Chapter Forty-Three: Squandering

Is fifty yuan a lot? In the late 1970s, it certainly was! If you had fifty yuan in your pocket, you could start from the southern part of the city, walk north along Chongwenmen Avenue, stop at every restaurant along the way, eat your fill all the way to Dongdan Avenue, Dongsi Avenue, Beixin Bridge Avenue, and finally reach the northern city moat—still, you wouldn’t spend it all. With fifty yuan, you could practically sweep through Beijing’s culinary scene. Now, with fifty thousand yuan in your pocket, would you dare say the same?

Back then, draft beer cost forty cents a liter, bottled beer fifty-three cents, with a fifteen-cent refund for returning the bottle. Meat dumplings were a yuan and forty cents per jin, vegetarian dishes just a few cents a plate, meat dishes two yuan each. A whole roasted duck at Quanjude was eight yuan, a large plate of lamb hotpot at Donglaishun two yuan, Moscow Restaurant’s milk tea thirty cents a cup, apple with duck meat just over three yuan a serving. Even the most prestigious Beijing Hotel, if it allowed Chinese patrons, wouldn’t have prices much higher.

Besides dining, you could also experience Beijing’s nightlife of that era! Although the special period had only just ended—or hadn’t fully ended—nothing could dampen the relentless secretion of hormones in young men and women. There were no late-night movies, no nightclubs, no budget hotels, but that didn’t stop them from finding ways to gather together.

For ordinary folks, the most upscale spot was the second floor of the Xidan Food Market, which was equivalent to a future fusion of a Häagen-Dazs ice cream shop and Starbucks. Not only did it offer three- and five-cent popsicles, but also twelve-cent premium ice cream, fifteen-cent Beibingyang soda, and a fruit salad with cream for one yuan fifty.

That fruit salad came served in a tall goblet, and eating it meant sitting by the window, savoring slowly, from noon till evening, to get your money’s worth. You weren’t really eating fruit, nor the cream and yogurt; you were announcing to the girls wandering outside that you were a man of means! Any girl with ideas should act quickly!

Every era has its avant-garde thinkers, and the seventies were no different. From junior high onward, there were boys and girls who didn’t follow the rules. Boys had it easier, at most labeled as mischievous or unwilling to study; for girls, it was much more complicated. If you wore something a bit tight, smiled at boys a little more, or applied lipstick too often, you’d be seen as having problematic thoughts. If you had a bad family background and were especially pretty, you’d be considered to have questionable morals.

A moral problem in the seventies and eighties was a grave accusation—it doomed your life. Proper workplaces conducted political vetting: they’d go to your neighborhood, ask the revolutionary committee about your past and present, consult neighbors, and finally visit your home. Anyone labeled as having a moral problem, regardless of gender, couldn’t hope for a good job; if a small factory on your street hired you, it was a lucky break.

Yet, no matter how strict social norms were, some still tested the boundaries. They were usually girls aged seventeen, eighteen, or in their twenties, dressing in tight synthetic short-sleeved shirts in summer, keeping as slender as possible, wearing green army pants, transparent plastic sandals or black lace-up cloth shoes, and short sheer socks. The modest ones didn’t wear makeup; the bold ones wore lipstick and flashed restless eyes, frequenting the Xidan Food Market entrance, cinema vicinities, and parks.

If you met such a girl and lacked special skills, it was best not to approach, for each had one or several brothers—not blood relatives, but sworn ones. Once you got involved, regardless of spending money, their appetites weren’t big—a premium ice cream would keep a conversation going for half a day—but trouble came from those brothers, who’d quickly confront you, claiming you’d encroached on their girl. You’d either have to back down and pay up, or fight. Whomever won, the girl would go with him. It wasn’t a solo fight—it was a brawl!

This game had several names in Beijing: "flirting with flowers," "teasing honey," but the most widespread term was "snatching girls." Even if you won, you didn’t gain much. You couldn’t take her home, nor were there hotels for trysts—at best, you’d cozy up in a cinema or park. To have a wild rendezvous required great courage; the safest place was a construction site, crawling into a two-meter-high concrete pipe—though there were too many mosquitoes.

As soon as dusk fell, the workers’ patrol team would hit the streets: a dozen burly men on bicycles, wielding flashlights, wearing red armbands, heading for the darkest spots. Forget wild encounters—even honest lovers caught by them would have to explain themselves at the police station before being released; otherwise, even minor mischief could lead to detention or worse—imprisonment. There was still a crime called "hooliganism," which covered nearly all sorts of misconduct. If your actions didn’t fit other charges, this one would fit perfectly.

Now, Hong Tao was something of a rich man, with over two yuan in his pocket—he couldn’t very well not indulge a little. The Xidan district had been off-limits to him in junior high; now, reliving that history, dangerous or not, he had to see it for himself.

Truthfully, there wasn’t much danger. The local toughs and bad kids were quite different from later street gangs and organized crime. They had no real goals—not to make money or extort protection fees; their hormones just drove them to form gangs and pick fights, simply because they were bored. They never bullied children or the elderly—that would earn contempt from peers. The ones who hung around junior high gates, extorting kids, were the lowest rung, called "rat scum" in Beijing slang, despised and only able to bully children. These rat scum didn’t dare enter Xidan’s second floor or Moscow Restaurant, where the highest concentration of Beijing’s toughs and playboys gathered; anyone they met there would kick or curse them, making it impossible to fit in.

Now, Hong Tao and Jin Yue sat by the window on the second floor. Hong Tao nibbled on a premium ice cream, while Jin Yue knelt on the seat, her face nearly buried in the goblet of fruit salad. Despite the spoon, she managed to smear her face with cream. Hong Tao had intended to bring his little uncle along for a treat, but remembering the notorious toughs here, he held back—his little uncle was old enough to be beaten, and these toughs needed no reason to fight. If you looked at one, he’d say you were provoking him; if you didn’t, he’d say you looked down on him—no matter what, he’d be dissatisfied and want to fight!

Of course, Hong Tao’s age exempted him from this; he could look around as he pleased, and at most those seventeen- or eighteen-year-olds would glare at him to scare him. If he cried, they’d be even happier.

But not bringing his little uncle had its downsides—he couldn’t buy beer. The sales clerk wouldn’t sell beer to a kid, so Hong Tao had to settle for a popsicle and watch others gulp down beer.

“Hey, whose kid is this? Quite the big spender! Come, move in a bit, make room for your elder sister!” Hong Tao was leaning against the window, eyeing the big girl posing under the streetlamp outside. Though she was a bit dark-skinned, her chest was impressive, stretching her white shirt taut.

“Ah! Isn’t there an empty table over there?” Hearing someone speak to him, Hong Tao reluctantly turned his head. Two girls, dressed in the classic style, stood behind him holding popsicles.

“Hey, you little brat, you’ve got quite the attitude. Who brought you here, where are your parents?” One girl with short hair reached out, lifted Hong Tao off the stool, and placed him at the other end of the table, away from the window, then took his former seat. The other girl didn’t touch Jin Yue but sat beside her companion.

“Tell me, sisters, do you hang out here often? Is there something going on today? Are those tables reserved?” Hong Tao looked around; almost every table on the second floor was full, mostly by young people, except the two furthest inside.

“Little brat, who are you calling ‘sisters’? Do you believe I’ll smack you?” The short-haired girl glanced at Hong Tao, not answering his question.

“Where are your parents? Taking kids out and not watching them—go find your family!” The plump girl seemed kinder, reminding Hong Tao to take his sister and leave quickly.

“Let me buy you a beer. Suppose I came with you—if there’s trouble later, just look out for me and my sister, deal? I just want to watch the excitement.” Hong Tao caught from her words that something was indeed happening tonight; he couldn’t leave now, not with a rare chance to see such a lively scene. But he needed some backup, not for himself, but to protect Jin Yue.

“Er Ying, why waste words with this brat? Tell him to leave—beer, ha! Have you even grown all your hair yet?” The short-haired girl kept glancing outside, as if waiting for someone.

“I’m probably not fully grown yet, but I can still try beer. Well? Deal or not? One beer, two cold dishes—I’ll pay!” Hong Tao pulled a fifty-cent and a twenty-cent note from his pocket and waved them at the plump girl.

“You’re offering it yourself! I’m not scamming you—Sister Xue, let him go buy it, he’s quite a rich kid. Is this your sister?” The short-haired girl, seeing a chance for a freebie, nodded and softened her tone toward Hong Tao.

“These two kids are amusing—let’s order a liter!” The plump girl’s eyes widened at Hong Tao’s cash; as any plump person, she couldn’t resist such temptation.