Chapter 11: The Weight of the Sack

At five in the morning, the sky was still not fully light. Lin Chen pushed open the door, and the cold crept up through his pant legs. He did not light a lamp; he pulled on his rubber shoes in the dark. The uppers had already been worn pale, and the soles were caked with dried mud from a few days before. He stamped his feet, shaking the clods loose, slung on his schoolbag made from a fertilizer sack, and locked the wooden door of the main room. The keys hung at his waist, making a faint metallic clink.

The grain depot at the east end of town was two li farther than the central primary school. The road was a farm track paved with crushed stone. The dew was heavy at night, and underfoot it was both slick and hard. He walked steadily, keeping his breathing to one breath every two steps. There were no stray thoughts in his head, only the abacus: one yuan and five jiao. Thirteen days. At one jiao two fen a day, that was just enough. Unloading sacks at the grain depot paid two jiao a sack. Eight sacks in a day meant one yuan six. Enough to buy the book, with one fen left over. The numbers turned over and over in his mind, like a blade on a whetstone, growing brighter with every pass.

The outline of the east end of town emerged in the gray-white morning fog. The grain depot's big iron gate stood half open, and a faded slogan had been painted on the pillars: “Hand in good grain, hand in full grain.” The yard was already piled with burlap sacks as high as a man's chest. The air smelled of old husks, diesel, and damp earth mixed together. Several Jiefang trucks were parked by the scale, their beds still loaded with grain that had not been fully unloaded. A few men in worn work clothes squatted by the wall smoking, the red points of their cigarettes brightening and dimming in the mist. Lin Chen did not hurry forward. He stood in the shadow outside the gate and watched. Watched how they carried the sacks. Watched how the knots were tied. Watched the angle of their backs, how their shoulders took the weight. Watched how the truck drivers rolled down their windows, offered cigarettes, and settled accounts with the weighing clerk.

When the cigarettes were finished, a middle-aged man in a duckbill cap stood up and slapped the dust off his pant legs. Lin Chen walked over. His footsteps were light, and he stopped two paces away. “Uncle, are you still short a hand for unloading sacks?” His voice was not loud, but it was clear. The man turned and sized him up, his gaze lingering on Lin Chen's thin shoulders and the whitened rubber shoes. “How old are you?”

“Ten.” Lin Chen did not lie, nor did he exaggerate.

The man frowned. “This is heavy work. A sack weighs a hundred jin. Can you carry it?”

“I can.” Lin Chen nodded.

“Then let me make the rules clear first.” The man blew out a breath of smoke. “Two jiao a sack. Finish one truck, get paid for one truck. If a sack breaks, money gets deducted. If you spill grain, you pay for it. Doing it or not?”

“I am.”

“All right. Go get gloves over there. Today you'll try half a day first.”

Lin Chen walked to the wall and picked up a pair of coarse knit gloves. The yarn was already frayed, and two black rubber patches had been sewn onto the palms. He put them on and flexed his fingers once, feeling the rough scrape against his skin. Then he went to the truck. The sacks were stacked in the bed and covered with a tarpaulin. He lifted one corner. The coarse weave of the burlap was clear to the eye, the hemp rope around the mouth cinched tight, the knot tied dead fast. He drew a deep breath and squatted. Both hands gripped the bottom corners of the sack; his knees bent slightly, his back straight. He exerted force. Not by hauling upward with brute strength, but by driving with his legs and sending the force through his waist. The sack left the floor of the truck. A hundred jin of weight crashed onto his shoulder in an instant. The sole of his rubber shoe slipped once on the truck bed, but he steadied his center of gravity, turned, and stepped forward. Twenty steps from the truck bed to the scale. His feet could not get disordered. His breathing had to stay pressed down. First step, second step... the bones in his shoulder began to ache, and the coarse cloth bit into his flesh with a burning pain. He did not stop. He reached the designated spot, bent his knees, sank down, and let the sack drop.

Thud.

Dust rose. He straightened and took a breath.

Two jiao.

He marked down one more entry in his mind.

The second sack. The third. His movements began to grow practiced. He found the rhythm: grip the bottom corners, press it to the chest, get it onto the shoulder, walk in a straight line, bend the knees to unload. No running, no jumping, no trying to save effort on that one step. Save effort there, and you spend it in your back. Ruin your back, and you cannot work tomorrow. He was like a wound-up machine, repeating the same track again and again. Sweat seeped from his forehead and ran into his eyes, stinging sharply. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and kept going. The truck bed gradually emptied. By the scale, the sacks piled into a small hill.

Ten in the morning. The sun climbed higher and the fog dispersed. The diesel smell in the air turned hot under the sun. Lin Chen finished unloading the third truck. The man in the duckbill cap came over and handed him an enamel mug. “Drink some water. Rest a bit.” Lin Chen took it. Inside was cool boiled water with a faint iron taste. He tilted his head back and gulped it down. The water slid through his throat into his stomach, tamping down the sour churn inside. “Good work,” the man said. “Half a day, twenty-four sacks. Four yuan eight. Here.” He pulled a handful of change from his pocket, counted out four one-yuan bills and eight one-jiao notes, and handed them over. Lin Chen took them. The paper carried the man's body heat and the smell of sweat. He did not count them. He slipped them straight into the pocket against his body. Through the coarse cloth, his fingers touched them once. Stiff and crisp. Four yuan eight. The gap in the ledger had suddenly shrunk by more than half.

He sat on the pile of sacks and took off his gloves. Blisters had already formed on his palms; the callus at the base of his thumb had been rubbed open by the coarse cloth, and threads of blood seeped out. He did not feel pain. He only felt solid, grounded. Strength had turned into money. Money could turn into books. Books could turn into the logic of county exam papers. It was a line he could actually see. He closed his eyes and reviewed the morning in his head: the point where he applied force had been slightly off, and by the third truck his shoulder had slanted a little. Next time he had to move his center of gravity another inch forward. His breathing rhythm could be steadier. On the eighteenth sack his steps had gone half a beat out of order, and he had nearly stumbled. He had to note that down. He took out the stub of a pencil and wrote on the blank back cover of his exercise book: Shift center of gravity one inch forward. Keep stride fixed. Keep breathing steady. The handwriting blurred a little from the sweat, but the strokes stayed clear.

He did not take any more work in the afternoon. The man in the duckbill cap said, tomorrow morning at six, same place. Lin Chen nodded and headed home with his schoolbag on his back. His steps were lighter than in the morning, but his calves were beginning to swell and tighten. The soles of his rubber shoes burned hot; every step felt as if he were treading on live coals. He did not stop. One step, one adjustment of his center of gravity. Passing Xinhua Bookstore in town, he halted. Behind the glass counter, Collected Practice Exam Papers from the Last Three Years in Qinghe County lay quietly in the corner. The cover was dark blue, with the title printed in white. The price tag read: 1.50 yuan. He stood outside the window and looked at it for ten seconds. He did not go in. Not today. He had enough money, but the book had to wait until the day before the tutorial. If he bought it, he would have to read it. If he read it, he would have to understand it. If he could not understand it, that was waste. He turned and kept walking.

By the time he returned to Qingshi Village, the sun was already slanting west. The coal stove in the main room was keeping warm. Lin Jianguo was not there. A note had been pressed onto the stove: gone to the back mountain to carry firewood. Lin Chen set down his schoolbag and first went into the inner room to check on Xiaoman. His younger brother was asleep, breathing steadily. The water bowl by the bed was full. He topped it up, snapped the tablets in half, and placed them on a small dish. His movements were light. Then he went to the kitchen, lit the fire, washed rice, and cut sweet potatoes. The wood had been split fine and fed into the stove. Flames licked the bottom of the pot. He sat on a low stool and watched the fire. There was no fatigue in his head, only the ledger.

He opened the ledger. October 24. Income: 4.8 yuan (unloading sacks). Expenses: none. Balance: minus 2.4 yuan. Beneath that he added a line: Goal: 1.5 yuan (practice exam collection). Deadline: November 3. Progress: 4.8 yuan saved. The tip of the pen paused. He crossed out “saved” and changed it to “already raised.” Already raised was a result; saved was a process. Results weighed more than process. He closed the ledger, rose, and went back to the kitchen. The water in the earthenware pot was boiling. He lifted the lid. The white phenobarbital tablets were slowly dissolving in the rolling water. Bitterness spread through the air. He poured out half a bowl, let it cool until warm, and carried it into the inner room.

Xiaoman was awake. He looked at Lin Chen without speaking. Lin Chen helped him sit up and fed him the medicine. Xiaoman swallowed, white foam clinging to the corner of his mouth. Lin Chen wiped it away with his sleeve. The movement was practiced. When he finished, he went to the window. The sky was darkening. The line of the distant ridge was being swallowed by dusk. The chickens in the yard had already gone back to their roost. Wind passed through the bamboo grove, making a rustling sound. He stood there for a while. Then he turned around, took out that notebook of wrong answers from his schoolbag, and sat beneath the kerosene lamp, opening to a fresh page.

Today, unloading sacks, he had grasped a pattern: strength was not spent endlessly; it moved in rhythm. Find the right rhythm, and you could save half your strength. Was studying the same? The county paper's four-part structure could not be handled by rote memorization. You had to find the rhythm. How should the argument be set up? How should examples be embedded? Where should the self-mapping cut in? How should the ending be compressed? He picked up his pencil and drew a cross on the paper. The horizontal axis was time, the vertical axis was word count. Four hundred words, four sections. One hundred words per section. First section: finish within ten minutes. Break the topic open, show the viewpoint. Second section: fifteen minutes. Example one, example two. Third section: ten minutes. Connect it to oneself, without shouting slogans. Fourth section: five minutes. Gather it in, leave a little aftertaste. Once the time allocation was set, the mind would not panic. He wrote down: County paper four-part structure: 10-15-10-5. Word count: 100-150-100-50. Core: rhythm.

The flame of the kerosene lamp jumped once. His shadow stretched long on the wall. He looked at those lines of words. The joints of his fingers were beginning to stiffen from holding the pencil too long. The blisters on his palms were rubbed open again by the pencil, and threads of blood seeped out. He did not stop. He kept writing. Writing the outline for “On Honesty.” Writing substitute plans for examples. Writing three possible sentence patterns for closing. The pencil tip tore through the page. He stopped and looked at the line of words. The kerosene flame jumped once. His shadow stretched long on the wall.

From the inner room came Xiaoman's even breathing. Lin Chen closed the notebook of wrong answers and blew out the kerosene lamp. Darkness swallowed the main room. He lay on the hard plank bed, staring at the ceiling. His body felt as if it had been taken apart and put back together, every muscle crying out with soreness. But his mind was clear. Like after the last sack had been unloaded and the carrying pole had finally dropped to the ground. He knew he still had to go to the grain depot tomorrow. Still had to unload. Still had to calculate. Still had to practice. The one-yuan-five-jiao book was only the ticket in. The logic of the county paper was the real pass. Beyond that pass lay next Saturday's auditorium at the town middle school. The tutorial lecture. The first time he would truly face the people who wrote the county's exam questions.

Outside the window, the moon was hidden behind the clouds. The distant mountain shadows lay silent in the night. Lin Chen's breathing gradually steadied. Tomorrow, as soon as the sky brightened, he would have to leave. The grain depot was at the east end of town. He could not be late. The sack-unloading work had to be seized. The one-yuan-five-jiao book had to be secured. The logic of the county paper had to be chewed through. One step, one imprint. Dust had settled on the windowsill, a thin layer. He brushed it aside with his hand; gray clung to his fingertips, and he pressed a faint print onto the cover of his exercise book.

Before sleep overtook him, a thought flashed through his mind: the tutorial lecture did not teach basics, only scoring points. What if the scoring points did not match the four-part structure he had worked out? What if the county's graders did not care about rhythm at all, only diction? He did not know. But he did know one thing he had to ask about tomorrow at the grain depot: after unloading the sacks, could he borrow a handcart and haul two more trips? Strength could be exchanged for money, but money could not buy time. He had to pry time out from the cracks in his bones.

The night wind passed through the crack in the window and stirred the ledger on the table. The pages fluttered with a faint rustle. Like autumn insects chirping at the foot of the wall. Like a pencil scratching across paper. Like the second hand ticking inside his mind. Tick. Tick. Lin Chen closed his eyes. Tomorrow, six o'clock. Grain depot. Sacks. Four yuan eight. One yuan five. Four-part structure. Scoring points. Everything sat on the scale marks. He could not afford to drift off them.