Chapter Thirty-Five: The Swimming Hall of the Great Compound

The intricacies of just these two inner linings could take years to master, and even then, perhaps never fully grasped. Each person's body is unique, the curvature of the inner linings for men's and women's suits differs, and selecting the right curve for the right physique is a skill honed only through years of experience. That is why bespoke suits are so expensive; at the very least, you must be measured three times. This is the tailor searching for your perfect curve—not only in the chest, but also in the shoulders, neckline, and elbows, each requiring a curved lining.

As for those suits churned out by assembly lines, their linings are made from chemical fibers and non-woven fabrics, which are vulnerable to heat, pressure, and chemical detergents, losing their shape after just a few wears. Unlike the hand-sewn linings crafted from several layers of linen by tailors, whose tight, shoemaker-like stitches ensure that, regardless of moisture, heat, or prolonged compression, a steam iron will immediately restore them to their original form. Of course, ironing itself is a skill, and Hong Tao had only learned a fraction of it.

Hong Tao couldn’t handle high-end garments like suits or cheongsams, but ordinary trousers and shirts were within his reach—enough, at least, to impress people of this era. Trousers, especially, are the easiest garments to make, considered entry-level in tailoring. Master the crotch, waist, and pocket areas, sew skillfully, avoid fabric bunching or skipped stitches during assembly, and you’ll have a fine pair of trousers.

Yet, trousers may seem simple, but making them perfectly is not easy. Given the same fabric, a seasoned tailor might have a yard to spare after making a pair, while a novice barely has enough, and a true bungler might not even manage a complete pair, especially for larger individuals. This involves pattern layout, which cannot be taught hand-in-hand—it requires constant practice, and through experience, proficiency naturally follows.

His aunt was meticulous, though not academically gifted, she was earnest and hardworking. She would practice her sewing on scraps she found around, sewing them together on the machine, then undoing and resewing until both she and Hong Tao were satisfied. Special thanks were owed to his uncle, for all the nylon threads Hong Tao and his aunt used came from him and his classmates, pilfered from the children's clothing factory—otherwise, just those threads would have cost a small fortune.

Besides Hong Tao, his grandmother herself was an excellent tailor. Until Hong Tao started elementary school, all his clothes—except for store-bought undershirts—were made by her. At that time, nearly every housewife could do basic tailoring and knit sweaters, with the truly skilled capable of crochet. Otherwise, with so many mouths to clothe, relying solely on store-bought clothes would have consumed their entire wage.

Moreover, there weren’t many clothes available for purchase, especially for children; most were homemade or adapted from older siblings’ hand-me-downs. Hong Tao’s cotton trousers were made from his aunt’s old pair—his grandmother’s handiwork.

But the craftsmanship of housewives like his grandmother tended to be rough, focused on durability rather than appearance, with little attention paid to style. This allowed Hong Tao, an admittedly mediocre tailor, to stand out. The times were changing, and people’s living standards were slowly rising; durability was no longer enough, and there was a growing pursuit of beauty, crispness, fit, and individuality in clothing. Hong Tao lacked skill and experience, but possessed something no other tailor had—a vision decades ahead of his peers. He knew, roughly, what would be fashionable in those days, and that alone was enough to put him ahead of all the others.

Yet Hong Tao had no intention of becoming a tailor; the work was too arduous. He had already spent half his previous life toiling, and didn’t plan to wrestle with money in this one. As for what he should do, he hadn’t quite figured it out, only had a general direction.

His ideal in this life was to become a parasite on society—neither suffering nor laboring, and never poor. The best way would be to win the lottery, but unfortunately, he couldn’t recall a single winning number from his previous life. How to realize this dream, he was still pondering. For now, he could only take one step at a time, but fortunately, he had many steps left to take, and could proceed slowly, watching and thinking as he pleased.

Not being able to fly kites was no trouble; Hong Tao still had things to play with. He could not play the childish games other kids played—he needed something grand, something prestigious, at least for this era. What then? Swimming! Not wild swimming in rivers or lakes—though his father might consent, Jin Yue’s father would certainly not. That would be courting disaster! Parents at the time would never let children near water unless personally supervising; returning home with a pale mark scratched on your arm would earn a beating. Hong Tao chose instead to swim at a proper pool.

Were there proper swimming pools then? Certainly. There have always been privileged classes—after all, even in the backward Qing Dynasty, the palace had railways and telephones. Beijing, crowded with high officials, had pools, even swimming halls; ordinary people just couldn’t access them, nor did they know of their existence.

According to Hong Tao’s memory, Beijing had at least three public swimming pools: one in Taoranting Park, another at Longtan Lake, and one at Qingnian Lake outside Guang’an Gate—not the one outside Andingmen. The pool he knew best was Taoranting’s; when he was in school, he even earned a deep-water certificate there—a cloth strip tied to his shorts allowed him to swim in the deep end.

But Taoranting was a bit far from his home, requiring a walk to the south of Beixinqiao to catch the 106 trolleybus, crossing the entire city from north to south. Moreover, at that pool, without an adult, children as young as Hong Tao were not permitted entry—claiming to be able to swim made no difference, no one would believe you or bother.

Apart from these outdoor pools, Hong Tao knew of a few in military compounds, but those were strictly internal, not open to outsiders. However, Hong Tao had a solution—Jin Yue’s father was a retired officer, and surely some of his comrades were still in Beijing. Find one, and the network could be extended.

Uncle Jin indeed had this ability; his courage surpassed that of most parents, caring less about the dangers of swimming and more about its benefits for children’s health. Through his efforts, a suitable pool was found, not far from home, just north of Xiaojie Road’s intersection. There stood a research institute of the Seventh Ministry of Machinery, along with the ministry’s compound, which housed a swimming hall. After demobilization, a comrade was assigned to the institute’s security department and agreed to let Hong Tao and Jin Yue swim in the compound’s pool.

The full name of the Seventh Ministry of Machinery was the Seventh Ministry of Machine-Building of the People’s Republic of China, later known as the Ministry of Aerospace, and eventually split into the Aerospace Science and Technology Corporation and the Aerospace Electromechanical Corporation.

The term "compound" in Beijing represented a unique culture. Here, it did not refer to residential courtyards, but to the dormitory areas of ministries and the military—like the compound of the Seventh Ministry. There were many such compounds, not just one for the Seventh Ministry, but also for others from the First to the Eighth Ministry, as well as the General Staff, General Logistics, General Political Department, Navy, Air Force, Army, and numerous other military sites, each with its own compound.

Children in the compounds and ordinary Beijing residents, though separated only by a wall, lived as if in two worlds. The compound was a city within a city, with its own stores and schools, largely isolated from the outside, with minimal interaction.

Overall, compound children enjoyed better living standards and greater exposure to new things, but for a long time, they struggled to integrate into the city, always separated from ordinary Beijing kids by some invisible barrier, and relations were seldom cordial. Compound children rarely played in the alleys, and alley kids rarely visited the compounds; encounters in public places were more often tense than friendly, like natural adversaries.

In his previous life, Hong Tao rarely interacted with compound children—he had met them in fights, always on opposing sides, never delving deeper. He had only glimpsed compound life in literature or film, with faint impressions. Swimming at a compound's pool seemed perfectly normal to him, and at his age, he expected no conflict; mutual hostility only arose with older children, those who understood a bit more. For toddlers, conflict was impossible—they wouldn’t even grasp the distinction between compound and alley.

The first visit to the swimming hall was led by Jin Yue’s father, bringing both children along, partly for swimming, partly to reunite with his old comrade. The swimming hall was small, from the outside resembling a factory building, the roof a simple iron frame, serving only to shield from wind and rain. The pool itself was old, with missing tiles in places, and not the standard 50 or 25 meters—less than 20 meters long, its designer unknown.

Uncle Jin’s old comrade was about his age, with no trace of the soldier left—he wore a short-sleeved white shirt of synthetic fabric and green army pants, his hair neatly parted and gleaming, unmistakably a cadre. Indeed, he was the head of the institute’s security department, surnamed Wang, whom Hong Tao and Jin Yue called Uncle Wang. Jin Yue’s father didn’t swim; he and Director Wang brought the children to the hall, then sat outside smoking and chatting, leaving the children to play on their own.