Major Heavy Industry: Starting with a Fake Marriage

The new director sent by the provincial department arrived on the first Monday of June.

Jiang Cheng got up very early that day. He opened his eyes before it was fully light, lay on the bed without moving, and listened to the birds chirping outside the window.

Summer comes late in Shenyang. It's June now, and the mornings are still a bit cool. A small sprout has appeared next to the cactus on the windowsill. It's tender and green, like a bean that has just sprouted from the soil.

Jiang Yuan rolled over in his crib, muttering something under his breath, and kicked the blanket to his feet, revealing his two chubby little feet. Jiang Cheng quietly got up, pulled the blanket up to cover the little guy's feet, then got dressed and went into the kitchen.

The fire in the stove was still burning, so he added a few pieces of coal, put the kettle on it, and then started kneading dough, making pancakes, and steaming egg custard for Jiang Yuan. Zheng Yanxi only came home once a week; the child usually stayed with Zheng's mother and was picked up on weekends. Yesterday was Sunday, and he brought Jiang Yuan home; today is Monday, and he had to take the child back to the center. He kneaded the dough, divided it into small portions, rolled them into thin pancakes, and put them in the pan to cook. The pancakes puffed up in the pan, developed golden-brown spots, and sizzled, filling the kitchen with a delicious aroma. He flipped them over and cooked them for a little longer—they were done. He then steamed egg custard, sliced ​​a few tomatoes, and arranged them in a small bowl to resemble a flower—something Zheng Yanxi had taught him, saying the child would like it that way.

Jiang Yuan woke up. The little guy sat on his crib, rubbing his eyes, his hair sticking up like a clump of grass ruffled by the wind. "Daddy—" he called out, his voice soft, with a nasal tone from just waking up, as soft as cotton candy melting in hot water. Jiang Cheng went over and picked him up. The little guy immediately wrapped his arms around his neck, resting his head on his shoulder, warm and heavy, his breath tickling his neck. He dressed Jiang Yuan, but the little guy was restless, twisting and turning like an eel. It was a struggle to get the sleeves on, and it took three tries to get the buttons aligned—the first time he buttoned them wrong, the second time he missed one, and only the third time did he get them right.

"Time to eat." Jiang Cheng put him in his little chair, put a bib on him, and placed the steamed egg custard in front of him. The little guy grabbed a spoon, scooped up a spoonful, his hand trembled, and most of it spilled onto his bib, with only a small portion going into his mouth. He chewed a couple of times, grinned, revealing a row of tiny teeth, four on the top and four on the bottom, with another one just peeking out in the middle. Jiang Cheng watched from the side, neither helping nor urging him. After he finished eating, Jiang Cheng wiped his face and hands clean with a damp towel, changed him into clean clothes, and picked him up.

"Let's go to Grandma's house."

Zheng's mother lived in the staff quarters of the industrial college, not far from the factory, a twenty-minute walk. Along the way, Jiang Yuan pointed to everything he saw—trees, birds, dogs, utility poles, bicycles parked by the roadside, cats climbing over walls. Each time he pointed, he would exclaim "Ah!" and ask Jiang Cheng to tell him what it was.

"A tree. That's a tree."

"Tree—" the little guy imitated, his voice crisp and clear, like a freshly picked cucumber.

"A bird. That's a bird."

He pronounced "bird" as "dick." Jiang Cheng laughed and didn't correct him.

On the poplar trees by the roadside, the leaves were turned over by the wind, revealing the grayish-white down on their undersides, which glistened in the sunlight, like a layer of salt. An old man rode by on his bicycle, a bag of rice tied to the back seat, jingling loudly. Jiang Yuan stared at it for a long time, turning his head 180 degrees, almost slipping out of Jiang Cheng's arms.

When they arrived at Zheng's mother's house, she was already waiting at the door. She was wearing a faded blue cotton jacket, her hair was neatly combed and tucked behind her ears with two black clips, revealing the white hair at her temples. She took Jiang Yuan, kissed him, and then looked Jiang Cheng up and down.

"You've lost weight. Have you been eating properly?"

"have eaten."

"Yanxi isn't home, so just make do with this." She shook her head, her tone full of concern. "Come here for lunch, I'll make you some stewed ribs. I just bought them this morning, they're fresh. I queued for half an hour outside the meat processing plant to get them."

"Mom, no need. A new director has arrived at the center, and I need to go and keep an eye on things."

Mrs. Zheng frowned, but said nothing more. She carried Jiang Yuan into the house, the little guy perched on her shoulder, waving to Jiang Cheng. "Bye-bye, Daddy—" Jiang Cheng was stunned. This was the first time Jiang Yuan had said "bye-bye" on his own initiative; before, it was always the adults who held his hand and shook him. He stood there, watching the little guy's back—that blue onesie with a crookedly embroidered duck on the back—and a strange feeling welled up inside him. It was as if something had gently bumped into his chest, not painful, but very real, like a small pebble falling into deep water with a splash.

He turned and left.

The new director's surname was Han, and his given name was Han Zhiguo. He was in his early forties, wearing black-rimmed glasses. The eyes behind the lenses weren't large, but they were very bright, almost too bright for someone in their forties. He wore a dark gray Zhongshan suit, buttoned up meticulously from top to bottom, and his leather shoes were polished to a shine, reflecting his image. He clearly worked in an office. He arrived half an hour earlier than Jiang Cheng, standing at the entrance of the promotion center, surveying the three-story building. In the courtyard, the poplar leaves were fully grown, a vibrant green, rustling in the wind like countless tiny hands clapping. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting patches of light on the ground, like scattered gold dust.

Jiang Cheng walked over and extended his hand. "Director Han, hello. I'm Jiang Cheng."

Han Zhiguo grasped his hand, neither too lightly nor too firmly, and released it after a couple of squeezes. His grip was neither like some people squeezing a dead fish nor like some people shaking hands with a strained expression. "Comrade Jiang Cheng, I've long admired you. I've read your materials; you've accomplished a great deal."

"It was all done by everyone together."

Han Zhiguo nodded, saying nothing more. He walked into the courtyard, looking around, his gaze sweeping from the laboratory to the warehouse, from the warehouse to the locked office, and then from the office to the pile of coal in the corner. The laboratory door was open, revealing the equipment and tools inside, and a smell of machine oil and metal filled the air. He went in, touched the coating equipment, rubbed his fingers on the metal surface, looked at his fingertips—clean, no dust—and then looked at the equipment.

"Did you make all of these devices yourselves?"

"Most of them are. If they can't afford to buy imported equipment, they figure out how to make it themselves. The outer casing of this coating equipment is welded from scrap iron sheets, the rectifier is assembled from parts salvaged from an old TV, and only the spray gun was bought ready-made."

Han Zhiguo turned around and looked at Jiang Cheng.