The September sun gave no hint yet of its softer winter warmth. The moment it rose over the mountains it brought people out in a sweat, then hung red and proud until the time came for it to set in a blaze of scarlet. That was when the small mountain village of Dazhang shook off its sun-baked torpor and came to life. After a day of quiet, it was now impatient to let off steam. A black dog drove a clutch of chickens out from the bamboo grove. The commotion was too much for an old ox, returning home at day's end. It lifted its head and let out a long bellow. Black smoke spilled from the chimneys and was carried swiftly up the hillsides where it gathered and grew into dark clouds.
Night was falling. Zhang Yingcai had spent the day beneath the large camphor trees at the edge of the village. He turned the last page of a novel which he was reading for the second time. He could hardly bear to put it down. A Small Town Youth was written by a cadre from the county's cultural centre. When he graduated last summer, Yingcai had staged a burglary from the school library so he could keep this beloved book to himself. It was a large operation, six burglars in total. Originally there had been just five, but they'd run into Lan Fei in the library. Fortunately, they discovered he was also there to steal books. First, Lan Fei tucked a book on the political treatise "Thick Black Theory" under his arm, then several volumes on Machiavellianism in bureaucracy. The others picked out books on domestic appliance repairs, machine maintenance, breeding, and cultivation. Yingcai only took this novel, then went outside to stand guard.
He'd heard that Station-Head Wan, the head of the town's education station, was due to visit, so Zhang Yingcai went to wait at the edge of the village every day, taking the book with him. He finished it in just a few days. The more he read, the more he realised the wisdom of his class teacher's catchphrase for motivating his pupils: Better to die in the sewers of a real city than to live among the springs of Jieling. Jieling was a tiny settlement, perched on the highest, most distant and inaccessible spot in these mountains. Just standing at the door and looking up in its direction was exhausting.
The thought made him reflect on his time at high school.
He had spent four years there instead of the usual three. The fourth year was a repeat, personally arranged by Station-Head Wan. Obsessed with reading novels, Yingcai failed to pay proper attention to other subjects. He never scored more than thirty per cent in any maths test. His class teacher reprimanded him for letting his uncle (the station head no less) down. He even suggested, with great sadness, that Yingcai must surely have been sneaking sweet potato from Jieling to have performed so badly in maths.
The mountainous settlement produced not only sweet potatoes, but also sweet-potato shaped people. (They even had a different name for the vegetable, calling it hongshao instead of the more common hongshu.) People from Jieling were such stupid, fat sweet potatoes they couldn't even use chopsticks. Jieling was also famous for the fact nobody there had ever been to university. When Yingcai started his third year, the main school gate faced in the direction of Jieling. But by the time he repeated that final year, the parents of other children who were re-sitting years had given money to have the gate moved. It now faced away from Jieling—and the passing rate in the national university entrance examinations had doubled. Sadly, the beneficiaries had not included Zhang Yingcai.
The word was used frequently by his school teacher, sometimes as a noun, but more often as an adjective. "Don't be so Jieling" he'd say or, perhaps, "Are you trying to make your parents really Jieling?" Noun or adjective, "Jieling" had an extraordinary ability to galvanize the graduating class in their attempts to get into college. But it was also an antonym, a dangerous opposing force against which they fought tooth and nail.
Whenever Yingcai had nothing to do he would toss his lucky coin. It was in his hand now. Will uncle come today or not? What kind of job has he found for me? How much will it pay a month? Great fortune and great tragedy hung in the balance of that coin toss, and the answers it brought.
During the last fortnight, Yingcai had twice seen someone in the distance, who looked just like his uncle, walking along the track that led to Jieling. But every time the man reached the fork in the path he changed direction and headed towards the neighbouring village of Xizhang. The first time Yingcai saw him, he ran along a small footpath to try and intercept him but was waylaid by Lan Fei. Like him, Lan Fei was not among those who distinguished themselves on the university entrance examinations. Lan Fei was repairing his father's burial mound, which had collapsed in the rain storms. Preoccupied with his distant target, Yingcai was caught off guard. His former classmate was desperate: the grave stone was too heavy for one person to handle. Yingcai stepped in and helped him; when they finished, Lan Fei only thanked him, showing no inclination to invite him home for a drink of water. Yingcai deliberately mentioned that he had never been to his home, but Lan Fei gave as good as he got, replying that he had never been to Yingcai's home either. Yingcai had continued on for several kilometres but saw no further trace of the man, and returned home in frustration.
Today was the third time. As the sun was setting behind the hills, he saw the man who looked like his uncle at the fork in the track. It was as if the man was avoiding him. He willed the wind blowing in from far away to carry a message to Station-Head Wan: Hey, your nephew lives in Dazhang, not Xizhang. Yingcai did not toss his coin again. He shut his eyes and sighed, then got up and walked home with his novel.
As soon as he got in, his mother said to him, "I was just about to call you to go and draw some water."
Yingcai threw his book down. "I went this morning. Is it all gone already?"
