Chapter 12: The Measure of the County Exam

At 5:40 in the morning, the sky was still a bluish gray. The clouds hung low, like a piece of coarse cloth soaked through with water. Lin Chen pushed open the door, and the cold crept up from his ankles. He wasn't wearing socks. He shoved his feet straight into his rubber shoes. The insoles had been warmed over straw the night before and still held a trace of heat, making a faint rustling sound underfoot. He stamped his feet, shaking the dry mud from the soles, slung his schoolbag made from a fertilizer sack over his shoulder, and locked the wooden door of the main room. The keys hung at his waist, their metal clinking softly, not loud enough to disturb the breathing in the inner room.

He could have walked the road to the grain station on the east side of town with his eyes closed. The dew on the gravel farm road was heavier than yesterday, making each step slick and hard. He walked steadily, keeping his breathing to one inhale every two steps. There were no stray thoughts in his head, only the abacus and the handcart. Yesterday, while unloading sacks, he had noticed two old wooden flatbed carts parked against the rear wall of the grain station yard. Their axles had been greased with black machine oil, the wheels turned smoothly, and hemp rope had been wound around the shafts for grip. If he could borrow one, he could haul four sacks at a time. The strength saved on the back-and-forth would let him unload two more cartloads. Strength was dead; tools were alive. He had to make use of the tool.

The grain station's iron gate was already wide open. The sacks piled in the yard were higher than yesterday. The air was thick with the mixed smell of old husks, diesel, and damp earth. Several Jiefang trucks were parked beside the scale, their beds still loaded with grain that hadn't yet been unloaded. A man in a duckbill cap was squatting beside the weigh scale, keeping the accounts with half a cigarette hanging from his mouth, the red ember brightening and dimming in the morning mist. Lin Chen walked over and stopped two paces away.

"Morning, Uncle," he said. His voice wasn't loud, but it was clear.

The man looked up and exhaled smoke. "Back again today?"

"Yes." Lin Chen nodded. "Uncle, can I borrow the handcart in the back yard for half a day? I'm unloading sacks. If I use the cart to haul them over to the scale, I can move two extra sacks each trip and it won't slow the weighing. If a sack tears, it comes out of my pay."

The man narrowed his eyes and looked him over. His gaze lingered on the skin rubbed raw at the base of Lin Chen's thumb and on his rubber shoes. "That cart belongs to the station. If you break it, you can't afford to pay for it."

"I won't break it," Lin Chen said. "I'll pull it, not push it. Keep the center of gravity low. Lift the front wheel over bumps. Watch me do one run."

The man said nothing. He pinched out the cigarette and stood up. "Go try it. If you break it, I dock your pay. If you handle it well, I'll add another dime this afternoon."

"All right."

Lin Chen headed to the back yard. The cart stood against the wall, hemp rope wound around the shafts. He gripped the shafts with both hands and tested the weight. Empty, it weighed about thirty jin. He walked over to the stack of sacks, crouched, seized the two bottom corners with both hands, bent his knees slightly, and kept his back straight. He exerted force. He wasn't yanking with brute strength; he was driving with his legs and sending the force through his waist. The sack left the ground. A hundred jin crashed down onto his shoulder in an instant. The soles of his rubber shoes slipped on the gravel, but he steadied his center of gravity, turned, and stepped forward. Five steps to the cart bed. His footwork couldn't be off. He held his breathing down. First step, second step... the bones in his shoulder began to ache, the coarse cloth bit into his flesh, burning hot. He didn't stop. When he reached the cart, he bent his knees and lowered himself. The sack thudded down onto the planks. Dust burst up.

A second sack. A third. A fourth. The cart bed sagged slightly under the weight. He gripped the shafts tightly, back straight, knees bent, and drove forward. The cart moved. The wheels crushed the gravel with a heavy rumble. He controlled the direction and walked in a straight line. When he came to a small dirt ridge, he slowed in advance, pressed down on the shafts with both hands, lifted the front wheel, let the rear wheels roll over, then leveled it again and kept going. Twenty steps. To the scale. Unload the sacks. Turn around. Pull the empty cart back. Without the weight, it was light, and he quickened his pace. His breathing stayed steady. He had found the rhythm. The cart cut the time for each round trip nearly in half. He was like a machine that had been calibrated, repeating the cycle of loading, hauling, unloading. 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. Beside the scale, the sacks piled up into a small hill. The man in the duckbill cap stood off to one side watching without a word, only making a note in his little ledger from time to time.

Eleven in the morning. The sun had burned through the fog. The smell of diesel had turned hot in the sunlight. Lin Chen unloaded the last cartload and returned the handcart to the wall. He took off his gloves. The blisters on his palms had joined into one sheet, and the callus at the base of his thumb had been rubbed open by the coarse cloth, threaded with streaks of blood. He didn't feel pain. He only felt the numbers in his ledger dropping.

The man in the duckbill cap came over and handed him an enamel mug. "Drink."

Lin Chen took it. It was full of cooled boiled water, with a faint taste of rust. He tipped his head back and gulped it down. The water slid through his throat into his stomach and pressed down the sour churn inside him.

"You worked cleanly," the man said. "This morning, thirty-six sacks. With the cart, you saved effort. By the rule, two mao a sack. Thirty-six sacks, seven yuan two. Deduct one mao for wear on the cart this afternoon. Seven yuan one. Here."

He pulled out a handful of change, counted out seven one-yuan notes and one one-mao note, and held them out. Lin Chen took them. The bills carried the man's body heat and the smell of sweat. He didn't count them. He stuffed them straight into the pocket against his chest and felt them through the coarse cloth with his fingers. Crisp. Seven yuan one. The gap in the ledger was gone. There was even one yuan nine left over. He closed his eyes and reviewed it in his head: when hauling with a cart, keep the center of gravity low; lift the front wheel over rises. His breathing rhythm could be steadier. If he kept working in the afternoon, he would need to bring a damp towel to wipe sweat so it wouldn't blind him. He pulled out the stub of a pencil and wrote on the blank back cover of his exercise book: Keep the cart's center of gravity low. Lift the front wheel over ridges. Bring a damp towel. The handwriting blurred a little with sweat, but the strokes were clear.

He didn't take any more work that afternoon. The man in the duckbill cap told him, same place tomorrow morning at six. Lin Chen nodded and slung his schoolbag over his shoulder as he headed toward the west side of town. His steps were lighter than in the morning, but his calves were beginning to swell. The soles of his rubber shoes had rubbed so hot that each step felt as if he were treading on coals. He didn't stop. One step, then another adjustment of his center of gravity. When he passed Xinhua Bookstore in town, he stopped. Inside the glass display case, Collected County Examination Papers of Qinghe County for the Last Three Years lay quietly in a corner. Dark blue cover. White title. The price tag read: 1.50 yuan. He pushed the door open. The hinge gave a dry creak. There were only two customers in the shop, and the air smelled of old paper, printing ink, and mothballs. He walked to the counter.

"I want to buy a book," he said quietly.

The old woman behind the counter pushed up her reading glasses, took the book from the glass case, and set it on the counter. "One yuan five."

Lin Chen took the money from the pocket against his chest. Two one-yuan notes, one five-jiao note. The old woman accepted them and gave him back one one-jiao note. Lin Chen took the book. It was light, but it had weight in his hands. He opened the first page. On the title page were the words: Compiled by the Teaching and Research Office of the Qinghe County Education Bureau. No author listed. Only the publication date: August 1991. He closed it, slid it into the side pocket of his schoolbag, zipped it up, and turned to leave the shop.

The autumn wind blew cool against his face. He walked slowly. There was no celebration in his mind, only the abacus. Ledger balance: negative one yuan five (book) + positive seven yuan one (wages) = positive five yuan six. After reserving tomorrow's medicine money, four yuan one remained. Goal achieved. Next step: chew through the book.

By the time he returned to Qingshi Village, the sun had already tilted west. The coal stove in the main room was keeping warm. Lin Jianguo wasn't there. A slip of paper had been pinned on the stove: gone to the back hill to carry firewood, back late. Lin Chen set down his schoolbag and first went to check on Xiaoman in the inner room. His younger brother was asleep, breathing evenly. The bowl of water by the bedside was full. He topped it up, broke the pills in half, and set them on a small dish. His movements were light. Then he went to the kitchen to light the fire, wash the rice, and cut sweet potatoes. The firewood had been split fine and stuffed into the stove mouth. 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 book.

He opened Collected Examination Papers. The first page was a Chinese language paper. The composition prompt read: My Hometown. Requirement: no fewer than four hundred characters; combine collective labor or changes in your hometown and express genuine feelings. He stared at the words combine collective labor or changes in your hometown. The town paper's prompt had been A Morning of Autumn Harvest and only asked for a personal experience. The county paper had an extra frame. It wasn't that he couldn't write about the individual; it was that he had to embed the individual inside the collective. He took out his notebook of corrected mistakes and wrote on a fresh page: County-paper logic revision: personal experience must be grafted onto collective narrative. Don't open with "I"; open with "we." Don't write "my father" in the example; write "the village collective." Don't close with "the road is made by walking"; close with "the times are changing, but people's hearts remain." The pencil tip paused. He crossed out the village collective and changed it to the township. In 1992, the production brigades had long since been dissolved; he needed a newer term. He kept writing. Breaking down the structure of a model essay. Writing out how the scoring points were distributed. Four hundred characters. The extra hundred-character space wasn't for padding; it was for laying out the collective background. He needed to take the viewpoint of "I" half a step backward and let "we" stand in front. The kerosene lamp flame jumped once. The shadows stretched long across the wall. He looked at that line of writing. The joints of his fingers had gone slightly stiff from gripping the pencil too long. The blisters on his palm broke open against it and bled. He didn't stop. He kept writing. Writing an outline for My Hometown. Writing alternative examples. Writing three different closing sentence patterns. The pencil tip tore the paper. He paused and looked at the line. The kerosene lamp flame jumped once more. The shadows stretched long on the wall.

From the inner room came Xiaoman's steady breathing. Lin Chen closed the notebook of corrected mistakes and blew out the kerosene lamp. Darkness swallowed the main room. He lay on the hard plank bed and stared at the ceiling. His body felt as if it had been taken apart and put back together again; every muscle was crying out with soreness. But his mind was clear. Like after unloading the very last sack, when the carrying pole finally dropped to the ground. He knew he still had to go to the grain station tomorrow. Still had to unload. Still had to calculate. Still had to practice. The one-yuan-five book was only the ticket in. The logic of the county paper was the real pass. Beyond that pass lay next Saturday's coaching class. The first time he would truly face the people who set the county exam.

The hinge of the main-room door sounded again. Lin Jianguo had returned. A bundle of firewood lay across his shoulder, his steps heavy. He put the wood down and went into the kitchen. Without a word, he took two boiled eggs from inside his jacket and set them on the stove. The shells still held his body heat. Lin Jianguo looked at him once. His gaze rested on the skin rubbed open at the base of Lin Chen's thumb. He didn't ask about the work at the grain station. He didn't ask about the placement exam score. He only said, "Your hand's split. Don't touch raw water." His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper rubbing.

Lin Chen nodded. "I know."

Lin Jianguo turned and went into the kitchen to light the fire. The flames lit his stooped back. Lin Chen sat up, picked up an egg, peeled it. The white was so hot that he had to blow on it before taking a bite. Salty. His mother used to boil them in salt water. He ate slowly. Then he gathered up the shells and buried them in the stove ash. They could be fed to the chickens tomorrow.

Outside the window, the moon was hidden behind the clouds. In the distance, the dark shape of the mountains crouched silently in the night. Lin Chen's breathing gradually steadied. Tomorrow, the moment it was light, he would have to go. The grain station was on the east side of town. He couldn't be late. He had to fight for the sack-unloading work. He had to chew through the one-yuan-five book. He had to revise the logic of the county paper. One step, one print.

The door hinge sounded again. Lin Jianguo hadn't gone to sleep. He sat on the threshold smoking dry tobacco, the spark in the bowl of his pipe glowing and fading in the dark. He didn't turn around. His voice was thinned by the night wind. "Don't go to the grain station tomorrow."

Lin Chen opened his eyes. "Why not?"

"A notice went up at the town middle school," Lin Jianguo said, knocking the ash from his pipe. "Next Saturday's coaching session has been moved to County No. 1 High School. Not the town auditorium. Thirty li each way. Sixty li there and back. Leave at six in the morning, and you won't get back till night."

Lin Chen said nothing. Thirty li. Sixty li. He couldn't bring the handcart. He couldn't unload sacks. The surplus in the ledger wouldn't stretch to two days' worth of food. The coaching class didn't cost money, but the trip did. Time did. Strength did. He sat up. The kerosene lamp was still unlit. In the darkness, only the outline of the ledger remained. He took out the pencil and crossed out grain station on the blank back cover, then wrote: County No. 1 High School. Thirty li. Leave early, return late. Need dry rations. Need to calculate travel cost. Need to rearrange time. The pencil moved lightly, but it scored the page deep.

Lin Jianguo said nothing more. The spark in the tobacco bowl faded. The main room sank back into silence. Lin Chen stared at that line of writing. Thirty li of road wasn't something you walked with your feet; it was something you filled with your life. But he knew the door had already opened. There was no going back. He lay down and closed his eyes. There was no fatigue in his mind, only gradations. Sixty li. Two days. A one-yuan-five book. A four-hundred-character composition. The logic of the county paper. Everything was being recalculated. The night wind slipped through the crack in the window and stirred the ledger on the table. The pages rustled softly as they turned. Lin Chen's breathing gradually steadied. Tomorrow he would not unload sacks. He had to go to the town middle school to read the notice. He had to measure the wear on his shoe soles. He had to calculate dry rations. One step, one print. Dust lay on the windowsill in a thin layer. He reached out and brushed it aside. Gray dust clung to his fingertip, and he pressed a faint mark onto the cover of his exercise book.