Chapter 3

Chapter 4: Main text

Just as I had expected, I was enrolled midway through the preschool class at North Gate City No. 1 Primary School. It was supposedly the best primary school in the city, with the best preschool education. As I remembered it, I had not made a single friend there whom I could recall, nor learned a thing. Every day, I took a book Zhang Xiaotong had found for me to class. Once I finished reading, I secretly wrote stories in pencil in a small calligraphy practice notebook. Every few days, I pretended to be sick and stayed home reading. Since I behaved well in every other respect, both my teachers and my parents actually indulged me, letting me get through those first three months and more without incident.

The Spring Festival came three months later. Zhang Xiaotong's parents returned, so she could no longer come over every day. Bored on my own, I took out all the notebooks I had written in during class and organized the contents into several interconnected short stories. Then I secretly bought stamps and envelopes and mailed them to a local, supposedly serious literary magazine called North Gate Pass.

Of course, I took a precaution and put my youngest aunt's name and address down for replies. If a submission was unfortunately accepted, I would have a way to get Zhang Xiaotong to take my aunt's ID and collect the payment for me.

Writing those stories was painful. I could not write too well, or someone might follow the address to my door, and being discovered would mean trouble. But I could not make them so lousy that nobody would want to read any more, either. Finding that middle ground gave me headaches for a long time.

A few days later, Zhang Xiaotong came to me with a reply. "Did you write this?"

I freely admitted it. "Yes, I wrote it."

"I knew it." Zhang Xiaotong no longer moved or acted like a ten-year-old girl. Even her speech was more concise than mine. "I intercepted the reply. I haven't opened it."

"Thanks." I smiled at her. "We're the closest, after all. If I get paid, I'll treat you to a meal."

Zhang Xiaotong nodded at me with a smile.

Half a month later, the payment arrived. I did two things with the money: treated Zhang Xiaotong to food and gave the rest to her for safekeeping. A child under six from a family that was not particularly well-off having over two hundred yuan on hand would be a real problem.

Zhang Xiaotong's parents had opened a savings account for her, probably to get her into the habit of saving money herself. That made things much easier for me. There were not many people I could deal with at my age, and Zhang Xiaotong was the only person I could trust. I told her that if this happened again, I would put all my writing income in her name, which would also make it easier to use later.

Zhang Xiaotong seemed delighted by that trust and happily deposited the money for me.

The 1988 Seoul Olympics came to a successful close. Live television broadcasts were not yet common then, and I had little interest in major sporting events anyway. But on second thought, betting on football and other sports became popular later, and I remembered something of how certain major competitions had played out. I could use that to make a little money.

By early 1989, I had built up a fairly substantial amount of savings from my writing. Zhang Xiaotong kept the bankbook well hidden from my aunt and uncle. I kept coming up with different pen names and submitted to different magazines, leaving few traces. Zhang Xiaotong greatly admired my methods. I chuckled to myself. How many aspiring writers at this point understood the meaning of an "alternate identity"? They probably all wanted to use one pen name forever and have the whole world know it.

The late eighties were the heyday of literary youth, when having pen pals and discussing literature were all the rage. China had always been like that. In ancient times, few people could read, so matching couplets, playing a few word games, and composing a few lines of verse were enough to earn someone the title of "scholar." Things were a little better now: dropping a few foreign names and carrying a poetry collection could still make crowds swoon. After 2000, people stopped falling for that, and the petit bourgeoisie began to awaken. I did not much like that attitude. To my mind, only two modern Chinese writers qualified as literary masters: Lu Xun before, and Wang Xiaobo after. Those two truly managed to offer commentary, to be sincere and open, and to tirelessly say the things other people did not want to hear.

Living off my writing now was simply a last resort. Before the internet age, it was the only way I could think of to make money without showing my face.

Zhang Xiaotong remained deeply impressed by the things I wrote. She did not understand. "Why do you insist on writing badly when you could write well?"

I explained, "Do you think having lots of people write you love letters or turn up at your door because of your reputation is a good thing?"

Zhang Xiaotong shook her head.

I said, "What we want is to handle things with ease, not turn the situation into something beyond our control."

Zhang Xiaotong nodded thoughtfully.

I said, "If you want to be happy, you shouldn't have things troubling you. Being watched by too many people is one of life's greatest troubles. You can't understand that yet, but you will once you live independently."

Zhang Xiaotong blinked. "Have you ever lived independently?"

"Ahem..." I felt a little awkward. "No, but I still understand the principle."

"Just a few days ago, you said, 'Practice is the sole criterion for testing truth.'"

"Then keep an open mind and wait until you've put it into practice before drawing conclusions."

"..."

In September 1989, it was finally time for me to start school, too. First came the admissions interview. Prestigious primary schools were unbelievably high-handed back then, requiring applicants from outside their district to attend a half-hour interview. I insisted on taking the test without my parents accompanying me. Eventually, my family compromised and had Zhang Xiaotong take me to the school.

The school I was applying to was North Gate City No. 1 Primary School, where Zhang Xiaotong also studied. Although I had attended preschool there, my memories of the place remained rather vague. Apparently, even an extraordinary memory was subject to emotion. If I disliked something, I disliked it.

At the school gates, Zhang Xiaotong and I ate sugar figurines bought from a roadside stall while I wrestled with myself for a long time. Judging by my previous life, I would not attend this primary school. Should I go here or not?

Seeing that something was on my mind, Zhang Xiaotong nudged me with her arm. "What's wrong?"

I looked up at the wisps of cloud in the sky, thought of someone, and sighed.

"Sis, let's go back."

"What's wrong with you?" Zhang Xiaotong grew a little anxious. She wanted us to attend the same school. "Didn't you say you could pass easily?"

"I don't really want to go to this school anymore." I looked into Zhang Xiaotong's eyes. "We can see each other every day. Being at the same school doesn't make much difference. I want to go to a slightly worse school, somewhere less strict."

Zhang Xiaotong knew that my decisions generally could not be changed. She could only shake her head in disappointment. "Decide for yourself. Whatever you choose, I'll support you."

I nodded. "Thanks, Sis. I knew you'd support me."

Zhang Xiaotong took my hand, a smile slowly appearing on her face. "Of course I support you. Treat me to a meal."

I smiled and let her lead me away.

On September 15, I joined Class 1 of Grade 1 at the city's Xinhua Primary School. It was a second-rate school, and most of its pupils would go straight on to an even worse secondary school-North Gate City No. 13 Middle School. Few parents wanted to send their children here. I did not actually care what school I attended, or even what I studied. What mattered to me was the big-eyed girl sitting three seats to my left. She was the reason I had come.

I did not want to do anything, really. Once time and feelings had passed, they could not be brought back. I was only taking a look.

To my surprise, our homeroom teacher was not that terrifyingly fat old woman, but a newly graduated teacher named Jiang Wanrong. From my seat, I murmured, "The last emperor."

My deskmate was a little girl who was not particularly pretty, named Xu Jiajia. That much was no different from before.

There was really nothing worth saying about primary school lessons. Relying on how many characters I knew, I continued reading unrelated books in class, though I reined myself in a little during our homeroom teacher's lessons. Full marks in both subjects on the first assessment astonished my teacher, who wanted to make me the class study representative. I turned her down. Jiang Wanrong was amazed that there were children these days who did not want to be class officers, and who could talk their way out of it so glibly. I sneered inwardly. These school positions were the least worthwhile things to compete for. Make me waste effort on them? Dream on.

Jiang Wanrong was very surprised that I knew so many characters. I explained that I had an older cousin who went to school and often came over to teach me, and got away with it.

Invoking her status as my older cousin, Zhang Xiaotong came running to my school to see me whether she had a reason or not. She even brought me food, making everyone else terribly envious. This was what I'd painstakingly taught her, year after year, I thought. All your envy won't do you any good.

Primary school life was truly boring, and I could not be bothered to socialize with my classmates. The first six months passed in a haze, and I got to know very few of them. My deskmate Xu Jiajia, however, was drawn to the outside reading I brought every day and often struck up conversations with me.

I chuckled inwardly. So the literary youth routine worked on little girls aged six to eight, too...

My main purpose in attending Xinhua Primary School was to see Zhang Xin. She still looked very young then. Her face had not yet taken on its later oval shape, and her eyes were not as big as they would be a few years later, but looking at her still sent a surge of excitement through me.

I did not know whether I now had the right to invite a memory to dinner. Looking at Zhang Xin's face, I felt that my heart was as still as water, that I had grown up.

A little happiness, a little sorrow. People learned to suppress themselves because they could not do what they wanted. Suppression was merely an excuse to divert their attention.

I mocked myself. Emotions were nothing more than chemical reactions, after all.

In October 1989, I had Zhang Xiaotong get a city library card. I was a primary school student now, after all, and could freely enter and leave the library with her. With a large library at hand, we had far more choices, and our enthusiasm for reading, which had begun to flag, rose again. Psychologically speaking, Zhang Xiaotong was already a mature young woman by then. When talking to her, I no longer needed to explain complicated things in simple terms. I told her that perhaps I had taught her so much simply because I wanted someone like me to talk to. Zhang Xiaotong only smiled at that.

I felt deeply moved. Women really were creatures that matured faster.

Zhang Xiaotong had already begun learning to maintain an independent personal account under her parents' supervision. She divided the money into two portions: one for her parents to see, and another, much larger portion for our private use. Most of it came from the fees I earned writing third-rate fiction for various magazines, with some money made from buying and selling assorted small antiques. Since I rarely asked my family for money, they praised me lavishly during holidays and festivals. Zhang Xiaotong followed my example and began curbing her spending, too. The two of us had practically become the model children all the neighbors talked about.

Back in 1989, ordinary wage-earning families were not yet particularly alert to the idea of making money. Most people thought having enough to eat was enough. Every day, I watched television, watching the conflicts in the Middle East and the brawls in Taiwan's legislature. I had many thoughts, but did not dare voice them. I had to restrain myself for a few more years, to wait a little longer.