Chapter 7: Buying Rice

Zheng Fei spent an entire hour on his first and last portraits, earning thirty cents and two national grain coupons, each good for three jin.

A promising start.

From here on, things would be easier.

The onlookers—passersby A, B, C, and D—were impressed. With just a single brush, Zheng Fei had managed to capture a likeness so vivid it seemed more lifelike than a photograph, especially the eyes, which sparkled with remarkable spirit.

It gave the impression of being more beautiful than a photo, which stirred their hearts deeply.

“Adding a background costs forty cents, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Then draw one for me, with the Waibaidu Bridge as the backdrop,” said a middle-aged man dressed like a cadre, carrying a briefcase.

Zheng Fei glanced at him and repeated firmly, “I only charge for the materials and the fine brushwork…”

“I know, I’m not trying to rip you off. Just hurry up—I have to catch a train later.”

“Oh, and when you draw me, make my hair look thicker.”

Hearing this, many around burst out laughing, leaving the man slightly embarrassed.

“Don’t laugh. When you reach my age, you’ll be like me—maybe even balder.”

With a new customer, Zheng Fei spent nearly another hour finishing the portrait of the “balding” gentleman, subtly giving him a full head of hair.

The middle-aged man was thrilled when he saw the painting. He praised on the spot, “Young man, you’re someone I could get along with. I like you.”

Zheng Fei smiled.

In this day and age, without Photoshop, if you took a photo, a bald head was a bald head—unless you wore a hat, there was no changing it.

But with a sketch, he could make any adjustments he wished. He had merely enhanced the man’s hair a bit.

He hadn’t expected it to bring so much joy.

Just after finishing the portrait for the middle-aged man, Zheng Fei was about to rest when a mother and her child sat before him and immediately asked, “How much for two people together?”

Zheng Fei thought for a moment. “The price is the same for two. I only charge one set of materials and brushwork fees. Adding a background still costs forty cents.”

“Comrade, you’re so kind.”

“Getting close to the people, serving the people.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Art should be down-to-earth.”

After nearly another hour, Zheng Fei completed the mother and child’s portraits. Three hours of intense focus left him somewhat fatigued.

But seeing Zheng Fei’s skill, several more people lined up, eager for portraits. He hurriedly said, “It’s almost dark. I can only paint two more today.”

“Everyone, come back another day.”

Zheng Fei was beginning to regret not using quick sketches from the start. Though less detailed than fine brushwork, quick sketches were much faster—he could finish a portrait in about twenty to thirty minutes.

He glanced at the photographers not far off, holding their cameras. These days, making money by drawing portraits wasn’t as lucrative as photography—especially here on the Bund, as long as it was late enough.

Charging three yuan per photo, someone would definitely pay. But the costs were high: imported film, either Kodak or Fuji, cost over twenty yuan per roll, plus development and mailing fees. Each photo only earned a few dimes to a yuan in profit.

Zheng Fei calculated: if he worked as a photographer here, he could make several hundred yuan a month, and in two years, he might accumulate ten thousand yuan.

But surviving here wasn’t so simple. Beggars and night soil collectors each had their own turf, let alone such a lucrative business as photography.

Drawing here probably wouldn’t attract much attention, but bringing a camera to make money would certainly provoke someone to intervene.

To earn a living here, one would likely have to pay protection fees.

Being a painter in this era offered few prospects. If he recalled correctly, the master painter Li Keran’s works sold for 30 yuan per square foot at the time.

His masterpiece “Ten Thousand Hills in Red” that later sold for 184 million yuan might have cost less than a hundred yuan back then.

Still, many thought that was expensive because art speculation could land you in jail.

Furthermore, collectors believed a master’s work only gained value after his death.

Therefore, the most profitable path for painters was illustrating comic strips. But even publishing comic strips wasn’t straightforward.

About four kilometers from the Bund, near Jing’an Temple on Changle Road, there was the Shanghai People’s Fine Arts Publishing House, a specialized comic strip publisher.

Zheng Fei briefly considered that drawing portraits for tourists here wasn’t sustainable. After earning enough for living expenses, he’d have to take on temple mural commissions.

In his view, the easiest money came from three types of clients:

First, parents obsessed with their children’s education.

Second, women.

Third, pet owners.

And there was a fourth: those with faith. Many villagers hesitated to spend on themselves but never spared any expense when it came to the gods.

Moreover, countless temples had been destroyed over the years. Now that restrictions had eased, many villages’ first priority was to restore their temples.

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By sunset, Zheng Fei had completed a total of five portraits, with one yuan and twenty cents in cash and the rest in various ration coupons—grain coupons, meat coupons, vegetable coupons.

At present, a skilled worker earned around forty yuan a month.

Zheng Fei’s day’s income in Shanghai was respectable.

Holding his various tickets, Zheng Fei planned to buy some good food—his frame was far too thin.

At 1.77 meters tall and weighing less than 120 jin, he was as slender as a bamboo pole. He ought to weigh at least 150 jin.

After returning from the Bund, he intended to buy rice at the ration station; he couldn’t keep freeloading meals every day.

Occasional borrowing was fine, but frequent freeloading caused trouble. Still, he could borrow a stove and iron pot from Mrs. Huang next door.

Carrying his easel, Zheng Fei arrived at Tanzhi Bay and was surprised to find a long queue at the ration station.

Faced with this, Zheng Fei didn’t hesitate and joined the line.

Having helped buy rice here before, he had learned the rules.

When many queued for rice, it generally meant new rice had been released. Usually, rice cost fifteen cents a jin and was old, yellowed, and full of weevils.

If rice cost sixteen cents a jin, it was probably from the past two years. But if it rose to eighteen cents, it was definitely fresh rice.

It was a blessing from heaven. Normally, the ration station only sold new rice during the New Year period.

He didn’t know what special day it was today, but new rice was on sale.

After waiting over half an hour, Zheng Fei stared at the shining white grains, swallowing hard.

“Give me six jin.”

Spending one yuan and eighty cents on six jin of fresh rice, he still had eighteen cents left.

Next, he bought a brand-new eraser from a street vendor, planning to return it to the child who had lent him one earlier.

He spent the remainder on side dishes—Shanghai-style pickled mustard and preserved cucumbers. Though he longed for fermented tofu and stir-fried salted edamame, he simply had no money left.

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