Chapter 3: The Work of the Commune Clerk

“Eat when you get home, there’s still time. Hurry up and take your sugar and go—can’t you see there’s a long line behind you?” The woman was trying to soothe her child, but lingered a few seconds too long; the shop assistant’s patience wore thin, and she frowned.

“Sorry, comrade, I’ll be on my way.” The woman glanced at the sugar wrapped in paper, panic flickering across her face, then turned and hurried off.

“What’s to look at? Think you might have gotten salt by mistake?” the shop assistant muttered under her breath after the woman had left.

“Comrade, two pounds of salt, two boxes of matches, and four bottles of soda,” Liu Yimin called out loudly.

“With a voice like that, I thought you were about to buy out the whole store,” the shop assistant replied with a sarcastic edge.

Liu Yimin was left speechless by her tone. He thought to himself that when the supply and marketing cooperatives eventually disbanded in a few years, she’d have her day of reckoning.

Two pounds of salt cost thirty cents, two boxes of matches four cents. After handing over thirty-four cents, Liu Yimin took out a ration coupon for matches and another for soda. He packed everything into his bag and headed for the door.

The salt of this era was coarse, chunkier even than rock sugar. Before use, it had to be smashed and ground into small grains with a mortar and pestle. Salt was one of the few essentials that were reliably supplied and didn’t require a ration coupon.

As Liu Yimin walked out, he glanced up and caught sight of a slogan painted in bright red above the doorframe: “No Unprovoked Abuse of Customers!” He looked back at the shop assistant, still grumbling, and could only shake his head helplessly.

He packed his things into his satchel, preparing to walk his bicycle away. Just then, he felt a tap on his right shoulder. As he turned to look, someone tapped his left.

A burst of laughter sounded beside his ear. “Yimin, I thought I saw you earlier. What brings you to the commune today?”

He looked up—it was his old middle school classmate, Tian Qingping.

“Qingping? You startled me. I came to the supply cooperative for some things. Why aren’t you at the commune? What are you doing here?” As Liu Yimin spoke, he pulled a bottle of soda from his pocket and handed it over.

Tian Qingping worked at the commune, serving as a clerk in the Office for Educated Youth—a government job, as could be seen from his more refined attire compared to Liu Yimin’s.

“I’ll pass on the soda. I haven’t been at the commune these last few days—I was helping with the double harvest at Shiling Brigade. It nearly wore me out. Their tractor ran out of fuel, so I came to buy some diesel—taking the chance to slack off a bit, to be honest. By the way, I wanted to tell you something: the commune’s clerk, who’s an educated youth, is about to return to the city, so the position will open up soon.

“You like writing—if you’re interested, you could give it a try. Write something up, and I’ll hand it to the commune director for consideration. It won’t be a formal position at first, nor will it change your household registration, but just keep it in mind—I’ll let you know when the time comes.”

Tian Qingping led Liu Yimin to a shady spot, grinning as he spoke.

“Of course, if you get into university, that’s even better. If not, working together at the commune isn’t so bad either.” Liu Yimin felt a surge of gratitude. Among their middle school friends, Tian Qingping had always been close. They’d gone to high school together, though their paths diverged after graduation. Unlike Liu Yimin, Tian Qingping wasn’t from a rural household, so he went straight to work at the commune.

“Thanks, Qingping. Are you signing up for the exams this year?”

“No, I’ll pass. Things are fine as they are—who knows, maybe I’ll be commune director in a few years! If you get into university, Lan Yong and I would both be thrilled for you. It’s getting late—time for me to head back or the tractor at the brigade will be stranded. Here’s a ration coupon for laundry soap—you might need it.”

Tian Qingping pressed the coupon into Liu Yimin’s hand, then hopped on his bicycle, gasoline can in tow, and pedaled toward the machinery station, waving goodbye as he went.

By 1978, agricultural mechanization was taking hold in many communes. Larger brigades each had a tractor, and the communes had machinery stations, with operators sent out to help plow and harvest. Yet, with the coming end of collective economics, the machinery stations would soon become a thing of the past.

Laundry soap was a precious commodity. With the coupon in hand, Liu Yimin returned to the store and spent thirty-six cents on a bar. His household had been out of soap for some time; having it again would make laundry much easier.

Soap coupons were hard to come by. The fact that Tian Qingping had given him one moved Liu Yimin deeply.

Li Lanyong was another friend of theirs. The bicycle Liu Yimin had used that day belonged to him; he’d borrowed it just for this trip to the commune.

By the time he’d finished his errands, it was already two in the afternoon. His stomach growled—he hadn’t eaten at all that morning.

Shielding himself from the sun, he pushed the bicycle for several hundred meters until he reached a collective-run eatery—not state-owned, but a cooperative venture. It was really just a small hut serving as a kitchen, with a few tables set under the trees outside.

“One bowl of he le noodles!”

“It’s ten cents a bowl with a grain coupon, twelve without,” the server called languidly from her seat by the door.

Liu Yimin, being registered as a rural resident, didn’t have grain coupons, so he had to pay the extra two cents.

He le noodles were the best food available in Shiling Commune. Even so, they weren’t made with white flour, but sorghum flour. A few pieces of mutton were scattered on top, though the slices were thick and rough, nothing like the wafer-thin cuts of later generations.

Nonetheless, Liu Yimin devoured the large bowl in no time, slurping down every drop of broth. In this state, he thought wryly, he was hardly living up to the dignity expected of a man reborn.

He let out a satisfied burp, the flavors of scallion and sorghum still lingering in his nose.

“Slow down, comrade—no one’s fighting you for it. Want some more noodles?” the server teased.

“Is that an option?” Liu Yimin asked in surprise as he wiped his mouth.

The server’s lips twitched. “You really would, wouldn’t you? Sure, but it’ll cost extra.”

Liu Yimin shot her a look, then left the eatery and wobbled off on his bicycle toward the Maiji Brigade.

The sun beat down, drenching him in sweat. Whenever he found a patch of shade, he’d stop to rest.

By the time he reached Maiji Brigade, it was already four in the afternoon. He returned the bicycle to Li Lanyong, handing over two bottles of soda as well.

“Now that’s what I call fair, Yimin! When do you need it next? I’ll have it ready for you!” Li Lanyong said with a mischievous grin.

“Get lost! You sound just like one of those old exploitative rickshaw bosses. The soda’s your rental fee,” Liu Yimin laughed, cursing good-naturedly.

“Hey, you’re no Xiangzi! Xiangzi always stuck his neck out when he pulled the cart—you don’t!”

Liu Yimin gave his friend, the simple-minded son of the brigade secretary, a long look and helplessly shook his head.

Li Lanyong was a bit shorter, about one seventy-five, sturdy and well-fed thanks to his family’s position. He had a square, honest face, though his eyes were small and vanished entirely when he smiled.

He wore a navy-and-white striped sailor shirt with military trousers—military garb was all the rage, and his set was a gift from his elder brother in the army.

Liu Yimin himself was one seventy-eight, well-built but sallow-faced from chronic undernourishment.