Chapter 2: Waking Up in 1982

Zhao Xiaomei kicked over the cardboard box Wang Jianguo had stacked against the wall. Scrap copper and junk iron went clattering all over the ground, and a chipped enamel basin rolled bumpily away to the chicken coop.

"What are you doing?" Wang Jianguo crouched down to pick things up.

"Doing? Whose yard is this, yours? You pile this filthy stuff here, drawing flies and breeding maggots — how is anyone supposed to live?" Zhao Xiaomei put both hands on her hips and stamped her half-new plastic sandals twice on the ground.

It was a little past nine in the morning, the sun just climbing over the courtyard wall. Six households lived in the big compound; laundry lines were hung with flowered sheets, and Auntie Sun was squatting at her own door picking over chives. Hearing the commotion, she raised her head.

Wang Jianguo picked up the enamel basin and knocked the dirt off it. "I collected it yesterday. I'm hauling it away today."

"Hauling it away? Hauling it where? And where's that broken cart of yours? Worn it out again?" Zhao Xiaomei stepped closer, her voice climbing. "My mother says it: you tramp around all day picking up rubbish and you shame the Wang family. If my classmates come to the house and see this stuff piled in the yard, where do I put my face?"

"Whether your classmates come or not, and whether I stack my things, are two different matters." Wang Jianguo set the cardboard box upright again.

"Two different matters?" Zhao Xiaomei kicked another one over. "Let me tell you, Wang Jianguo — half this yard is my mother's. You stack things here, you need her say-so!"

Auntie Sun set her chives down in the basin and stood up. "Xiaomei, your brother collects a bit of scrap to trade for a few coins. It isn't easy for him either..."

"Auntie Sun, stay out of it!" Zhao Xiaomei flung out a hand. "Easy or not, doesn't he know himself? A grown man in his twenties, no proper job, pushing a broken cart through the streets all day hollering 'Scrap for sale-uh!' like a beggar — I'm ashamed to walk out the door!"

Wang Jianguo said nothing. He gathered the scattered things one by one: three wine bottles, a stack of old newspapers, half a length of copper wire, two aluminium lunch boxes, and a radio with a cracked case. In other people's eyes these things were rubbish. In his, they weren't.

Just yesterday he had woken up in the winter of 1982, opening his eyes to this draughty side room. In his last life he had muddled through most of his years in a daze, and only at the end understood: in these times, money lay all over the ground. It only depended on whether you knew how to pick it up.

"Gone dumb?" Seeing him silent, Zhao Xiaomei grew bolder. "My mother feeds you and houses you, and you — whatever three melons and two dates you earn, you stuff into your own pocket. Last month she asked you for five yuan for food and you fumbled and couldn't bring it out. And now you've got time to pick up rubbish?"

"I'll give you the five yuan today." Wang Jianguo straightened up.

"You'll give it? With what?" Zhao Xiaomei snorted. "That pile of junk of yours — sell it to the scrap station and would it fetch twenty cents?"

A bicycle bell rang at the courtyard gate. Zhao Guilan pushed her 28-inch bicycle in, a sack of cornmeal tied to the back rack. She was in her early forties, her short hair permed, face cream on her face. The moment she entered she frowned. "What is it now?"

"Mum!" Zhao Xiaomei hurried to her. "Look at him — he's piled the yard up like a rubbish heap!"

Zhao Guilan swept a glance over the things on the ground and stood her bicycle up. "Jianguo, I'm not scolding you, but couldn't you do something else? Anything but this? When your father was alive he was at least a grade-eight worker at the factory. And you go picking up rubbish. If word gets out, where do I put my face?"

"Auntie," Wang Jianguo said, "what I do is neither stealing nor robbing."

"Neither stealing nor robbing?" Zhao Guilan carried the cornmeal into the house. "How much did you hand over last month? Your sister still has school fees to pay, and you've got spare money to fuss with this scrap copper and junk iron."

"I earn only that fixed little wage a month, and I still have to look after your sister. You're the elder brother — helping out would be too much to ask, but must you add to the mess?" The more Zhao Guilan talked, the more worked up she got. "Your father's death benefit — I haven't touched a cent of it. I've saved it all to get you a wife. And you go and turn yourself into a rag-and-bone man first."

Wang Jianguo lifted the last stack of newspapers and put it on the cart. "This month's food money — I'll give it all at month's end."

"Month's end?" Zhao Xiaomei sneered. "That's what you said last month."

"This time I mean it." Wang Jianguo slung the cart's pulling strap over his shoulder.

Zhao Guilan waved a hand. "Fine, fine, fine. Get it out of here, quick. Don't leave it in the yard, it's an eyesore."

Wang Jianguo pulled the cart out of the courtyard gate. Behind him Auntie Sun called, "Jianguo, coming back for lunch?"

"No, Auntie Sun!"

The cart wheels ground over the ice grit in the lane, squeaking and creaking. Wang Jianguo kept his own ledger in his heart: Zhao Guilan was his stepmother, Zhao Xiaomei was the daughter she'd brought with her, and in this household the two of them talked louder than he did. In his last life he had cowered just like this, letting his father's little bit of estate slip away bit by bit, until in the end he couldn't even keep this side room.

This life would be different.

The scrap collection station west of town stood by the railway, ringed with wire fencing, piled inside with small mountains of waste paper, scrap iron, and broken glass bottles. Old Ma, the gatekeeper, knew Wang Jianguo. He pulled the big iron gate open a crack. "Here again?"

"Uncle Ma, anything good today?"

"Good or bad, it's all piled in there. Paw through it yourself." Old Ma clamped his pipe in his teeth and squatted down by the wall.

Wang Jianguo parked the cart at the gate and went into the waste paper piles. In those days the scrap station paid by the jin: waste paper two cents a jin, scrap iron five cents, copper dearer — eighty cents. But sometimes what was mixed in among it was worth more than that.

He pawed around for half an hour and dug out a few things: a stack of People's Daily from the nineteen-sixties, the paper gone yellow; three thread-bound books with rotten covers, The Romance of the Three Kingdoms inside; and a tin box rusted beyond recognition — he opened it and found a dozen-odd Chairman Mao badges inside, and a few crumpled grain coupons.

"Uncle Ma, how do we count this pile?"

Old Ma came over and took a look. "The paper goes by the jin. The tin box counts as scrap iron. The badges... take the badges, nobody wants those things."

Wang Jianguo's heart stirred. The badges were worthless now, but in a few years... still, that was for later. Right now they were of no use.

"Uncle Ma, that sewing machine head — how much?" He pointed at the corner of the wall.

In the corner sat a Butterfly-brand sewing machine head, no treadle stand, the paint knocked off in a few places, the trademark still on it. It had been sitting there a while, a layer of dust on top.

Old Ma glanced at it. "That? The subdistrict office sent it over last month, said it didn't work, to go as scrap iron. You want it? Eight yuan, haul it away."

"Eight yuan?" Wang Jianguo crouched down and turned the wheel twice. The wheel moved stiffly; the needle bar didn't budge. He felt the shuttle bed and looked at the shuttle — the shuttle was jammed, a tangle of thread wound inside, and a part had been fitted backwards.

"Five yuan." Wang Jianguo stood up.

"Five yuan? You think I'm a beggar to be dismissed?" Old Ma knocked his pipe against his sole. "That lump of iron weighs thirty jin at least. As scrap iron that's one yuan fifty. I'm asking eight because you're a regular."

"Uncle Ma, the thing doesn't work. If I haul it home it's only to be smashed and sold as iron anyway." Wang Jianguo clapped the dust off his hands. "Six yuan. Not a cent more."

Old Ma narrowed his eyes at him. "You brat... Fine. Six yuan. Take it, take it. It's only taking up room here."

Wang Jianguo took six yuan from his pocket — money he'd scraped together yesterday by selling an old copper basin from the house — counted it out to Old Ma, and lifted the sewing machine head onto the cart. Thirty-some jin; the cart sank under it.

Beside them, an old man who had come to sell scrap iron watched him and chuckled. "Young fellow, what's a broken machine head good for? You can't eat it."

"Uncle, fix this up and it works fine. A shame to sell as scrap iron."

"Fix it? You can fix these?"

"I've tinkered with them."

Out of the scrap station, he didn't head home. He turned into the secondhand stalls at South Market.

South Market had only just opened up in those days. A row of stalls sold everything: old clothes, old shoes, enamel basins, thermos flasks, bicycle parts. Wang Jianguo found a spot by a wall and parked the cart. He took a small oil can from the cart and a length of wire, crouched down, and set to work on the sewing machine.

He took the shuttle out, picked the jammed tangle of thread clean bit by bit, and fitted it back the way he remembered. This craft he had learned in his last life from an old master repairman; the master had passed on, and the craft had passed to him.

After half an hour of tinkering, the wheel turned smoothly and the needle bar moved up and down — clack-clack, clack-clack.

"Hey, you fixed it?" The old man at the next stall, selling old shoes, leaned over.

"Fixed."

"Selling?"

"Selling."

The old man circled it twice. "How much?"

Wang Jianguo hadn't yet opened his mouth when someone behind him spoke up. "Let me look at that machine head."

The newcomer was in his forties, wearing a blue khaki tunic suit with two pens in the pocket — an old hand at the South Market secondhand trade, surnamed Qian, known to all as Qian Mazi, a few faint pockmarks on his face. He had a fixed stall at the east end of the market, dealing in old furniture and old appliances, and he beat prices down hard.

Qian Mazi crouched down, turned the wheel twice, and looked at the trademark on the head. "Butterfly brand. Old stock. Paint's off, and the shuttle bed's worn."

"Worn or not, it doesn't stop it working," Wang Jianguo said.

"Oh, it works," Qian Mazi stood up and clapped the dust off his hands. "How's this — I'll give you twelve. Pull it over to my stall."

The old man selling shoes smacked his lips. "Twelve? Qian Mazi, you've got some nerve opening your mouth."

"What's wrong? The thing has no stand, just a head. Whoever buys it still has to match a stand, a belt, a treadle — another pile of money." Qian Mazi took out a box of Daqianmen cigarettes and offered one to Wang Jianguo.

Wang Jianguo didn't take it. "Twenty."

"Twenty?" Qian Mazi laughed. "Little brother, ask around. Who in South Market doesn't know my prices? For twenty I could buy two."

"Then go buy two." Wang Jianguo set the machine head back on the cart. "I'm in no hurry."

Qian Mazi's face stiffened a little. He put the cigarette in his mouth and struck a match. "Fifteen. That's the ceiling."

"Twenty. One cent less and I won't sell."

They were at a standoff when a woman in her fifties squeezed through, a cloth bag in her hand. "Young fellow, is this sewing machine for sale?"

"For sale. Twenty."

The old lady circled it for a good while and reached out to touch the head. "Does it turn?"

Wang Jianguo gave the wheel two turns and the needle bar moved up and down, clack-clack. The old lady's eyes lit up. "My girl's getting married next month and we're fretting over having no sewing machine. The supply co-op demands a coupon, and a coupon alone runs a hundred and twenty — where would we get one..." She turned and called behind her, "Old man, come and look!"

A thin old man squeezed in, crouched down, and studied it a long time before asking Wang Jianguo, "Does it really work? It won't break down every other day once we've hauled it home?"

"Uncle, I fixed it right in front of you. Shuttle, shuttle bed — all set right. Haul it home, oil it up, and it'll work. If there's any trouble, come find me at the big courtyard compound on West Street. My name's Wang Jianguo."

The old couple muttered together a bit. The old lady took a handkerchief bundle from her cloth bag, unwrapped it layer by layer, and counted out twenty yuan. "Twenty it is, twenty. I'll trust you this once."

Qian Mazi's face went green. He threw his cigarette butt on the ground. "Hey, hey, hey! I was still haggling here!"

"You haggle yours, they buy theirs." The old lady stuffed the money into Wang Jianguo's hand and glared back at Qian Mazi. "Last time I bought a thermos at your stall, it didn't keep anything hot once I got home, and you wouldn't own up to it."

Everyone around the stalls laughed. Qian Mazi's face went red, then white. He pointed at Wang Jianguo. "Fine. Kid, you're something. This bowl of rice at South Market isn't for just anyone to eat."

"I haven't eaten your rice." Wang Jianguo folded the money neatly, tucked it away, and helped the old man lift the machine head onto their little pushcart.

As she left, the old lady turned back. "Young fellow, next time you get something good, we'll come to you again."

"You got it."

Qian Mazi snorted and walked off, hands behind his back. The old man selling shoes leaned in. "Little brother, you've offended Qian Mazi now. That man's petty."

"I sell my goods. What's it to him?"

"That's true, but..." The old man lowered his voice. "He's got a stall at the east end and he's thick with the market management people. If you want a stall here in the future, it might not go easy."

Wang Jianguo didn't answer. He tidied the things on his cart. A machine head bought for six, sold for twenty — fourteen clear profit. In those days a grade-two worker earned thirty-eight yuan a month. He'd made fourteen in an hour.

But he knew in his heart this wasn't the real money. The real money was in the things nobody yet recognised for what they were.

He squatted by the wall and opened the three thread-bound books. The covers were rotten, but the paper inside was sound. He remembered from his last life: old books like these would later fetch several dozen yuan apiece. Right now nobody recognised them. In the stack of old newspapers, though, were a few stamps from the sixties. He took them out and looked — not the valuable printings, just ordinary commemorative stamps.

"Little brother," the old man selling shoes leaned in again, "do you buy anything else? I've got a few old pieces at home. Want to take a look?"

"What pieces?"

"A bronze incense burner, an old striking clock, and a crate of old books my father-in-law left behind."

Wang Jianguo's heart stirred. "How big's the burner? Does the clock still run?"

"The burner's about this big." The old man showed him with his hands. "The clock doesn't run. It's sat there for years."

"I'll come by this afternoon and look."

Wang Jianguo pulled his cart back. Passing the food shop, he went in and weighed out two jin of pork and a jin of loose liquor — one yuan eighty. The rest of the money he tucked close to his body, planning as he went: if the bronze burner was genuine, it could be resold for a good sum; a fixed-up old clock was money too; and in that crate of old books there might be a bargain hidden.

He entered the courtyard gate. By the water tap, Zhao Xiaomei was squatting and washing her hair. Hearing the cart, she raised her head, water still dripping from her hair. "Oh, back already? How many coins did your rubbish fetch?"

Wang Jianguo stood the cart up and carried the pork and the liquor into the house.

"Hey, what did you buy?" Zhao Xiaomei stood up and flicked her wet hair back.

"Meat."

"Meat?" Zhao Xiaomei caught up in two steps, lifted the oiled paper for a look. "Two jin? Where'd you get the money?"

"Earned it."

Zhao Guilan came out of the house and, seeing the meat, was startled too. "Jianguo, you..."

"Auntie, this month's food money — I'll give you ten yuan first." Wang Jianguo took ten yuan from his pocket and set it on the table. "The rest I'll keep for stocking up goods."

Zhao Guilan pinched the ten yuan, her face a little stiff. "Where did you get so much money? You haven't been up to anything shady out there, have you..."

"I bought a sewing machine head, fixed it, and resold it." Wang Jianguo set the meat on the chopping board. "Auntie, stew it tonight. Xiaomei can eat too."

Zhao Xiaomei stood in the doorway, her face going blue then white. "You... you sold a bit of scrap and earned ten yuan?"

"Bought for six, sold for twenty."

"Twenty?" Zhao Xiaomei's voice rose again. "Who are you fooling? A broken machine head for twenty?"

"South Market, sold it in front of a crowd of people. If you don't believe me, go ask." Wang Jianguo washed his hands. "Oh — Xiaomei, the heel's coming unglued on those plastic sandals of yours. Tomorrow I'll buy you a new pair."

Zhao Xiaomei's mouth opened and closed. Nothing came out.

In the yard, Auntie Sun had heard and chimed in with a laugh. "Well now, Jianguo's come up in the world. Knows how to dote on his sister."

"Who wants his doting!" Zhao Xiaomei swung herself into the house and slammed the door curtain with a crack.

Zhao Guilan tucked the money away, her voice softer. "Jianguo, it's not your auntie nagging. Money that comes fast goes fast. You should save it, not squander it all."

"I know."

Wang Jianguo went back to the side room, barred the door, and took out the stamps and badges. He studied them a long time by the light coming through the window. These things weren't worth money now, but he knew that later... He wrapped them in oiled paper and stuffed them deep into the kang's fire hole.

He'd barely stuffed them away when someone called at the courtyard gate, "Is Wang Jianguo home?"

Wang Jianguo went out and looked. It was Old Zhou, who repaired bicycles at the lane's mouth, and behind him a tall thin man in blue work clothes, in his forties, sleeves covered with protectors — clearly somebody from a work unit.

"Jianguo," Old Zhou said, "this is Master Li, from the steel rolling mill. Their factory's logistics department has a batch of old things to dispose of, and they asked if I knew anyone buying secondhand goods. I thought at once — isn't that exactly your line?"

The tall thin man stepped forward. "Little brother, our factory warehouse has cleared out a batch of old desks and chairs, old tin cabinets, and a few scrapped electric motors. The factory says dispose of them and turn them into a bit of funds. Can you take them?"

Wang Jianguo's heart gave a thump.

"How much?"

"Thirty-odd sets of desks and chairs, a dozen-odd tin cabinets, four motors." Master Li held up four fingers. "The factory's price is three hundred. One price. No bargaining."

Three hundred yuan.

Wang Jianguo's hands were in his pockets, squeezing the few yuan he'd earned today. His heart beat two beats faster. Three hundred yuan he could not produce. But this batch... He ran through it at speed in his head: the desks and chairs were hardwood; the tin cabinets could be refitted as tool chests; and those four motors — even scrapped, you could strip the copper and the silicon steel sheets...

"Little brother, give me an answer." Master Li watched him.

Wang Jianguo raised his head. "Master Li, I'll look at the goods. Tomorrow I'll come to the factory."

"Looking's fine, but the price..."

"I won't haggle the price," Wang Jianguo said. "But I need two days to raise the money."

Master Li exchanged a glance with Old Zhou. "All right. Come to the factory tomorrow morning. Any later and somebody else will have hauled it off."

The men left. Wang Jianguo stood unmoving at the courtyard gate.

Three hundred yuan — and he didn't even have thirty in his pocket.

But this first deal, he had to take it down.