Chapter Forty-Five: The Great Cavern

In truth, had Hong Tao possessed a slightly better memory, he could have avoided sacrificing the profit from that bicycle and still earned the gratitude of Station Chief Liu. Regrettably, memory is not something one can command at will; so many things only come to mind after the fact, at which point one can only slap their thigh in frustration and exclaim, “Ah, why didn’t I think of this sooner!”

“Ah! What a loss, what a loss! How could I not have thought of this sooner!” At that moment, Hong Tao stood at the entrance of the alley, holding an umbrella, gazing ruefully at the enormous hole in the ground.

This summer had brought torrential rains—heaven seemed to pour water as if it cost nothing. Many old houses began to leak, including Station Chief Liu’s home. The Housing Authority had no real solution; all they could do was spread roofing felt and tarps over the roofs during dry spells, then wait for the rainy season to end before dispatching materials and workers to repair the old houses in the area.

Last year, Station Chief Liu’s family had managed, with Hong Tao’s grandfather’s help, to acquire a batch of building materials from the Temple of Earth, which they had piled on the empty lot at the alley’s entrance. However, with so few hands at home—only one son left, the eldest daughter already married—they lacked the labor to build the small kitchen they had planned. Now, with the Housing Authority sending people to repair the houses and bringing along lime and sand, which were stacked together with Liu’s materials, hope was rekindled. He sought out the project manager, slipped him a carton of cigarettes, and asked him to squeeze in the construction of the small kitchen when possible.

The rainy season was nearly over, but that afternoon disaster struck. Days of heavy rain and the weight of the building materials collapsed the ground at the entrance of the alley with a dull crash, leaving a massive pit almost ten meters wide. It wasn’t particularly deep, but the building materials belonging to the Liu family were all lost.

Why would the ground suddenly cave in? There was no subway in those days, nor situations of excessive groundwater extraction. So why was there empty space below? Indeed, in other cities this might be rare, but in Beijing, such things are not unusual. The ground beneath the area within the Second Ring Road is riddled with man-made air-raid shelters, not natural cavities.

The phrase “prepare for war, prepare for famine” is likely unfamiliar to those born after the 1980s, but from around the 1960s, it was a central tenet of national policy. How this was carried out on a national scale, ordinary people didn’t know. What they did see was the digging of air-raid shelters. Many major cities across China built them, but none more thoroughly and systematically than Beijing.

By the early 1970s, the air-raid shelters beneath Beijing had reached an astonishing scale. While I have no official figures for total length or capacity, I can put it plainly: within the Second Ring Road, wherever there was a building above ground, there was an air-raid shelter below. This is no exaggeration. Most of these shelters were interconnected—the layout underground mirrored that above. This is no invention on the author’s part; my own hapless uncle once tried to swindle five cents from me and, indulging my curiosity, led me on an “expedition” below. Four of us, armed with two flashlights, wandered for over four hours until the batteries died. When we finally found an exit and crawled out, we realized we’d walked all the way from my grandmother’s courtyard to the area opposite Beijing Railway Station.

Fortunately, the people in that courtyard were using the shelter as a storeroom and happened to have the entrance open, letting in light. Otherwise, had we starved underground, it would not have been unheard of. At that time, the city’s underbelly was a complete subterranean world, with auditoriums capable of holding thousands, rows of small rooms, vast networks of corridors and partitioned doors, and even, in some places, electricity and lighting.

Almost every courtyard, work unit, office, and school had an entrance to an air-raid shelter. Sometimes it was covered with a stone slab; sometimes, more elaborately, a brick structure with a movable door, some locked, others just left ajar.

Children in those days had few games to play, so the air-raid shelters became perfect hideouts for games of hide-and-seek and adventure—especially popular among boys. But the labyrinth was perilously complex. Some sections had collapsed or flooded; most of it was unlit. The children’s flashlights or homemade torches were barely sufficient. If they got lost, it was genuinely dangerous—they could be trapped underground, never to return.

Cave-ins like this weren’t unheard of. Years of soaking rains had weakened some areas, and the weight of heavy materials on top made collapse all but inevitable. This very spot had caved in during Hong Tao’s previous life, though then it was caused by a septic truck parked on the lot. The cause changed, but the outcome remained the same—history has its stubborn ways.

Hong Tao’s regret stemmed from his memory of this collapse. If only he had remembered and warned Station Chief Liu to move the materials in advance, it would have been a major favor—enough that he wouldn’t have had to sacrifice the profit from his bicycle. But there is no medicine for regret. It was too late, though at least this gave him a pretext to send his grandfather over with news of the bicycle—a timely comfort in their moment of loss, the good news shining brighter amid the gloom.

“Brother Hu, you’re like my own kin. I just wanted to build a small kitchen for my second son, so he could live more comfortably after his wedding. Who would have thought we’d be struck by disaster! I’ve never done anything wicked in my life—why did this have to happen to me?” Station Chief Liu gripped Hong Tao’s grandfather’s hand, not letting go for a long time. The small kitchen might be gone, but the sudden appearance of a bicycle was surely good news for his second son.

“Ah, there’s no sense talking about fate. Did those who starved in the hard years deserve it? If it’s your lot, you have to accept it; and if you escape, there’s no reason to gloat. As for the bicycle, it wasn’t me who got it for you. It was allotted through Xiao Tao’s mother’s unit, probably a clearance item, so don’t be picky,” said Hong Tao’s grandfather, now practicing the art of lying with a straight face, just as Hong Tao had taught him.

“Oh come now, how can I be choosy? It’s hard enough to get one at all! Kids these days—they won’t get married without a bicycle and a watch. In our day, a few pieces of candy sufficed!” Station Chief Liu quickly grasped his hand again, shaking it vigorously, as if to show his complete satisfaction.

“Well, times have changed. We need to keep up, or else the children will blame us. Anyway, you can come pick up the bicycle at my place when you have time. Oh, that reminds me—my grandson loves tinkering with odds and ends. I suppose your recycling center has plenty of bits and pieces. Could you sell me some from time to time? It would save me the trouble of searching all over for him.” With these words, Grandfather prepared to leave, pulling Hong Tao along.

“Sell? No need. Whatever he fancies, just take it. It’s all scrap anyway, not worth counting. Last time, the radiator was just too much, but for small stuff, why bother with money?” Only now did Station Chief Liu realize the true cost of the bicycle, but he didn’t feel shortchanged. Had he known it could be had for scrap, he would have sought out Grandfather long ago.

“No, that’s your job. I won’t take advantage of public property. Whatever it costs, I’ll pay—down to the last cent. When my grandson stops by, just keep an eye on him. If he misbehaves, feel free to discipline him!” Grandfather said magnanimously.

“Oh, spare me! If I lay a hand on him, you’d have my hide! Brother Hu, take care—I'll fetch the money right away and see you at your place this evening!” Station Chief Liu waved his hands in protest, signaling he wouldn’t dare, and fixed the time for picking up the bicycle, which was, to him, the real business at hand.

With this, Hong Tao’s short-term plans were all accomplished: he had escaped the mental torment of kindergarten, replenished his protein intake, gained a private space, found a side business for hidden profits, and secured the recycling station. He felt he had done all he could with his current abilities. Whether these efforts would pay off in the future, and to what extent, was anyone’s guess.

Now Hong Tao was truly a busy man, never idle from dawn to dusk. Besides attending school when classes weren’t suspended, tutoring Jin Yue, and teaching his aunt tailoring, he would regularly spend hours tinkering with bicycle parts in his grandfather’s shed. Whenever he had spare time, he’d head to the recycling station behind his house, play chess with Station Chief Liu, and keep an eye out for useful items, which he’d purchase at scrap prices and stash under the bed in his little room.

In those days, all recycling stations were state-run. Each residential area had one—usually just a single room facing the street, with a large counter and a set of scales. The courtyard served as the warehouse for collected scraps. If you had any old metal, rags, or paper at home, you had to bring it yourself, have it weighed, and get paid by the kilogram.