Siheyuan (traditional courtyard house): Starting with the Korean War, returning home to take charge

When the phone rang, He Yuzhu was in the deepest part of his sleep. He reached out and touched the receiver; it was cold. Qin Huairu turned over in the inner room, the blankets rustling softly before falling silent again. He held the receiver to his ear; it was Lao Zhou on the other end, his voice low, as if afraid someone would hear.

"Director He, something's happened. Someone's trying to destroy Yuan Longping's experimental field."

He Yuzhu sat up on the kang (a heated brick bed), his feet slipping into his shoes, but he didn't have time to pull them up. "Who's there?"

"They're from a nearby commune. They say they're promoting the 'Learn from Dazhai in Agriculture' campaign, but Yuan Longping's ideas are a capitalist line. Tractors have already driven over there; they're going to start at dawn."

It was still dark outside the window; the moon had disappeared, and nothing could be seen. He Yuzhu gripped the microphone, his knuckles digging into the metal casing, a chill creeping up his bones. "I'll be right there."

He hung up the phone, fumbled in the dark to put on his trousers, and took off his military uniform, which was hanging behind the door. He only managed to button the bottom two buttons. Qin Huairu called out from the inner room, but he waved his hand without turning around. He Nianhua was sleeping at the end of the kang (a heated brick bed), the blanket kicked open to reveal a bare foot. He tucked the blanket back in and pushed open the door.

It was cold in the courtyard, and the wind blowing in from the alleyway carried a dusty smell. Yang Xiaobing had already started the car, the exhaust pipe sputtering and puffing out white smoke, the headlights illuminating the corners of the big-character posters sticking up on the courtyard wall.

"Experimental field." He Yuzhu opened the car door and got in, his voice dry.

The car drove out of the alley and onto the main road. He Yuzhu leaned against the car window, watching the occasional glimpse of a ditch flash across the dark fields outside, disappearing in an instant. He remembered the night Yuan Lao got into the car, clutching a handful of rice stalks, the stalks heavy, bending the stalks. He had gotten into the car with that handful of rice stalks, rolled down the window, and said, "I will come back." Now someone wanted to destroy those things. He put his hand in his pocket and felt a grain of rice—he didn't know when he had put it there, the husk was still hard, the grain hadn't been threshed.

Yang Xiaobing glanced at him in the rearview mirror, seemed to want to say something, but then swallowed his words.

The car drove for almost an hour, the sky changing from black to gray, then from gray to white. The outlines of the paddy field ridges gradually became clearer; the rice was almost ripe, a golden expanse, the ears drooping, rustling loudly in the wind. At the other end of the field, three tractors were parked, red ribbons tied to their front ends, swinging in the wind. Several men squatted beside the tractors, smoking, their cigarette butts glowing.

Old Zhou jogged over from the other side of the field, his cotton-padded coat open, panting heavily. "Chief He, they said they'll start once the sun comes up."

He Yuzhu didn't reply. He walked along the ridge, the soil beneath his feet loose, leaving half a footprint with each step. The rice stalks swayed on either side of him, their ears brushing against his trouser legs with a rustling sound, like someone talking. He stopped in the middle of the field. The rice here was the best, half a head taller than the rice in the adjacent fields, its ears long and heavy. He squatted down, plucked a grain, and cracked the husk with his fingernail. The grain was still green, not fully filled with malt. He put the grain in his mouth; it tasted astringent.

The sun arched over the mountains to the east, its light first striking the tallest ears of rice, making their fuzz gleam. The people over there moved; they threw their cigarette butts on the ground, stomped them out, and climbed onto the tractor. He Yuzhu stood up, brushed the mud off his knees, and stood on the edge of the field.

The tractor, still running, sputtered along, its exhaust fumes making the rice stalks sway. It stopped at the edge of the field. A man jumped out; he was in his forties, dark-skinned and thin, wearing a blue cloth jacket with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a red armband on his arm. He walked up to He Yuzhu, looking him up and down. Seeing the military uniform, his expression changed, and he glanced at the collar—no collar insignia.

"Comrade, which unit are you from?"

He Yuzhu didn't say anything, he just stood there.

The man waited a few seconds, then took another step forward, his voice hardening. "I'm asking you which unit you're from."

He Yuzhu remained silent. The man glanced back at the people behind him; they were also looking at him. He turned back, raising his chin slightly. "This field is for pursuing the capitalist path; the higher-ups have said it must be destroyed."

"Where is up there?" He Yuzhu asked.

The man paused for a moment. "The commune. The commune revolutionary committee."

"Where's the approval document?"

"What kind of approval do you need? Just give me a verbal notification."

He Yuzhu took a step forward, bringing the two of them only two steps apart. "Without permission, no one can move."

The man's face flushed red, and the veins on his neck throbbed. "Who do you think you are? You think you can stop the commune's orders?" He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and slapped it into He Yuzhu's hand. He Yuzhu unfolded it—a plain piece of paper with a few lines of writing in ballpoint pen, no official seal, no signature. He held the paper up so the people behind him could see it clearly. "This is an approval document? It doesn't even have a seal."

The man reached out to snatch it, but He Yuzhu folded the paper and put it in his pocket. "Get the commune to bring their official seal. Without the seal, nobody can touch this land."

The man stood there, his hand still outstretched, then pulled it back, then stretched it out again. Someone tugged at his sleeve from behind, and he shook it off. Someone else tugged, and he shook it off again. The third time, he didn't shake it off. He took a step back, then another, turned around, walked back to the tractor, climbed on, and sat in the driver's seat, the engine still running.

He Yuzhu turned around and walked back along the paddy field ridge. He stopped at the edge of the field and glanced at the rice paddy one last time. The sun had already risen, its light shining on it, a dazzling, golden yellow. He squatted down, plucked a blade of grass from the edge of the field, and bit into it. It was bitter. He spat it out and stood up.

Old Zhou followed from behind, rubbing his hands together. "Director He, you really have a way with things."

He Yuzhu didn't reply. He got into the car and sat there for a while before closing the door. His hands were still trembling; he clenched his fists, then relaxed them, then clenched them again.

When he returned to the research institute, it was already broad daylight. The main gate was open, and several more large-character posters had appeared on the wall near the entrance. The paper was still wet, and the ink had bled, making it impossible to read what was written. He glanced at them but didn't listen. The office curtains were still drawn. He took off his military uniform and hung it behind the door before sitting back down at his desk. He took the list out of the drawer and turned to the page with Yuan Shikai's name. The words on it were his own, written stroke by stroke. "The experimental fields have been saved." He added a line afterward: "The rice is still there."

He finished writing, put the list back, and locked the drawer. Outside the window, someone was shouting slogans; the sound was too far away to make out what they were saying. He pulled the curtains open a crack, and saw several people standing outside the courtyard wall, wearing red armbands, putting up big-character posters. They finished and left quickly, disappearing in a flash.

In the autumn, Lao Zhou called. His voice was ethereal, as if it came from a very far place.

"He Chang, take it. Five hundred and twenty catties."

He Yuzhu held the microphone. "Does Elder Yuan know?"

Old Zhou was silent for a moment. "I understand. He sent a message through someone."

He Yuzhu waited.

He said, "The seed is still there."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. The golden rice paddies outside the window were still vivid in his mind's eye. He put down the phone, took out the list from the drawer, and turned to the page with Elder Yuan. After "the rice is still there," he added a line: 520 jin were harvested in the fall, and Elder Yuan said the seeds were still there.

He finished writing, put the list back, and locked the drawer. He stood up, walked to the window, and drew back the curtains. The sun peeked out from behind the clouds, shining on the courtyard wall, turning the gray plaster a pale gold. A cool breeze drifted in through the window cracks, carrying the scent of ripening rice.

When He Nianhua got home that evening, he slumped over his desk to do his homework. The pencil stub scratched on the paper as he wrote slowly, stroke by stroke. He Yuzhu went over and glanced at it; the paper was covered with crooked "丰" characters, three horizontal strokes and one vertical stroke, the last one stretched out of bounds.

"Did the teacher teach you that?" He Yuzhu sat down next to him.

He Nianhua looked up, a pencil stub pressed against the corner of her mouth, leaving a pencil mark. "The teacher said, 'It's autumn, the crops are ripe. 'Feng' means 'abundant harvest.'"

He Yuzhu wiped the lead stain from the corner of his mouth. "It's a bumper harvest this year."

He Nianhua's eyes lit up. "Is there enough to eat?"

"enough."

He was pleased and lowered his head to continue writing. The page was full of the character "丰" (feng), crooked and uneven, but each one had three horizontal strokes and one vertical stroke.

Qin Huairu brought the dishes over: a plate of scrambled eggs, a plate of stewed cabbage, and a bowl of soup. She wiped her hands on her apron and sat down next to He Yuzhu. "Old Yuan's land, was it saved?"

He Yuzhu nodded. "We saved it. We harvested 520 jin."

Qin Huairu didn't ask any more questions. She put an egg on He Nianhua's plate and a piece of cabbage on He Yuzhu's plate. He Nianhua took a bite of rice, looked up, and saw a grain of rice stuck to the corner of her mouth.

"Dad, we had a good harvest! Does that mean we'll have a good harvest every year from now on?"

He Yuzhu plucked the grain of rice from the corner of his mouth. "Plant it every year, manage it every year, and you'll succeed."

He Nianhua nodded and went back to eating. A gust of wind picked up outside the window, making the window frame rattle. He Yuzhu turned to look out; the courtyard was pitch black, and he couldn't see anything. But in the fields south of the city, the rice harvest should be complete, and neat rows of stubble should be visible.

The seeds are still there. They can be planted again next year.