Chapter 2: The Grain Station Scale, Fixed True

The diesel can in the canvas bag weighed twenty jin; Little Zhou’s junior brother was shaking his arm from the strain. The widow’s boy poked his face out from the roots of the elm tree, curious. “Uncle Li, is this iron chunk easy to fix like our old two-wheel bicycles?”

“Same thing.” Li Weiguo took the can and set it on a stone block. “Every machine is just iron plates causing trouble.”

He rummaged through his toolkit for a hex wrench and crouched under the truck bed. The smell of diesel wafted up, making Aunt Liu pull her rice bowl away a bit.

“Take this off.” He waved the wrench at his junior. “The high-pressure oil pump assembly. Three screws on the bottom, loosen counter-clockwise.”

The junior leaned in. “The tech at the county station said if this pump is toasted, it’s a twelve-yuan fix.”

“Burnt or not, I don’t look. I feel.” Li Weiguo slipped the wrench into the first screw hole and twisted his wrist. *Click*. The rust stuck. He dripped two drops of diesel into the gap, waited thirty seconds, and twisted again.

The third screw came out, and the pump body settled slightly. Li Weiguo held it with one hand while fishing a piece of copper wire from the bottom of the kit—it was a probe he’d bent himself, barely thicker than a hair.

“Smell this diesel.” He dipped the wire, held it to his nose, then passed it to the junior.

“A bit sour?”

“Yeah. Sour means water.” Li Weiguo pulled the wire back and swirled it in the can. “How long has this oil been sitting?”

“Pulled it from the Supply and Marketing Coop last week. Kept it under the truck bed.”

“In Northeast winter, it’s minus twenty degrees. When diesel freezes and thaws, it traps water. Water gets into the pump, jams the plunger, and the injector can’t atomize. You thought the pump was burnt, but it was actually sealed up by water.” Li Weiguo flipped the pump over, wiped it with a rag, and pointed to a small hole on the bottom. “This vent valve is clogged. Poke it through with wire, switch to a clean bucket of diesel, and it’ll run.”

The junior’s mouth hung open for a long time.

“Twelve yuan…”

“Twelve yuan buys four jin of pork knuckles.” The widow chimed in from behind the courtyard wall. “Your junior failed the college entrance exam this year and went home to farm. Twelve yuan feeds him for half a month.”

Aunt Liu hopped over with her bowl. “So how can the county station let people waste money like that?”

“County stations fix big parts to make a profit.” Li Weiguo screwed the bolts back in. “They don’t bother with small fixes. You’d spend more than twelve just on gas for the round trip.”

Little Zhou grinned. “Master Li, you’re pretty sharp. They check for ages and can’t figure it out, but you find it in no time.”

“Not sharp.” Li Weiguo shoved the wrench back in his kit. “Back in the army, I shadowed a master mechanic for three years. He could diagnose any car or boat just by lying on the ground and listening. That skill is about hearing.”

The crowd went quiet for a moment. Someone muttered, “Hearing it…”

“What do you mean, hearing it?” The widow’s boy asked.

Li Weiguo stood up, brushed the dirt off his knees, walked to the truck bed, sat on the ground, and tapped the fuel tank. “Listen.”

He pressed his ear against it. Under the oil can, a faint *gurgle-gurgle* sounded, like someone stirring water with a spoon.

“Water,” he said. “If there’s water in the oil, you’ll hear this while driving. Dry diesel is silent.”

The junior crawled down to listen. “There it is!” He jumped up. “Master Li, how much to swap us for a clean bucket of oil?”

“No charge if I’m not fixing the truck.” Li Weiguo stood up. “But you owe me a favor. If your junior ever gets stuck, don’t run to the county station first. Come to our village. I save you money, you bring me the word around.”

“What favor?!” Little Zhou slapped his thigh. “From now on, every tractor on my route hits a problem, I send them your way!”

The widow poked her head over the wall, smiling. “Li Weiguo, your mouth—you calculate better than old Zhang at the Supply and Marketing Coop.”

Aunt Liu leaned in, lowering her voice. “Weiguo, I wanted to ask… that tricycle of yours, can you fix it?”

“I can fix it.”

“Just… the other day I was hauling grain, and the rear axle was clacking. I asked at the People’s Commune, and they said a new axle is eight yuan.”

“Clacking doesn’t mean the axle.” Li Weiguo crouched, pulled the tricycle from the wall, held the rear wheel with one hand and lifted with the other. “Pedal hard two times.”

Aunt Liu stepped on and pedaled twice. The rear wheel clacked seven or eight times.

“Chain is loose, bearings are dry.” Li Weiguo removed the rear wheel and locked the hub nut with a wrench. “No new axle needed. It’s just a matter of oil.”

“Oil?”

“Two mao.”

Aunt Liu’s eyes went wide. “Two mao?!”

“Two mao.”

A buzz went through the crowd. Someone asked, “Then… that sewing machine of mine, can you fix it?”

“Can.”

“My tractor’s front axle is out of alignment, can you fix it?”

“Can.”

“My radio’s getting fuzzy…”

“I’ll fix it.”

Li Weiguo stood up, tucked the wrench behind his belt, and called out to the widow. “Sister-in-law, is that pot on your stove fixed yet?”

“Fixed! Fixed!” The widow pushed half her body over the wall. “Boiled porridge this morning. Not a wisp of smoke!”

“Good.” Li Weiguo hoisted the toolkit onto his shoulder. “Done for today. I’ve got to head to the People’s Commune.”

The crowd dispersed. Aunt Liu walked two steps with her bowl, then turned back. “Weiguo, that two mao—”

“No charge.” Li Weiguo was already three steps away, waving without turning his head. “Do me a favor. If villagers ask who fixed things, just say ‘Old Li’s’.”

Aunt Liu stood there, bowl in hand, frozen for a while. She suddenly remembered that two weeks ago, she’d ridden her clacking tricycle past Li Weiguo’s Repair Shop and hadn’t even lifted the door curtain to look.

By the time Li Weiguo reached the People’s Commune gate, the sun was leaning west. Three big trucks were parked in the yard, their beds covered in army-green canvas. A few old men in blue cloth work clothes squatted by the wall smoking. They saw him and lifted their eyelids.

“Hey, Li Weiguo?” One of them blew out a puff of smoke. “The mechanic?”

“The mechanic.” Li Weiguo dropped his toolkit on the ground. “Heard you’ve got a Jiefang 141 that won’t start?”

“Won’t start. It’s been acting up for three weeks.”

“When can you look at it?”

“Right now—third row, car number seven.”

Li Weiguo shouldered his kit and turned into the repair rank. A Jiefang 141 sat in the middle of the yard, hood up. A young man with glasses was crouched nearby, tightening the air filter base with a screwdriver. Seeing Li Weiguo, the young man stood up and sized him up.

“You’re the veteran old Li mentioned?”

“Li Weiguo.”

“I’m Sun Jianguo, the technician here.” The young man extended his hand. “How long has your Repair Shop been open?”

“Half a month.”

“Half a month.” Sun Jianguo tucked the screwdriver into his pocket. “Old Li says your skills are decent.”

“Decent or not, it depends on the car.”

“Fine, take a look.” Sun Jianguo stepped aside. “This truck: cold start is normal, hot start stalls. I checked the spark plugs—no issues. Dismantled and washed the carburetor, still no luck. Swapped in new injectors, still no luck.”

Li Weiguo opened his toolkit but didn’t rush to work. He walked around the truck, crouched to check the chassis, then stood up and sniffed the exhaust pipe.

“What fuel does this run on?”

“Ninety-two octane gasoline.”

“How often do you change it?”

“Once a month.”

Li Weiguo nodded, cupped his ear to the exhaust, and tapped the gas cap. *Thump-thump-thump-thump*.

“Listen to that,” he pointed at the pipe. “The rhythm is wrong. It should be four even beats. It’s three long, one short. One cylinder isn’t firing.”

Sun Jianguo leaned in. “Sure… how did you figure that out?”

“I didn’t see it. I heard it.” Li Weiguo pulled a screwdriver from his kit and unscrewed the air filter. “Smell this.”

Sun Jianguo leaned in and frowned. “A bit sweet?”

“Methanol.” Li Weiguo closed the filter. “There’s methanol mixed in this tank. The Supply and Marketing Coop adds methanol to gasoline for freeze protection—it gets minus twenty here in winter. But methanol evaporates faster than gasoline. Once it’s in the cylinder, the ignition temp is off, so it stalls when hot.”

Sun Jianguo stared. “Mixed with methanol… what do we do?”

“Change the fuel.” Li Weiguo closed his kit. “Get a bucket of pure gas from the coop, drain the tank, and flush it twice with gas.”

“How much will that cost?”

“A bucket of gas is five yuan, half a bucket for flushing. Factor in the gas, maybe eight yuan. Cheaper than swapping injectors.”

Sun Jianguo went quiet for a moment, took off his glasses, and wiped them. “Li Weiguo, I… I’m sent by the county station. I’m not here to fix cars. I’m here to see if you’re any good.”

“You don’t decide if I’m any good.” Li Weiguo shouldered his kit. “When the car is fixed, you decide.”

“So… when can you fix it?”

“Go get the fuel.” Li Weiguo was already turning away. “Once the gas arrives, I’ll have it done in half an hour.”

Sun Jianguo stood there, watching Li Weiguo’s back disappear at the yard entrance. He suddenly remembered that sound—*thump-thump-thump*, three long, one short. He’d been crouched there for three weeks without catching the issue; this guy just circled, sniffed, and listened once to find it.

By the time Li Weiguo headed back to the village, it was nearly dark. As soon as he turned the corner into the street, he saw someone standing at his gate—wearing a dark blue padded jacket, holding a cloth bundle, chatting with the widow.

“Sister-in-law, is Li Weiguo home?”

“He’s home! Weiguo!” The widow called out to the yard. “Someone’s here for you!”

Li Weiguo dumped his toolkit at the entrance and walked in. The man turned around—fiftyish, square-jawed, dressed in an official’s outfit with brass buttons on the cuffs.

“Are you Li Weiguo?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Wang Desheng, Director of the People’s Commune.” The man put the bundle on the table. “Come, sit.”

Li Weiguo didn’t sit. He stood by the table, studying the bundle.

“This month, the Commune is handling the autumn harvest.” Wang Desheng opened the bundle; it was a stack of papers. “We planted two hundred acres of beets. Scales open tomorrow. The scales are broken. The Commune’s, the team’s, the county’s—none of them can fix it.”

“Scales broken?”

“Broken for a week.” Wang Desheng spread the papers out. “Look—these are the beets purchase contracts. Scales open at ten tomorrow morning. If the scales aren’t fixed, twenty thousand people will be lining up. Miss the season, and the beets will rot in the ground in three days.”

Li Weiguo picked up the papers, flipped through them, and set them down.

“What kind of scales?”

“Spring scales. Three hundred kilo capacity.”

Li Weiguo crouched, picked up the bundle, and weighed it in his hands. “Where are they?”

“Grain Station.”

“Let’s go.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Li Weiguo shouldered his kit and called to the widow. “Sister-in-law, I’m leaving—won’t be home for dinner.”

The widow poked half her body out over the wall, lowering her voice. “Weiguo, if Director Wang…”

“Sister-in-law,” Li Weiguo was at the gate, waving without turning back. “Broken scales, twenty thousand people waiting. Not much harder than fixing a tractor.”

Wang Desheng followed a few steps, then stopped. “Li Weiguo, these skills… learned in the army?”

“Learned from an engine master.” Li Weiguo didn’t turn around. “Three years.”

“Three years taught you this much?”

“Yeah.” Li Weiguo turned into the alley, kit on his shoulder. “Back in the army, we had to fix everything ourselves. Planes, tanks, cars, boats—when it breaks, you can’t wait. If you can’t fix it, you die.”

Wang Desheng stood at the gate for a while, watching Li Weiguo disappear into the alley. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

“Three years.” He muttered to himself. “Three years of learning beats three months at the county station.”

He stubbed out the cigarette, walked two steps, stopped, and shouted into the alley. “Li Weiguo! If tomorrow’s weighing goes well, I’ll bring a Banner of Praise over myself!”

No answer from the alley. Li Weiguo had already turned into the Grain Station courtyard, dropped his kit on the ground, crouched down, and pried open the scale’s cover.

On the spring scale’s dial, the numbers were crooked by half an inch.

He used a screwdriver to unscrew the dial and poked the spring’s pivot with the copper wire—*click*. The rust stuck. He dripped two drops of diesel into the gap, waited a minute, and twisted.

*Click.*

The dial was straight.

Li Weiguo stood up and placed a bag of cement on the scale pan—ten kilos. The dial hit ten. He added another—twenty. Another—thirty.

The scale was accurate.

He straightened his back and heard someone inside the Grain Station shouting, “Scale’s fixed! Start weighing!”

The line of twenty thousand people in the yard began to surge forward.