Chapter 47

Night had just fallen, Zhao Jianguo slipped the last pencil into the interlayer of the toolbox, his hand steady as if it were nailed in. The motion was so familiar it couldn't be more familiar; with a click it was in place, like the final procedure before knocking off work each day.

He casually brushed away the eraser crumbs, his fingertip rubbing the wood edge, leaving a few gray marks. Jia Dongxu had just left, the drawings still spread on the desk, the lines wound tight, but one foot‑pedal transmission had been improved to be more efficient—saving effort and electricity. If the factory really adopted this design, his name would surely appear on the merit roll.

The lamp went 'pop' and the room plunged into darkness. He walked slowly to the courtyard, glanced sideways, and his feet suddenly stopped. Half a sausage hung from the window sill of Xu Da Mao's house, its oily sheen glaring, layers of fat and lean stacked, swaying twice in the breeze. In those days, grain was rationed per head, even bark and wall scrapings were scavenged—who could hang something like this? Zhao Jianguo narrowed his eyes, said nothing, and lowered his head back inside. But he made a mental note.

At dawn, Zhao Jianguo took a wrench to grind by the well. The metal scrap rasped against the stone, making a 'shla—shla' sound. Passing Xu Da Mao's gate, the door wasn't shut tight; voices inside were low but clear enough. 'You take the money from selling those mountain goods and blow it all on booze and cigarettes, yet when the elders fall ill you won't even fetch medicine!' Lou Xiaoe kept her voice low, but her tone was tight as a string stretched to its limit. 'Keep it down!' Xu Da Mao bellowed, then immediately lowered his voice, 'This is an "internal channel"—if anyone hears, they'll end up in lockup!' Zhao Jianguo's hand paused, the wrench's edge still glinting. He didn't stop, pretended to just walk by, and stepped off lightly. But the stone in his heart dropped—sure enough, he was dealing in Black Market.

Back inside, he sat on the kang edge, fingers ticking off calculations. Xu Da Mao had been taking leave frequently, claiming he was going to the countryside to show films, disappearing for three or four days each time. When he returned his pockets bulged as if holding a rabbit. On one occasion he even produced a wild ginseng root in the courtyard, claiming it was a "model projectionist award" from the cultural station. Everyone laughed then, nobody believed it—but now, thinking back, the cultural station isn't a pharmacy; where would such a prize come from? Only a fool would trust it.

In the afternoon he strolled over to the pigeon market. It was chaotic, all kinds of people, Black‑Market deals out in the open. He pretended to want to buy astragalus, asked a few stalls, the prices were outrageously high. Just as he was about to leave, he caught a familiar face—a distant relative of Xu Da Mao's maternal uncle, the factory's boiler man, furtively trading slices of antler for something else. Zhao Jianguo stayed hidden, circled to the rear and listened to a few sentences. The man's slice of antler was mediocre grade, yet he opened with a sky‑high price. Zhao Jianguo deliberately asked, 'Where's it from?' 'Collected in the mountains, locals trade medicine for grain coupons,' the man replied, his voice lacking conviction, eyes darting. Zhao Jianguo figured it out: Xu Da Mao's film‑showing trips were a cover; in reality he went to the countryside to buy mountain products cheap and sell them at double in the city. No wonder Lou Xiaoe was wearing a new sweater, the child's corduroy shoes were fresh and shiny—nothing a projectionist's wage could afford.

By the time he returned, dusk was falling. Passing Xu Da Mao's house again, he heard a fierce quarrel inside. 'You think I don't know?' Lou Xiaoe's voice trembled, 'The packet of gastrodia you brought back the other day—I recognize it! It's a local specialty! It definitely wasn't issued by the cultural station; you brought it yourself!' 'You don't know shit!' Xu Da Mao roared, as if he'd lift the roof, 'Who lives on a dead‑end wage these days? I'm stimulating the economy! Besides, no stealing, no robbery—mountain folk willingly trade, city folk willingly buy, both sides happy!' 'But this is profiteering!' Lou Xiaoe gritted her teeth, eyes blazing, 'Brother Zhao Jianguo said just a few days ago that if they're caught they'll be sent to labor reform!'

Zhao Jianguo stood outside the door for two seconds, almost laughing out loud. Well, look at him—had he become a 'policy propagandist'? He didn't knock, just turned and walked away. He now understood: frequent trips to the countryside, hauling goods, selling at high prices, abnormal household expenditures—the evidence chain was complete. Xu Da Mao wasn't just pocketing a little extra; he'd gone into business full‑time.

Reporting him? Easy. Tell Director Wang a word and Xu Da Mao would be finished at once. But the problem is, in these famine years the whole compound tightens its belts, yet Xu Da Mao's Black‑Market mountain trade at least lets people eat meat and get medicine. If he kicked over the table, the Xu family would lose its livelihood—how would Lou Xiaoe and her child survive? Besides, if Xu Da Mao squealed on his buyers, the misery wouldn't be his alone.

What's more troublesome, he himself was taking things from the system and distributing them to others. Though it was framed as 'mutual aid,' if you really compared, how was he any different from Xu Da Mao? One relied on the system, the other on mountain goods—both were 'extra income.' He didn't want to be a saint, nor a judge.

After thinking it over, Zhao Jianguo decided—to pretend ignorance. But he had to keep an eye on him. The next day he saw Sha Zhu repairing a radio and went over: 'Lately don't team up with Xu Da Mao to buy anything.' Sha Zhu's hand shook: 'What's wrong? Did he screw you over again?' 'He didn't screw me.' Zhao Jianguo twisted the knob, brow furrowed, 'But his methods are too 'wild'; once you're involved it's hard to explain away.'

'If you want to buy mountain goods, ask me first.' Sha Zhu blinked: 'You even know this?' 'I don't buy, but I can spot stolen goods.' Zhao Jianguo grinned, eyes sharp, 'You believe it or not, that packet labeled "cultural station award" of astragalus? He got it for half a catty of cornmeal. Mountain folk are so hungry their front sticks to their back before they'll trade ancestral medicine for grain rations.' Sha Zhu smacked his lips: 'Hey, I really wanted to buy some to tonic my mom…' 'Tonic?' Zhao Jianguo snorted, eyes narrowing, 'Can you afford it? He marks it up threefold—one bite for your mom equals half a month's rations for you. Worth it?'

Sha Zhu fell silent, fiddling with the radio, muttering, 'So what do you suggest?' 'Nothing.' Zhao Jianguo stood, patted his trousers, the motion crisp, 'I'll say just one thing: stay clear. If he asks you to partner, say you've got no money. If you really want to tonic, come spring I'll get you some wild‑vegetable seeds—far more genuine than medicine.' Sha Zhu nodded, and didn't ask further.

He went to find Qin Huairu. She was mending Jia Dongxu's trousers, the thread pulled tight. Leaning against the doorframe, he smiled, 'Sis, someone's been peddling cheap mountain goods lately—don't buy.' Qin Huairu looked up: 'Who?' 'Guess.' Zhao Jianguo blinked. She stared for two seconds, her face shifting: 'Xu Da Mao?' 'Shh.' He raised a finger, 'Don't make a fuss. He's now an "internal channel"; who knows, he might turn into an "internal investigation" tomorrow. If you bought from him and they looked into it, you couldn't explain it away.' Qin Huairu nodded: 'I get it. Our family has wages; we don't need that little discount.' Zhao Jianguo gave a small smile and left.

From that day on, he began logging Xu Da Mao's movements—when he took leave, when he returned, what he brought, who he met. He told no one, not even Jia Dongxu. This was something he had to monitor himself.

Xu Da Mao didn't restrain himself. On the third day back, his pockets bulged again; he produced two wild ginseng roots and, before the whole courtyard, proclaimed, 'The cultural station specially approved this—reward for outstanding workers!' Sha Zhu, by the well, heard it and looked up at Zhao Jianguo. Zhao Jianguo sat on the steps basking in the sun, not even lifting his eyelids.

That evening Xu Da Mao set up a small table at the doorway, sliced sausage, heated two pots of baijiu, and poured himself drinks. He looked like he had the world in his grasp. Lou Xiaoe didn't come out. Zhao Jianguo peered through the window crack: Xu Da Mao was getting tipsy, humming a little tune. Suddenly he rose, pulled a stack of bills from the cabinet, counted them, and slipped them into the lining of his left shoe. Zhao Jianguo noted: Wednesday night, cash hidden in the left shoe insole.

Two days later Xu Da Mao was set to go again, hauling the projector and a bulging canvas sack. Zhao Jianguo was repairing a bike in the courtyard, looked up and asked, 'Another film showing?' 'You bet not.' Xu Da Mao grinned, full of himself, 'Deep mountain valleys, three days two nights, cultural outreach to the countryside—glorious mission.' 'Then watch your safety.' Zhao Jianguo tightened a bolt, dead serious, 'The mountains crawl with beasts—don't just focus on your "internal channel" and throw your life away.' Xu Da Mao's smile froze, a flash of panic in his eyes: 'You… what do you mean?' 'Nothing.' Zhao Jianguo pushed the bike forward, movements crisp, 'Just reminding you: if you wander too far off the beaten path, you'll easily sprain an ankle.' Xu Da Mao stared at him for two seconds, said nothing, and shouldered his pack and left.

Watching Xu Da Mao's retreating back, Zhao Jianguo understood: this man would sooner or later crash. But now wasn't the time. He went back inside, pulled a small notebook from the drawer, opened it—page after page filled with tight script: 'Xu Da Mao, March 7, went to the countryside, carrying a pack, suspected mountain goods; March 9, sold two catties of astragalus, exchanged for eight jin of grain coupons; March 11, hid cash in the left shoe insole, about thirty yuan…' He added a line: 'March 14, again went to the countryside, the canvas sack heavy, gait slightly unsteady, suspected antler or gastrodia.' He closed it and shoved it under the bed's wooden box. He knew if anyone saw this notebook he'd also end up in lockup. But he wasn't afraid. He knew his limits. Xu Da Mao could make money, but he had to realize—someone was watching.

A few days later Zhao Jianguo ran into Lou Xiaoe in the courtyard. She held her child, her complexion poor, eyes shadowed. 'Zhao Jianguo,' her voice quivered, 'do you… know about Xu Da Mao's business?' He blinked: 'What business?' 'Is he… dealing in Black‑Market goods?' Lou Xiaoe's eyes reddened, 'My natal family wrote that someone traded wild ginseng for grain, saying it was collected by a city projectionist. That description… it's him.' Zhao Jianguo neither nodded nor shook his head, only said flatly, 'If you want to stay alive, just pretend you don't know.'

Lou Xiaoe's eyes welled: 'But the elders are sick, I want to get medicine…' 'I've got medicine.' He pulled a small packet from his pocket and handed it over, 'Come pick it up tomorrow. But don't say it's from me, and don't buy it with his money.' Lou Xiaoe's tears spilled, she nodded, her gaze full of gratitude.

Zhao Jianguo watched her walk away, turned and went back inside. This balance was too fragile. Xu Da Mao was playing with fire, he too was walking a tightrope. Yet he felt no fear—not of Xu Da Mao getting rich, not of his downfall. He feared only— that someone in this Siheyuan would starve to death.

He sat down, opened the notebook, and wrote another line: 'March 17, Lou Xiaoe is aware, her emotions unstable—she could become a breaking point.' Just as he finished, footsteps sounded outside. Xu Da Mao had returned, hauling the projector and shouldering a bulging sack. He glanced around, then hurried home. Zhao Jianguo blew out the lamp, sat in the darkness, unmoving, like a stone, quietly watching.