Chapter 12

Zhou Andong arrived at the brewery’s entrance, crouched down, and scribbled aimlessly in the snow, pondering new packaging for the liquor. He finally decided to use the Maotai Red Dragon VIP design—simple, uncomplicated, yet dignified.

“Zhou Andong!” A woman’s voice suddenly rang out.

The sudden voice startled Zhou Andong; the cigarette in his mouth fell to the ground. He quickly picked it up, brushed off the snow clinging to it, put it back in his mouth, then looked up.

The woman was about twenty, not tall, but with bright, clear eyes—pure and sparkling like stars. She was smiling at Zhou Andong, her eyes curved like crescent moons, as if her charm overflowed. Her smile always carried an irresistible warmth.

“Wang Ruomei!”

Zhou Andong muttered her name under his breath—she was Liu Zhiguang’s secret crush.

Previously, their relationship had been excellent. After Zhou Andong married, Wang Ruomei distanced herself from him, married within a year, and since then, their meetings were limited to nodding greetings.

Zhou Andong was well aware that Wang Ruomei had feelings for him, but he simply wasn’t attracted to her. She wasn’t unattractive—in fact, except for her short stature, she was prettier than Jiang Yuyue, and her personality was even better: bold, straightforward, and more forthright than most men.

But to Zhou Andong, this woman could be a sworn sister, a lifelong brother, even a confidante—but never a wife.

Wang Ruomei crouched down too, smiling at Zhou Andong: “What are you drawing?”

Zhou Andong rubbed his nose. He always felt something off about her—like she’d taken the wrong medicine. “Just bored. Doodling.”

“True!” Wang Ruomei’s smile never faded. “You’re a college student. I wouldn’t understand even if you explained. I was always dumb—never passed an exam in school.”

Zhou Andong said: “Actually, when I was in middle school, I wasn’t good at studies either. Once I scored 90. When I got home, my dad didn’t believe it—he insisted I’d added the zero myself and beat me up. I still feel wronged.”

“Mm-hmm!” Wang Ruomei nodded vigorously. “That’s so unfair.”

Zhou Andong took a drag, looking wounded: “I’ve always wanted to explain clearly—the zero wasn’t added later. Actually, the nine was.”

“You really should explain to your dad…” She cut herself off mid-sentence, paused, then burst out laughing, punching Zhou Andong’s shoulder. “I heard you got divorced?”

“You fucking bastards!” Not far away, Liu Zhiguang glared venomously at Zhou Andong and Wang Ruomei, who were laughing together, spat out the curse, and turned away.

“Who told you that?” Zhou Andong asked.

Wang Ruomei brushed her bangs behind her ear. “I ran into Dajun in Workshop Two—he told me.”

“Asshole!” Zhou Andong muttered. “Can’t keep his mouth shut about anything.”

Wang Ruomei fell silent, staring fixedly at Zhou Andong, making him feel uneasy.

“What are you looking at?”

Wang Ruomei’s gaze grew softer, and that strange expression suddenly made Zhou Andong feel deeply unsettled.

“If…” Wang Ruomei suddenly said, “I got divorced—would you marry me?”

“Thud!” Zhou Andong plopped down on the snow, the cigarette falling from his mouth. “Comrade Wang Ruomei, we can play, but don’t play this big—I’m scared.”

“I was joking! Look at you, scared stiff!” Wang Ruomei laughed loudly, stood up, and waved. “I’m off—I still have to cook dinner.”

Zhou Andong rubbed his face. “Damn, this woman’s gotten even wilder—scary as hell now.”

“What are you doing sitting in the snow?” Yao Jun walked over.

Zhou Andong stood up, brushing snow off his pants. “It’s a bit warm. Sitting in the snow cools me down.”

Yao Jun rolled his eyes and handed Zhou Andong a bundle of dumplings. “I went to the broadcast station looking for you. This was given to me by Aunt Liu.”

“I forgot.” Zhou Andong took the dumplings.

Yao Jun said: “How do you have money to buy dumplings? Last time I went, they were 12 yuan a jin—insane. I didn’t dare buy any.”

Zhou Andong smiled: “I don’t have money. These are from looting the rich.”

“By the way!” Yao Jun asked. “You bet with Liu Zhiguang—you’ll sell seven tons of liquor before New Year’s?”

Zhou Andong nodded. “Let’s go. Talk as we walk.”

Not far from the brewery was a clay-pot snack shop, Lao Laishui, famous for its authentic clay-pot dishes. Zhou Andong, Yao Jun, and Chen Weimin often met here to drink.

“Boss, start the sauerkraut pot—load it up with meat.”

Chen Weimin was tall and thin, his hair neatly styled, a small beard under his chin. After taking off his cotton coat, he wore his work uniform—but even the uniform looked crisp and clean.

As Zhou Andong entered, he saw Chen Weimin sitting there smoking. “Isn’t this your printing factory’s busiest season? Why are you here so early?”

Chen Weimin smiled. “Someone’s treating. Even if I lose my bonus, I’ve got to come.”

Yao Jun pulled over a stool and sat. “San’er, you’ve got the wrong idea. You know how bad things are at the brewery—this month’s wages might not even be paid. You’re asking us to treat you? Where’s your conscience?”

“Exactly!” Zhou Andong sat down, snatching Chen Weimin’s cigarette. “You make twenty yuan a month. Who else is gonna treat?”

“Shit!” Chen Weimin cursed. “You two are real bastards.”

Zhou Andong chuckled. “I’ve got a question—how much do your factory’s wall calendars cost?”

Chen Weimin said: “Thirteen pages with cover—about seven or eight yuan.”

“What about without the cover?” Zhou Andong asked.

Chen Weimin said: “A few jiao less.”

Zhou Andong clicked his tongue. “That’s way too expensive.”

Chen Weimin said: “You’ve got two or three hundred people. Every time the machine runs, it costs money. Why are you asking? Planning to print calendars?”

Zhou Andong nodded. “I’m printing calendars—to advertise our brewery’s liquor.”

Chen Weimin sneered. “Who drinks sorghum liquor these days? If you’ve got money to print calendars, just give it as bonuses.”

“You know nothing!” Zhou Andong took a drag. He briefly explained the bet and the reforms.

Chen Weimin frowned. “Printing calendars for ads sounds plausible, but no one’s ever done it before. Are you sure it’ll work? What if it fails completely? You’ll waste money, and your factory’s secretary can just walk away to another post and keep his position—you’ll become the laughingstock of the factory.”

Zhou Andong smiled. “The arrow’s already on the string—I’ve got to shoot. But even if the liquor doesn’t sell, just printing calendars can still earn us a little cash and let us have a fat New Year.”

Chen Weimin froze, then understood. He looked at Zhou Andong and Yao Jun, and smiled knowingly. “I know a private printing shop owner. His paper’s lower quality, but his printing’s just as good—and half the price.”