Chapter Thirty-Two: We, Too, Have Our Own Special Provision

“You see, this child has become notorious for his mischief—going fishing in the moat in the dead of winter? What kind of fish could you even catch? And then you cooked it and ate it? Tell me the truth! What kind of fish did you catch? Who told you to go fishing? Was it your uncle?” Hong Tao’s father was at his wit’s end. What started as a simple issue with a child at the nursery had escalated—first a fight at school, now it was about fishing and eating the catch. It all seemed too complicated for Hong Tao to come up with on his own, so the main suspect was his brother-in-law.

“It has nothing to do with my uncle. I just couldn’t finish the fish and didn’t want to waste it, so I brought it to school. No sense letting good food go to waste, right? You shouldn’t look at things with bias—whenever there’s trouble, you always blame my uncle first.” Hong Tao knew his father’s habit—he always tried to pin his son’s faults on other children, just as his grandfather fiercely protected his own. One did it in action, the other in spirit.

“You’re lecturing me now? Let’s talk about you! Who told you to go fishing? What kind of fish did you catch? And why the hell did you eat it?” Hong Tao’s father, having his own darker tendencies exposed by his son, was flushed with anger. He slammed the table and shouted.

“Uncle Hong, calm down and let him finish,” Uncle Jin quickly interjected, hugging his daughter. Jin Yue’s tears welled up again under Hong Tao’s father’s outburst.

“It was just catfish from the river. No one told me to fish—I just wanted to build myself up. I’m still growing fast, and half a pound of milk a day isn’t enough to keep up, so I’m so skinny and have to exercise every morning. If I don’t get some meat, I won’t get enough nutrition. It’s not that Dad won’t buy me meat or that Grandpa doesn’t love me, but you can’t always buy meat even if you want to. So I figured I had to find another way. That’s when I thought of those catfish. Grandpa says they feed on corpses, so you can’t eat them, but that doesn’t make sense to me. Pigs eat filth, and their meat isn’t foul. Besides, there aren’t that many corpses in the moat anymore; that was only in the old days. I’ve been eating catfish for months without any problem—and I’ve put on weight. Even Uncle’s gained some! So I think eating catfish twice a week is good for growing kids.” Hong Tao laid out his reasons for fishing and eating catfish, even sticking out his thin arm to show his father and Uncle Jin the results.

“...Ah...” Halfway through, Hong Tao’s father slumped into his seat, lit a cigarette, and fell silent, releasing nothing but a deep sigh.

“Good boy! You’ve got guts! When I was fighting in Korea, forget catfish, we even ate wolf meat. Those wolves grew fat on corpses—their eyes were red! Did it do me any harm? I’m fine! I support you eating it, but don’t go fishing yourself anymore. I’ll take care of it. Twice a week, I’ll send fish over for you, for Jin Yue, and your uncle too! Your parents and I will eat it, and so will your cousin Jin Xing and your aunt! With such good fish, why not eat it? If you hadn’t said anything, I’d never have thought of it!” Jin Yue’s father, far from being angry, slapped his thigh in apparent regret.

“Old Jin, where are you going to get them fish? Is catfish really edible?” Hong Tao’s father was still skeptical.

“I have men stationed here in Beijing, right by the moat, at that military camp. I won’t say what they do, but it’s no trouble to ask them for this. Twice a week, I’ll have them catch fish and deliver it. How they do it is their business. As for whether it’s edible—just look at your son. He’s been eating it for months and is still bouncing around! This kid’s got guts! Come on, Jin Yue, let’s go home. Tomorrow night, we’re having fish!” Uncle Jin clearly agreed with Hong Tao—kids these days, unless they’re from high-ranking families, are all malnourished.

With the fish issue now front and center, everyone forgot about the nursery fight. When they finally got to Grandma’s house, it was too late for Hong Tao’s father to raise the matter. Besides, Grandpa was far harder to deal with than Jin Yue’s father. After hearing Hong Tao’s side, Grandpa not only refused to blame his grandson or youngest son for bullying, but actually said Er Mao and Da Mao deserved a beating—it was karma! The old man’s word was final: what Hong Tao did became chivalry, and Uncle’s “abetting” was recast as brotherly heroics. Hong Tao’s father could only keep his objections to himself.

The Spring Festival of ’77 was late that year, falling near the end of February. Soon after, the willow branches by the river began to bud. One sunny afternoon, Hong Tao noticed a faint green along the riverbank—the buds had sprouted into fresh shoots.

Now, Hong Tao no longer needed to fish for catfish himself. Jin Yue’s father found an old subordinate, who caught the fish and delivered them every Wednesday and Saturday afternoon directly to Hong Tao’s home.

Hong Tao knew the delivery man—it was the very officer who had once tried to scare him by the river, only to be bullied into seeing him safely across the street. His name was Zhou, formerly a courier under Jin Yue’s father. Jin Yue’s father had held a decent rank—by the time he left the army, he was a battalion commander, which would make him a leader in a smaller city. But in Beijing, even a regiment commander was nothing special; out of uniform, you were just another face in the crowd.

So every Wednesday and Saturday evening, the aroma of fish drifted from the third floor to the first. The families of Hong Tao and Jin Yue—one upstairs, one downstairs—each showed off their culinary skills, finding new ways to prepare fish. The next day, a lunchbox was sent off to Hong Tao’s uncle.

“Sorry, little fish and shrimp—it’s not my fault. If you want to blame someone, blame that Zhou fellow!” Hong Tao knew how the fish were caught: not by hook or net, but by blasting them out of the water.

Fish caught this way all shared the same trait: their capillaries ruptured from the pressure, with severe cases bleeding internally, the so-called “seven orifices bleeding.” Others might not notice, but Hong Tao, who’d fished for decades, knew instantly. Still, he said nothing. Dead fish are dead fish—just a bit brutal. Not only did the catfish suffer, but so did all the small fish and shrimp nearby.

As for whether blasting fish in Beijing was allowed, it wasn’t really a concern. It’s not like fighting a war; only a small amount was needed, and once it hit the water, it barely made a sound—just a brief boiling swirl, then mud rising from the riverbed. After a few minutes, you could scoop up everything within a few meters of the blast, all floating to the surface in droves—a chilling sight.

If things continued like this, in less than a year, the stretch of moat from Andingmen to Xiaojie—two or three kilometers—would be dead water. The moat was much longer, of course, but fish take time to replenish, while it only takes seconds to throw in a bottle. There was no way the fish could recover that fast. Still, Hong Tao had no reason to feel guilty about environmental issues. The moat, at best a river, at worst a wide ditch, was already polluted—many households and businesses discharged their wastewater directly into it. In summer, it stank and teemed with flies and mosquitoes.

But Hong Tao already saw the end of his catfish-eating days. In the outskirts, vendors were now bringing various farm goods into the city. Just last week, his uncle visited again, bringing a basket of eggs and a big rooster for both Grandma’s and Hong Tao’s family—meant for eating, not laying.

His uncle explained that a small, informal market had sprung up in his area. City dwellers would bring cash, food coupons, cloth tickets, and other household currency to trade with farmers for food—grain, meat, even wild hares. Sadly, his uncle hadn’t brought enough money or coupons that day, so by the time he returned, the hares were gone.

Hong Tao knew that at this rate, it wouldn’t be long before this kind of informal trade spread across Beijing. Soon, as long as you had the money, eating meat every day would no longer be a dream, and he’d never have to eat greasy catfish again. After more than six months, he was sick of it; every meal felt like taking medicine. He barely dared chew for fear of the fishy taste making him gag.

Meanwhile, Jin Yue’s problem was solved. She no longer had to wait at Grandma’s for Hong Tao to finish class; now she could sit with him at the back of the classroom. This was a special arrangement by Director Bai, who, upon discovering that Hong Tao would run off after class rather than stay and review, paid a visit to their home, worried he might lose patience and neglect his studies. When she learned that Hong Tao was tutoring a neighbor girl, she was so moved that she summoned Jin Yue, tested her, and, impressed, praised Hong Tao’s selfless, peer-mentoring spirit. On the spot, she granted Jin Yue permission to audit the class as well.

This good news reached Jin Yue’s father and earned Hong Tao a new bullet—yes, a real one, complete with its tip, though the powder had been removed and the primer fired. Somehow, Jin Yue’s father had reattached the bullet. Now Hong Tao’s little box held four spent casings, one intact bullet, and a simple clip that could hold them in a row—a most impressive sight.