Chapter 2: A Shattered Home

Gao Xiaoshuai’s jealousy toward him was understandable, but the old man’s inexplicable dislike felt odd. After all, the old man came from a background much like his own—born and raised in Sanwan Alley, just two streets away in Panjiawan. Both their ancestors had once fled disaster to settle here. By rights, their families should have gotten along well.

As an “outsider,” Zheng Fei had observed things for half a month. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the old man’s aversion was personal, rooted in some grudge. If he got a chance, he’d have to ask his relatives about the old man’s history and whether there was some old connection between their families.

…

The walls of the Guandi Temple had long since yellowed and bulged. If the murals were to be repainted, the plaster would first have to be scraped away, then a fresh layer of coarse mud applied, followed by hemp, fine mud, and finally a coat of whitewash. For the wall to stay firm and not peel, straw had to be mixed into the mud, and cotton added to the fine layer. Preparing the mud was a complex task, and most craftsmen didn’t bother to do it so thoroughly.

The current crew was cutting corners. Only a little straw was mixed into the coarse mud, and no cotton at all in the fine layer—the cotton they brought was just for show. The process was supposed to ensure the wall would last for decades, but if the wall never needed repairs, how would they get more work?

Once the mud was on the wall, it had to dry before the painting could continue. In the meantime, they could rest in the city. The three of them carried their washbasins and bedding; the short, burly, unattractive one not only carried his own things but vied to help the master as well.

They waited at the village entrance for a while before finally catching a hand-crank tractor that rattled its way toward the city. In these days, even riding a tractor was a privilege—on the road, you saw only handcarts and ox-drawn wagons, and as for cars, there were barely any, even in the city.

After nearly an hour of jolting, the tractor driver called out, “Comrades, this is as far as I can take you. I can’t go any further up ahead.”

“Alright, thanks, master,” they replied. After getting off, the half-trained master said, “Two days from now, wait for us here first.”

Zheng Fei replied listlessly, “Alright.”

His senior, Gao Xiaoshuai, came from Pudong, which made going home no simple matter—he had to take the ferry across the Huangpu River. If he missed the last one, he’d have to sleep in some corner overnight.

…

In this era, not everyone could afford a “28-bar” bicycle. For someone like Zheng Fei—a penniless, unemployed youth—even a bus ride was a luxury, never mind owning a bike. His only means of travel was “Route 11”—his own two feet. His black cloth shoes had a hole in them, making him look both wretched and comical, out of place in the city once called the “Magic Metropolis.”

Gao Xiaoshuai wasn’t wrong: his home was indeed in the slums, in the Tanzaowan shantytown. As the saying went, the more glamorous Shanghai’s surface, the filthier its underbelly. “Three Bays, One Lane”—Zhujiawan, Panjiawan, Tanzaowan, and Yaoshui Lane—was notorious for its squalor. Elders said most residents here had fled from northern Jiangsu to Shanghai at the start of the last century, clustering together for survival.

Though the neighborhood bordered the inner ring road, in these times it was the lowest of the low—factories and shanties jumbled together, even stray dogs avoided the place. Who could have guessed that one day this filthy, chaotic area would become what Shanghainese called “the old base”—after redevelopment as Zhongyuan Liwan Town, it would fetch eighty thousand per square meter, becoming the best value in the inner ring.

Zheng Fei returned, balancing pots and pans on his shoulder. Naked children splashed in wooden tubs in the alleys, waging water wars. The homes were tiny; people bathed and cooked right in the lanes. At mealtimes, the alleys were always wet and steamy. Looking up, there was no blue sky—just a tangle of laundry poles and drying clothes. When everyone hung out their washing, the alley became a “water curtain cave.”

Seeing him return with his load, an old man surnamed Sun called out, “Back so soon? Didn’t your master kick you out, did he?”

Zheng Fei grinned, “Kidding? With my talent, people line up to take me on—if anyone’s getting kicked out, it’s him, not me.”

“Of all your parts, your mouth is the toughest.”

“It has to be! You can’t get by around here otherwise.”

He saw an old lady cooking and swallowed hard. “Auntie Zhang, make something good tonight. I’m coming over for dinner.”

“Sure! As long as you agree to date my Zhang Meili, I’ll cook for you every day. If you two get married, her father might even get you a job at the flour mill.”

Thinking of Meili’s burly figure, Zheng Fei shook his head like a rattle drum. She was a rough, muscular version of Nezha, could eat more than ten steamed buns in one sitting, and one slap from her might finish him off.

In a place like Tanzaowan, Zheng Fei was actually quite a catch. In this shantytown, where the population density was terrifying and most people had only two or three square meters per person, he was extravagant—he had a ten-square-meter room all to himself.

That room had originally housed a family of four. Now, only he remained. Not because the others were gone, but because the family had fallen apart.

By chance, his mother had taken his younger brother and run south with someone—rumor had it, to Hong Kong. After she left, his father rarely wrote back, and even after all this time, there was no news.

…

But for Zheng Fei, his father’s absence was a blessing—he didn’t want to call a stranger “Dad,” and if his father returned, they’d have to share a room. Maybe even the same bed!

At the door of a brick-and-timber house, Zheng Fei set down his pots and pans.

…

He sat on the edge of his bed. The ten-square-meter room was empty—nothing but a simple wooden bed and a desk with two drawers. On the desk, a kerosene lamp; electricity in the slums was terribly unreliable—power outages and water cuts were everyday affairs. In the corner, a few comic books and some yellowed manuscripts—all drawn by his father.

From the original owner’s hazy memories, Zheng Fei realized the family had once lived quite well. The old man had painted New Year pictures, his father drew comics, his mother taught at Tanzaowan Elementary. They were a cultured family.

After Liberation, in those relatively open years, his father had earned a good living from comic book royalties. Life had been sweet. He’d even hoped to buy a nice Western house in the city, but trouble came: the contents of his comics and those hefty royalties drew unwanted attention.

Zheng Fei was grateful—thank goodness he’d been reborn in the era of reform. Otherwise, he might have ended up utterly broken.

His uncle and younger uncle had once lived there too, but there were always arguments between them. The younger uncle would rather rent out the house to outsiders than live with the family. Later, the uncle was assigned a new apartment at work and moved away. Now, aside from Zheng Fei’s own room, the house was full of outsiders.

Directly across from his room, a little girl with two braids peeked out, holding the door for support.

She grinned and called, “Big brother, have you eaten yet? My mother said, if you haven’t, you can come eat with us…”