Chapter 1: A Sign Under the Old Elm

Li Weiguo jammed a thin plank of wood into a crook of the Old Elm Tree. Above it, he had branded four black characters with a stick of burning wood: Vehicle Repair & Tire Puncture Repair. The old party branch secretary, Zhao Degui, strolled over from the team headquarters with his hands behind his back. He glared at the sign, then glanced at Li Weiguo, who was crouched on the ground fiddling with a wrench, and squeezed a grunt out of his throat: “Weiguo, what the hell are you up to?”

“Uncle Zhao, fixing vehicles.” Li Weiguo didn’t even lift his head. He lined up his wrenches in order of size, then wiped each one down with a rag, “Tractors, bicycles, sewing machines—if it spins, I can fix it.”

“Do you think this is the military? Give you a workshop and you just start pulling pistons?” Zhao Degui squatted down on the elm’s root, pulled out his pipe, and pressed tobacco into the bowl with his thumb. “Since the Liberation, folks in Kaoshan Village have always fixed their own stuff when it broke. You setting up a stall to charge money? What is that called? Do you even know the term for Speculation?”

Li Weiguo stuffed the rag into his toolbox and looked up. “Uncle Zhao, I’m charging for my labor, not for flipping goods for profit. Besides—the county put out a document allowing commune members to run household side-businesses. Haven’t you heard?”

Zhao Degui’s hand stopped mid-charge. He knew about it, of course; the People's Commune had announced it last month. But he was still scratching his head: a veteran who came home from holding a gun wasn’t老老实实 working the fields to earn his Work Points. Instead, he was piling a bunch of iron lumps at the village entrance. What kind of talk was that?

“Even so, you had to clear it with the team first—”

“I did.” Li Weiguo pulled a paper, folded into quarters, out of his pants pocket. He unfolded it and held it out. “I went to the accountant yesterday afternoon. The brigade stamped it. Uncle Zhao, you’re the one who signed it. Forgot, did you?”

Zhao Degui took a look. Yep, it was real. The accountant had handed it to him the night before; he’d downed two li of sweet potato liquor, got a bit hazy, and just slapped his thumb on it. He shoved the paper back into Li Weiguo’s chest, didn’t even finish his smoke, and stood up, brushing off his backside. “Fine. Do your thing. But I’m putting this out there first—you don’t make trouble for me.”

Trouble came faster than Zhao Degui expected.

The news of Li Weiguo’s stall spread through Kaoshan Village within half an hour. The first customer was Widow Zhao, dragging a Butterfly Sewing Machine with the head tied to a laundry board with hemp rope. She walked three steps, gasped twice.

“Weiguo! Weiguo!” Widow Zhao slammed the laundry board at the base of the elm and lifted her apron to wipe her sweat. “Give your auntie a look at this junk. The pedal’s stuck, the needle bar just shudders, it won’t move. The People's Commune repair factory said I need to replace the Swing Check, wants eight mao from me, and I have to wait half a month. Five mouths in this house are waiting for clothes. I can’t afford to wait.”

Li Weiguo hauled the sewing machine onto a stone block, unscrewed the head cover, and prodded the Swing Check with his finger. He gave it two spins, stopped, and turned to ask, “Auntie, did someone repair this machine for you recently?”

“I did! I took it to Liu Lao'er over on the east side last month. He charged me five mao.”

“He swapped your Swing Check for one that’s the wrong size.” Li Weiguo unscrewed the Swing Check with a screwdriver and held it in his palm for Widow Zhao to see. “Look at this tip. It’s too short. It won’t mesh with the needle bar. He just ground it down with a file to make it fit. It works at first, but jam after two days.”

Widow Zhao’s eyes went wide. “That Liu Lao'er! I knew it got worse every time he fixed it!”

“Relax.” Li Weiguo rummaged through his toolbox and found a package wrapped in brown paper. He opened it to reveal three brand-new Swing Checks. He measured each one with a vernier caliper, picked one, and said, “I saved these up while I was in the army. Standard parts. Just swap it out.”

He installed the Swing Check, calibrated the needle bar, and adjusted the shuttle race clearance. The whole thing took less than a smoke’s time. Finally, he gave the pedal a kick. The head started spinning with a crisp, light tap-tap-tap. Widow Zhao grabbed a scrap of cloth, pushed it under the needle, ran a seam, and flipped it over. The stitching was as even as if measured by a ruler.

“Oh my!” Widow Zhao slapped her thigh. “Weiguo, this skill—you learned it in the army?”

“Yeah, vehicle repair includes mechanical maintenance. Learned it all.”

“How much?”

Li Weiguo held up two fingers.

“Two mao?”

“Two mao.”

Widow Zhao pulled a handkerchief packet out of her crossed-front jacket, unwrapped layer after layer, counted out two mao, slapped it on the stone block, and carried her sewing machine away. Three steps later, she looked back: “Weiguo! I’ll bring you a bowl of fermented soybeans tomorrow!”

Zhao Degui had been squatting behind the grinding stone for his second pipe. He watched those two mao and twitched the corner of his mouth, but said nothing.

The second customer arrived at midday.

Little Zhou from the County Tractor Station, just over twenty, with a shaved head, rattled down the main road on a Dongfanghong-28. Three women and two kids were hitching a ride in the cargo bed. Little Zhou parked under the elm, jumped down, and shouted: “Li Weiguo! You here?”

“That’s me.”

“Finally found you!” Little Zhou wiped the sweat off his face. “I drive tractors at the county station. Surname Zhou. Does this repair stall fix Diesel Engines?”

“Yes.”

“Then good.” Little Zhou popped the hood. “This tractor shut down while unloading at the commune’s grain depot yesterday. It hasn’t started since. I messed with it all night, checked the fuel line and the electrical, couldn’t find the fault. The county station mechanic says we need to replace the High-Pressure Oil Pump, twelve yuan for parts and labor, and I have to drag the tractor back there. But this tractor has to haul seeds this afternoon. Can’t wait.”

Li Weiguo walked around the front of the tractor, crouched down to check the nozzles, and felt the diesel filter. He had Little Zhou turn the starter twice, leaned in to listen to the noise, and then stood up.

“The pump isn’t broken.”

“Not broken? Then why’s there no fuel?”

“Touch this filter.” Li Weiguo grabbed Little Zhou’s hand and pressed it against the filter housing. “Ice cold. You didn’t close the fuel tank cap after unloading wheat at the depot. Wheat awns mixed with dust got in there and clogged the Filter Element. What good is it to tear the pump out?”

Little Zhou was skeptical. “Sure? I blew the fuel line with an air pump—”

“Blowing the line doesn’t fix it. You gotta pull the Filter Element.” Li Weiguo was already unscrewing the housing bolts with a wrench. “Got any clean diesel?”

“Half a bucket in the cargo bed.”

Li Weiguo pulled out the Filter Element. Sure enough, the mesh was coated in a layer of wheat awns and fine dust. A rinse with diesel sent a layer of debris floating to the surface. He scrubbed the element clean inside and out with a brush, blew on the fuel line with his mouth twice, reassembled it, pumped the hand pump a few times, and jerked his chin at Little Zhou.

“Start it.”

Little Zhou turned the key. The starter coughed for two turns, then the Diesel Engine roared to life, and a puff of blue smoke shot out of the exhaust pipe. The three women in the back started clapping: “Fixed! Fixed!”

Little Zhou stared blankly for a few seconds, then slapped his thigh. “Holy shit—just that? Just a clogged filter?”

“Just that.” Li Weiguo wiped his hands with a rag. “You’re an apprentice at the county station. Didn’t your master teach you to check the Filter Element?”

Little Zhou’s face turned red. “They did... I figured a new Filter Element wouldn’t clog that fast—”

“New Filter Element, dirty tank? Clogs in three days.” Li Weiguo threw the rag into the toolbox. “Next time, check the dirtiest part of the fuel system first. Don’t start by ripping out the pump. Every time you remove the pump, the seals loosen a bit. Eventually, it’ll actually break.”

Little Zhou nodded vigorously, pulled money from his pocket. “How much?”

“One yuan.”

“One yuan?” Little Zhou thought he misheard. “The county station mechanic wanted two yuan just to open the pump—”

“I only swapped the Filter Element. I’m charging one yuan because you’re on a schedule; I’m not screwing you over.” Li Weiguo pocketed the cash. “If you think that’s a rip, bring two apprentices over next time to learn. I’ll feed you.”

Little Zhou grinned, jumped into the tractor, put it in gear, rolled forward a bit, then hit the brake and leaned out of the cab: “Master Li! I’m really coming in a couple days—I’ve got an underclassman who’s even worse at this than me!”

“Come on through.”

The tractor rumbled away. Widow Zhao, squatting at her gate sewing shoe soles, had watched the whole thing. She stood up and shouted across the street: “Auntie Liu! Did you see that? The county tractor driver came to Weiguo to fix his machine! One yuan fixed it! The county station wanted twelve!”

That one shout did the trick. Heads popped up from behind half the village’s walls.

Zhao Degui finished his noon meal at home, but the more he thought about it, the less at ease he felt. He went to Li Weiguo’s house with his hands behind his back. Halfway there, he bumped into Station Chief Sun from the commune’s machinery station, riding a bicycle down the main road.

Station Chief Sun was in his forties, with a square jaw, wearing a blue cloth cap. A briefcase was tied to the back of his bike. He saw Zhao Degui and squeezed the brakes. “Old Zhao, I’ve been looking for you. Is that Li Weiguo in your village setting up a repair stall at the entrance?”

“Yeah, he is.”

“Who approved it?”

“The brigade stamped it.”

Station Chief Sun parked his bike and flipped through a notebook. “The People's Commune has rules. Machinery repairs fall under the unified management of the Tractor Station. Him setting up a stall and charging money to fix vehicles? That’s running a private repair point. Do you know that’s competing with the Tractor Station?”

Zhao Degui’s stomach dropped. He was old-fashioned, but he got it—Station Chief Sun was here to stir up trouble.

“So what do you want to do?”

“What to do?” Station Chief Sun snapped his notebook shut. “Tell him to come to the commune tomorrow and explain the situation. Also—” he lowered his voice, “someone’s been whispering to the commune. They say his charging has no standard. Two mao for sewing machines, one yuan for tractors? Who’s he to decide? Who’s this money going into? Old Zhao, you’re the branch secretary. You gotta keep a watch on this.”

Zhao Degui mumbled “okay, okay, okay,” while cursing internally: I signed that paper yesterday, and now you guys are finding fault today? I’m a damn fool for sticking my neck out.

Station Chief Sun rode off. Zhao Degui squatted by the road and smoked half a pipe, then stood up, brushed the dirt off, and headed straight for the Old Elm Tree at the village entrance.

Li Weiguo was fixing a bicycle chain for Widow Zhao’s kid. Zhao Degui squatted nearby, tapping his pipe on the stone block. “Weiguo, hold on.”

“What’s up, Uncle Zhao?”

“Station Chief Sun just came by. He says you’re running a private repair point. Wants you to go to the commune tomorrow to explain yourself.” Zhao Degui stared at him. “Someone’s also saying your fees have no standard, that the money’s going into someone’s pocket. That’s not a nice thing to say.”

Li Weiguo clicked the chain back onto the gear, spun the pedal, and the chain whirred smoothly. He straightened up and wiped the oil from his hands with a cotton rag.

“Uncle Zhao, let me ask you one thing—is my repair faster than the commune’s repair factory?”

Zhao Degui choked. “Faster.”

“Do I charge less than the commune’s repair factory?”

“Less.”

“Then who are the common folks going to go to?”

Zhao Degui stayed silent. The half-grown kids squatting nearby, watching the repair, stopped messing around and stared at him.

Li Weiguo shoved the rag into the toolbox and dusted off his hands. “I’ll go to the commune tomorrow. But Uncle Zhao, take this message to Station Chief Sun—I fixed vehicles for five years in the army. I’ve done engine overhauls. If your Tractor Station mechanics can’t even find a clogged Filter Element, what gives them the right to call me out?”

Zhao Degui knocked the ash out of his pipe on his shoe. “You young punk—your mouth is tougher than your hands.”

“Because my hands are tough, my mouth can afford to be.” Li Weiguo bent down and clicked the toolbox shut. “You coming with me tomorrow, Uncle Zhao? You signed the paper. You gotta be my witness.”

Zhao Degui’s eyes went wide. “Witness? Why would I be your witness?”

“To prove I’m not doing Speculation. To prove my fees are fair. To prove—” Li Weiguo slung the toolbox over his shoulder, turned, and flashed a wide grin. “To prove you Branch Secretary Zhao have good taste and didn’t pick the wrong guy.”

Zhao Degui was so angry he huffed. He turned and walked away. Seven or eight steps later, he stopped, didn’t look back, and mumbled this over his shoulder:

“Early tomorrow. Don’t be late. If you’re late, Station Chief Sun gets even more excited.”

Li Weiguo shouted after his back: “Got it, Uncle Zhao! I’ll bring you two steamed cornmeal cakes!”

Zhao Degui didn’t say anything. He walked off with his hands behind his back. Widow Zhao peeked over the wall, half her body sticking out, and whispered: “Weiguo, really going to the commune? Station Chief Sun isn’t some pushover—”

Li Weiguo set the toolbox under the elm and crouched back down to finish the bicycle. Amid the crisp click of the chain engaging the gear, he let out this line without lifting his head:

“Going. It’s just the perfect chance for the guys at the commune to open their eyes—let’s see what real vehicle repair looks like.”

Before the echo faded, the rhythmic rumble of an engine came from the main road. Little Zhou’s Dongfanghong-28 was back, with a young man in work clothes squatting in the cargo bed, holding a canvas bag. Little Zhou parked, jumped out, and called out:

“Master Li! I brought my underclassman! He’s got a question for you—the county station says my tractor needs a new High-Pressure Oil Pump, twelve yuan. Give us a verdict: does it really need replacing?”

Li Weiguo slapped his wrench on the stone block and laughed.

“Replace it or not? Carry that bucket of diesel down from the bed, and I’ll tear it open right here, right now.”

Little Zhou’s underclassman jumped out of the truck, dropped his canvas bag on the ground, and crouched next to Li Weiguo. Widow Zhao’s kid abandoned the bicycle to watch the show. Across the street, Auntie Liu stepped out of her gate, bowl in hand, picking at her food while she watched.

Under the Old Elm Tree, the crowd kept growing.