Chapter 46

The door of the factory's technical section had just opened a crack, and Dong Xu heard someone inside calling his name. He didn't dare go in, standing at the hallway draft, his ears perked up like a newly installed antenna. After that person finished saying the words "passed the third-level worker examination", he lowered his head to look at his own pair of oil-stained work shoes, where the toe had split open, revealing half a gray sock.

He neither laughed nor jumped, turned and headed for the workshop. On the way he ran into Section Chief Zhang Weiguo, who patted his shoulder: "Little Jia, you scored full marks in the practical, passed the theory too, approved."

Dong Xu grunted softly, voice low: "Thank you, Section Chief Zhang."

Zhang Weiguo glanced at him: "You're the kind who puts on a sour face when good fortune comes, like someone owes you two jin of cornmeal."

Dong Xu twitched his mouth but still didn't laugh.

Zhao Jianguo was squatting at the Courtyard Gate mending shoes, holding an awl, watching Dong Xu return from outside, his gait completely different—back straight, steps steady, even the canvas bag on his shoulder swung with vigor. He looked up and asked: "How'd it go?"

Dong Xu stood still, said nothing, pulled out a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it over.

Zhao Jianguo took it and saw it was a personnel department approval from the factory, the red seal stamped neatly, reading: "Dong Xu, promoted to third-level worker, effective this month with a wage of forty-two yuan and five jiao."

He folded the paper neatly and slipped it back into Dong Xu's hand: "Keep it safe, don't let anyone snatch it."

Only then did Dong Xu laugh: "Snatch? Who dares to mess with my stuff now?"

Zhao Jianguo grinned: "All right, your backbone's stiff now."

The news spread like boiling porridge in a pot, bubbling up with a gurgle.

Qin Huairu was wiping her second son's face when she heard Zhao Jianguo mention as he came in the door, "Dong Xu got promoted to third-level worker." Her hand shook, the towel fell into the basin. She stared for two seconds, then sprang up and rushed into the inner room, pulling out a tin box. Opening it, she saw several wrinkled grain coupons and a few small coins. She counted them over and over, finally gritted her teeth, pocketed the money, and headed out.

She bought half a jin of cornmeal and a packet of brown sugar.

Back home she lit the fire to boil sugar water; lifting the lid, the sweet scent drifted out through the Door Gap. Next door, Sha Zhu passed by, sniffed, and said: "Hey, the Jia family's striking it rich?"

Qin Huairu laughed across the windowsill: "Dong Xu got promoted to third-level worker; let the kids have some sugar water to soothe their throats."

Sha Zhu gave a thumbs-up: "Good fellow, third-level worker! Now we can finally eat our fill."

Each of the two children held a small bowl, reluctant to drink. The second son asked: "Mom, how many days will this last?"

Qin Huairu rubbed his head: "One bowl a day, for three days."

The eldest son smacked his lips: "And what about the fourth day?"

She laughed: "On the fourth day, Dad will earn more money, so we'll drink for two days."

As Zhao Jianguo passed by, Qin Huairu grabbed his sleeve, voice low: "Jianguo, this life… at last we can catch a breath."

Zhao Jianguo nodded: "Earned by ability, upright and proper, no need to fear gossip."

Her eyes reddened, then she laughed: "Yeah, no longer afraid."

Yi Zhonghai heard about this at the well.

He was leaning on his crutch drawing water when the deaf old lady passed by, muttering: "The Jia family's boiling sugar water, it smells so good it makes your heart sour."

Yi Zhonghai's hand shook, the water bucket tipped, spilling half its contents on the ground. He cursed: "Blind old thing, get out of the way!"

The old lady didn't hear, she shuffled away.

He picked up the empty bucket and went back inside, sitting on the kang in a daze. Third-level worker? Forty-two yuan five? He calculated his own wages—seventh-level worker seventy-two yuan eight, after twenty years he hadn't even made it to eighth level.

"If I had really taught him back then…" he muttered, and before he finished speaking he snorted coldly: "Teach? What did I teach him? Just how to switch masters, lucky I still kept a trick up my sleeve."

The more he thought, the more upset he became.

That Dong Xu kid used to avoid him like a mouse sees a cat; now he doesn't even say hello.

Even more infuriating is Zhao Jianguo—a vocational school graduate with no real talent, always spouting mystic nonsense, yet he managed to back Dong Xu, and even Director Wang takes his side.

"A third-level worker and a vocational school graduate, riding on my head?" He slapped the edge of the kang, his crutch thudding to the ground.

The next morning he pulled out an old cloth bag containing half a packet of roasted beans—in fact he'd scrounged them yesterday from an old woman, claiming they were "home‑roasted to give my apprentice strength."

He leaned on his crutch and sauntered over to the Jia household, a smile spread across his face.

"Dong Xu!" he shouted as soon as he entered, "It's not easy to become a third-level worker; your master is happy for you!"

Dong Xu was sitting on a small stool wiping his tools; he glanced up at him, didn't rise, just pointed to the neighboring stool: "Sit."

Yi Zhonghai sat down and pushed the beans forward: "Come, have a taste, boost your vitality."

Dong Xu didn't move, only saying: "I only follow Master Zhao's arrangements now."

Yi Zhonghai's smile froze: "Master Zhao? Which Master Zhao?"

"Zhao Erniu." Dong Xu kept his head down, continuing to wipe the wrench, "He's my master."

Yi Zhonghai gave a dry chuckle: "Oh well, speaking of which, back then I taught you your first lesson…"

"That lesson wasn't finished." Dong Xu cut him off, lifting his gaze to meet his: "You taught halfway, then said 'the rest depends on your comprehension,' and I never asked you again."

Yi Zhonghai's face flushed: "I was… testing you!"

"Later Master Zhao Erniu filled in the gaps." Dong Xu put the wrench back in the toolbox: "From start to finish, every move and form, he taught it all."

The room fell silent for a few seconds.

Yi Zhonghai's smile faded; he rose to his feet, planting his crutch: "Well, well! Your wings are hardened now—you don't acknowledge your master?"

Dong Xu stood up, half a head taller: "I don't deny him. It's because you weren't serious back then—I refuse to acknowledge a false master."

Yi Zhonghai trembled with anger, pointing at Dong Xu: "You… you…"

Before he could finish, he turned and strode away, the roasted beans spilling from his cloth bag across the floor; he didn't even have the face to turn back and pick them up.

He got home and smashed his teacup.

"False master? My Yi Zhonghai's disciple now calls me fake?" he cursed, pulling an old photo from the drawer—a shot of him and his apprentice together, him in the center, Dong Xu at the side, smiling stiffly.

He stared at the photo for a while, then tore it in half, tore it again and again, and finally threw the pieces into the stove.

The flame licked it, scorching the edges of the photo, his face lit up then dimmed in the glow.

At dusk he sat on a stone stool in the courtyard, seeing Dong Xu and Zhao Jianguo squatting by the vegetable plot in the corner, holding paper and pen, unsure what they were sketching.

Qin Huairu came out with the pot, ladling a bowl of sugar water for each of them.

Zhao Jianguo took a sip and said: "This drawing needs revising—the plowing depth isn't enough, the roots won't take hold."

Dong Xu nodded: "Tomorrow I'll weld a deep‑turning rake from scrap iron."

Zhao Jianguo laughed: "Fine, you weld, I'll teach."

Yi Zhonghai watched from afar, chewing on a dry bun, with no flavor at all.

He heard Sha Zhu by the well saying to someone, "Jia Dongxu has really made it this time—third-class worker, a technical backbone in the factory, and rumor has it he's going to take on an apprentice."

Another chimed in, "They've got real skill, unlike some people who just sit on the toilet and don't shit."

Yi Zhonghai knew the remark was aimed at him, and the bun in his hand clenched into a ball.

At night, unable to sleep, he got up and rummaged through the toolbox, looking for something to do.

At the very bottom he felt out an old gear set—the one Jia Dongxu had removed when he first repaired a machine on his own, which he had secretly kept, saying it was "a keepsake."

He pinched the gear set and sneered, "A keepsake? Now they don't even glance at you."

He slapped the gear set onto the table, rose, and walked to the window.

The Zhao family's lights were still on, shadows moving inside. He narrowed his eyes and saw Zhao Jianguo sketching with a pencil on paper while Jia Dongxu took notes, their heads close together like a master and disciple.

"Master and disciple?" he gritted his teeth, "One a vocational school graduate, the other a third-class worker?"

He turned, pulled a small notebook from the cabinet, opened it, and inside were densely packed notes on the factory's work-point standards for each position, promotion procedures, and evaluation criteria.

This was his "Promotion Secret Manual" he'd compiled over a dozen years, never shown to anyone.

He flipped page by page, his finger tracing the "Third-Class Worker Evaluation Items" column, then suddenly stopped.

"Technical innovation bonus points…" he read, his eyes shifting.

He recalled the recent factory improvement to the seam-locking machine, heard that Jia Dongxu had proposed the plan, and it had been reported as a model by the subdistrict office.

"How did this credit end up on his head?" he muttered, "I thought of that scheme eight hundred years ago!"

The more he thought, the angrier he got, and he flung the notebook onto the table.

"If I had really taught him back then, there wouldn't be any trouble with Zhao Erniu and his father."

"Now look—my apprentice's flown the coop, my reputation's gone, and even someone threw fried beans in my face!"

He stared at the wall-hanging calendar, where a red pen circled next month's evaluation notice—the factory would hold a technical contest, with the winner directly recommended for fourth-class worker.

He stared at that circle, his fingers slowly clenching.

The next morning, he went to the factory with his cane, skipping the workshop and heading straight to the Technical Section.

Zhang Weiguo was looking at documents, glanced up and saw him: "Old Yi? Anything up?"

Yi Zhonghai forced a smile: "Section Chief Zhang, this old body of mine still wants to give it a shot. Can I sign up for next month's contest?"

Zhang Weiguo flipped through the list: "You? A seventh-class worker entering a fourth-class worker contest? Are you crazy?"

Yi Zhonghai grew urgent: "I taught Jia Dongxu! He made third-class, so why can't I directly apply for evaluation?"

Zhang Weiguo shook his head: "Jia Dongxu has actual achievements in technical innovation; what do you have?"

Yi Zhonghai choked, his face turning the color of pig's liver.

He left the Technical Section, the thud of his cane on the floor unusually heavy.

Passing the workshop, he saw Jia Dongxu debugging a machine with two young coworkers, gesturing and explaining, full of vigor.

A coworker asked, "Master Jia, how do we set this gear clearance?"

Jia Dongxu replied, "Watch the speed, listen to the sound, and feel is most important."

Yi Zhonghai stood in the doorway, listening—everything was what he hadn't taught back then.

He turned and left, all the way back to the Siheyuan.

The first thing he did upon entering was pull that Promotion Secret Manual from the cabinet, flip to the technical innovation page, and write: "Improve the seam-locking machine's transmission structure to reduce thread‑snag rate by thirty percent."

After writing, he added: "Proposed time: autumn 1959."

He blew the ink dry, slipped the notebook into his chest, and his eyes grew dark.

Jia Dongxu's credit? Hmph, who knows whose it really is now.