Chapter 9

When Yan Jie had run far away, Li Xuewu had already entered the house; Yi Zhonghai could only stomp out of the Sihe Academy with a grim face.

As the old man stepped out, a half-grown boy with a bowl cut ran into the courtyard with two little girls.

The three children were Qin Huaiju’s Banggeng, Xiao Dang, and Huaihua.

Li Xuewu stood by the small window beside the stove, watching the three children run into the courtyard.

Unlike most children of this era, who were yellow-skinned and emaciated, Qin Guafu’s three children had round, healthy faces and clean, washed clothes.

He needed to integrate into this collective quickly—he’d slept through the afternoon, and Qin Huaiju had already heard from others that he’d joined the factory, let alone the “old news” of his early-morning return.

Li Xuewu told Liu Yin he was going out for a walk, then stepped outside.

Snowflakes began falling again; the mud on the road had frozen solid, no longer slippery underfoot.

Beyond the alley mouth lay Jiaodao Kou Nandajie; to the north stood Andingmen, to the east Dongzhimen—Dongzhimen was the direction to work, and walking straight down the road led to the steel mill, fifteen minutes by bike, an hour on foot.

The streets had few pedestrians, but plenty of horse carts and cars; everything around was dilapidated, some walls even collapsed.

Li Xuewu trudged through deep and shallow steps to the back alley, where a more ruined Sihe Academy stood; in the second room of the opposite house, a dim light flickered like a bean.

At the door, Li Xuewu called softly: “Shen Guodong, are you home?”

A voice answered from inside; a young man of eighteen or nineteen pulled back the curtain.

This was a deeply remembered figure—perhaps because they’d once roamed together.

Shen Guodong exclaimed in surprise: “Wu Ge, you’re back? Ah, come in quick!”

He welcomed Li Xuewu inside with obvious joy.

Inside, an old woman in tattered clothes was sorting matchboxes; perhaps her vision was poor, she carefully brushed paste onto them, and when she saw Li Xuewu enter, she studied him closely.

Li Xuewu sat on a small stool beside the little table and greeted: “Old Nai, you’re looking well?”

Seeing his grandmother still staring, clearly not recognizing him, Shen Guodong said: “This is Li Xuewu, my Wu Ge, come to visit you.”

The old woman then realized who it was, and politely said: “Ah, Xuewu, you’re back?”

Shen Guodong poured Li Xuewu a cup of water and said: “Her hearing’s been bad since the year before last, and her eyesight’s gone too—you need to speak louder.”

Li Xuewu took the cup and set it beside him, raising his voice: “Old Nai, it’s me, Xuewu—I came back yesterday.”

The old woman nodded: “Good you’re back, good you’re back… it was so dangerous…”

Shen Guodong cut in: “That was years ago—no danger now.”

The old woman muttered: “If there’s no danger, why’s your face scarred?”

Shen Guodong’s parents died in the wartime chaos of ’45, leaving only the old woman to raise her grandson alone; she sold off what little property they had to bring Shen Guodong up.

The old woman, perhaps recalling those dark days, said “good you’re back” partly as comfort.

Shen Guodong ignored his grandmother’s words and asked: “Wu Ge, are you staying this time?”

Li Xuewu picked up the matchboxes and began sorting them, saying: “I’m not leaving—I’ve been assigned work at the rolling mill outside the city.”

Shen Guodong was delighted: “That’s great! We boys can follow you again, Wu Ge.”

Li Xuewu set down the sorted matchboxes and looked at Shen Guodong: “You’re nearly twenty. Your grandmother’s health is worsening—still just drifting through life?”

Since Li Xuewu entered, Shen Guodong had sensed his Wu Ge had changed—sharper, yet as steady as a mountain.

“Wu Ge, since you left, our lives have been like Wang Erxiao’s New Year—worse every year. I couldn’t study, and seeing my grandmother’s condition, I quit—couldn’t study even if I wanted to. Now I haul grain sacks at the granary, or take temporary jobs at the train station unloading coal cars—twenty cents per car.”

Shen Guodong’s voice grew quieter; Li Xuewu looked around the room—a single kang, a clay stove, simple pots and bowls, a low table, a few small stools.

Li Xuewu asked: “Erhui, where’s Dazhuang? Didn’t Lao Biao help you?”

At the question, Shen Guodong’s eyes reddened, his voice trembling: “Dazhuang’s gone.”

Li Xuewu thought of the thick-headed youth from memory, and felt a pang of grief—they’d grown up together.

Li Xuewu’s voice also lowered: “How did he go?”

For street kids, death from illness or accident was called “gone”; only those who died in prison or in conflict were called “broken.”

Shen Guodong rubbed his face: “Lao Biao joined his third uncle’s pigeon market stall—first they bought eggs and millet from the countryside to sell in the city, then his third uncle saw more profit in ticket scalping, and persuaded Lao Biao to gather a few men to join him.”

Li Xuewu muttered: “Didn’t Lao Biao say his third uncle was a coward? How could you trust his ideas?”

Li Xuewu knew exactly who Lao Biao’s third uncle was—barely older than Lao Biao, the youngest in his family, always sneaky-eyed, good at stealing chickens and dogs, but useless at anything serious—he either ran to the toilet or collapsed.

Shen Guodong added, wounded: “It was Lao Biao who got tempted. Since you left, we lost our anchor—we weren’t allowed near Houhai anymore, the street kids stopped greeting us, Lao Biao’s girl dumped him—he just wanted to make some money to survive.”

Li Xuewu cursed: “That thing with a brain on its ass—that’s not a girl, that’s a fly.”

Shen Guodong grimaced: “At first it worked—we paid more, so everyone came to us. But one day, we got surrounded—seven of them, four of us. Lao Biao’s third uncle ran off. We three were trapped. Dazhuang grabbed a fork, stabbed two—killed one on the spot, scared the rest off, and we fled. But two days later, Dazhuang was caught—he was gone the next month.”

The Marvelous Roots of Immortality

Hearing Shen Guodong’s choked tone at the mention of Dazhuang, Li Xuewu knew he was hurting, but asked: “Dazhuang’s mother and sister are all that’s left—how do they survive?”

Shen Guodong said: “What else can they do? We support them. When Dazhuang’s death reached them, Lao Biao’s third uncle sent fifty yuan, promising ten yuan monthly for them.”

Li Xuewu snapped: “That bastard’s got some conscience—what’s he doing now?”