Chapter Five: Grandmother's House

Today, after Hong Tao returned to his grandmother’s house, he didn’t rush out to play or cause any trouble. Instead, he sat under the big tree in the courtyard, watching two groups of ants battling over territory on the ground.

“Xiao Zhong, what’s wrong with Tao Tao today? Did someone bully him at the nursery? Why is he so listless as soon as he gets home?” Grandmother was making dumplings, glancing through the window at her grandson, who didn’t seem happy, prompting her to inquire of her second son.

“How would I know? Who would dare bully him? He’s not even afraid to hit his teacher!” Hong Tao’s eldest uncle was not fond of him. He was a very honest man, and to avoid being sent to work in the countryside, he had entered the army-run printing factory before finishing school, starting to earn a living. He couldn’t stand children like Hong Tao.

“Well, that’s better than you! When you were in primary school you still wet the bed. Go get Tao Tao a bowl of biscuit powder, the child is probably hungry—supper’s late today!” Grandmother and grandfather truly belonged together, as the saying goes. Grandfather couldn’t bear to see his grandson bullied; grandmother couldn’t stand hearing anything negative about him, not even from her own son. She tossed the rolling pin onto the table and began retaliating against the eldest uncle.

Biscuit powder was a kind of baby food from that era, resembling milk powder but not quite the same, packaged in a brown paper bag. It was eaten much like black sesame paste: mix with water, boil, and it was ready. It could also be added to milk for a thicker consistency.

Hong Tao had always grown up drinking milk—a glass bottle every day, about half a pound. If that wasn’t enough, he relied on biscuit powder to fill his stomach. Because he was growing so fast, he was tall and skinny. His mother suspected he lacked nutrition, especially calcium, so she found him some calcium tablets, crushed them up, and mixed them into the biscuit powder.

Truthfully, children in that era all lacked nutrition. Aside from vegetables and grains, there was little else—hardly any meat, eggs, or dairy. Few understood this, and being able to fill one’s belly was already considered good fortune; who cared about nutrition?

Looking at the walls inside grandmother’s house, one could tell what Hong Tao did as a child. He often lay in bed scraping bits of plaster off the wall to eat, leaving holes everywhere. His younger uncle was no better; while Hong Tao scraped wall plaster, he tore window paper and, when no one was watching, stuffed it into his mouth. According to Hong Tao’s mother, this was a sign of trace element deficiency. Yet, knowing was one thing—there was little anyone could do. Even though Hong Tao’s mother was a doctor, she couldn’t help much, only occasionally bringing home vitamins and calcium tablets for the children from her workplace, and even those weren’t readily available.

“Hong Tao! Come have your biscuit powder!” The eldest uncle pursed his lips, reluctantly preparing the food, then called out to Hong Tao, who was lost in thought under the tree.

“Uncle, I don’t want it. You eat it, I’m not hungry.” Hong Tao didn’t even lift his head. He truly wasn’t hungry, and even if he were, he wouldn’t want that paste—white, bland, and tasteless.

“Mom, he says he’s not hungry, doesn’t want it,” the eldest uncle reported, carrying the small milk pot back into the main room.

“What’s gotten into this child? We’ll wait until your father comes home and see. Give it to your sister; it’d be a shame to waste it.” Grandmother had heard Hong Tao’s reply, but she had no time to ponder the child’s mood. If he wouldn’t eat, so be it; nothing would go to waste. In this era, anything edible would end up in someone’s stomach.

Hong Tao wasn’t contemplating whether the ants beneath the tree could defend their home or whether the ones venturing from under the steps could conquer new territory. He was preoccupied with what to do with himself, how to live from now on.

He understood the course of history clearly, but that was no help to his current predicament—a four-year-old child in an era governed by rules at every turn. What waves could he possibly make? The answer was: almost none. Even if Hong Tao could invent a mobile phone right now, no one in the country would believe him. Money in this era was only one of many necessities, not even the most important. Trying to use wealth to impress others would end badly; people would see him as an oddity and wish him gone.

Nearly every essential item was rationed by tickets—this was a principle of the allocation system. To buy white flour, you needed flour tickets; for rice, rice tickets; meat, meat tickets; sugar, and even mahjong tiles had their own tickets. Industrial goods required industrial coupons; fabric needed fabric tickets; even cigarettes were bought with cigarette coupons. Without these tickets, money alone wouldn’t suffice.

So, for Hong Tao at age four, after much thought, he couldn’t devise any way to live more comfortably—there were simply too many restrictions. Still, his deliberation wasn’t wasted. He ultimately reached one conclusion: no matter how he lived, he absolutely couldn’t go back to nursery school. Not that nursery school was bad—actually, the lunches there were better than at home, with eggs or egg custard every meal. But Hong Tao couldn’t stand being surrounded by a crowd of children all day; physically, he could endure hunger, but mentally, he couldn’t handle the strain.

However, refusing nursery school required a solid reason. He’d protested once before and ended up with a beating. If he were to defy his father’s decision without cause, he’d likely get another. Though his mind was that of a forty-year-old, his body was still entirely a child’s; being beaten would certainly hurt. To avoid punishment, he needed to reason.

Hong Tao’s father was a reasonable man—perhaps because of his profession, he disliked hitting or scolding his children, always hoping to explain right from wrong so they’d understand. He believed this was a more effective and lasting approach. But people have tempers, and given his father’s current situation, he couldn’t always remain calm. In Hong Tao’s memory, he’d still been beaten a few times, even once near graduation from middle school.

Each time his father hit him, it was a rejection of his own ideals, a kind of despair. When he couldn’t see his son becoming understanding and reasonable, he felt hopeless about his educational methods. But afterward, he could always adjust, rekindle his hopes, and wish his son would someday understand all the reasoning, hoping for his success.

Hong Tao hadn’t understood this before age thirty, or hadn’t felt it. He always thought his father wanted him to follow a life path drawn out for him, so the more he was told to do something, the less he wanted to. Until the day he married, when he had a wife and a family, he suddenly realized his father wasn’t restricting his freedom. The old man just wanted to find him a smoother, easier path.

On this road, there would be fewer bumps and potholes, because his father had already spent the first half of his life exploring and marking many of them, hoping his son could walk with less effort and further. This wasn’t unique to Hong Tao’s father; nearly every father in the world did the same, though the methods varied—some used words, some used their palm, some used their actions...

“Hong Tao, what are you doing here?” Hong Tao was pondering how to convince his father to let him avoid nursery school—the place that tormented adult minds—when a middle-aged man entered the courtyard gate. He wore a Mao suit with four pockets, and beneath it a spotless white undershirt, with a white edge peeking from the collar. On his feet were well-polished leather shoes, though the shine had faded and the leather was worn in places.

The man was quite tall—over 1.7 meters. That height would be common in later generations, but in the seventies, it was considered tall. Back then, the first requirement for girls seeking a husband was height; those under 1.7 meters were deemed second-class. He looked energetic, with thick brows and big eyes, a lean but angular face, and a jaw and cheeks covered in freshly shaven stubble.

“...Dad... You’re home!” Hong Tao was stunned for several seconds before he managed to utter the word “Dad.”

“What are you doing here? Did you get into trouble again?” His father sensed something was off and, as usual, looked worriedly toward the house, afraid a parent would come to complain. He didn’t have grandfather’s skill at turning black into white or fighting with others. Whenever another parent came, he always had to smile and apologize and listen to their sarcasm.

“Bing Rui, you’re home early today. I say, you’re too timid—good thing Xiao Tao didn’t take after you. What’s wrong with causing trouble? He didn’t steal or rob anyone. What child isn’t naughty? Boys should be mischievous; the ones who aren’t are fools!” Before Hong Tao could reply, another man entered the courtyard, wearing a white jacket with overlapping fronts and blue pants, black cloth shoes with layered soles. He looked to be in his fifties, with thinning hair and a missing front tooth, but a broad chest and sturdy limbs—clearly robust.

“Oh, Dad, you’re home.” This was Hong Tao’s grandfather, Old Master Hu. Hong Tao’s father dropped the lecture and reached out to take the lunch box from the old man.

“Xiao Tao, come see what Grandpa brought you—candied dough twists!” The old man paid no more attention to Hong Tao’s father, pulling a small paper package from his breast pocket, inside which was a palm-sized treat.