Chapter 3: Nine Yuan

When he pushed open the courtyard gate, the sun had already slanted west. No fire had been lit in the main room; a damp chill seeped down the plastered walls, carrying the raw, earthy smell of soil turning damp after rain. Lin Jianguo gently laid Xiaoman on the earthen kang, unwinding the coarse cloth straps loop by loop. The boy’s shoulders, marked with purple-red indentations, still trembled uncontrollably. Xiaoman didn’t open his eyes. His breathing was as faint as a gossamer thread, the rise and fall of his chest so slight it made the heart clench. Lin Chen set his schoolbag on the wooden bench without a word. The only sounds in the room were the occasional soft crackle of embers in the clay stove and his father’s heavy, deliberately muffled breathing.

Nine yuan. Tomorrow noon.

The four characters hung like four slabs of raw iron, weighing heavily on the main room’s crossbeam and pressing down on the lungs of father and son alike. Lin Chen walked to the water vat, scooped half a ladle of cold water with a wooden dipper, and poured it into a dented iron basin. He soaked a towel, wrung it out, and laid it back on Xiaoman’s forehead. Water droplets seeped from the towel’s edge, dripping onto the coarse cloth pillowcase and spreading into a dark patch. The fever had indeed broken, but the skin was parched and shrunken, cheekbones protruding like a thin sheet of paper stretched over bone. Only seven years old, and already whittled down to a handful of bones. Lin Chen withdrew his hand and wiped the moisture from his fingertips on his trousers.

Lin Jianguo wiped his face, smearing mud and sweat into dark streaks. He went into the inner room and lifted the lid of the camphor wood chest. Beneath a few neatly folded old garments at the bottom lay a rusted tin biscuit box. He opened it and tipped out its contents: three one-fen coins, two five-fen coins, a faded national grain coupon, half a red hair tie, and a crumpled remittance receipt. He counted them twice. Thirteen fen. He stared at the meager change for a long time, his Adam’s apple bobbing, before finally snapping the tin lid shut with a dull click.

He turned and lifted the wooden lid of the grain vat. Inside was indeed half a sack of old paddy, shriveled and carrying a stale, musty odor. Lin Jianguo grabbed a handful; the grains slipped through his fingers, hitting the bottom of the vat with a soft rustle. Sixty jin. The town grain station bought old paddy at one mao five fen per jin. He mouthed the multiplication silently: sixty times one mao five fen equals exactly nine yuan. But the grain station wouldn’t open its scales until tomorrow morning, and the money was due by noon. The timing didn’t match. Even if he went at dawn, queuing, weighing, getting the receipt, and collecting the cash would drag it into the afternoon. Doctor Wang’s words still rang in his ears: Before noon. Short by a single fen, and the medicine stops.

Lin Jianguo paced the main room twice before finally grabbing the straw hat from the wall. “I’m going to Old Liu’s,” he said, his voice parched. Lin Chen nodded, scooped another ladle of water from the vat, soaked the towel again, and replaced the old one.

The courtyard gate closed with a creak. Lin Chen sat on the edge of the kang, listening to the sound of his father’s rubber shoes on the muddy path grow fainter, until it was swallowed by the barking of dogs at the village entrance. Suddenly, Xiaoman’s fingers twitched. His eyelids fluttered but didn’t open; only a faint whimper escaped his throat. Lin Chen shifted the towel to the center of his forehead, his fingers brushing his brother’s cheek. Cool to the touch, yet with a spongy softness beneath the skin. He picked up the enamel mug, poured a little warm water, dipped a cotton swab, and carefully moistened his brother’s cracked lips. Xiaoman swallowed unconsciously, his brow relaxing slightly as his breathing gradually steadied.

About half an hour later, the courtyard gate was pushed open again. Lin Jianguo had returned. The brim of his straw hat was pulled low, his steps dragging, the soles of his shoes caked in thick yellow mud. He didn’t enter the main room but sat directly on the threshold, pulling a crumpled half-leaf of tobacco from his chest pocket. His hands shook so badly he failed to roll it several times.

“Old Liu said he just bought fertilizer a while back and money’s tight,” Lin Jianguo finally managed to roll the cigarette, struck a match, lit it, and took a drag, coughing violently from the harsh smoke. “He gave me two yuan. Said it’s a loan, no IOU. When I was leaving, his wife called out from the kitchen, said to pay it back next month when they sell eggs.”

Two yuan. Lin Chen looked at his father’s hunched back. Seven yuan short.

“I also went to Widow Wang’s at the west end of the village,” Lin Jianguo exhaled a plume of gray-white smoke, his voice so low it sounded like he was talking to himself. “Her husband died early, the harvest was poor, and her son’s middle school tuition in the county town isn’t fully covered yet. She didn’t give money, just pressed ten eggs into my hands. Said I could take them to the town market and get over a yuan for them.”

“To turn eggs into cash, we’d have to wait for market day. Tomorrow isn’t market day,” Lin Chen said, his tone as calm as if stating the weather.

Lin Jianguo didn’t answer. The cigarette burned down to his fingers before he flinched, flicking the butt to the ground and crushing it under his shoe. He looked up, the red veins in his eyes like a spiderweb, his eye sockets so sunken they seemed to hold shadows. “Chen, my boy, your dad’s useless. Borrowing money means reading people’s faces. When Old Liu handed over the cash, he kept his eyes on the ground, couldn’t even get his words out straight. Widow Wang passed the eggs with her hands tucked in her sleeves, like she was afraid of getting burned. Poor folks, nobody’s pockets are deep. Borrow one yuan, owe one favor. Favors weigh heavier than money; they press down until you can’t stand straight.”

Lin Chen didn’t meet his father’s eyes. He stared at the muddy footprints on the floor. In the countryside, accounts were never settled by calculation; they were settled by debt. Poor helping poor was for emergencies, not for saving lives. Lives had to be carried on one’s own shoulders. He suddenly thought of his mother. When she came back last winter, she had wiped tears by the stove, saying overtime at the factory earned her an extra thirty yuan a month, but even after sending it home, things were still tight. His father had said they’d replace the tiles on the west wing after selling the autumn harvest. The tiles weren’t replaced, and Xiaoman fell ill. Illness was like roots in the soil, taking hold year after year, demanding water year after year. Watering cost money.

The daylight faded completely. No lamp was lit in the main room, only a gray-blue twilight filtering through the window. Lin Chen stood, walked to the stove, struck a match, and lit the kerosene lamp. A dim yellow halo pushed back the darkness in a small circle, stretching the shadows of father and son long across the mottled earthen walls.

He returned to the kang and pulled the prescription slip from his schoolbag. The paper had grown soft, its edges curling. Phenobarbital tablets. 0.03 grams. Three times a day. Half a tablet per dose. Do not interrupt medication.

He stared at the characters. Knowing how to read was useful. If he hadn’t been able to read the words on the anatomical chart today, if he hadn’t been able to clearly explain the grain station and paddy accounts to Doctor Wang, he wouldn’t have gotten the medicine. The characters were dead, but they could be traded for a way to live. He began running the numbers in his head. Like flicking abacus beads, one by one, crisp and cold.

Medicine: nine yuan. Three days. Stop it, and the convulsions return. Convulsions mean the county hospital, dozens of yuan. The family didn’t have dozens of yuan. Tuition: fifteen yuan. Due at the start of the autumn term. Unpaid, and the teacher wouldn’t let him into the classroom. The multiplication tables on the blackboard, the acupoint charts on the wall—all required sitting in that classroom to see. Piglet: ready for market next month. The town buyers lowballed; one would fetch about fifty yuan. After deducting feed costs, thirty yuan net. Mother: working in the south. Remitted two hundred yuan a month. Last year’s remittances paid off the debt for building the west wing, bought fertilizer, covered Xiaoman’s vaccines. What was left wouldn’t last till year’s end. Paddy, eggs, piglet, remittance, tuition, medicine. These words used to float scattered in his mind like chaff on the threshing floor, blown about by the wind. Now, they were strung together by an invisible thread. The thread’s name was money. Money tied to medicine, medicine tied to Xiaoman’s life. Money tied to tuition, tuition tied to the blackboard and charts. Money tied to his mother’s remittance, remittance tied to the coastal assembly lines.

He suddenly understood: illness wasn’t a passing wind. When the wind blew past, the earth just dried out. Illness was a root in the soil, taking hold, growing year after year, demanding water year after year. Watering cost money. Where did money come from? Dug from the earth, squeezed from sweat, borrowed through favors, scraped out from knowing how to read.

Xiaoman turned over in his sleep, his lips cracked and peeling. Lin Chen picked up the enamel mug from the table, poured a little warm water, dipped a cotton swab, and carefully moistened his brother’s lips. Xiaoman swallowed unconsciously, his brow relaxing slightly.

Lin Chen set down the cotton swab. He walked to the wooden bench and sat. The kerosene lamp’s flame flickered, popping a spark. He dug a hardcover exercise book from the bottom of his schoolbag. The cover read Arithmetic Workbook, its corners frayed to reveal the cardboard beneath. He flipped to the last page. Blank.

He picked up a pencil. The tip was dull; he whittled it twice with a small knife, wood shavings falling onto the desk. In the top right corner of the paper, he wrote neatly: April 12, 1992.

He left a blank line below. Medicine: 9 yuan (owed). To be settled before noon tomorrow. Tuition: 15 yuan. Due in September. Piglet: Estimated 50 yuan. Market in June. Mother’s remittance: 200 yuan/month. Already in debt.

He paused. His gaze fell on the character for owed. The graphite was pressed deep, nearly tearing through the paper. He flipped the workbook over and, on the blank inside back cover, drew a horizontal line with his pencil. To the left of the line, he wrote: In. To the right: Out. In: Sell paddy, sell eggs, sell pig, mother’s remittance, collect scrap, odd jobs. Out: Medicine, tuition, salt, kerosene, fertilizer, favors.

The characters were crooked, but every stroke was pressed with force. A seven-year-old’s handwriting, its structure not yet fully formed, yet radiating a fierce determination. When he finished, he carefully smoothed out the prescription slip, folded it in half, then in half again. He tucked it into the tin biscuit box, placing it beside the three one-fen coins. He snapped the lid shut and pushed it back under the bench.

He blew out the kerosene lamp. The main room plunged into darkness. Only the occasional bark of a dog from outside the window and the rustle of mountain wind sweeping through treetops in the distance remained. Lin Chen lay back on the kang, next to Xiaoman. His brother’s breathing was steady now, his temperature normal. He pressed his palm to Xiaoman’s forehead. Cool.

He closed his eyes. There were no grand vows in his mind, no stars or vast oceans. Only the grain station tomorrow at noon, the weight of nine yuan, and that horizontal line in the workbook. The road was long. But he knew the first step had to be planted firm.

The night wind slipped through the crack in the door, stirring the workbook on the table. The pages fluttered softly, coming to rest on that horizontal line. The dust settled. The stars had not yet appeared. But the ledger was open.