Chapter 42

Zhao Jianguo closed his notebook, his ear twitched, and he heard intermittent coughing drifting from the alley entrance—without lifting his head, just hearing the sluggish footsteps, the wheezing like a broken bellows, he knew it was Jia Zhangshi returning from the pigeon market. This old lady had been running around like going to market lately, every day out to save ridiculously: a steamed bun could be split into three pieces, she'd nibble the edge in the morning, chew the core at noon, and at night hold the dregs to lick for half a day, constantly muttering "Save a bite, the child gets an extra bite." Zhao Jianguo knew full well that the Siheyuan had long lost the warm spirit of mutual aid; each family holed up in their rooms, counting rice for the pot, even wishing to split their saliva into three meals, nobody could look after anyone else.

Just as dawn broke, mist still floated in the courtyard; Zhao Jianguo carried a tin bucket toward the well. Passing the deaf old lady's door, he reached into his pocket, pulled out an oil paper bundle, tore a corner to reveal dark‑brown dried sweet potato, and slipped it silently under her threshold; then he went to He Yushui's window base and gently placed another bundle on the sill—this girl had been working overtime lately, her family's grain jar was probably empty. The courtyard was unnaturally quiet, not even a rooster's crow; the other day Xu Da Mao had stewed the old hen, claiming it was to nourish the body, but everyone knew he was starving to the point his eyes turned green, and he could barely endure.

Carrying a full bucket of water back, Zhao Jianguo glanced at the Yi household—the stove was cold, no smoke at all, not even a spark visible. Though Yi Zhonghai was supposed to be too ill to get out of bed, Zhao Jianguo had seen him that evening squatting by the wall to warm himself, holding a matchbox, stuffing matches in one by one, faster than the factory's female workers, his fingertips steady without a tremor—nothing like someone bedridden.

He deliberately went around to the back window of the Yi household, squatted and pretended to fix the water pipe, tapping it with his fingers to make a "dong‑dong" sound while his eyes peered inside. The quilt was folded neatly, the pillow bore no imprint, the medicine jar on the table was polished bright; taking advantage of the silence indoors, he quietly lifted the lid—inside was spotless, not a trace of medicine residue, as if it had just been scalded with boiling water. Looking at the table corner, a stack of matchboxes was piled up like bricks, at least fifty or sixty of them.

"Old Master, your skill at gluing matchboxes is sharper than the factory girls!" Zhao Jianguo raised his voice on purpose, twisting the water pipe in his hand, "Why don't I help you take some coarse grain to the factory in exchange? That way Big Ma doesn't have to make the trip."

Suddenly two coughs came from inside, followed by the "thud‑thud" of a cane tapping the ground; Yi Zhonghai's voice sounded weak: "No need, no need, let Big Ma go, it's no trouble for you." The wariness in his words could be heard even through the window.

Zhao Jianguo patted the dust off his pants, Standing Up, turned to ask the deaf old lady who happened to be passing by: "Old Master can glue matchboxes, why can't he walk two steps on the ground?"

The old lady shook her head, voice soft: "Your Big Ma says it's a heart ailment, needs rest."

"Heart disease?" Zhao Jianguo smirked inwardly, but said nothing aloud: "How big a heart condition could make one skip meals altogether?"

Zhao Jianguo went around to the Yan household. The Yan family's eating Meal Ticket had become eerily quiet—before, you could hear the children clamoring for more Meal Ticket; now the four of them sat around the table, bowls and chopsticks touching the rims ever so gently, as if afraid to startle anyone.

Zhao Jianguo stood at the doorway, took out half a packet of dried sweet potato from his pocket and handed it over: "Old Yanbugui, give the kids something to pad their stomachs—this will stave off hunger."

Yanbugui hurriedly waved his hands, smiling: "No, no, we have a set ration; our grain is enough, we never miss a meal."

"How did that child get so thin?" Zhao Jianguo glanced at the little boy hiding behind Yanbugui—his face was waxy yellow, eye sockets sunk, lips dry and cracked.

"Kids growing tall are all like that, just shooting up," Yanbugui said stiffly, yet he pushed the dried sweet potato back, "Really, we're fine."

Zhao Jianguo didn't force it, smiling as he walked away, but he took note—the Yan family's rice bin rim had a faint line drawn in chalk; the rice just reached the line, not a grain over. The next day the line was still there, but the rice had fallen short; on the third day the line had moved down half an inch, and the rice had exactly filled the new line—neither more nor less.

He also noticed the Yan family measured rice for cooking with a small scale, not a liang off. The eldest son's bowl of Meal Ticket was half a mouthful less than a few days ago; the younger son's bowl had only a few grains of rice floating, the porridge so thin you could see a reflection. Yanbugui's wife wanted to add something for the child, but as soon as she lifted the pot, Yanbugui coughed—she jerked her hand back, not daring to breathe.

Zhao Jianguo saw clearly: this wasn't a lack of grain, but the word "calculate" carved into the Meal Ticket bowl—better to go hungry than let anyone see the family's poverty and lose face.

That evening Zhao Jianguo chatted casually with Sha Zhu in the courtyard, raising his voice on purpose: "I heard corn flour at the pigeon market dropped in price—one catty of fine grain can be exchanged for three catties of coarse flour, a real bargain; Xu Da Mao swapped a lot yesterday."

As soon as he finished, a "clang" came from inside the Yan house, like a stool tipping over; then the door creaked open a crack, Yanbugui poked his head out, eyes wide, voice trembling: "What price? Can it really be exchanged for three catties? Where did Xu Da Mao make the swap?"

"Just yesterday afternoon, at the east alley entrance," Zhao Jianguo made up on the spot, "You haven't heard?"

Yanbugui's face changed, he "bang" shut the door, and the sound of things being tossed came from inside. Zhao Jianguo's mouth twitched—this guy, hearing about grain price changes, reacts faster than if his own father called him.

At night, Zhao Jianguo sat under the lamp, opened his notebook, and wrote on a new page: "Siheyuan Survival Guide."

First line: "Yi Zhonghai—feigning illness"

1. In the evening he squats by the wall to warm himself, gluing matchboxes faster than the factory girls, full of energy.

2. The medicine jar is empty, the quilt folded neatly, no sign of illness.

3. He never goes out, only sends Big Ma on errands, never sees outsiders.

4. What's he after? To see who pities him, so he can find someone to support him in old age.

Second line: "Yanbugui—dead set on face"

1. A line drawn on the rice bin; he eats strictly to that line, not willing to have even an extra grain.

2. The children's bowls of Meal Ticket keep getting less, and the wife dares not add more.

3. He refuses help, shouting "we have a fixed amount," afraid people will call them poor.

4. At the slightest news of grain price fluctuations, he's more anxious than anyone.

5. Bottom line: he can endure his own hunger, but fears losing face.

Finished, he closed his notebook, blew out the oil lamp. Moonlight slipped through the window crack and fell on the newly opened packet of sweet potato powder on the table corner, blindingly white.

Next morning Zhao Jianguo ran into He Yushui in the courtyard and struck up casual talk: "Yesterday I chatted with Aunt Li from the residents' committee, saying they're about to investigate those feigning illness to claim subsidies—if caught, they'll not only lose eligibility but also have to return the grain tickets they already received—so the genuinely ill get no aid while the fraudsters profit."

He Yushui blinked: "Really? I hadn't heard anything about that."

"Just decided, notice should come any day now," Zhao Jianguo said convincingly, his volume just right to drift into the Yi household.

That evening Big Ma rushed out straight to the residents' committee. Zhao Jianguo watched from behind the window, knowing full well—the truly ill aren't the ones in a hurry; it's those afraid of being exposed who rush.

In the afternoon by the well, Zhao Jianguo bumped into the Yan family's little son squatting on the ground drinking water, his lips cracked and bleeding. He didn't say much, pulled out half a steamed sweet potato from his pocket and shoved it into the boy's hand: "Uncle's giving this to you—eat up."

The boy looked up at him, then nervously glanced at his own front door, clutching the sweet potato but afraid to move.

"Hold it, no one's seeing," Zhao Jianguo pressed the sweet potato into his hand, "just this once, not to be repeated."

The boy gripped the sweet potato, knuckles whitening, took a small bite, chewed twice, and a tear plopped onto the sweet potato; then he wolfed it down, his cheeks puffing like a tiny hamster's.

Just as Zhao Jianguo was about to turn, a soft "thud" sounded behind him—Yanbugui stood in the doorway, face dark as iron, his bamboo pole gripped so hard the knuckles whitened, as if he wanted to charge forward, but his feet were rooted. He just stood there, watching his son finish the sweet potato, even licking his fingers clean.

Zhao Jianguo smiled, said nothing, and turned back indoors.

Sitting down, he opened his notebook and added beneath the Yanbugui line: "Bottom line loosening: the child can endure hunger, but can't stomach taking something from others—yet he didn't stop it."

No sooner had he finished writing than hurried footsteps sounded outside. Zhao Jianguo looked up to see Yi Zhonghai leaning on a cane, stepping into the Courtyard, head tilted toward the sky as if waiting for someone.

He didn't open the window, just sat indoors watching silently. Less than two minutes later Big Ma returned, holding an oil paper bundle that shone white—unmistakably Fuqiang flour, the kind you can't buy with ration coupons. Yi Zhonghai instantly changed, shuffling back leaning on the wall, his steps unsteady, muttering to himself—a stark contrast to how he'd just stood in the courtyard.

Zhao Jianguo lowered his gaze and, in the notebook, added to the Yi Zhonghai entry: "He has money to buy Fuqiang flour; gluing matchboxes is just a pretense of poverty—his goal hasn't changed: to find someone to support him in old age."

The pen cap clicked, and the room fell silent.

Outside the courtyard, Yi Zhonghai leaned on the doorframe and glanced at the Zhao Family's window.

Zhao Jianguo didn't hide; he sat at the desk, turning his steel pen between his fingers twice, the pen cap opening and closing in a slow, steady rhythm—like beating time—his eyes showing no panic.