing it along to the alley entrance. Soon enough, someone would quietly slip over to the Neighborhood Committee. In a matter of minutes, the committee’s staff would appear before you, offering you only one choice: speak honestly and be allowed to leave, or keep silent and be taken straight to the police station, no questions asked.

If you dared underestimate these uncles and aunts, you were in for trouble. All it took was one of them raising their voice, and the entire alley would erupt into a sea of people’s war. People back then were not like those of later years, when even an old woman falling would be ignored, or a pickpocket on the bus met with silence. Back then, whether young or old, everyone carried a fundamentally upright heart. Acts of courage were a matter of pride, worthy of parading through the streets with a red flower pinned to your chest. No one feared a thief’s revenge—there could be none. You’d be surrounded with no chance of escape; if there were strong young men in the alley, you’d fare even worse—a beating was inevitable, and your final destination would still be the police station.

With such pervasive security measures in every corner of the city, ordinary Beijingers had little concept of home security. At most, they’d be cautious of their bags or pockets when heading to crowded places like department stores, buses, or train stations—places where prevention was impossible.

At home, especially in large courtyards like Grandmother Hongtao’s, doors were generally left unlocked when people stepped out for a bit. Locking your door was a statement—it implied you were guarding against your neighbors, treating them like potential thieves, a gesture deeply frowned upon. If you needed to go out and no one was home but you wouldn’t be long, the proper thing to do was to inform a neighbor and ask them to keep an eye out. Rest assured, neighbors would treat your home with more care than their own. Should a guest arrive in your absence, they’d invite them in for a smoke and some tea, keeping them company until you returned. This was what Beijingers called “face.”

Without this “face,” life in an old Beijing alley would be stifling. People would avoid you, ignore you, and toss barbed comments your way. It wasn’t just you—your entire family would feel it. A day or two might be bearable, but a lifetime of it, with such a reputation passed down, was intolerable. Such was the local custom in those alleys—a unique and distinctive ethos.

But back to the story. Hongtao took the household money, the necessary ration coupons, and the booklet, then pushed his baby carriage straight to the co-op a few hundred meters away, joining the line with the adults. What he had most was time—if need be, he could queue from six in the morning till six at night, so he always made sure to be first in line.

“Auntie, five jin of premium flour, please.” Today, Hongtao was here to buy white flour. Premium flour was whiter and finer than the standard kind, and was rationed back then—each person had a set quota per month.

“Whose child is this? Why are you shopping alone? Where are your parents?” Although Hongtao was taller than his peers, the co-op’s massive wooden counter was high; only the top of his head and his eyes were visible.

“My parents are at work, so I came to buy flour. Here’s the money and ration book!” Hongtao held them up.

“Let me see… Oh, you’re from the Sutra Repository Alley, but you’re too young, little one. Auntie can’t sell it to you. If you lose the money, your family will come looking for me. Wait until your parents come, all right?” The clerk inspected his ration book, realized whose child he was, but refused the sale for understandable reasons.

“I can count. Standard flour is eighteen cents a jin, premium is twenty-six. I’ll watch you weigh it, and all these grandpas, grandmas, uncles, and aunties are neighbors who can vouch for me! I’ve been queuing since dawn—if you won’t sell to me, I won’t leave.” Hongtao, in his still-childish voice, argued back, dragging his bamboo baby carriage in front of the counter, making it clear that if he couldn’t buy, no one else would, either.

“Come on, just sell it to him. He’s one of ours—his grandfather’s not someone to cross! Looks like he’s got his grandfather’s temper too. We’ve all got work to do, hurry it up!” People in line were getting impatient. They hadn’t queued this long just to watch an adult and a child bicker; it was no time for entertainment, so they began to clamor.

“Listen, little one, let’s be clear—if the weights are wrong, you’ll have to answer for it! Can you carry it?” The clerk gave in, overwhelmed by the chorus of voices. She wasn’t afraid, just annoyed.

“Would you please put it in my carriage for me? I’ll wheel it home. I’ll be back tomorrow—I’m buying for my grandmother’s house too.” Hongtao pointed at his bamboo carriage.

“Let your parents come next time! What’s a kid doing meddling in grown-up business?” The clerk, grumbling, placed the flour in Hongtao’s carriage and gave him a light pat on the head.

“Goodbye, Auntie! See you tomorrow!” Hongtao called as he pushed his little carriage out.

One had to treat clerks at the grain and grocery stores with utmost politeness, swallowing any anger. In those days, they were like kings; your relationship with them directly affected your quality of life. Take buying meat, for example: if you were on good terms, they’d slice you more fat and less lean; if not, it was the other way around. Fatty meat was every household’s favorite—it could be rendered at home for lard, and the crispy bits left over were perfect for dumplings or stir-fries. Nobody wanted lean meat—it was dry and tough.

“That child is really capable. How old is he, already helping out at home? But where are his parents? So young, not even sent to nursery, just running around all day?” As Hongtao walked away, the women in the queue began to gossip. One, unfamiliar with his family, spoke up for him.

“You don’t know, sister-in-law. That boy is clever—he’s not even five yet, but he brings his textbooks to school every day just to listen in. He sits in my grandson’s class. The teachers don’t mind—he comes and goes as he likes, and even asks for extra lessons in the office. I suspect someone in his family must be a principal!” another housewife chimed in. She didn’t know his family either, but had heard about him from her grandson.

“You’re both mistaken. I live just a courtyard away from his grandmother. His family lives right at the alley entrance, surname Hong. There’s no principal in the family, but his father is a teacher—teaches university students, I hear. Maybe he knows the school principal. That boy was quite a handful before, always causing trouble—even managed to injure his kindergarten teacher. But he’s been much better these past few months, helping out at home. His father is back at work now—perhaps he finally has time to discipline the boy. University teachers really are different!” Someone who knew the family better corrected the others. In those alleys, unless you lived far apart, nothing stayed secret. Once something left your door, it was no longer under your control—and bad news always traveled several times faster than good.

Hongtao paid no heed to these women’s idle gossip. He hadn’t enjoyed a good reputation before, and now, with the spirit of a man who’d spent over forty years in society transplanted into a child’s body, his skin was even thicker. Unless someone cursed him by name to his face, he could ignore it. Even if he couldn’t, there was nothing he could do—these little arms and legs were no match for the neighborhood’s sharp tongues.

With this first successful errand, Hongtao’s parents, after the initial shock and worry, felt mostly proud. Regardless of his abilities or how well he’d done, the mere thoughtfulness exceeded that of children his age. For parents, that was more than enough—beyond their expectations, even.

As Hongtao had guessed, when his parents shared his exploits with his grandparents over dinner, his grandfather immediately pulled out a five-cent coin and, ignoring his son-in-law’s protests, pressed it into Hongtao’s little hand. With a grand gesture, he declared that all future shopping for his side of the family would fall to Hongtao. For the old man, experiencing a grandchild’s filial piety ahead of time was the greatest joy, even if Hongtao lost the money, the ration coupons, or broke the bottles of soy sauce or sesame paste—it was all trivial, not worth mentioning.

And so, Hongtao gained another daily routine: pushing his little bamboo carriage through the alleys and streets. This brought an extra benefit—now, whenever he wandered onto Beixin Bridge Street, he had a legitimate reason. No matter whom he met, he could pull out his grocery book, money, or ration coupons and announce, “I’m buying groceries for my family!” There was a co-op at the entrance of Beixin Bridge Third Alley—the largest in the area. Comparing the quality of meat and rice there became a rightful and necessary task!