Chapter 20: The Brick Kiln Scale

Five in the morning. Dawn had not yet fully broken. Lin Chen opened his eyes.

The gauze on the soles of his feet had dried hard, stuck over the cracks, its edges stained yellow-brown with medicine. He sat up slowly and moved his ankles. The joints gave a faint, stiff sound. The sharp pain was still there, but he could bear weight on them. He threw back the blanket, and cold air instantly wrapped itself around his skin. He walked into the main room. A weak glow came from the kitchen. His mother was cooking porridge. The sound of the firewood being stirred was very soft. His father was nowhere in sight. Resting on the threshold was a newly woven bamboo shoulder pole, with hemp ropes and iron hooks hanging from both ends. Beside it stood a pair of half-worn Liberation shoes. Their soles had been patched, the stitching close and dense, the uppers reinforced with thick thread.

Lin Chen crouched down, slipped off his straw sandals, and put on the Liberation shoes. They were a little tight, but they held his feet firmly, pressing down the blisters on his soles and keeping muddy water from seeping in. He tied the laces tight. Double-knotted them. Then he picked up the shoulder pole. The bamboo had a good spring to it, and the weight was just right. He tested it on his shoulder. The center of gravity settled across his trapezius. Good enough.

He pushed open the door. Morning fog flowed low along the ground. The air had the brittle edge of frost. He followed the farm track north. His steps were steadier than yesterday. The Liberation shoes struck the hard earth with a dull sound. In his head, he was doing the math. Twelve yuan. Four days. Today he had to secure the biggest share. Old Zhao had said the scrap iron frames in the brick kiln yard were sold by weight. Pig iron fetched less; wrought iron more. Angle iron and bolts taken apart from the frames could be sold as scrap steel. Twenty-five fen a jin. To make twelve yuan, he needed forty-eight jin. Add in whatever he could earn from hauling water, and today’s target was fifty jin.

A quarter past six. The red brick walls of the kiln appeared in the mist. The front gate was not fully shut. One section of the low side wall had collapsed. Lin Chen slipped through the gap. The factory yard lay open and empty. The kiln had already gone cold, and white vapor rose from the chimney. In the back yard, old molds and broken iron frames from repairs were piled up. The smell of rust mixed with coal ash, sharp enough to catch in the throat. Old Zhao was squatting in a corner by the wall, smoking. When he saw him, he tapped out his pipe bowl. “You’re here.”

“Mhm.” Lin Chen set down the shoulder pole. “Which batch?”

Old Zhao pointed toward the innermost pile. “Those three frames. They came out when they overhauled the kiln. Heavy, but solid stuff. Keep your hands light, and don’t alert Old Sun, the watchman. He’s off shift today, but the dog’s still around.”

Lin Chen nodded. He walked over to the iron frames and ran a hand over them. The surfaces were caked with thick oxidation, the edges sharp. He pulled a small folding knife from his schoolbag, the handle wrapped in cloth strips. Crouching down, he began loosening the bolts. They had rusted fast. First he scraped off the top layer of rust with the back of the knife, exposing the threads. Then he dripped on two drops of waste machine oil he had brought from home. He waited three minutes. Set the wrench in place. Strained. It did not budge. He shifted his stance, feet apart, center of gravity dropping, core tightening. The wrench turned half a circle with a screech of metal scraping metal. Another turn. The bolt loosened. He unscrewed it and dropped it into the sack.

The first length of angle iron came free. About fifteen jin. He hoisted it onto his shoulder. The weight pressed down on his collarbone, stopping his breath for a moment. The cracks in his soles were squeezed by the Liberation shoes, and the pain flared at once. He clenched his back teeth, steadied his breathing, and moved. One step. Two steps. At the low wall, he lowered the frame, tied it with hemp rope, and dragged it outside.

Again. Dismantle. Tie. Haul. Sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes, stinging. He did not wipe it away. The webbing of his hands had been rubbed raw by the rust, threads of blood seeping out through the black grime. He ignored it. In his mind there was only weight and rhythm. Twenty jin. Thirty. Forty. The pain in his soles had gone numb, turning into a steady, blunt ache. The muscles in his thighs began to cramp. He stopped, leaned against a stack of bricks, and panted for breath. From inside his jacket he took out a small packet of salt and licked a little. The sharp saltness jolted his tongue. Sour water rose in his stomach. He swallowed it back down and kept going.

Seven forty. Fifty jin. Just enough. He tied off the sack one last time and dragged it to the scrap station. The fat owner had only just opened for business. He looked at Lin Chen and blinked in surprise. “Well now, the Lin boy. Out this early today?”

“Weigh it.” Lin Chen dragged the sack onto the scale.

The man moved the weight along the beam. The scale lifted. “Fifty-two jin. Pig iron price. Twenty-three fen. One yuan two.”

Lin Chen stared at the scale beam. “Wrought iron. Angle iron. Bolts. Count it as scrap steel. Twenty-five fen.”

The fat owner narrowed his eyes and picked up a piece of angle iron, scraping it with a knife. “This much rust, I dock for loss. Twenty-four fen. That’s the most.”

“No deduction.” Lin Chen’s voice was not loud, but it was hard. “The bolts aren’t rusted solid. The angle iron is solid stock. You’ll melt it down and it comes out iron all the same. If you dock for loss, I’ll take it to Old Li at the east end of town.”

The fat owner looked at him for two seconds, then smiled. “Fine. Twenty-five fen. One yuan three. I’ll round the odd bit off—one-thirty even.”

Lin Chen nodded. He took three wrinkled five-jiao notes, one two-jiao note, and one one-jiao note. One yuan three in all. He counted it carefully once, folded it in half, and put it into the inner pocket against his body.

“You coming back this afternoon?” the fat owner asked.

“Yes.” Lin Chen turned and quickened his pace.

Eight twenty. He was back in Qingshi Village. The clock in the main room pointed to eight twenty-five. His mother had already ladled out the porridge and cut up the pickled vegetables. His father sat on the threshold weaving a new pair of straw sandals. When he saw him, he stopped and handed him a bowl of warm water.

Lin Chen took it and drank. Then he went into the inner room. Xiaoman was already awake, sitting on the bed with half a piece of chalk in his hand, drawing circles on the floor. When he saw his brother, he grinned. “Ge.”

“Mhm.” Lin Chen rubbed his little brother’s head and went to the windowsill. He picked up the medicine bottle, shook out one pill, and gave it to him with water. Xiaoman swallowed. Lin Chen capped the bottle and set it back where it had been.

He returned to the main room and opened the ledger. The pages were slightly damp from the morning mist. He picked up his pencil.

7:40–8:20. Scrap iron, 52 jin. Unit price 0.25. Income: 1.30 yuan.

Balance: 3.80 + 1.30 = 5.10 yuan.

Shortfall: 12 - 5.10 = 6.90 yuan.

Time remaining: 3 days.

The pencil point paused. He crossed out “shortfall” and wrote beside it: Tomorrow’s route: two loads of water (0.20) + dismantling iron (estimated 1.50) + selling scrap (0.30). Target: 2.00 yuan.

He closed the ledger. His finger joints were stiff. He rested his hands on his knees and slowly flexed them. Inside the Liberation shoes, the gauze on his feet was already soaked through. Blood and sweat together. He took the shoes off. The edges of the blisters on his soles had turned white, and the cracks showed slight signs of infection, red and swollen. He went to the water jar and washed them clean with warm water. Then he dabbed on gentian violet. It stung sharply. His face did not change. He wrapped them in fresh gauze and put the shoes back on.

His father came over and squatted down, looking at his feet. “Rest half a day. Go this afternoon.”

“Can’t rest.” Lin Chen tightened his laces. “The deadline for the medicine money is the tenth. Tuition is due on the fifth. There isn’t enough time.”

His father did not try to persuade him again. He only reached into his jacket and took out half a lump of brown sugar, setting it on the table. “Dissolve it in water. Keep the cold out.”

Lin Chen nodded. He picked up the sugar, broke off a small piece, and dropped it into a bowl, then poured in hot water. The sugar melted, turning the water amber. He drank it slowly. The sweetness slid down his throat, and warmth spread through his stomach. He knew that half-lump of sugar was something the family had saved over half a month. He could not waste it.

One in the afternoon. The rain had stopped. The sun had come out. The ground was beginning to dry. Lin Chen carried water buckets on the shoulder pole to the old well at the village entrance. The well water was icy cold. The pole pressed into his shoulder, the wooden buckets swaying. He kept his balance, his stride even. Two loads of water. Forty fen. When Old Sun paid him, he slipped in two extra one-fen coins. “Your foot’s injured and you still came? Lin boy, you push yourself too hard.”

“It’s only right.” Lin Chen took the money, folded it, and put it in his pocket.

Three o’clock. Back at the brick kiln. He resumed dismantling iron. The frames in the afternoon were heavier, their rust thicker. He changed tactics. No more wrenching straight on. He used leverage. Found a thick wooden stick, wedged it under the bolts, and pried with force. Metal gave with a dull breaking sound. The work went faster—but it drained more strength. Sweat soaked through his coarse cotton shirt until it clung to his back. When the wind hit it, it felt ice-cold.

Five o’clock. Done for the day. He sold the lot for one yuan five. Add in the forty fen from hauling water, and today’s total was three yuan two.

Six o’clock. Home again. The lamp in the main room was already lit. The flame of the kerosene lamp fluttered. His mother was frying vegetables in the kitchen, and the smell of rendered lard drifted out. His father was repairing farm tools. Xiaoman was in the inner room, quietly playing with wooden blocks.

Lin Chen went to the earthen wall, picked up a piece of chalk, and updated the account.

Day 1. Income: 3.20. Balance: 8.30. Shortfall: 3.70. Remaining: 2 days.

He put the chalk down. His fingers were covered in white dust. He went to the water jar, washed his hands clean, then returned to the inner room and lay down. Closing his eyes, he let the exhaustion in his body come over him like a rising tide. His muscles ached. The soles of his feet throbbed. But he did not resist it. He let the pain exist. It was the price. It was also progress.

Outside the window, the sky darkened. The chickens in the yard began settling back into the coop. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Lin Chen’s breathing gradually steadied. He knew tomorrow would be the final push. He had to secure the remaining three yuan seven. Dismantle iron. Haul water. Sell scrap. One step, one mark at a time.

Nine that night. Footsteps sounded outside the courtyard gate. Not his father’s. The leather soles were unfamiliar. They stopped on the flagstones. Then came a knock at the door. Not loud, but steady.

Lin Chen opened his eyes. Under the blanket, his fingers slowly tightened into a fist. He sat up, put on his shoes, and walked into the main room.

His father had already opened the door. Two men stood outside. One wore a Zhongshan suit and glasses, carrying a briefcase. The other was Old Zhao, the town postman.

“Comrade Lin Jianguo?” the man in the Zhongshan suit began. His voice was gentle, but there was an unmistakable official tone to it. “I’m from the County Education Bureau’s admissions office. There are some procedures concerning student Lin Chen’s scholarship eligibility that need to be verified. Also...” He paused, his gaze sweeping over the earthen walls and the stove in the main room. “The Academic Affairs Office of County No. 1 High School has notified us that at registration, you must bring the household register, the original grade report, and... a statement of family circumstances. Stamped by the village committee. It must be submitted to the town education office before nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Lin Chen stood at the doorway of the inner room, listening. His fingers slowly loosened.

A family circumstances statement. A village committee stamp. The town education office. Tomorrow morning, nine o’clock.

He walked to the earthen wall, picked up the chalk, and beside the route map he had already drawn, wrote a new mark: November 4. 9:00 a.m. Town Education Office. Stamp.

The chalk paused. He crossed out “stamp” and replaced it with “run paperwork.” The village committee director had gone to the county for a meeting today. He would not be back until tomorrow. The timing was locked tight. There was no waiting.

He put the chalk down and turned around. The man in the Zhongshan suit was still waiting for his father’s answer. His father was silent, the tobacco pipe rotating once in his hand.

“Understood,” his father said.

The man nodded and turned away. The sound of leather shoes gradually receded.

Lin Chen went to the table and opened the ledger. On the back page he wrote: New variable: stamp procedure. Time conflict: must go to the town education office in the morning; must dismantle iron in the afternoon. Solution: leave at 4:00 a.m. Take the ridge paths. Reach town before 9:00. Return to the kiln after the paperwork.

He closed the ledger and raised his head. The flame of the kerosene lamp flickered once. Outside the window, the night was thick. Wind slipped through the cracks and carried in the cold.

Tomorrow, he would have to get up early.

He went to the water jar, scooped up a dipperful, and splashed it over his face. Droplets ran down from his jaw. Every trace of drowsiness was gone.

Three yuan seven. Two days. Paperwork. One step, one mark at a time.