Chapter Four: The Settled Resident

At this time in Beijing, most native residents were large extended families. A native resident meant someone born and raised in Beijing, not someone who had moved in with government departments or the army following the liberation of the country. These families still preserved remnants of the Four Olds—old ideas, old customs, old habits, old culture—which hadn’t been thoroughly eradicated. For Hong Tao’s grandfather, this manifested as the patriarchal system and a pronounced male chauvinism.

Hong Tao’s grandfather was a small man, short in stature but robust in spirit. He worked at an electron tube factory near Dashanzi, just an ordinary machinist, not highly educated—he could manage to read the newspaper and little else. His ruggedness showed first in his health: every morning at four, he rose, went to the Temple of Earth Park to practice tai chi, then found a sturdy tree and rammed himself against it from head to toe, before walking east, crossing Dongzhimen, heading straight for Jiuxianqiao and Dashanzi.

The distance? Like walking from the Temple of Earth Park to Wangjing—a single trip was about nine kilometers. On the way, he’d stop for a breakfast of steamed buns and fried liver at a stall near Dongzhimen, lunch would be whatever he packed from home, and after work, he’d walk back, picking up snacks for the children. The children referred to Hong Tao and his younger uncle. As for the aunt, only twelve years older than Hong Tao, his grandfather never considered her a child, let alone bought her treats. In his eyes, only boys counted as children; girls were raised for other families, barely kept alive, and any extra bite was a waste.

If it were only the matter of not buying snacks, it might have been tolerable, but this was merely a minor detail. In Hong Tao’s grandmother’s house, the hour of his grandfather’s return from work marked the time for dinner. The old man arrived almost at the same hour every day; upon entering, he’d drink a couple of sips of hot tea, and the dishes had to be served immediately—any delay and his grandmother would be scolded, the aunt who helped with cooking would be berated, and if Hong Tao’s mother was home, all three women would be criticized. If his eldest aunt and uncle were present, he’d lump all four women together for a thorough tongue-lashing.

Yet this scolding, complaining, and berating were reserved exclusively for the women. Hong Tao’s father, uncle, older uncle, younger uncle and Hong Tao himself were never reprimanded. In the old man’s heart, men were wage earners, and women were there to wash, cook, and mind the children. If he failed at work and didn’t bring home his salary, that was his problem, but otherwise, every issue was the women’s fault and required correction.

He didn’t smoke, but had to drink two cups of white liquor at every meal—small porcelain cups known in Beijing as “eight-coin cups,” each holding less than a tael of liquor. The order of meals in his grandmother’s house was fixed: first came the appetizers, usually shredded radish or cabbage hearts; if he was in a good mood, he might bring home a bit of pork head meat or lamb offal wrapped in yellow wax paper, which he’d lay on the table at dinner—the aroma would fill the courtyard.

When the liquor was nearly finished, the main dishes would be served: cabbage stewed with potatoes, radish stewed with potatoes, stir-fried cucumbers, braised beans, perhaps a small plate of eggs. Most Beijing families ate this way: in winter, cabbage, radish, potatoes; in summer, cucumbers and beans replaced the cabbage, and every month they’d make dumplings, steamed buns, or noodles with minced meat.

Dishes were served in order, and those who ate had to line up accordingly. Only the men could share a table with his grandfather. Sons-in-law had first place, for in old Beijing custom, sons-in-law were guests and deserved respect—usually this meant Hong Tao’s father, since the eldest uncle lived far away and only visited on holidays. The young boys, Hong Tao and his younger uncle, were next; grown sons ranked last, but if any could drink with his grandfather, their seat moved forward. Unfortunately, apart from the old man, none of the men drank.

Once the men finished eating—usually waiting for his grandfather to wipe his mouth and leave the table—the women could finally eat, by which time any good dishes or bits of meat had been devoured by Hong Tao and his younger uncle. As a child, Hong Tao never considered this arrangement odd; his mind simply didn’t dwell on it. It wasn’t until he grew up and married that he realized how spiritually affluent his grandfather had been. Starting from his generation, the status of Beijing men plummeted; anyone daring to treat a wife that way would be headed straight for divorce.

After following his older uncle back to his grandmother’s house, Hong Tao found his grandfather hadn’t returned from work yet; only his grandmother and aunt were making dumplings. His uncle, having brought Hong Tao into the courtyard, had fulfilled his duty and went to wash his hands and help with the chores. In his grandmother’s house, aside from his grandfather, grandmother, and younger uncle, no one liked Hong Tao, for he was far too mischievous—he’d gone beyond the bounds, as the old Beijing saying went.

He’d hold a grudge against his aunt for not letting him tug her braids, dig a small pit at the gate, fill it with muddy water, and wait for her to return from school to trap her and dirty her shoes. But it was not his aunt who fell in, but Uncle Tai from the courtyard. If a neighborhood girl refused to play with him, he’d kick her beanbag onto the roof or break her elastic jump rope; not a day went by without trouble, and nearly every day parents brought their children to complain.

Yet Hong Tao was never punished for these misdeeds, for he had a formidable grandfather and an even more troublesome younger uncle as his backing. When parents came to complain about Hong Tao bullying their kids, his grandfather had only one reply: “What boy isn’t naughty? If he’s not, he’s a fool! If your kid gets bullied, it’s because he’s useless—just stop playing together then!”

Arguing further was futile; if pressed, the old man would roll up his sleeves and threaten a fight. Who in the alley wanted to brawl with a fifty-year-old, especially one they couldn’t beat? So they’d simply warn their own children to avoid Hong Tao, or vent their frustration by scolding or smacking their child.

His younger uncle couldn’t handle other children’s parents, but he could deal with their older siblings. Whenever Hong Tao bullied a kid and their siblings came for revenge, Hong Tao would run home, calling for his uncle, who’d burst out into the alley, half a brick in hand, ready to strike anyone who challenged him.

If Hong Tao was caught and beaten, his uncle would gather a gang of equally mischievous kids and ambush the offenders at their school or on the way home, restoring Hong Tao’s honor.

The uncle’s motivation for protecting Hong Tao was quite different from the grandfather’s. The grandfather was naturally fond of his own children and fiercely protective. The uncle’s motives were less pure—he helped Hong Tao so he could swindle money and treats from him. The grandfather frequently slipped Hong Tao a two-cent coin for candy.

Hong Tao’s parents had pleaded with his grandfather countless times: “Don’t give the child money—he’s too young!” But the old man never listened, and kept giving anyway. That money became the uncle’s operating funds, with Hong Tao barely spending a cent—he’d hand it all over to his uncle, who’d always find a way to resolve any dispute, provided Hong Tao offered a couple of coins.

Children born after the 1980s would struggle to understand what a few cents could buy. Today, most wouldn’t even stoop to pick up such coins, including Hong Tao himself. But in the 1970s, not only small children—even high schoolers, if asked whether they had five cents in their pocket, most wouldn’t.

What could you do with five cents? Plenty.

First, buy an ice pop. Beijing summers were sweltering—few families had air conditioning, refrigerators were rare, and even electric fans were uncommon. The only relief was an ice pop. When you were drenched in sweat and parched, seeing a friend with a creamy white ice pop, how could you not be tempted? He wouldn’t bite into it, but lick and suck, turning the square treat into a perfect sphere. If he smacked his lips, wouldn’t you want to kick him down and snatch the ice pop for yourself?

That creamy ice pop cost five cents—a luxury, really. Most kids went for the three-cent bean or hawthorn ice pops. If the woman selling ice pops had some melting ones, she’d give you two for five cents.

Besides ice pops, porridge in snack shops was two or three cents a bowl; beer was ten cents a glass; mooncakes ten cents each; a bath cost five cents; you could buy ten unwrapped candies, forty firecrackers, four double-bang fireworks, a stick of bubble gum, and even loose cigarettes. For six cents, you could buy two movie tickets—many theaters offered student tickets at three cents each.

The uncle, already thirteen, though not yet at the age of budding romance, knew that playing with girls was a mark of honor. So a candy, an ice pop, a small eraser—these were his tools for befriending the girls in his class, and most of the funds came from swindling Hong Tao, since the grandfather rarely gave his uncle spending money.