Chapter Six: A Tapestry of Faces
Mid-June, 1979. The sun in Fengyang, Anhui was so fierce it seemed it would roast the oil out of a man.
Xu Chengjun gripped his hoe, calluses layering thick upon his palms.
Rope had left purple-red marks between his thumb and forefinger, and sweat rolled down his jaw, dripping into the freshly plowed field stubbled with wheat. The clods of earth, baked by the sun, radiated heat.
Anyone who ever claimed a farmer’s life was easy ought to be sent to the 1970s for some reform!
...
“Chengjun! The way you’re hoeing those wheat stubbles—might as well be doing embroidery! At this rate, you’ll never catch up with the summer corn planting!” Zhao Gang called out from ahead, his booming voice carrying easily.
He was bare-chested, sweat beading into rivulets along his tanned back, swinging his hoe with speed and force—a true master at work.
Then, realizing his words lacked punch, he added, “Slow any longer, you’ll miss supper! The canteen’s steaming white buns tonight!”
Though, “white” flour—these days, “gray” would be more accurate.
Xu Chengjun straightened up, his upright figure standing out among the waist-high waves of wheat. He thought to himself: Am I that sort of man? Absolutely not!
He picked up the pace, swinging his hoe a bit faster.
...
On the eastern ridge, Captain Xu Laoshi was crouched, gathering scattered wheat heads.
Even half a grain fallen in the mud, he’d pinch up with his rough fingers, blow away the dirt, and tuck it into his pocket.
“Every grain is a drop of sweat; waste it and heaven will send retribution,” the old man muttered under his breath.
The west side, though, was a different story.
Li Erwa lounged against a sheaf of wheat, straw hat tilted over his face, chewing on a stalk.
The ridge near his feet was crooked and scrappy—clearly, he’d done only half the work of others.
“Erwa! Slacking off again!” Xu Laoshi rapped his pipe against his shoe sole.
“Keep at this lazy pace and I’ll dock half your work points tonight!”
Li Erwa sat up, grumbling, eyes drifting toward the threshing ground in the distance. “Captain, I’m saving my strength so I can carry the wheat sheaves later! That’s where I really shine.”
He said it, but his hoe moved as lackadaisically as ever.
Everyone knew he simply waited until others were ahead so he could cut back on his own effort.
Xu Chengjun ducked his head and continued digging, a hint of a smile curling at his lips.
Such was daily life in Xu Family Village: there were the diligent ones like Zhao Gang, those who treated every grain as life itself like Xu Laoshi, and the crafty opportunists like Li Erwa.
It was like a living painting.
...
At noon break, the ridge filled with people in an instant.
Zhao Gang pulled a military canteen out of his canvas satchel, unscrewed the cap, and handed it over. “Have a drink. My ma made mint water—takes the edge off.”
Xu Chengjun took a couple of swigs; the cool freshness slid down his throat, sending a shiver of comfort through him.
Qian Ming squatted nearby, a copy of “High School Mathematics” open across his knees, doing problems in the shade.
His glasses were cracked and mended with tape, but his concentration was undiminished.
“This trigonometry problem—the auxiliary line method you showed me yesterday—I still can’t figure it out,” he said, tapping his scratch paper with a pen. “Like, the angle of this ridge—how do you convert that into degrees?”
...
“You see that patch where Li Erwa’s lying?” Xu Chengjun nodded westward. “The angle between the sheaf under his head and his body is about thirty degrees. The opposite side is the height of the sheaf, the hypotenuse is his body length—so sine thirty degrees equals opposite over hypotenuse, which is exactly 0.5.”
Qian Ming’s eyes lit up. He hurried to sketch it down, muttering, “So simple! You’re good at finding examples.”
Any junior high kid in the twenty-first century could teach you this!
...
Suddenly, Qian Ming lowered his voice. “Heard on the radio yesterday—Beijing Foreign Languages Institute is expanding enrollment this year. English majors have to take an extra oral exam. I’m worried my accent will be a problem.”
“No worries,” Xu Chengjun patted his shoulder. “Tonight we’ll head to the brigade office—there’s an old radio there that picks up the national station’s English lectures. Practice along, you’ll be fine.”
“And if that’s not enough, you’ve got me as your practice partner!”
In truth, Qian Ming’s English foundation was solid. What he lacked was an immersive environment. Fill that gap, and if not Beijing Foreign Languages, he’d at least have a good shot at the English exam.
Not far off, Xu Laoshi was dividing up sweet potatoes with several women.
Xinghua, holding a heavy porcelain bowl, passed the two largest sweet potatoes to Xu Chengjun. “My ma steamed these this morning. They’re even sweeter cold.”
Her wrists were dusted with wheat chaff, and her red hair ribbon—though faded—was still neatly tied.
“Give one to Li Erwa, too,” Xu Laoshi called, nodding his chin in that direction.
Li Erwa, caught stuffing wheat heads into his pocket, quickly withdrew his hand, grinning as he accepted the sweet potato. “Aunties always look out for us.”
Xu Chengjun took a bite, sweet juice running down his lips.
...
He gazed at the scene before him.
Xu Laoshi carefully counted the sweet potatoes, fearful of giving anyone too much.
Zhao Gang was competing to see whose hoe was fastest.
Xinghua, head bent, wove a small basket from wheat straw, deft fingers at work.
Qian Ming was buried in his problems, occasionally glancing up at the sun.
Even Li Erwa had quieted down, burying sweet potato peels in the earth, muttering about “making fertilizer for the wheat.”
The people of this land were like the wheat in the fields—some plump and full, some hollow, but all striving to grow.
-----------------
At dusk, the threshing ground became the liveliest place in the village.
The collective’s members were hauling the last batch of dried wheat grain into the warehouse, the wooden shovels making a soft, steady rustle, the canvas still marked by the harvest.
The thresher had been cleaned and flipped over in the corner; the iron shell, dusted white with sun-dried chaff.
Though the wheat harvest was over, the scent of grain lingered in the air.
Xu Chengjun and Zhao Gang worked heads-down, shoveling wheat that glimmered gold in the setting sun, as though scattering handfuls of gold dust.
“Chengjun, how much do you think this year’s wheat will bring in?” Zhao Gang wiped his brow. “Last year we got only three hundred jin per mu. If we get fifty more this time, my family’ll finally have enough to marry off my brother.”
“We will,” Xu Chengjun said with certainty. “The seed was good this year, and the weather’s been just right. We’ll have a better harvest, I’m sure.”
He thought of the “improved seed” they’d used, and Xu Laoshi’s secret experiments with group fertilization—small changes, but all for the better.
Li Erwa stood to the side, arms folded, eyes darting as he watched Wang Laosi, the warehouse keeper, weighing the grain.
Wang Laosi set the counterweight low on the old balance scale, calling out in a loud voice, “Team Three, twelve hundred jin!”
...
Suddenly Li Erwa called out, “Uncle Wang, is that scale of yours off? Seems a little short to me!”
Wang Laosi glared. “Watch your mouth, boy! This scale’s been in use ten years—dead accurate! Try it yourself if you don’t believe me!”
He thrust the scale toward Li Erwa, who hurriedly waved his hands. “Just saying, Uncle Wang—if you’re in charge, I trust it!”
Everyone around burst out laughing—everyone knew he was just looking for an excuse to claim a few extra jin.
Xinghua and a group of girls carried over jars of water.
“Have some water, take a break,” she said, handing her jar to Xu Chengjun. Her fingertips brushed his hand, then quickly drew back.
“My ma says the seed wheat in the warehouse needs to dry two more days. She asked you to help turn it—your sharp eyes are best for checking if the dampness’s gone.”
“Of course.” Xu Chengjun took the jar. “Tell Auntie not to overwork herself, either.”
...
Night fell, yet the kerosene lamp at the youth outpost still burned.
Zhao Gang and two other educated youths were already asleep, snoring in chorus.
Xu Chengjun sat at a wooden chest, writing by lamplight.
Late June Plan:
Get up early to help Qian Ming with math each day;
After dinner, listen to English programs at the brigade office, and catch up on outside news;
Await news from “Anhui Literature”; study the new recommendation policy.
July Plan:
Return to the county seat to visit parents and sister, collect materials about factories and schools in town;
Finalize the application process for Fudan’s “Workers, Peasants, and Soldiers Recommendation.”
“You’re thorough as always. But you never forget about me,” Qian Ming chuckled, looking like a cat that got the cream.
“Best to have a clear plan,” said Xu Chengjun, folding the paper and tucking it in his notebook.
“In times like these, opportunity doesn’t wait. Look at Li Erwa—always angling for a bargain, but when it’s time to divide the grain, not a single extra grain will come his way.”
Qian Ming nodded and bent back over his problems.
...
Moonlight spilled through the window, falling across both their backs.
From afar came the barking of dogs at the threshing ground.
Xu Chengjun gazed out at the wheat fields, the ripening heads swaying gently in the night breeze.
The busy season was just a fleeting fragment in the long river of time.
So long as one walked steadily forward, there would always be a way to reach the place one wished to go.
Just like the sickle in his hand—the sharper it was honed, the more surely it would cut.