The Five Brothers' Dream

After Xinde entered the Provincial Foreign Trade Administration, the dormitory assigned to him by the work unit was in Huangsha.
That place lay close to the Pearl River, very near Shamian Island. After only a few steps, one could see those old European-style buildings, the dense shade of trees, and streets so quiet they carried a faintly foreign flavor. Looking a little farther away, the White Swan Hotel stood by the river, its glass windows glittering in the sunlight, like Canton’s most respectable calling card in the early years of reform and opening. Those who came and went there included Hong Kong merchants, foreign guests, cadres in suits carrying leather briefcases, and local people who had specially come to look at the excitement. To many people in Canton, the White Swan was not merely a hotel. It was a model of a new life: bright, clean, with elevators, cafés, foreign-exchange certificates, and a kind of elegance that made people both envious and a little embarrassed to approach.
And the dormitory where Xinde and the others lived stood in the shadow of precisely such prosperity.
It was a dark old building, only three stories high, yet it seemed tall and imposing. The outer walls had been darkened by years of river wind and rain. The window frames were old, the wooden doors heavy. Standing downstairs and looking up, one could even feel a little of the bearing of an old yamen. The staircase was especially long, and especially high and broad. It rose upward step by step, and when one touched the handrail, it felt cool, as though touching a section of the spine of an old government office. Only later did Xinde learn that this had originally been the office building from the time when the foreign trade administration department was still under Canton Customs. At that time, there had been few people and few matters; several offices were enough to manage the whole operation. Later, reform and opening arrived, import and export business rose with the tide, and the Foreign Trade Administration set up its own establishment. This building then withdrew from its old use. The two lower floors were left empty, while the third floor and the attic above were simply renovated and turned into staff dormitories.
They called it a dormitory, but in truth it was very rough.
The walls had been repainted, yet they could not block the dampness inside the old building. The ceiling was very high; when the electric light was turned on, the glow seemed to hang in midair, unable to reach the corners. The corridor was long and dark. At night, wind poured in from the stairwell, and the cracks of the doors would make thin, faint sounds. The toilets and bathing rooms were shared. The faucets often dripped. In winter, the hot water supply was unstable; whoever bathed late could only grit his teeth and wipe himself down with cold water. The work unit, to its credit, had been fairly thoughtful: each person was given a bed, mosquito net, cotton quilt, washbasin, and thermos bottle, and in the shared kitchen there were gas stoves, pots, bowls, ladles, and other basic necessities of life. But the things merely stood there. Whether one could live decently still depended on one’s own ability.
More than twenty single men lived in the dormitory, and only three female employees.
Once this ratio was set down, the atmosphere of the whole building became somewhat subtle. During the day, the male comrades wore white shirts in the office, carried folders, and spoke with great seriousness. Once they returned to the dormitory, they immediately loosened their collars, slipped into slippers, and revealed their original forms. Some loved cleanliness, their bedding folded as neatly as a barracks, toothbrush cups arranged in a straight line. Others were as chaotic as temporary warehouses, socks hanging over chair backs, books piled together with lunch boxes, finding anything entirely dependent on fate. Some came from the Inspection Department, spending all day dealing with samples, standards, and workshops; they spoke frankly and drank fiercely. Some came from the office, well-informed, knowing which leader had said what in a meeting and which document was about to be issued. There were also people from Finance, Personnel, General Affairs, and Logistics, each with his own identity and each with his own temperament.
Xinde, being in the Personnel Department, belonged to the type that was “half scholar, half newcomer to government office.”
When he first arrived, everyone knew he had graduated from the philosophy department of Fudan and that he had a fine hand of calligraphy, so they were a little curious about him. An older brother from the Inspection Department named Acong met him for the first time and slapped him on the shoulder.
“Philosophy department? Then in the future, help us explain why our salaries are never enough to spend.”
Little Zhou from Finance immediately answered, “That does not need philosophy. Mathematics explains it. Income minus expenses is always less than zero.”
Everyone burst into laughter.
At first, Xinde was somewhat restrained. Later, he also learned to laugh. He discovered that in the dormitory, jokes were the best passport. In the office, people spoke of rank, departments, and seniority; in the dormitory, they also existed, but not so openly. Whoever could cook, whoever had good tea leaves, whoever could borrow a bicycle, whoever knew how to repair a radio, whoever had relatives who had brought back several tins of biscuits from Hong Kong—any of these abilities could suddenly raise a person’s status on a given evening. The shared life of young people was the slow stewing together of many little skills, little secrets, little faces, and little embarrassments, until they became a friendship not very solid, yet warm.
The kitchen was the liveliest place in the whole dormitory.
Every evening, as people came back from work one after another, the corridors filled with footsteps, voices, and the sound of washbasins knocking against doors. Some washed rice. Some cut vegetables. Some fought for the gas stove. Some stood before the sink holding a fish, not knowing where to begin. Huangsha was near the market, so buying food was convenient. Fish and shrimp were fresh, and pork was not hard to find. As long as someone was willing to run errands, dinner could be made decent. Sometimes several colleagues pooled money to buy a chicken, then added peanuts, greens, and tofu. Once the oil smoke rose in the kitchen, the whole building became as lively as a festival.
Acong was the best cook.
He had grown up in the countryside, and his hands and feet were quick. When he picked up the kitchen knife to chop chicken, a few dong dong dong sounds rang out, crisp as drumming. His beer duck was very popular, though sometimes he was reluctant to pour the whole bottle of beer into the pot and had to keep half a bottle for himself to drink. Old Tang from the office was best at telling stories. Before the dishes were cooked, he had already told the day’s amusing office anecdotes three times. Little Zhou from Finance calculated accounts with the greatest precision. After returning from buying vegetables, he could calculate how many cents the scallions cost, how many cents the ginger, how much the chicken, how much the wine, and finally arrive at each person’s share: one yuan, three mao, and seven fen. If someone complained that he was too meticulous, he would answer with perfect righteousness, “If financial cadres were not like this, how could the state feel at ease?”
Everyone laughed again.
Xinde often took responsibility for writing the menu.
In truth, there was no menu. It was only that everyone made a fuss, saying that the handwriting of a Fudan philosopher could not be wasted. So he would take an old sheet of letter paper and write with his fountain pen:
“Today’s Elegant Gathering at Huangsha: white-cut chicken, stir-fried choy sum, peanuts, shredded pork with green peppers, and several bottles of Pearl River beer.”
The characters were clean and fresh, and the paper was pasted on the kitchen door, like a formal banquet notice. Acong stared at it for a long while and said, “Once your characters are written there, this meal rises in value by at least three yuan.”
Xinde said, “Then your cooking must also rise in value.”
Acong waved his spatula. “Do not worry. Tonight I will let you taste existentialism.”
This so-called existentialism was in fact that the chicken was a little too salty, while the wine was just right.
When they ate, everyone gathered around the table without caring whether bowls and chopsticks matched. Some sat on stools; some sat on wooden boxes; some stood while eating. Once the dishes were placed on the table, chopsticks flew in unison. Steam rose upward. Cups clinked together, and then words increased. They talked about the work unit, salaries, leaders, transfers, which department was busy, which department was idle, how the Shenzhen office had many opportunities but was also exhausting, how the Ruizhou branch seemed about to expand its staff, when the new office building would be completed, who might be promoted to deputy section chief, and who had offended which division head.
Some of these words were open, and some were hidden.
The open words could be heard by anyone. For example: business was growing quickly, manpower was insufficient; new employee training needed strengthening; foreign trade enterprises were now more impatient than before, and if a certificate was one day late, they would call to press for it. The hidden words required lowered voices. Which leader was close to which division head; which young cadre had someone behind him; which female colleague had a boyfriend but had not made it public; which male comrade had secretly written a love letter and had it returned; which clerk wanted to transfer to Shenzhen because he heard the subsidies there were higher and the opportunities more numerous. What was overheard in the corridor would be processed once at the dining table, and by the next day it would spread as a new version.
The three girls in the dormitory became the group most discussed and also most cared for.
They lived in a room toward the inside. The entrance was always cleaner than the men’s side. A little pot of pothos sat on the windowsill, and a floral cloth curtain hung there. When male colleagues passed by, their voices would unconsciously grow softer, and even their slippers tried not to make too much noise. Yet the more they behaved this way, the more it revealed the attention in their hearts.
The three girls had different temperaments.
Little Lin worked in the office. Her voice was soft, she loved to smile, she handled things carefully, and her handwriting was also pretty. Little Zhao was in the Inspection Department. She was open and straightforward, with short hair, and rode her bicycle very fast. If there were boxes the male comrades could not move, she rolled up her sleeves and went at them. There was also Little He in Finance. She usually did not speak much, but her eyes were very bright. Whoever owed meal money, she remembered even more clearly than Little Zhou. With so many male comrades in the dormitory, it was inevitable that some would show attentiveness. Some helped carry water. Some took the initiative to repair light bulbs. Some, at the dinner table, would clip a chicken leg into a girl’s bowl while pretending to be casual: “I don’t like legs.”
When Acong saw it, he immediately laughed. “Since when do you not like legs? Last time there was one chicken and two legs, and you ate one and a half.”
That man’s face turned red. Everyone slapped the table and laughed. Little Lin also lowered her head and laughed. Such laughter was half real and half false, lively and yet leaving in people’s hearts a little indescribable youthfulness.
In these lively scenes, Xinde was mostly an observer.
His nature was quiet. He was not like some male colleagues who knew how to joke, nor like Acong who could make the entire table roar with laughter. Yet everyone gradually discovered that he listened very seriously when others spoke, rarely interrupted, and once he did open his mouth, what he said was often interesting. Once, several people argued endlessly over who should wash the dishes. Acong said, “Philosopher, you judge. Between the people who eat and the people who cook, who should wash the dishes?”
Xinde thought for a moment and said, “According to the principle of fairness, the cook does not wash. According to the principle of reality, whoever leaves the table last washes. According to the principle of government office, first establish a dishwashing leading group.”
Everyone first froze, and then laughed until they leaned this way and that. Little Zhou slapped the table and said, “This man is bad. When educated people are bad, they are bad at a high level.”
Nights in the dormitory were sometimes very long.
After dinner, some people played cards. A small wooden table was set out, playing cards spread upon it, and several people gathered around. The wins and losses were not large, mostly one or two mao, mainly for liveliness. Some watched from the side, more excited than those actually playing, constantly pointing and gesturing, only to be scolded: “A true gentleman says nothing while watching chess; while watching cards, silence is even more necessary.” Some returned to their rooms to read. Some listened to the radio. Some wrote letters. In those days, telephones were inconvenient, and much feeling was maintained by letters. Deep into the quiet night, there was often a lamp lit at the end of the corridor, someone sitting at the desk writing stroke by stroke—to family, to a lover, to someone far away with whom the relationship was not yet settled.
Xinde also wrote.
His handwriting was good, and writing letters was already like a kind of ritual. He wrote to his parents, saying the dormitory was all right, that his colleagues were warm, that Huangsha was near the river and had wind at night. He wrote to his second brother Yide, saying that office life was not as dull as he had imagined, and that from the Personnel Department one could see many people coming and going, which counted as another kind of rivers-and-lakes world. Occasionally, he also wrote sentences in his notebook that he did not send anywhere. He wrote of the night scenery of the Pearl River, of the dampness of the old building, of how more than twenty single men passed their youth in a former government office building, in a disorderly yet vivid manner.
The attic on the top floor was the most interesting.
It was hot in summer and cold in winter. The ceiling slanted low, and those who lived there often joked that they had been assigned to the “high ground of thought.” From the attic window, one could see a little of the river. At night, boat lights moved slowly upon the Pearl River, like stars drifting in black water. Sometimes, unable to sleep, Xinde would go up alone and stand for a while. River wind blew in through the cracks of the window, carrying dampness and the distant smell of the docks. Shamian was quiet on the other side. The White Swan Hotel was bright with lights, as though another world were shining by the river. And this old building of theirs stood dark and heavy, holding inside it a group of young people who had just entered government office, both illuminated by the times and not yet truly changed by them.
The complexity inside the building also gradually revealed itself beneath such night colors.
Everyone was friendly, yet not entirely simple. Their departments were different, their information was different, their prospects were different. Some had cadre parents and carried natural confidence in speech and action. Some came from ordinary families, sent half their salary home, and could not bear to replace old clothes. Some wanted to go down to the grassroots for training, hoping to rise faster. Some desperately wished to remain at the provincial bureau because they felt the headquarters was respectable. Some said aloud that they did not care, yet in their hearts clearly remembered every time a leader called their name and every training list on which they appeared. Among young people there was friendship, but also quiet comparison; mutual care, and also competition that no one stated openly.
Xinde saw it, but was unwilling to point it out.
Being in the Personnel Department, he most easily saw people’s résumés, family backgrounds, education, and transfer intentions, and most easily understood the patterns of relationships within a work unit. But he was cautious and never used these as talk. Someone at the dinner table once asked him, “Little Ma, you are in Personnel. You must know who is going to be promoted, right?”
Xinde smiled. “If I know, I cannot say. If I do not know, I even less can say.”
“Then say something you can say.”
“What I can say is that whoever does not wash dishes tonight will cause great public dissatisfaction tomorrow.”
Everyone laughed again, and the topic was diverted. Slowly, colleagues learned that his mouth was tight, and trusted him even more. In government office, it was certainly good for a young person to be able to speak well, but it was even rarer to keep his mouth closed.
Once, the bureau issued movie tickets, and several people went to watch a film together. On the way back, the night wind was cool. The entrance of the White Swan Hotel was ablaze with lights. Cars stopped one after another, and men in suits came and went. Acong looked over there and suddenly sighed. “Tell me, when will we be able to go in there for a meal?”
Little Zhou immediately said, “When I become Finance Division chief, I’ll invite you all. Each person may order only one dish; anything over budget is at your own expense.”
Little Zhao laughed. “Even as Finance Division chief, you would still be this stingy.”
Looking at the lights of the White Swan, Xinde said, “Perhaps in the future, we will not feel that place is so far away.”
Everyone fell quiet for a moment.
The sentence was not a boast, yet it was like a little premonition blown in by the river wind. At the beginning of reform and opening, many things seemed distant: five-star hotels, foreign merchants, going abroad, imported goods, international standards, computers, foreign exchange, Hong Kong. But these things were coming closer day by day—closer to Canton, closer to the Foreign Trade Administration, and closer to this group of young people living in an old building. Perhaps ten years later, some among them would be transferred to Shenzhen; some would be responsible for ports; some would buy homes and marry; some would go into business; some would be promoted; some would be thrown aside by the age. At this moment, they were still crowded around a small dining table, laughing and arguing over a chicken, a bottle of wine, a basin of hot water, and who should wash dishes, while fate had already begun to fork in the dark.
Xinde’s collective bachelor life thus began.
In the morning, he queued in the corridor to wash, hearing someone recite foreign-language vocabulary while brushing his teeth. At noon, he ate in the work-unit canteen and hurried toward the Personnel Department with documents under his arm. At dusk, he bought vegetables in the Huangsha market and bargained with the fish-stall owner. At night, in the old building, he listened to the sounds of cards, laughter, radios, pen tips writing letters, and the distant whistles of boats on the Pearl River.
That three-story old building was dark and heavy on the outside, yet inside it held much young heat. It had once been an office building, later became a dormitory, and still later perhaps would be replaced by new buildings, new systems, and new ways of living. But in Xinde’s memory, it would forever have long staircases, damp walls, a crowded kitchen, jokes amid cooking smoke, the floral curtain outside the girls’ door, river lights beyond the attic window, and a group of people from different departments, different families, and different futures temporarily living under one roof in the wind of reform and opening.
They were close to one another, yet each kept something back.
They looked after one another, yet also observed one another.
They joked aloud, yet hid private worries.
This was the earliest life of young people in a government office.
Rough, lively, restrained, complicated—and yet, many years later, whenever one thought of it, warmth would still rise faintly in the heart.