Chapter 19

Jia Dongxu squatted beside the coal basket at the corner of the courtyard, holding a wrinkled meal ticket in his hand, rubbing it back and forth with his fingers. The edges of the ticket were almost frayed; it was something he had scraped together over nearly a month. He stared at the two characters "five jin" on the ticket, as if looking at an unsolvable arithmetic problem.

That scene kept replaying in his mind.

His mother leaned on her cane, bent over in front of everyone in the courtyard, and said, "I was wrong." Her voice was dry and thin, like it was squeezed out of a broken bellows. Qin Huairu held the egg basket and pushed it forward, her hand shaking like she was sifting chaff. As for Zhao Jianguo? He just stood at the doorway, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the lunch box tucked under his arm, and when receiving things he even lowered his head to count the eggs—none missing, and the meal ticket was also intact.

There was no arguing, no fuss, no smugness. Yet this calm demeanor felt heavier in the heart than slamming the table and scolding his mother.

Jia Dongxu stood up, shoved the meal ticket into his pant pocket, turned and went into the house. The house was very quiet; his mother sat on the edge of the kang, facing the wall, silent. Qin Huairu was busy at the stove; when she lifted the pot lid, a blast of hot air hit her face, but she didn't wipe it away.

He didn't speak, walked straight to the space under the bed, and dragged out an old wooden box. A copper lock was on the box, its key always hanging from his neck. Opening it, inside were several old tools—a wrench, a hammer, and a socket worn shiny. He took them out one by one, finally feeling a badly rusted adjustable wrench; the handle was engraved with the character "Jia", crooked and uneven, as if someone had scratched it out with a fingernail.

His father had used this wrench shortly before he left.

He remembered that day, an old-fashioned press in the factory had broken down, and nobody could fix it. His father squatted beside the machine, observed it for half a minute, then went back, flipped through a tattered manual, and the next morning brought this wrench to the factory, fixing the job in a few quick moves. But just a couple of days later, Master Yi summoned him to the office and said, "Your father's makeshift methods may look fast, but they're not standard; if they spread, they'll affect the factory's technical standards."

Afterward, whenever that press had trouble again, it was Master Yi who brought his apprentices to fix it, and his father never touched it again.

Jia Dongxu turned the wrench over in his hands and suddenly noticed that the way its jaw opening was adjusted was completely different from what Master Yi had taught. Master Yi taught: turn clockwise to tighten, counterclockwise to loosen; but this wrench works the opposite—when tightened to the limit, you have to back off half a turn for it to catch. His father had once said, "This is called 'leaving a half notch'; with big vibrations, if it's too tight the teeth can chip."

He had asked Master Yi about this before, but Master Yi didn't even lift his eyelids: "Nonsense, nobody fixes it like that."

He put the wrench back in the box, feeling as if something had poked him inside—not painful, but he couldn't sit still.

The next morning he purposely got up earlier than usual, picked up a water bucket and went to the well platform to draw water. Just as he set the bucket down, he saw Zhao Jianguo coming out of the house, holding an aluminum lunch box, apparently also preparing to go to work.

"Jianguo." He called out, his voice a little hoarse.

Zhao Jianguo stopped, turned his head: "Brother Dong Xu, so early?"

"Huh." He scooped half a ladle of water into the bucket, speaking slowly on purpose, "Um... about yesterday's incident, you really aren't angry?"

Zhao Jianguo smiled: "He apologized, compensated for the things, and the matter is over."

"I mean..." Jia Dongxu paused, as if searching for words, "How did you know that what my mother said didn't add up?"

Zhao Jianguo leaned against the well platform, twisted open the lunch box lid, and poured in some hot water: "Actually it's not that hard. Ten-jin meal tickets were rare last year; the Steel Rolling Factory pays wages with five-jin ones; the 1958 grain coupons haven't been issued yet, so what's circulating now are all from 1957. These notices have been posted on the factory bulletin board."

Jia Dongxu nodded, then asked: "And what about the key? She said she always carries it on her person, but you said she took it out from under the mattress."

"I saw it when I fixed your home's wiring a couple of days ago." Zhao Jianguo blew on the hot water, "Old folks mixing up years is understandable, but if they can't even keep straight where they put their own things and give two different accounts, then it's not just a memory problem."

Jia Dongxu said nothing more, lowered his head to look at his reflection in the water bucket; the water surface swayed his face, as well as Zhao Jianguo's silhouette behind him.

"By the way," Zhao Jianguo suddenly asked, "Has your workshop been repairing that pressure machine lately? Have you adjusted the gear meshing clearance?"

"Adjusted." Jia Dongxu answered instinctively, "Master Yi said leaving a two-millimeter gap is enough."

Zhao Jianguo frowned: "Two millimeters? The Steel Rolling Factory's standard is 1.2 to 1.5 mm; over 1.8 requires rework. If the gap is too large, the gears can slip, and over time the shaft will wear unevenly."

Jia Dongxu was taken aback: "But Master Yi said leaving a larger gap is safer, less likely to bind."

Zhao Jianguo didn't say more, just let out a light sigh: "Then has your factory's machinery been constantly producing defective parts lately?"

Jia Dongxu's mind went "boom"—indeed, last week three batches of parts had been sent back for rework, quality inspection saying the gears were unevenly worn.

He lifted his head to ask again, but Zhao Jianguo had already walked off with his lunch box, saying before leaving: "Some things aren't necessarily right just because an old master says so; the key is to follow the factory's standards."

Those words were like a needle, lightly pricking him.

That evening, Jia Dongxu worked overtime at the factory and idly flipped through the workshop's "Equipment Maintenance Manual". When he reached the chapter on the pressure machine, it indeed read: "Gear meshing clearance: 1.2-1.5 mm". He stared at that line for a long time, his finger tracing back and forth on the paper.

As quitting time approached, Yi Zhonghai arrived.

He wore that faded work uniform, hands behind his back, strolling over to Jia Dongxu: "Little Jia, still not leaving this late?"

"The work isn't finished." Jia Dongxu closed the manual and put it back in the tool cabinet.

Yi Zhonghai glanced at it: "What are you looking at?"

"Just... flipping through casually."

Yi Zhonghai didn't respond, just patted his shoulder: "Knowing too much can only wear you out. Our factory's affairs value steadiness. If your father hadn't always loved to tinker on his own, things wouldn't have..."

He didn't finish, but the meaning was clear in his tone.

Jia Dongxu clenched his hand, his nails digging into his palm.

"Master Yi," Jia Dongxu asked quietly, "How exactly did my father die?"

Yi Zhonghai's face darkened: "What? Has someone been gossiping to you?"

"No." Jia Dongxu shook his head, "I've just been thinking about him a lot lately."

"He," Yi Zhonghai sighed, his tone suddenly softening, "had some skill, but was too stubborn. He wouldn't listen to advice, wouldn't submit to management, and when something went wrong, nobody could save him. Now you have me guiding you—work hard, and becoming a first-class worker still needs my signature. Everyone in the workshop knows I'm the one whose word counts."

He paused, then added: "If your father had listened back then, your mother wouldn't have to rely on Qin Huairu for support now."

Having said that, he turned and walked away, his leather shoes tapping a hollow echo on the concrete floor.

Jia Dongxu stood where he was, motionless.

In the middle of the night, unable to sleep, he dragged out the wooden box again. This time he examined it more carefully, and at the very bottom felt a yellowed slip of paper—his father's work ID photocopy. It read: "Jia Wu, Grade Two Worker, Steel Rolling Workshop, rated in 1961."

But all his life he had heard: "Your father was a first-class worker, doing ordinary work his whole life."

He stared at that paper, his hand slowly trembling.

The next morning he stood before the mirror to shave. The blade was a bit dull, pulling at his skin and causing pain. He stared at his reflection in the mirror—his temples had sprouted a lot of white hair without him noticing, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes had deepened. Suddenly he recalled how, as a child, his father used to stand before this very mirror, shaving his face while humming a little tune.

After that day, he never hummed again.

He put down the razor, picked up a towel to wipe his face, and whispered: "Dad, I can't keep living in his shadow."

At noon he went to the factory cafeteria for a meal; passing the workshop office, he saw Yi Zhonghai talking with the section chief. The two stood close, Yi Zhonghai's finger pointing at the drawings on the table, his face solemn. The chief nodded repeatedly and even patted his shoulder.

Jia Dongxu didn't linger, holding his lunch box as he walked away.

But just as he reached the doorway, Yi Zhonghai suddenly looked up and waved at him.

He had no choice but to walk back.

"Little Jia," Yi Zhonghai said with a friendly smile, "come to my place tonight; I've brought some new study materials, basic fitting work—take them back and have a look."

"Thank you, Master Yi."

"Don't be polite." Yi Zhonghai patted him, "You're my apprentice; if I don't help you, who will?"

While he spoke, his eyes were gentle, but Jia Dongxu felt that gaze like nails, one after another being driven into his forehead.

He nodded, turned, and walked away.

He walked to the courtyard gate, suddenly stopped, pulled out the five-jin grain ticket from his pocket, looked at it, then slipped it back.

He didn't tear it, nor did he throw it away.

But he knew that this ticket would no longer represent anything from now on.

At night, he sat under the lamp, opened that machinist's manual. The pages had yellowed, the corners curled, left by his father. He flipped page by page, and when he reached the section on Gear Set meshing, he discovered a pencil annotation beside it: "Yi said leave two tenths, I tried, many defects. Follow factory standard 1.5, stable."

The handwriting was messy, but clear.

He closed the book, lifted his head, and glanced out the window.

The courtyard was very quiet, only someone's radio was playing Peking opera, the sound intermittent.

He reached out and felt the wooden box under the bed, his fingers touching the wrench engraved with the character "Jia".

Just then, the Courtyard Gate creaked open.

He suddenly looked up.

Yi Zhonghai stood at the doorway, holding a cloth bundle, a smile on his face.