Sold into a ghost marriage? Four-year-old and his thuggish father go on a killing spree.

"Mom, you don't know, do you—"

Sun Xiufen lowered her voice and leaned close to Wang Guifang's ear, like a thief.

"The woman from the city who came a few days ago left Yanqiu a large sum of money."

Wang Guifang was sewing shoe soles in the main room. She stopped halfway through sewing the shoe upper.

"How many?"

"Say no more—" Sun Xiufen held up one finger, "One hundred yuan."

Wang Guifang's pupils suddenly contracted.

One hundred dollars.

What was the concept of 100 yuan in Chengjiawan in 1964?

A strong laborer's work points earned in a year, when converted into cash, amount to no more than seventy or eighty yuan.

One hundred yuan is equivalent to more than a year's work for one person.

Wang Guifang left the soles of her shoes on the kang (a heated brick bed).

How did you know?

"Mingyuan saw it with his own eyes." Sun Xiufen lowered her voice even further. "That day, before that woman surnamed Li left, she handed Yanqiu an envelope—a bulging stack of papers."

Mingyuan could see everything clearly through the crack in the door. Yanqiu took it and put it in her bosom without letting anyone rummage through it.

Sun Xiufen's claim of "one hundred yuan" was fabricated.

Li Huilan offered fifty yuan. But Sun Xiufen understood a principle well: to get Wang Guifang to do it, you had to inflate the amount. Fifty yuan might make the old lady hesitate, but one hundred yuan—no hesitation.

Wang Guifang's face darkened.

Her eyebrows furrowed, her lips turned down, and she snorted – the anger of “how dare they hide money under my nose” rose up layer by layer on her face.

"One hundred yuan..." Wang Guifang's lips moved, "He dares? He has money but doesn't hand it over to the authorities? Is this house his or mine?"

"That's right," Sun Xiufen added firewood beside him. "He's gotten too big for his britches now—he goes out every day to carry bricks for the commune's brick kiln, and he doesn't give a single penny of his earnings to the family. If you don't do something about it, will there be no order in this household?"

Wang Guifang grabbed the sole of the shoe with a forceful tug, as if she wanted to crush it to pieces.

"Walk!"

She dragged her shoes and walked into the yard.

Direction—the dilapidated house of the second wife.

-

Niannian is inside the house, using a twig to draw characters on the ground.

Last night, her father taught her four words: "Gu Niannian is good".

She painstakingly drew characters on the muddy ground, stroke by stroke. The character "顾" had the most strokes, and even after five or six attempts, it was still crooked and uneven. But she memorized the character "念"—it had "今" on top and "心" on the bottom.

Today's heart.

The name was chosen by my mother.

"Bang—!"

The door was kicked open.

Niannian shook the branch in her hand.

Wang Guifang stood at the door, followed by Sun Xiufen.

The old woman's face was ashen, and her eyes, like two rusty scissors, stared straight into the room.

"Where did your dad hide the money?"

Without any preamble or opening remarks, it just came straight to the point with this one sentence.

Niannian stood up.

She glanced at Wang Guifang, then at Sun Xiufen.

She didn't say anything.

Wang Guifang didn't have the patience to wait.

She stepped into the house and went straight to the stove. She reached her hand into the brick hole under the stove—

"It's not here—" Wang Guifang groped around, but found nothing.

The night before, Niannian moved her mother's cloth bag—she took it out of the brick hole, wrapped it in oilcloth, and stuffed it under the straw mat in the corner of the kang (heated brick bed). The wooden plank along the edge of the kang was broken, leaving a gap just large enough to slip the bag inside.

Wang Guifang's face darkened even more when she couldn't touch it.

She turned and began rummaging through—the tattered box, the pillow, the knotted thin blanket. Her movements were quick and ruthless, as if she were searching for stolen goods.

The five-cent banknote was found under the pillow.

Wang Guifang grabbed it tightly.

"That's all?" She held the fifty cents up to her eyes and looked at it. "And a hundred dollars?"

"What? One hundred dollars?" Niannian's voice came from behind.

It's not big, but it's stable.

Wang Guifang turned around.

Niannian stood in front of the kang (a heated brick bed).

The four-and-a-half-year-old child stood there, her back ramrod straight. Her face was pale—she had only recently recovered from a high fever and was still weak—but the look in her eyes made Wang Guifang pause involuntarily.

"That's what my dad earned by carrying bricks," Niannian said.

"Your father earns what belongs to the family!" Wang Guifang raised her voice.

"Family money should be managed by the family! What kind of rule is it for him to have money and not hand it over to the family?"

She put the fifty cents into her pocket and continued rummaging through her clothes.

He rolled to the corner of the kang (a heated brick bed).

Reach your hand under the straw mat—

The thought started.

She took a step forward and placed both hands on the straw mat.

"Don't flip through it!"

The sound wasn't loud.

But the atmosphere in the room instantly froze.

Wang Guifang's hand stopped.

She looked down at Niannian—this girl who was as thin as a bamboo pole, her hands pressed firmly on the straw mat, her arms trembling, but she held on tightly.

The fingers, cracked from frostbite, oozed blood that left two dark red fingerprints on the straw mat.

"Get out of my way!" Wang Guifang's anger flared up.

"No." Niannian's voice was very soft.

But every word is clear.

"Those are my mother's things. Not money. They are my mother's belongings. No one is allowed to touch them."

"Your mother?" Wang Guifang's lips curled into a sneer. "Your mother's dead—leaving behind nothing but rubbish—"

She pushed Niannian away.

The small body was pushed back two steps, and its back hit the wall.

Niannian didn't cry.

But her eyes turned red.

It's not a red that's aggrieved.

It is the red of anger.

Wang Guifang reached her hand under the straw mat and felt for the oilcloth bundle. She pulled it out—

"lay down."

A voice came from the doorway.

A deep, dull sound, like a stone pressing on the ground.

Gu Yanqiu stood in the doorway.

He was supposed to be at the brick kiln—but the foreman said today that he'd be off for the twelfth day of the first lunar month.

He returned early. As he walked to the gate of the courtyard, he heard noises coming from inside the house.

His cotton-padded coat was still covered in brick dust. His hands were raw and bleeding.

But his face—was frighteningly calm.

That calmness is not weakness.

It is the calm of the ground before a volcanic eruption.

"Mom, put these things down."

Wang Guifang clutched the oilcloth bag, stubbornly saying, "Second son, is there no order in this family anymore? You earn money but don't hand it over to the family, and you hide things—"

"That's not money." Gu Yanqiu walked in, her steps neither fast nor slow. "Those are Wanqing's belongings. Her letters. Her photos. Things she left for Niannian."

He walked up to Wang Guifang.

The mother and son looked at each other.

"If you take it—" Gu Yanqiu's voice was extremely low, but each word was squeezed out like a knife from between his teeth.

"I'm going to the commune today."

Wang Guifang's face twitched.

commune.

These two words are what Wang Guifang fears most.

In the rural areas of 1964, the commune was the "higher level." The brigade leader was in charge of village affairs, and the commune controlled the brigade leader. If a dispute reached the commune—

Wang Guifang wasn't afraid of losing face. What she feared was her "class background" being brought up. The Gu family's class background was already on the borderline—middle peasant. If they were pushed up a bit, they would be rich peasants, and that would be a matter of life and death.

If we take this to the commune, what if someone brings up old grievances...

Wang Guifang's hand loosened.

The oilcloth bundle fell onto the kang (a heated brick bed).

Her face flushed and paled in turns, her lips trembled, and she pointed at Gu Yanqiu—"Fine, fine, fine—you think you're so capable now? You think you've grown wings?"

She turned and left.

As I reached the door, I suddenly turned my head—the view in that glance was gloomy, like the sky in December.

"You wait."

The door slammed shut.

Only the father and daughter remained inside.

Niannian stood at the base of the wall, her back pressed against the cold wall.

Gu Yanqiu squatted down, picked up the oilcloth package, and opened it to take a look—the letter and the photo were both there. Thirty-seven yuan and fifty cents were also there. That was the fifty yuan Li Huilan had given him, which he had spent part of, and the money left over after combining it with the money from Song Wanqing's belongings.

He handed the oilcloth package to Niannian.

"Keep it safe."

Niannian took it and hugged it in her arms.

She lowered her head and spoke after a long while.

"Dad, Grandma took that fifty cents."

Gu Yanqiu's fingers clenched tightly.

That was his first fifty cents.

After carrying bricks all day, with blisters from the effort, I walked 22 miles of mountain road for 50 cents.

He remained silent for five seconds.

Then he said—

"It's okay. We can earn more."

Niannian nodded.

Neither of them spoke again.

But the air inside that dilapidated house changed—it didn't get warmer.

It has hardened.

Like a piece of iron that has been heated in a fire.

-

On the other side of the courtyard wall, Sun Xiufen pressed herself against the window of the east wing, seeing everything clearly.

Her lips curled down slightly—no money was found. Instead, Gu Yanqiu retorted with the threat of "suing the commune."

But her eyes darted around twice.

She had other ideas.

Not urgent.

When Gu Yanqiu is not at home—

Everything is easy to handle.

-