Chapter 56

Zhao Jianguo squatted in front of the stove, the millet porridge in the pot bubbling, he took a spoon and skimmed off the foam, then casually sprinkled in half a handful of wolfberries. Su Qing leaned against the doorframe, holding in her hand the prenatal checkup slip just issued by the hospital, her fingertip rubbing over the two characters "twins" again and again.

"Jianguo," she said softly, "those three dates from yesterday... really okay?"

Zhao Jianguo glanced at her, the corner of his mouth twitching: "The 'blessing' Aunt Jia sent, we won't take it; let her keep it to nourish her own brain."

As his words fell, a commotion came from the well platform outside. Xu Da Mao came over swaying, carrying a water bucket, his pant legs rolled up unevenly, worry written on his face. He glanced at Zhao Jianguo twice, said nothing, and as he lowered his head to draw water, his hand shook, splashing half a bucket of water onto his shoe uppers.

Zhao Jianguo didn't move, just covered the porridge pot, got up and picked up the teacup, strolled slowly to the well, poured some boiling water into it, steam rising.

"Lou Xiaoe's father is Lou Bancheng, that big capitalist..." he said, halfway through, the kettle just boiled, its sharp whistle cutting him off.

Xu Da Mao's hand shook, the bucket "clang" struck the well rim.

Zhao Jianguo blew on his tea, not lifting his eyelids: "I hear they're tightening controls now; those with unclear backgrounds even have to send their family members down to the fields."

Xu Da Mao's lips moved, but he made no sound; he picked up the bucket and left, his back taut like a drawn bowstring.

The next afternoon, a crowd gathered in front of the factory bulletin board. Beside the newly posted transfer order lay a blurred photo: Xu Da Mao sitting in the corner of a state-owned restaurant, picking vegetables for Lou Xiaoe, the kerosene lamp light casting on his stiff face. Below, a notice read: "Lou's father's historical issues pending investigation; related personnel to be transferred from cadre posts."

The crowd buzzed with discussion. Someone shook his head: "This kid, usually looks shrewd, this time he's fallen into a woman's hands."

Zhao Jianguo stood outside the crowd, holding in his hand half a piece of freshly bought donkey roll, he took a bite, the sweet bean paste sticking to his teeth. He didn't swallow, just narrowed his eyes at the lower right corner of the bulletin board—there was a speck of red dirt, the same color as the soil at the rear Wall Base of the Siheyuan.

He knew, that anonymous letter had been delivered.

But he hadn't expected Yi Zhonghai's move to be this swift.

At breakfast the third day, Zhao Jianguo had just finished gnawing a steamed corn bun when Technical Section's little Zhang sidled up to his workstation, lowering his voice: "Jianguo, that copy of 'Mechanical Lesson Manufacturing' you spread out on the tool bench yesterday was photographed."

"Oh?" Zhao Jianguo wiped his hands, "Which page?"

"That page, with a red circle around 'Third Clause of Sino-Soviet Cooperation.' I heard... someone is going to the factory director's office to report you for privately keeping foreign publications."

Zhao Jianguo chuckled: "That book is borrowed from the library; whoever wants to read it can read it."

But that night he still sneaked into the factory library. The light was dim yellow; he pulled out that copy of 'Implementation Details of the Five-Year Plan', copying page by page until dawn. Finally he stuffed the transcript into the innermost slot of the shelf, the spine written in neat small characters: "Technical Section internal material, to be filed after reading."

He knew, Yi Zhonghai was about to act.

Sure enough, at noon on the fourth day, Yi Zhonghai brought Technical Section's Old Li and Little Wang straight to the factory director's office. He held aloft a magazine, its cover in Russian, the interior pages marked up with red pen Annotation.

"Zhao Jianguo, this person's thinking is problematic!" Yi Zhonghai's voice boomed, "All day he goes on about how advanced Soviet drawings are, while our own technology is just 'local methods'—if that's not worshipping foreign things, what is?"

The factory director frowned, flipping through, not yet speaking, when the Party Office director pushed in, holding two books.

"Old Yi," he set the books on the table, "this 'Mechanical Lesson Manufacturing' is the one you borrowed from the library three months ago, right? And this 'Research on the Soviet Industrial System'—the checkout card shows your name signed."

Yi Zhonghai's face stiffened, he reached to take them, but the Party Office director took the books back: "These two months, scrutiny of foreign publications is strict; borrowing and not returning can earn a demerit."

Zhao Jianguo listened outside the door, then turned and left. He knew, in this round he had won half a move.

But the real trouble had only just begun.

He noticed that Yi Zhonghai lately always ran to the third workshop after work, sometimes empty-handed, sometimes carrying an old toolbox. Even stranger, the rehired retiree Wang Defa would, every Wednesday night, squat for ten minutes in front of the electric box in the workshop corner.

Zhao Jianguo grew suspicious.

He used the excuse of inspecting the broadcast lines, sneaking into the third workshop at night, and slipped a copper-wire sensor into the corner of the electric box, its casing engraved with "Five-Seven Cadre School Electrical Class Practical Work"—that was his number from the training he attended the year before last, something no one would check.

One week later, Wednesday night.

He sat at home wearing headphones, the headphone wire connected to a modified radio. At 1:17 a. m., the sensor in the third workshop transmitted a faint "click"—the sound of the toolbox latch springing open.

He pressed the record button, storing the sound in an old cassette case. The next day he played the tape at slow speed three times, confirming that the rhythm of the metal friction matched Wang Defa's habit of opening the box exactly.

More crucially, at the end of the recording there was a half-sentence of muffled dialogue: "... the report materials, write in the old format."

Zhao Jianguo slipped the tape into the drawer, then casually pulled from the System Space a template of a 1950s "Anti-Rightist Campaign" denunciation letter—identical to the one he remembered.

He knew, Yi Zhonghai was preparing to "make a formal move."

But he hadn't expected the other side's secret letter to actually travel through the boiler room's steam pipes.

That day he went to service the main valve, discovering scrape marks on the inner wall of the copper pipe at the steam outlet, as if something had been shoved in. He casually took a spring from an old alarm clock, wrapped it in wax paper, inserted it into the pipe's end, then wrapped the whole pipe tightly with insulating tape.

Three days later at dawn, he opened the receipt box on his windowsill; inside lay a roll of paper scraps soaked in oil stains. He spread them out, barely managing to piece together a few characters: "double regulation," "Zhao Mou," "worshipping foreign things," "suggested demotion."

The handwriting was identical to the marginal notes Yi Zhonghai had written at the previous factory affairs meeting.

Zhao Jianguo Standing Up, speaking slowly: "Yesterday while servicing the boiler, I noticed a copper rust smell in the steam pipe—probably someone shoved something in, blocking the valve."

As his words fell, a "clang" came from the direction of the factory director's office, like a teacup hitting the floor.

Everyone turned to look, only to see Yi Zhonghai sitting in the back row, a tea stain smeared on the cuff of his white shirt, his head lowered as he wiped his hands, movements stiff.

Zhao Jianguo said nothing more, just turned the record book to the next page.

He knew, relying on these alone wasn't enough.

He needed to also lay an eye-line in the Siheyuan.

He Yushui had been frequently mooching meals at the Zhao Family lately; Zhao Jianguo didn't stop him, instead giving him an extra two chopsticks of vegetables. One day after a meal, he slipped He Yushui a damaged grain ticket, on the back penciled: "Tomorrow, add extra sugar to the donkey rolls at Aunt Wang's."

He Yushui blinked, didn't ask, and just tucked it into his pocket and left.

The next morning, Zhao Jianguo went to the breakfast stall to buy breakfast; Aunt Wang slipped him an extra five fen: "You said yesterday you wanted more sugar, I specially noted it—I stirred an extra spoonful into the bean paste."

Zhao Jianguo took the money, glanced sideways—Qin Huairu stood five meters away in line holding an enamel basin, her gaze darting back and forth between them.

That night, at Sha Zhu's stove side he "found" a half sheet of draft paper, covered in formulas, the corner printed with the faint pattern of the Technical Section's memo paper. He picked it up, glanced at it, then casually slipped it into his tool kit.

He knew Qin Huairu was inquiring on behalf of someone.

He also knew Yi Zhonghai's net had already been spread to his doorstep.

But he didn't care.

He only cared whether the sensor hidden in the third workshop was still there.

Friday night, he went to the electric box again. Opening the casing, he found one of the copper wires on the sensor broken, as if someone had tampered with it.

He squatted down, used the insulated pliers to reconnect it, then casually etched a line of small characters on the box bottom: "Master Wang's micrometer—shouldn't it be due for annual inspection?"

Just as he closed the lid, footsteps sounded from behind.

He didn't turn back, just put the pliers away into his tool bag, and said softly:

"Master Wang, working this late?"