Chapter Sixty-Nine: Good News from the Depths of the Atlantic

The television was indeed broadcasting “The Man from Atlantis,” featuring a submarine strung together like candied hawthorns and a protagonist whose swimming style resembled a serpent. Hong Tao still remembered the main character’s name: Mike Harrison.

This was the first American TV series officially aired in China. From this series onwards, television programming became much richer, no longer limited to films from the socialist bloc but blossoming into a myriad of options.

Hong Tao wasn’t particularly concerned about the diversity of television programs—these had little impact on him. Even if he hadn’t seen or remembered them, at most he’d watch for a moment out of curiosity. What he cared about was how his aunt’s tailor shop was progressing, for this American drama brought more than just a bizarre storyline and relatively advanced filming techniques for the time. Its greatest impact on China was the birth of the country’s first wave of fashionable clothing.

After this series aired, the streets were no longer filled with monotonous Zhongshan suits and baggy military trousers. Instead, new and refreshing styles appeared, the most iconic being a particular type of pants and accessory: bell-bottoms and aviator sunglasses.

Anyone living in Chinese cities during the 1980s would be familiar with these two styles. In the early 80s, young people everywhere sported bell-bottoms—tight at the hips, skinny in the thighs, and wide at the legs. At first, these pants were tailored from green or blue polyester, but soon evolved into more colorful, checkered fabrics. They were often paired with floral shirts, left unbuttoned at least the top three buttons. If one could also wear aviator sunglasses and carry a Sanyo dual-speaker boombox, they’d be the envy of all young people—wealthy, stylish, an idol; and, in the eyes of those over thirty, a little troublemaker.

Hong Tao had no way to get the aviator glasses; those were smuggled in from Hong Kong. To run such a business, you’d have to take a train south to Guangzhou for over two days, risking arrest and confiscation, then carry the goods back to Beijing to sell.

But he had already prepared patterns for bell-bottoms, along with Panama trousers, carrot pants, fitness pants, and batwing tops, all recreated from memory. He was ready to make them at any time.

“It seems my aunt won’t have time to ease into things—she might catch a major trend right as she opens,” Hong Tao thought, feeling excited at the prospect of his aunt earning a fortune. Though his eyes were on the television, his mind was already considering whether to urge his uncle tomorrow, to check how far the shop’s paperwork had progressed. If everything was in order, it was time to find a storefront, renovate, buy equipment, and train staff.

“Grandpa, do you know anyone at the children’s clothing factory?” Hong Tao’s thoughts had long since drifted from the TV. Grandpa wasn’t much interested in foreign films either.

“Children’s clothing factory? What are you up to now?” Everyone in the family, except Grandma, instinctively braced themselves when talking to Hong Tao.

“It’s still about my aunt. To make clothes, you need fabric. Buying from department stores is expensive and insufficient in quantity. I want to use connections to find out where big factories source their materials and at what prices.” Hong Tao didn’t need to hide anything from Grandpa—this was now an open secret in the family. Even his parents knew, though they weren’t entirely supportive; they merely withheld their opinions, knowing no one would listen.

“There should be a few people from the children’s clothing factory in the courtyard opposite. You’ll have to ask your grandma—she’s at home all day and knows all the old ladies.” Grandpa offered a useful tip. Indeed, workers from the factory lived in the alley. As long as there were connections, things would be easier. But for now, everything depended on the paperwork being settled.

His uncle was nearly a regular visitor at Grandma’s house, showing up in the alley every few days, sometimes for several days in a row. No one knew how he managed to convince his workplace leaders, but he could slip away during work hours to handle private affairs.

“Uncle, how’s my aunt’s business going? You haven’t given away your bicycle yet? Don’t be stingy—if you’re not willing to part with something, you won’t catch the wolf. My bike is ready, but I haven’t seen you come for it.” The next morning, Hong Tao indeed saw his uncle bustling into Grandma’s courtyard.

“Ah, your aunt and your third cousin are both muddle-headed. No need to give away bicycles—if I don’t let them give me one, that’s kindness enough. They aren’t trying to make things difficult for us. Now, it’s them asking me for help. This case is typical, but the paperwork is overwhelming. I’ve been busy every day, running around for stamps. It’s been nearly a month, and not even half the stamps are done. We’ll have to take it slow—can’t rush it.” Uncle took Grandpa’s leftover tea and gulped it down.

“Then ask them: since it’s settled, can we start moving? Like finding a storefront or renovating—don’t wait until all the stamps are done and then start looking for a place. That would cause delays.” Hong Tao voiced his intentions.

“Heh heh, this time your uncle is ahead of you. I’ve already sorted it out. We don’t need to rent a place—the neighborhood committee has one ready. I treated Director Zhou to a meal at Quanjude. The two rooms at the enamel factory at the alley entrance are for your aunt’s use, courtesy of the street’s support and encouragement. I’ve checked the rooms—there’s water and electricity, clean white walls, and concrete floors. They used to be the enamel factory’s warehouse, now vacant. They’re clean and just need a little tidying up, and we won’t have to pay for electricity, sharing a line with the factory.” Uncle grinned slyly, lowering his voice as if he’d done something mischievous.

“A veteran steps in—it’s worth two! Alright, I won’t rush you anymore. You keep chasing those stamps, I’ll start thinking about equipment. I’m off to school!” Hong Tao gave his uncle a thumbs-up—not flattery, but genuine admiration. Business really takes talent; even he, with all his foresight, hadn’t thought to ask the neighborhood committee for a room. Uncle had never done business, yet had the right mind for it. That’s talent—you can’t learn it.

Today, Hong Tao nearly walked into the first-grade classroom again—his left leg was already inside when he noticed the class had fallen silent. Looking up, he saw most of the students staring blankly at him. Then he remembered he was no longer a student in Class One, but should go to Class Five.

Class Five was at the other end of the hall, next to another entrance. Hong Tao was quite satisfied with its location—at least it wouldn’t hinder him from snatching the ping-pong table. When he entered, he received the same treatment as when he’d mistakenly entered Class One: nearly all the students stopped playing and chatting to look at him. It wasn’t yet time for class, and the homeroom teacher hadn’t arrived. A girl was holding a stack of homework books, apparently the class monitor, helping the teacher collect assignments.

“Who’s the class president? I want to ask if this seat is taken.” Hong Tao walked straight to the back of the classroom, surveyed three empty desks, chose the one that looked a bit dusty, and turned to ask.

“...swish...” All the students he glanced at turned their heads away in unison.

“Well, no one’s answering? Then I’ll take this seat!” Seeing no one respond, Hong Tao didn’t feel embarrassed. He strolled back to the podium, took out the teacher’s cleaning cloth, rinsed it in the basin, and returned to his chosen desk to give it a thorough cleaning—even wiping the legs of the desk and chair. Then he put his backpack inside, sat down himself, and kept the cloth for good measure.

After morning exercise, Hong Tao met the Class Five homeroom teacher—a petite elderly lady with a thin frame and flickering gaze behind her glasses. She taught ethics and was surnamed Liang. She was normally quiet, and Hong Tao didn’t know much about her, having only seen her a few times in the teachers’ lounge—he was a regular there, often summoned by his former homeroom teacher for scolding.

“This is our new student. You may already know him, but I’ll introduce him again: his name is Hong Tao. Alright, sit down. Today we’ll cover Lesson Nine. Please open your textbooks...” Teacher Liang made a reluctant introduction and then, as if he didn’t exist, started the lesson.

“So, she’s a teacher with no desires or ambitions. Director Bai must have fully understood my situation—time for another nap.” From Teacher Liang’s demeanor, Hong Tao guessed why Director Bai had transferred him to this class. The homeroom teacher was probably nearing retirement, her aspirations no longer high, her temperament mild with age, making conflicts unlikely. Hong Tao had essentially been sent here to spend his school days quietly.

But he was perfectly content with this arrangement. He wasn’t afraid of being isolated or regarded as a troublemaker—he only feared someone would target him. What should be a peaceful elementary school life would feel like prison if someone was always watching.

It seemed his father’s rage in the principal’s office had worked; no one bothered him all day. He could nap or daydream out the window as he pleased, as long as he didn’t disturb others. The teachers acted as if he wasn’t there—never called on him to answer questions, never checked his homework, didn’t even add his name to the little red flower section on the backboard.