Chapter 1: Severing Ties in Print

In the factory office of the Red Star Machinery Factory, the wall clock had just struck ten.

The pendulum swung back and forth — tick, tick, tick — striking against the grey-white wall with its peeling paint, striking until your chest felt tight. The office wasn't big. Two long tables pushed together, their corners worn shiny, the lacquer flaking up in patches to show the dark wood beneath. Against the wall stood a tin file cabinet, rusted like an old tree root, one drawer handle bent into a hook. Newspaper was pasted over the window. Outside, the sky hung low and grey, leaden clouds pressing down on the chimney tops. When the wind blew, the windowpanes hummed.

Section Chief Liu took the cheque out of his drawer and pushed his reading glasses up. The glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, their frame bent from wire, the right temple wrapped twice in tape. He squinted, turned the cheque over and over, ran a finger across the figures, muttering to himself. A cup of tea sat on the desk, the dregs sunk to the bottom, the water long gone cold, the stain on the cup dark green.

"Lin Cuifen, how old are you this year?"

"Twenty."

"Twenty." Section Chief Liu smacked his lips, took off his glasses, wiped them on his shirt front, and set them down on top of the cheque. He leaned back, and the chair legs scraped the floor tiles with a harsh screech. "A hundred and fifty sewing machine heads, sitting in my factory for three years. Three years, Cuifen — do you know how long three years is? The supply section ran for half a year, wore their legs thin, and didn't pull in a single order. And you — a girl, twenty years old — three days. Three days, and you found a buyer?"

As he spoke, his eyes fixed straight on Cuifen, the corners of his mouth turned down, half believing, half not.

"I found one." Cuifen's voice was neither high nor low, perfectly steady. She sat across the desk, knees pressed neatly together, her padded jacket buttoned to the very top button. "The county garment factory. Director Chen nodded to it himself. He says they're in a hurry — the workers are waiting on machines to earn their keep, and there's a batch of army work at year's end. They don't have enough machines."

"Army work?"

Section Chief Liu leaned forward, and the chair legs scraped again.

"That's what he said." Cuifen went on unhurriedly, both hands resting on her knees, her fingers tapping lightly, as if keeping time. "Section Chief Liu, sewing machine heads are a rare thing these days. When city people get married, it's all about the three big items — a watch, a bicycle, a sewing machine — and people nearly come to blows fighting over the coupons. In your warehouse, this batch is a pile of iron lumps. Take it out, and it's money."

As she spoke, the corner of her mouth lifted slightly — not a smile, but the look of someone who knows exactly where she stands.

The typewriter clattered away. Xiao Zhou looked up from his page, a dot of ink on his glasses, and wiped it with his sleeve. "Section Chief Liu, the contract's typed. Two copies." He passed the pages over, his fingers trembling a little — too long at the typewriter.

Cuifen took them and read line by line. Quantity, unit price, delivery date, liability for breach. Her gaze moved like a ruler had measured it, from the first clause to the last, not missing a single character. At the fifth clause, she tapped her pen on the paper, the nib pricking a small dent.

"Change this one," she said. "'Once goods leave the premises, we bear no responsibility' — change it to 'inspected face to face on delivery; no claims after leaving the factory.'"

Section Chief Liu blinked, then burst out laughing, laughing until his back teeth showed.

"Girl, you're sharper than my whole supply section." He waved a hand. "Fine. Change it."

"In business, you can't be sloppy with words." Cuifen bent her head and signed, the pen drawing crisp, decisive strokes. Then she took an ink pad from her pocket and pressed her thumbprint down good and firm, the red print bright on the paper. "And don't you worry. The money's a cheque, I'll haul the goods myself. If anything goes wrong, it has nothing to do with the factory."

The cheque was pushed across. Nine hundred yuan. She held it and looked it over — the paper's edge frayed with wear, the figures clear in ink. She tucked it into an inside pocket, then pressed the spot twice from outside to make sure it was safe.

Section Chief Liu stood up to pour her water. He went around behind the desk; the kettle steamed, the mug was enamel with a chip knocked out of it showing the grey iron underneath. He filled it most of the way and set it by her hand.

"Cuifen, let me tell you something honest." He pulled a chair back into place, sat, and leaned in, dropping his voice by half. "There's another pile of stuff pressed down in the factory warehouse. Not scrap iron, not proper parts — every year they try to clear it out and every year it's still there. The director's given the word: whoever wants it can have it at a discount."

"What kind of stuff?"

"The list's with Old Li. Go look for yourself. If you fancy anything, the price is negotiable." Section Chief Liu waved a hand. "I'm staying out of it. It's up to you."

Cuifen was about to answer when the office door was kicked open.

The door slammed into the tin file cabinet against the wall — clang — and two archive boxes tumbled out of the cabinet and rolled across the floor.

Wang Guixiang stood in the doorway, half her hair come loose, stray locks plastered to her forehead, her lips trembling, her eyes round and glaring, one finger pointed at Cuifen's nose.

"So! So! I wondered where your money came from — it was here all along!"

Her voice was loud enough to shake the whole room. The windowpanes buzzed, and the enamel mug on top of the file cabinet jumped.

Section Chief Liu's face darkened. He stood up and slapped the desk. "Comrade, who are you? This is the factory office."

"I'm her mother!" Wang Guixiang's voice rattled the glass, flecks of spit flying. "Section Chief, don't you do business with her! This girl has no work unit, nobody behind her — she's an unlicensed profiteer, pure and simple! Take her money, and when Industry and Commerce comes investigating, your factory will be dragged into it too!"

She tried to charge into the room, but Section Chief Liu held out an arm and blocked her.

Xiao Zhou had stopped typing, his fingers hovering over the keys, not daring to move. Section Chief Liu looked at his drawer, looked at Cuifen, his brow knotting into a lump.

"Is that true?"

Wang Guixiang seized her moment, stepping inside with one stride, her heels knocking hard against the floor tiles. The smell of scallions and cigarette smoke came off her and pushed straight up people's noses.

"Section Chief, you listen to me! She's only twenty, barely grown — where would she get capital? That's our family's money! Thirty yuan went missing from my cabinet — it was her, she stole it, I'll stake my life on it!" She shouted at the top of her voice, the cords in her neck standing out.

"Wang Guixiang." Cuifen was unhurried; she didn't even lift her eyelids. "First: that thirty yuan — you slipped it to Zhao Jianguo yesterday to buy liquor. Old Li passed your window on his way to fetch stock and saw it clear as day."

Wang Guixiang's face went white. Her lips trembled; the words reached her mouth and were swallowed back.

"Second: I moved out at eighteen and have kept myself ever since. The money I earn has nothing to do with my mother — oh, no. With you. Not a single cent."

"You—"

"Third."

Cuifen drew a kraft-paper envelope from the inside pocket of her padded jacket, took out a sheet of paper, and laid it on Section Chief Liu's desk. One corner had a fold mark, but the sheet was neat and flat, unwrinkled.

Red seals. An embossed stamp. A serial number.

"District Administration for Industry and Commerce. Individual business license. Issued this March — one of the first batch in the whole district. I can recite the number from memory: zero, zero, one, one, seven. Business scope: secondhand goods — buying, repair, retail. Take a look, Section Chief Liu. This isn't profiteering. This is legal business."

Section Chief Liu leaned in close, pushed his glasses back up, and squinted at it for a long while. Then he slapped his thigh, his chair scooting back two steps.

"A self-employed trader! I knew it — it was in the papers, the higher-ups encourage this! Girl, this license of yours is harder currency than our supply section's work permits!"

Wang Guixiang lunged forward a step, hand already reaching out to snatch the paper.

Cuifen lifted her hand and the paper was gone, withdrawn neither fast nor slow. She drew out another sheet — a newspaper — unfolded it, and planted her finger on the centre fold. It was yesterday's Liaoning Daily, and printed in the fold was a public notice, its headline in big bold type.

"And this. A statement published last week. Zhao Jianguo and Wang Guixiang hereby sever all father-daughter and mother-daughter relations with Lin Cuifen, effective immediately. From this day, marriages, funerals, debts and obligations of either party shall have nothing whatsoever to do with the other. Black characters on white paper, official seal on top."

She held the newspaper up in front of Wang Guixiang's face, the edge of the page nearly touching the tip of her nose.

"See it clearly? Yesterday you were wailing and carrying on at the warehouse gate — how is it today you've become my mother?"

Wang Guixiang's lips shook, the flesh of her face quivering, her eyes darting round and round, hunting for something to throw back — and finding nothing.

"You — you ungrateful wolf of a girl... he's your own father!"

"My own father?" Cuifen laughed. The corners of her mouth curved up; her eyes did not. "The winter my mother died, I came down with malaria. I lay in bed burning and raving, and there wasn't so much as one fever tablet in the house. You sat in your room counting money. When you'd finished counting, you turned out the lamp."

The room went quiet.

The wall clock still went tick, tick, tick, but the sound seemed to come through a layer of water, muffled. Xiao Zhou lowered his head, his fingers tapping twice, softly, on the keys above them, making no sound. Section Chief Liu picked up his enamel mug and drank a mouthful of water. He said nothing.

"I've remembered that kindness to this day." Cuifen folded the newspaper, folded it neat and square, and put it back in the envelope. "From now on, you take your broad highway and I'll take my single-plank bridge. Come making trouble at the factory one more time, and I'll take my license and my newspaper to the Industry and Commerce office, to the subdistrict office, to the police station — and explain it all, item by item."

Wang Guixiang backed to the doorway, her face flushing red then white, as if she'd been slapped twice. Her hand gripped the door handle, knuckles white.

"Fine. Fine. You just wait..."

The door slammed shut. Footsteps hurried off down the corridor, farther, farther, turned a corner, and were gone.

Section Chief Liu let out a long breath, locked the cheque back in his drawer, and turned to give Cuifen a thumbs-up. He rubbed his hands together until they crackled.

"Girl. You can do it. The cheque counts, as of today. Go look at that batch of scrap later. I'll give you a tip: the director needs money urgently. Bargain him down — it'll go through."

"Mm." Cuifen put her license away, tucked it back into her jacket's inside pocket, and patted it flat. "Section Chief Liu, if there's anything in that batch worth having, I'll have an answer for you within three days."

She stood up, her chair legs scraping the tiles. Section Chief Liu waved a hand, sat back down, picked up his enamel mug and drank; the tea stain swirled once around the mug's wall.

Cuifen reached the door, put her hand on the handle, and looked back.

"Section Chief Liu — that nine hundred yuan. In three days, I'll pay you back, principal and interest."

Section Chief Liu blinked, then laughed and waved her off.

Cuifen pushed the door open. The corridor was dim, a foot-lamp glowing dull yellow. In her cloth shoes — patter, patter — her footsteps echoed down the hall.

The warehouse. Old Li was squatting on the threshold smoking. When he saw her come back, he handed the list over.

Old Li was fifty-some, wearing an army-green padded jacket buttoned to his chin, cloth shoes hanging half off his feet, their uppers worn pale. He squatted on the threshold and knocked his pipe against his sole, shaking out a little pinch of ash that fell on the snow.

"This is the one the Section Chief meant. Have a look. A pile of junk."

He passed the list over. It was folded in three, the edges gone fuzzy.

Cuifen squatted in the light to read it. There was no curtain over the warehouse door; wind poured in from outside and made the list flutter. She held its corner down and narrowed her eyes. Brush-written characters, line after line, the ink uneven, bleeding a little in places:

Old desk fans, seventeen, rusted. Two crates of defective clock and watch parts. One set of copper dies, scrapped. Sundry iron, a quantity.

When she saw the words "copper dies," her finger stopped. Her fingertip stroked the paper twice, gently, as if touching something precious.

Old Li knocked his pipe. "That set of copper dies — nobody wants it even free. Last week a dealer from Shanghai came by, walked around it twice, said it was too heavy, the freight wouldn't pay, and left."

Cuifen said nothing.

Wind poured in through the warehouse door and made the list flutter, and bellied out the hem of her padded jacket. Outside, the sky had darkened; the leaden clouds pressed down, and the light in the warehouse dropped by a shade.

In her last life, it had been this same autumn.

The same set of copper dies. Half a month after the Shanghai dealer left, he came back with four men and a Liberation truck and hauled it away in the night. Only later did she hear people say it was a complete set of old type dies, copper, and there were buyers in the south paying prices that doubled and doubled again.

But back then, she'd been standing at the Wang family's stove, washing dishes for ten people a day. Wang Guixiang had kept her dowry money to marry off her own son, and promised Cuifen to a forty-year-old widower in the next village in exchange for two cartloads of red bricks. That was how she'd lived out that whole life, stifled and cramped. And when she breathed her last, there hadn't been a single person in the room to light a lamp.

She opened her eyes again and it was this March. She was squatting at the gate of the Industry and Commerce office, clutching the thirty yuan she'd saved over three years.

She hadn't hesitated. The first thing she'd done was get that license.

"Cuifen? Cuifen!" Old Li was waving a hand in front of her eyes, his pipe nearly jabbing her in the nose. "What are you thinking about?"

Cuifen came back to herself, folded the list, and tucked it into her pocket. Her gaze had settled, as if she'd become someone else.

"Nothing." She stood up and brushed the dust off her knees. "Uncle Li, lend me your scale. First thing tomorrow, I'm going to weigh up that pile of junk."

"You want to buy it? It's priced as scrap iron!" Old Li stood up too, knocking his pipe against his sole again.

"Scrap iron?" Cuifen smiled — the corners of her mouth curved, and this time her eyes curved too. "Uncle Li, there's no such thing as scrap iron in this world. There are only things put in the wrong place. Fix up a desk fan and it sells for thirty. Take clock parts apart and they sell by the jin for more than this. And as for that set of copper dies—"

She paused, her gaze resting on the rust-covered dies deep in the warehouse. Sunset leaked in through a crack in the window and lit them with a dull glow.

"Someone is willing to pay a great deal for them."

Old Li stared, his pipe stopped in mid-air.

"How do you know?"

Cuifen didn't answer. She turned and walked out of the warehouse. The sunset stretched her shadow long, dragging it across the snow all the way to the warehouse gate.

In the last life, that batch of goods had made the southerners rich.

This life:

It was her turn.