Chapter Fifty-One: Embracing a New Era

Displaying one’s talents or works in front of guests had become something of a family tradition in Hong Tao’s household. Whenever his father welcomed new visitors, it was a must; his mother’s guests were treated to the same. To be ready for these social rituals, Hong Tao had memorized some Tang poetry and Song lyrics, practiced his penmanship, and dabbled in watercolor painting—all to handle the comings and goings with graceful courtesy.

“Uncle, could you talk to Grandpa and mention that your work unit has a batch of old bricks and timber? Maybe ask if he’d consider building another room for my little uncle?” After being discharged from the hospital, Hong Tao had only lain at home for two days before restlessly diving into his bicycle assembly project. His uncle had not idled away the three months of Hong Tao’s hospitalization, amassing a pile of bicycle parts. If Hong Tao didn’t get back to work soon, his uncle’s cash flow would dry up.

“Build a house? Why build another one? Xiao Ming is still so young—are we already preparing a house for him?” His uncle was completely confused by the suggestion.

“It’s not really for him. Can’t you just say there’s a little surplus of those old bricks and timber from your unit? It’d be a waste to throw them out, so if we build a slightly bigger room, I’d finally have a place to store all these things. They’ve been piling up in Grandpa’s room, and the smell isn’t great—not to mention it disturbs his rest. Don’t you agree?” Hong Tao finally revealed his true intention.

“That makes sense. Alright, I’ll come by tonight and we’ll settle it. While we’re at it, we can tear down the small kitchen and rebuild it, adding another room. That way, none of the neighbors in the courtyard can object; after all, we won’t be taking up any courtyard space, just building outside the wall. What do you think?” His uncle had caught on—Hong Tao was using the pretense of building a room for his little uncle to actually create a storeroom and workshop for himself.

“Exactly, that’s a great idea. Just make sure the labor and materials costs you quote are low enough to tempt Grandpa—so low he won’t want to miss out. If it’s not enough, I’ll cover the rest from my bicycle money.” Hong Tao thought his uncle was even more thorough than he was, having even accounted for the neighbors’ reactions.

Courtyard living was complicated at the time. It was perfectly common for a dozen or more families to share a single compound, some larger, some smaller, but always with limited space. Adding another room would inevitably affect the interests of other residents—at best, it would spoil the view or disrupt ventilation; at worst, it might affect people’s daily routines or even block their daylight.

Such changes bred conflict. If relations were good, perhaps things could be negotiated, but if there was any preexisting friction, compromise was impossible. Once disputes escalated to the revolutionary committee, building a new room became almost impossible.

Human nature played its part too—envy and jealousy are eternal. Before 1976, everyone lived in state-allocated homes and no one considered expanding. But when someone broke the pattern, a new problem arose: your family built two rooms, mine only one, or perhaps none at all.

As the ancients said: “The problem is not scarcity, but inequality.”

Once your family has more, mine less, feelings range from envy to outright resentment. If your neighbors come to resent you, building that house becomes a Sisyphean task; public opinion would weigh on the revolutionary committee’s decisions.

But why was Hong Tao so eager to build? First, he genuinely needed a private space; second, he knew that in Beijing’s future there would be a policy: houses built in the sixties and seventies would be classified as “earthquake shelters”—officially sanctioned additions, included in the property registry’s blueprints. Come demolition time, they’d count as extra rooms.

Hong Tao was well aware of future property values. That unimpressive thirty-square-meter extension could, upon demolition, be exchanged for a two- or even three-bedroom apartment, or compensation ranging from tens of thousands to a million yuan. So, while there was still time, he intended to use every patch of his grandmother’s and his own family’s land to build as much as possible. When he grew up, even if he did nothing else, a handful of demolition apartments would guarantee a comfortable middle-class life.

The Spring Festival of 1979 was unlike any previous year. On people’s tables, there were now extra peanuts, melon seeds, and assorted candies, and even meat dishes had increased a little. While Hong Tao was in the hospital, the Chinese and Japanese governments signed the Sino-Japanese Treaty of Peace and Friendship in Beijing. As early as February, the two countries had signed a long-term trade agreement, ushering in a honeymoon period.

This honeymoon lasted five or six years. During that time, a flood of Japanese investment and loans entered China. In Japan, the “Official Development Assistance” program undertook most of the low- and no-interest long-term loans to China. Over the twenty years following 1979, it provided about 3.2 trillion yen (roughly 30 billion US dollars) to China.

These funds gave tremendous impetus to China’s reform and opening. Throughout the eighties and nineties, virtually every major project bore the mark of yen loans. If China was a giant ship whose boilers had yet to heat, the yen loans were the accelerant that set the boilers ablaze and gave the ship the power to sail.

What was curious, though, was that just twenty years prior, China and Japan had been enemies. Now, suddenly, both sides had turned a complete 180 degrees, with barely a ripple among the public or officials. There was little opposition in Japan, and none in China. It was as if, overnight, both nations had forgiven each other.

At the time, Japan’s Yomiuri Shimbun wrote, “We do not expect gratitude from the Chinese; we only hope they remember.” China’s state media responded with headlines about Sino-Japanese friendship. Neither side would say whether these interest-free loans were war reparations; neither confirmed nor denied it. Ordinary Chinese didn’t care; what mattered most was buying Japanese appliances. If your home didn’t have a Japanese TV or refrigerator, people assumed you were struggling.

This trend persisted well into the twenty-first century. Who born after the 1990s hadn’t read Japanese manga, watched anime, played Japanese video games, or followed Japanese celebrities? And, of course, there was something even more universal: regardless of generation, who hadn’t watched a Japanese romance film?

By then, however, Chinese feelings had grown more complicated, especially among the youth. They bought and used Japanese products, yet cursed Japan at the same time. Hong Tao never understood it in his past life—if you want revenge for your ancestors, don’t buy or use Japanese goods; only then do you have the right to criticize. If you want to enjoy them, then stay silent. You can’t have your cake and eat it too—enjoying the meal while berating the cook.

Whether or not Hong Tao could make sense of it, at the end of the year, the Third Plenary Session of the Eleventh Central Committee was convened. This meeting ended the two years of hesitant progress since the fall of the Gang of Four, and established the guiding principles of “emancipating the mind, seeking truth from facts, and uniting to look forward.” It signaled that China’s doors would gradually open.

For ordinary Chinese, a new era was about to begin. For Hong Tao personally, his era was also about to start.

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