Chapter 3: The Glory of Labor
Unconsciously, dusk was approaching.
Chen Qi glanced at the time, gathered the few pages of manuscript he had written, and tucked them under his bed.
As the soft glow of the setting sun fell upon the table, the once quiet courtyard suddenly came alive. The ringing of bicycle bells, the noise of children playing, and the clatter of chopping vegetables mingled together, while wisps of smoke drifted through the air.
“Mom, you’re back!”
“What did you buy to eat?”
“There’s no holiday or festival, why buy special food? Just cabbage, potatoes, and pickles.”
Yu Xiuli returned from work punctually, shedding her coat at the door and immediately getting busy, giving directions as she worked: “Put the pickles on a plate, and take out the half block of tofu left from this morning!”
“How should I cook the tofu? Boil it with pickles?”
“Don’t be silly. Just scald it with hot water and mix it with sauce!”
There were two kinds of pickles: soy sauce cucumbers and sweet and spicy dried radish, both from Liubiju.
Liubiju used to be called the “Red Flag Pickle Store” during the humanitarian flood. In 1972, when Japanese Prime Minister Kakuei Tanaka visited China, his delegation requested to tour Liubiju. It was only after Wu Hao’s intervention that the old sign was restored.
The small kitchen was built outside the house—a simple shed made of bricks and tar paper, with a stove and a cupboard filling the space. Next to the kitchen was a neatly stacked pile of honeycomb coal covered with tar paper, signifying a household that valued cleanliness.
Some lazy households would just pile coal anywhere, and on rainy days, black water would pool beneath the coal.
Chen Qi took the initiative to help.
He had only been here a few days; what feelings could he possibly have for his parents?
Of course none, but since they treated him well, he did not hesitate to respond in kind. Yu Xiuli busily prepared the meal, occasionally glancing at him with a puzzled look. Just a few days ago, this boy had been as listless as a salted fish, yet now he was like a carp leaping out of water.
As twilight deepened, the meal was served, and Chen Jianjun, his thrifty father, also returned.
He was in his forties, tall and thin, with a refined demeanor. Though his clothes were old, they were neat and clean, and a pen was tucked into his chest pocket.
Chen Jianjun was a salesman.
The Xinhua Bookstore was the largest book distributor in the country. To distribute any book or magazine, one had to contact various salesmen. The salesmen would make a preliminary judgment based on the content and propose a number to the bookstore—say 1,000 copies. The bookstore would order that amount initially and then adjust based on market response.
Later, the role of the salesmen changed to sales representatives as the book industry opened up and lost its monopoly.
“Dad!”
“Did you go to the meeting?”
“Yes.”
“Alright, we’ll talk after dinner.”
Chen Jianjun smiled, a gentle smile. He had never been known to curse.
Dinner was simple: cabbage stewed with potato vermicelli, tofu, and pickles.
Not because they couldn’t afford meat, but because it was unavailable. City residents were rationed only 3 to 5 taels of pork per month. During the difficult three years, the annual per capita pork supply in the capital was just over 8 taels, and other places were even worse—no meat scraps at all.
Both parents were educated and had a certain sense of propriety; they didn’t discuss work during meals.
After finishing, Chen Jianjun asked Chen Qi to repeat what was said at the meeting.
“What do you think?”
“I…”
Before he could answer, someone outside called, “Is Chen Qi home?”
“Oh, Aunt Wang!”
“Please come in, please come in! What brings you here?”
The visitor was an elderly lady with graying hair and a kind smile—one of the neighborhood officials. She sat down leisurely, smiling: “We had a big meeting this morning, and in the afternoon, tasks were assigned. The neighborhood gave me thirteen people to find jobs for. I figured you’d be home tonight, so I came to see you first.”
“That’s very kind of you. You don’t have to work so hard at night…”
Yu Xiuli poured her a cup of water and just wanted to ask about this. “Aunt Wang, I heard from my son about setting up a production service cooperative. You know, collective units are not usually valued. I’m not saying collective units are bad, but our neighborhood has the Garment Factory No. 3. Can’t the factory find jobs for them?”
“Oh, don’t say that so easily. Do you know how many unemployed young people there are in Chongwen District?”
Aunt Wang slapped her thigh and gestured: “Eighty thousand! Where is the government going to find 80,000 jobs? Everyone from top to bottom is worried. Plus, many are already twenty-five or twenty-six years old and have been unemployed for years. We have to prioritize them.
“For the Garment Factory No. 3, we barely managed to place a hundred people. You can forget about it.”
“So what do you want them to do?”
Chen Jianjun asked.
“This is what I’m thinking…”
Aunt Wang took a sip of water and said, “Qianmen is a treasure spot. People in Beijing love to stroll there, and visitors from other places do too. Every year, countless outsiders come on business trips and make a point to visit. But among all the shops in Qianmen, there isn’t a single stall selling water. These people come and can’t even get a drink.
“You say buy a Beibingyang soda? It costs fifteen cents and requires a ration ticket—people don’t want to spend it. I’ve even seen people drinking water using garden hoses.
“So we thought, if we set up a stall selling tea and water in Qianmen, surely someone would buy.”
Selling tea water???
The parents exchanged glances. This was improper! Both of them were cultured, working at Xinhua Bookstore, and their son was going to sell tea water? In the old society, that was a lowly job!
Lowly enough?
In “Rickshaw Boy,” an old man who could no longer pull a rickshaw resorted to carrying a shoulder pole selling tea along the street, barely making a living—a pitiful existence. Selling tea water was even lower than Rickshaw Boy’s job. At least Rickshaw Boy had a place to rent, a rickshaw he bought three times and lost, and a wife who died in childbirth.
“Aunt Wang, are there really no other jobs?”
“There are technical positions. Can your son do carpentry?”
“No.”
“Sewing skills?”
“No.”
“Can he flip a wok and cook?”
“No.”
“Then that settles it!”
“…”
The parents exchanged looks again, feeling somewhat ashamed. Was their son a useless man? What was worse, the useless son was actually enjoying himself, as if it wasn’t about him.
“Alright, you discuss it. I have to go to the next house!”
Aunt Wang got up and slipped away.
The three sat in silence for a moment, then Yu Xiuli said, “Speak up. What do you really think?”
“I’ll obey the organization’s arrangement. Whatever they ask me to do, I’ll do.”
“Even if they ask you to sell tea water? At Qianmen, just a short distance from the bookstore. Won’t your colleagues laugh at me?”
“No, because your colleagues’ children are selling tea water with me.”
Pfft!
Yu Xiuli nearly exploded with anger. She snapped, “Stop joking around! I’m applying for early retirement tomorrow. You can take over my job!”
“I don’t need you to retire. If you do, I’ll set up my stall overnight.”
“Xiao Qi, stop being slick. Tell us honestly, why do you want to do it?”
Chen Jianjun, who had been silent, finally spoke.
“No special reason. I just think labor is honorable. Wherever I am, I can contribute to the motherland. You two have old-fashioned ideas, looking down on selling tea water. Shi Chuanxiang dug out human waste and became a People’s Congress representative and a national model worker. So what if I sell tea water? Someday, I’ll shake hands with leaders in the Great Hall of the People!”
Wow, Chen Qi’s party spirit shone brilliantly.
Shi Chuanxiang was a dung collector in Chongwen District. On National Day 1966, he stood atop Tiananmen Gate. Instructors shook his hand, Wu Hao toasted him, and General Zhu served him food, saying, “Old Shi, you do heavy labor; drink more wine and eat more dishes…”
At the time, there was a craze for voluntary dung collecting in Beijing. Teachers, students, writers, journalists, and actors lined up to join him. A Tsinghua University female student even pretended to be his goddaughter so she could finally dig dung with him.
Shi Chuanxiang’s story was once in elementary school textbooks; now it’s uncertain if it remains.
That was the era when laborers were the most glorious!
Nowadays, if anyone promotes labor as the greatest glory… the masses would say: He… Tui!
“…”
Chen Jianjun was speechless at this irrefutable argument. He glanced at Yu Xiuli: maybe we should have another child? This one’s lost his mind!
The spirit of sacrifice is always preached to others.
When it comes to oneself or family, the willingness to sacrifice unconditionally is rare and heroic.
The conversation ended, and they could only go to sleep.
There was no television at home, and frequent power outages meant they had little entertainment besides an old radio.
The courtyard slowly quieted. Moonlight shone on the curtains, spring insects chirped softly, and Chen Qi lay on the bed in the outer room, listening to the whispered conversations inside—surely still discussing his job prospects.
He truly did not want Yu Xiuli to retire early, knowing he wouldn’t last long in any position, which would be a waste.
Besides, he had no interest in the Xinhua Bookstore job. There were families with three generations in tobacco, petroleum, electricity, and banking. And for him? Three generations of bookstore workers?
“…”
Chen Qi turned over and closed his eyes.
Selling tea water or doing anything else—he didn’t care. He was ready to pick up and leave at any moment.