Major Heavy Industry: Starting with a Fake Marriage

Sun Deming was in charge of the gearbox, Lao Zhao the hydraulic system, and Li Zhiqiang the electrical system. Each of them managed their own area, keeping them incredibly busy every day. Sun Deming had lost weight; his chin was sharper, and his cheekbones were more prominent, but he was in excellent spirits, his eyes still bright. He walked with a brisk pace, spoke louder than before, and interacted more naturally with the factory workers, unlike before—when he would get nervous talking to strangers and his eyes would wander aimlessly. Lao Zhao worked slowly but meticulously, checking each part three times before installing it, and then checking it again afterward. Li Zhiqiang was young and quick-witted; he could spot electrical problems at a glance, sometimes even before Jiang Cheng spoke.

Huang Deqing also came. Although his back was bad and he had to stand up after squatting for a while, he insisted on coming to the site every day. He didn't do heavy work; he just observed. He would squat in front of the equipment for half a day, like a statue. After he finished looking, he would call Jiang Cheng over and say, "That bearing, adjust the clearance a little bit smaller. A little bit, not a bit more, not a bit less." Or he would say, "That guide rail isn't smooth enough; scrape it a couple more times. Use a straightedge to check; there's a gap in the middle." He didn't say much, but every word was to the point; every word was like a knife, cutting away a layer of fog.

One night, after working until almost 11 p.m., everyone was exhausted. Sun Deming slumped over the table and said weakly, "Brother Jiang, what are we doing this for?"

Jiang Cheng was drawing a blueprint, not even looking up. "Get the job done."

"Are you done?"

"I'm done, I'm going home."

Sun Deming laughed. "You're a boring person."

Jiang Cheng put down his pen and looked at him. "So what do you find interesting?"

Sun Deming thought for a moment, then tapped his fingers on his knees again. "I don't know either. I just feel that being this exhausted has to have some meaning, right? I'm exhausted like a dog every day, I fall asleep as soon as I lie down, and then I'm exhausted again the next day. What's the point?"

"The meaning isn't in what happens after the work is finished. It's in the process of doing it," Jiang Cheng said. "Look at that machine. When you take it apart, it's a pile of parts, scattered and messy, some even rusted. You repair them one by one, put them back together one by one, and once it's assembled, it's running and doing work. That process is the meaning."

Sun Deming paused for a moment. He didn't speak. He stood up, walked to the newly repaired lathe, touched the smooth guide rails, and then touched the gleaming spindle. Then he turned around and looked at Jiang Cheng.

"Brother Jiang, you're right."

Two months later, the entire production line was upgraded. All twenty-plus pieces of equipment were repaired and were operating normally without any malfunctions.

In fact, Han Zhiguo and Meng Fanlin agreed on a three-month timeframe.

On the day of the launch, Factory Director Meng personally pressed the button. His short, stubby fingers, pressing the red button, resembled a carrot. The production line started turning; raw materials went in, going through each process, becoming semi-finished products, and then finished products. When the first diesel engine rolled off the line, the quality inspector measured every dimension with calipers and conducted a bench test. The test lasted half an hour, the diesel engine roaring loudly, the entire workshop vibrating. Then the quality inspector stood up, took off his glasses, and wiped the lenses with the corner of his shirt.

"All are satisfactory. Every item is within tolerance."

A cheer erupted in the workshop. Someone shouted "Bravo!" their voice cracking. Someone clapped their hands until their palms were red, but they didn't stop. Someone wiped their eyes with the back of their hand, wiping again and again. A young worker squatted on the ground, covering his face, his shoulders shaking with sobs, and he burst into tears.

Factory Director Meng gripped Jiang Cheng's hand and shook it vigorously, several times until his arm almost dislocated. "Master Jiang, you saved our factory!" he shouted, turning to the workers in the workshop, his voice louder than usual, making the overhead lights sway. "Tonight, the canteen is adding extra dishes! It's on me! We'll slaughter a pig, one serving of braised pork for everyone, all you can eat! Plus a bottle of beer!"

Jiang Cheng stood in the crowd, watching the production line start turning, feeling very calm.

He thought of Liuhe, of the agricultural machinery repair shop, and of the way Master Zhang handed him the wrench—not by throwing or giving, but by handing it over, with the handle facing outwards and the tip towards himself.

He recalled Liu Tiezhu drawing—squatting on the ground, drawing stroke by stroke with chalk, erasing mistakes with his foot, and redrawing, the chalk dust accumulating on the ground. These people, these events, were imprinted in his mind like a negative, indelible. No matter how much time passed, they would never fade.

That evening, Director Meng treated everyone to dinner. The canteen had over a dozen tables set up, the dishes were plentiful—fish, meat, chicken, duck—the tables were overflowing, plates piled high. The liquor was bulk baijiu, poured into large bowls, each person receiving one, each bowl holding about half a jin (250ml). Director Meng stood up, bowl in hand, his face flushed red, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead and cheeks.

"Everyone, let's toast Master Jiang together! Without him, we wouldn't be where we are today!"

Jiang Cheng stood up, holding the bowl. The wine in the bowl was white; he swirled it, and the liquid clung to the sides of the bowl, leaving streaks. He looked at the faces of the people—Factory Director Meng, Sun Deming, Old Zhao, Li Zhiqiang, Huang Deqing, and the workers whose names he didn't know. Every face was different; some were fat, some thin, some old, some young, some dark-skinned, some fair-skinned. But every face had the same thing—a smile.

It wasn't a polite, perfunctory smile, but a genuine smile that welled up from the heart, like a spring gushing from the ground, impossible to suppress.

He drank the liquor. It was very spicy, burning from his throat all the way to his stomach, so spicy that tears almost welled up in his eyes. But inside, he felt a warmth, as if a fire was burning within him.

It was quite late when the meal ended. Jiang Cheng walked out of the canteen and stood in the courtyard. The moon was round and bright, shining on the old factory buildings and clearly illuminating the cracks in the tiles, each crack like a scar. The barking of dogs echoed in the distance, a long and a short sound, reverberating in the empty night. A breeze carried the scent of grass, mixed with the earthy smell of soil and a faint whiff of diesel fuel, wafting from the workshops.

"Brother Jiang."

He turned around, and Sun Deming was standing behind him, holding a lunchbox. The lunchbox was made of aluminum, old, with a pitted surface and a dent on the lid, as if it had been hit by something.

"What?"

"Braised pork. Director Meng asked me to bring this for your wife and kids. He said you've worked hard for two months, so bring some meat back so your family can have a taste."

Jiang Cheng took the lunchbox; it was heavy and still warm. The lid of the tin lunchbox was slightly deformed and wouldn't close properly. He pressed it down, but it wouldn't go down; he pressed it down again, but it still wouldn't go down.

"Deming, when are you going back to Ansteel?"