Chapter Ten: The Road to Hefei

Early in the morning on July 2nd, Xu Chengjun squatted in front of the youth camp's stove and stuffed the last piece of cornbread into his canvas bag.

At the youth camp, food coupons were distributed according to work points. Last month, he earned 280 points, which translated to 28 catties of grain and 7.6 yuan.

After deducting the daily two meals of sweet potato porridge, the 10 catties of coarse grain he managed to save were just enough to exchange for these few pieces of cornbread.

“Aren’t you waiting for the team’s donkey cart?” Zhao Gang entered with a hoe slung over his shoulder, his pants still damp with dew. “I told the team leader to let the old donkey rest a bit longer, just for you.”

“No need, the earlier I leave, the sooner I’ll arrive.” Xu Chengjun swung the canvas bag onto his shoulder, with the corner of a jar of pickled vegetables peeking out.

He patted his trouser pocket. Inside were his crumpled twenty yuan, a few local ration coupons, a few national grain coupons, and a letter of introduction stamped by the county’s Bureau of Culture and Education.

That was all his worldly possessions.

Li Erwa poked his head out from under the covers, rubbing his eyes and muttering, “Chengjun, your bag looks heavier than last time you went to the county.”

“Going out to handle some business, brought along some local specialties,” Xu Chengjun replied with a smile.

As he went out, he bumped into Xinghua fetching water at the well.

Her buckets swayed, sloshing water all the way.

“Chengjun, heading out?” She paused, the carrying pole still pressed to her shoulder. “Take care on the road!”

The canvas bag chafed against his back. Besides dry food and a cotton jacket, inside were two boxes of matches and a bar of soap he’d bought that month.

Soap was rationed by coupon; it had taken him three months to save enough industrial coupons to buy it.

Expensive indeed!

At the entrance to the village, the donkey cart was already waiting beneath the old locust tree.

Old Wang, the driver, was puffing on his pipe. Upon seeing Xu Chengjun, he patted the cart’s plank. “Hop on, just put in fresh wheat straw—nice and soft.”

The donkey cart was communal property; a trip to the commune cost twenty cents, saving three hours compared to walking.

Xu Chengjun had only just settled in when Mrs. Wang, Old Wang’s fourth son’s wife, squeezed on with a cloth bundle, a half block of brown sugar peeking out.

Such a thing was rare—a precious commodity. The supply co-op priced it at eighty cents a jin, plus a ration coupon for oil.

“Comrade Xu, off to the county?” she asked, hugging her bundle closer. “Heard a batch of Snowflake Cream arrived at the department store—twenty-five cents a box, but you need a cosmetic coupon.”

“I’m going to Hefei,” Xu Chengjun shifted over to make room, “on business.”

The young and old wives in the village rarely spoke, but once they started, they could recite your entire family tree! One had to be careful about idle gossip.

The donkey cart rattled over the gravel road, jarring teeth and bones. Bundles of the team’s cotton piled on the cart, a mass of white. Old Wang said the load could fetch fifteen yuan—enough to buy a new water pump for the team.

“Policies are looser now,” the old man tapped his pipe, “A few years back, who dared sell cotton privately? Now you not only can, you can even bargain.”

Xu Chengjun gazed at the ridges along the road. This time last year, he’d been struggling just to earn eight work points a day.

Eight points was worth twenty-four cents, enough for three pieces of cornbread.

Now, just the fare from Fengyang to Hefei cost over three yuan—equivalent to ten days of his work points.

An hour later, the donkey cart reached the commune.

Xu Chengjun paid his fare and stood by the roadside waiting for the three-wheeled motorcycle to the county seat.

Painted on its side was “Commune–County: 1.5 yuan”—seven times the price of the donkey cart, but it saved two hours.

“Comrade Xu?” The driver, Old Zhang, poked his scarred face out, “Zhao Gang asked me to save you a seat. Hop in.”

Two people were already in the cargo bed: a man in a Zhongshan suit clutching a black leather briefcase, and a young man carrying a roll of fabric printed with “Shanghai Printed Cloth.”

“Buying cloth in the county?” Xu Chengjun asked as he sat down.

“Yeah, for my sister’s dowry,” the young man replied, stroking the fabric roll. “One yuan eighty a yard, plus a cloth coupon. This roll cost me ten coupons and eighteen yuan.”

The cadre chimed in, “Everything in the county still needs coupons. Last month, I went to buy a bicycle—not just industrial coupons, but you need connections too. Phoenix brand—one hundred eighty yuan, that’s three months’ wages for an ordinary worker.”

Xu Chengjun did the math: his stipend was 7.6 yuan a month, and with the grain money added in, it barely reached fifteen.

To buy a bicycle, he’d have to save for a whole year without spending a penny!

The “three big items” really lived up to their reputation.

The three-wheeled motorcycle chugged along.

As they neared the county, slogans multiplied along the roadside: “Develop Production, Guarantee Supply,” “Grain as the Key, Comprehensive Development.”

After crossing the Huai River Bridge, a supply co-op appeared by the road. A blackboard out front listed the day’s offerings in chalk:

“Today’s Supply: Salt 0.15 yuan/jin, Soy Sauce 0.12 yuan/jin, Matches 0.02 yuan/box, White Liquor 1.2 yuan/jin (with coupon).”

“This supply co-op is pretty well-stocked,” Old Zhang called back. “Last month, they even ran out of soy sauce.”

The county seat was livelier than Xu Chengjun had expected.

The streets weren’t wide, flanked by mud-brick, tile-roofed houses, with the occasional two-story building.

Bicycles were everywhere, their bells ringing; a few trucks rumbled along with beds full of straw-hatted farmers, likely heading to suburban factories for work.

On the blue-brick wall of the bus station hung a price list, the top line reading: “Fengyang–Hefei Long-distance Bus 2.3 yuan/person,” with a red note below: “Ticket purchase requires work unit certificate.”

He took out his letter of introduction from the commune, which the ticket seller glanced at before tossing him a stiff card ticket: “Bus leaves at two p.m.—check in half an hour early.”

With three hours to spare, Xu Chengjun decided to send a telegram at the post office.

The county’s streets were narrow, the mud-brick walls painted with slogans like “March Forward to Science.” Occasionally a two-story building appeared, with a sign reading “Fengyang County First Department Store.”

A crowd had gathered at the store entrance. Squeezing in, he saw a black-and-white television playing “Tunnel Warfare.”

“This thing costs a hundred and eighty yuan,” someone nearby remarked, “and needs industrial coupons—most families can’t afford it.”

Xu Chengjun touched the five yuan in his pocket, suddenly feeling the bus fare to Hefei wasn’t cheap at all.

He walked to a street corner food stall, where the vendor was serving tea soup in coarse ceramic bowls, shouting, “Fifteen cents a bowl, all you can drink!”

He hesitated, but didn’t buy any.

A bowl of tea soup cost as much as three pieces of cornbread—enough for a meal.

He gave a wry smile: Even a future great writer finds fifteen cents hard to come by!

And so, Xu Chengjun set his first life goal since arriving in 1979: to one day drink his fill of tea soup!

The post office counter was high—he had to stand on tiptoe to see over it.

Xu Chengjun filled out a telegram form: “Comrade Liu: Arriving Bengbu at six today, heading to Hefei tomorrow. Chengjun.”

The clerk glanced at the form, tapping her finger on the paper, “Three cents a character, forty-five cents total.”

After sending the telegram, he sat on the post office steps and pulled a cornbread from his canvas bag.

The bread had gone a bit hard; he gnawed at it with cold boiled water, nearly choking.

Beside him, a young man in work clothes was eating meat buns. The aroma drifted over, and Xu Chengjun couldn’t help but steal a few glances.

Meat buns were five cents apiece, plus a grain coupon. The future great writer still couldn’t bring himself to splurge!