Chapter 244: Liu Haizhong Boasts

The sky of 1960 was falsely blue, like an old porcelain shard scrubbed countless times, exuding a stingily clean sheen.

All summer long, that deep blue refused to squeeze out even a decent drop of rain, and the scorching sun baked the cracked earth.

The seedlings in the fields drooped, the yellow soil was dusty, making the old farmer feel as if his heart were being twisted by a knife—this year's harvest was clearly about to fail, and the days ahead seemed harsher than chewed sugarcane residue.

This scorching anxiety, like an invisible net, enveloped Four Nine City and seeped into every corner of the Steel Rolling Mill workers' courtyard.

Yet, where some wore clouds of gloom, others had smiles rise to their brows.

In Liu Haizhong's back courtyard, today a never‑before scent that tugged at hungry insects drifted out—fried eggs! That golden, oily aroma, in these dull times when even mice were too lazy to gnaw holes, was like a stone tossed into stagnant water, stirring ripples in the hearts of neighbors.

The reason was simple: Liu Guangqi, the eldest son of the Liu family, had finally succeeded, gaining admission to a technical secondary school!

The news was like dropping a "spiritual atomic bomb" in the courtyard. On Liu Haizhong's plump, perpetually authoritative face, every wrinkle now radiated an uncontainable pride.

He deliberately put on a half‑new Mao suit, its buttons impeccably aligned, and paced the room hands behind his back, his voice a few decibels louder than usual.

"Old Yi, Old Yan, come, come, come, sit inside! Since Guangqi succeeded today, we brothers must drink a toast!" Liu Haizhong warmly ushered the newly informed Yi Zhonghai and Yan Bu Gui into the house.

On the table sat a bright‑yellow plate of fried eggs; though modest in quantity, at this time it was a prized staple, accompanied by a small dish of peanuts and a pot of loose‑brew sweet‑potato stew.

"Old Liu, Guangqi really brings honor to our courtyard!" Yi Zhonghai sat down, his face bearing his usual gentle smile, but inside he mulled over how Liu Haizhong, who usually gave away eggs, could now afford to serve them in hard times.

Yan Bu Gui's eyes stuck to the plate of fried eggs as if magnetized, his Adam's apple bobbing involuntarily, his mental abacus clicking: at least two eggs went into this plate, right? On the black market now, they'd be worth… Ouch, Liu Haizhong is really bleeding money this time! He adjusted his glasses, trying to make his gaze less eager, and praised, "Guangqi got into the technical school; after graduation he'll have a cadre position, a leader in an office! Old Liu, you really earned this!"

Liu Haizhong felt a wave of relief, as if he could already picture his son in a four‑pocket cadre uniform, seated in a bright office.

He modestly sipped his wine, feigning humility: "Well, the child succeeded on his own; we parents just do what we can to support. In these times, getting into a technical school means becoming a leader later—hardly easy!" Yet the bragging in his words was richer than the fried eggs on the plate.

The wine lifted Liu Haizhong's spirits, made Yi Zhonghai's thoughts drift, and made Yan Bu Gui both pity the Liu family's waste and unable to resist taking extra handfuls of eggs.

Other families in the courtyard, smelling the aroma and hearing the faint chatter, felt a mix of emotions. With the same child, others could have their carp leap the dragon gate; theirs? Comparing oneself to others was infuriating.

In Xi Kua Yuan, Li Ping'an's household was suffused with a different atmosphere.

Li Pingle returned from outside, his face showing little joy or anger, but his eyes carried a barely perceptible hint of loss.

"How's it go, Pingle? Did you see Commander Zhao?" Lin Xueqing set aside the small garment she was mending and asked concernedly. Li Ping'an also turned, holding his son, to look over.

Li Pingle nodded, sat on the stool, his fingers twisting the hem: "Saw him… walked along Shichahai."

"How was he?" Li Ping'an asked.

"Commander Zhao is… quite good, sincere, and speaks plainly," Li Pingle said, choosing his words. "He said his service in the troops is fine, but… he thinks that when he gets older, he still wants to return to his hometown in Shandong. He said his roots are there, his parents are there, returning would be steady."

The room fell silent. Li Ping'an and Lin Xueqing exchanged a glance, each understanding about seventy‑eight percent of the situation.

Li Pingle lifted his head, his voice tinged with a bit of grievance and resolve: "Brother, sister‑in‑law, I'm not saying Shandong is bad. But my job is here, my home is here, I… I don't want to leave Beijing for a completely unfamiliar place."

The meaning was crystal clear. One thought of leaves returning to their roots, the other refused to go far away. This match‑making could not succeed.

Li Ping'an looked at his sister's bowed head, sighed inwardly. He walked over, patted Li Pingle's shoulder, and said in a gentle yet firm tone: "It's okay, Pingle. Our ideas differ; we can't force it. No need to feel wronged, I'll keep looking for someone better. Beijing has plenty of good young men; we don't have to rush now."

Li Pingle listened to his brother's comforting words, his nose tingling, and gave a soft "mm". Though it didn't work out, having spoken openly eased his mind.

Li Ping'an turned to Lin Xueqing: "Xueqing, you work at the hospital, you know many people; keep an eye out, see if there's anyone of similar age and good character. Ideally from Beijing, or willing to stay and develop in Beijing."

Lin Xueqing nodded gently: "Don't worry, I have a sense of it. Pingle is so good, there's no shortage of suitable matches." She took Li Pingle's hand, "Don't overthink; consider it just making another friend. If fate hasn't arrived, we can't force it."

In the back courtyard, Xu Damao's household was unusually quiet tonight.

Wang Cuihua wanted to complain a bit more, but Xu Damao had received his wages today—over forty yuan slapped on the table—so she felt a bit more confident.

"Alright, take what you can see as good and stop," Xu Damao glanced sideways at her, poured himself a glass of water, and said, "My movie‑showing is a technical job, easy! Not as tough as those swinging big hammers? Times are tight, but you won't starve! If you keep fussing, next time I go to the countryside and find something good, I'll eat it myself."

Wang Cuihua looked at the bundle of cash, then at Xu Damao's half‑serious expression, pursed her lips, and stayed silent. She knew well that Xu Damao was very slick; if truly provoked, she might not gain much advantage.

These days, noise and bickering are common, but Xu Damao's paycheck is the foundation of her standing in this city. She hummed, turned to clear the dishes, calling a temporary truce.

As night deepened, the lights in each courtyard house went out one after another.

The scent of wine from Liu Haizhong's house lingered, while satisfaction and yearning fermented in the darkness.

In Li Ping'an's house, the sibling warmth diluted the regret of the failed match‑making.

In Xu Damao's house, beneath the brief calm lay each one's calculations.

Outside, the starry sky was desolate, the earth parched. This year's harvest was like a heavy boulder pressing on every informed heart. Drought still raged, and the road ahead was destined to be uneven.

Nevertheless, life must go on, and the courtyard folk continue, each in their own way, to struggle, hope, and strive to carve out a bit of flavor in these hard times.