Chapter 58: A Phone Call with Mother (First Update)

The late summer night was a little chilly, like water freshly drawn from a well.

A few large dogs and kittens rummaged through the refuse in a secluded alley, searching for food. Wang Qiang followed the bark of a big yellow dog and turned into an even narrower lane.

This place was about a kilometer from the North Square—not far, but any closer and the inns would be too expensive.

It wasn’t his first time in Shanghai, but in all his past and present lives, he’d never visited in 1994. Everything seemed unfamiliar, and he always worried a thief might suddenly jump out. The city’s security was nothing like what it would later become; serious crimes happened often.

As he walked along the unfamiliar path, the ingratiating bark of the yellow dog calmed his nerves in this foreign place. Not far ahead, two rows of small shops on the street still had their doors open, the scent of baked cookies mingling with a smoky aroma wafted out.

Wang Qiang was exhausted, having spent days traveling by train. His body was worn out; all he wanted was to return to the inn, take a shower, and rest.

Ahead, a sign read in large characters: Friendship Guesthouse.

He knew he’d found his inn. Perhaps he was too tired; he staggered to the iron gate, knocked, and called out, “Could you open the door for me?”

“Who’s there?” came a woman’s voice from inside, roughly meaning ‘Who is it?’

His hair was disheveled; he quickly smoothed it down. “The guest who checked in here this afternoon.” The guesthouse closed its doors at night; it wasn’t as convenient as a grand hotel.

Looking through the iron bars, he saw a stern-faced woman emerge.

The middle-aged woman fetched the keys and opened the gate, speaking in somewhat awkward Shanghai dialect, “Why so late? I was about to sleep.” She even cast him a sideways glance.

Wang Qiang sensed the contempt in her look. He smiled and let it go. True natives of Shanghai were usually more gracious, but only women like her—those who’d migrated to the city—carried this strange sense of superiority, as if everyone else was from the countryside. Of course, Wang Qiang was indeed a country boy, but in the Shanghai vernacular, ‘country folk’ was a term of disdain, not a literal description.

He asked for a hot water bottle and carried it back to his room.

He pulled out his key and unlocked the door.

Entering, he was struck by an unpleasant smell. It reminded him of his rural grandmother—technically his great-aunt—when he was five. She hadn’t washed her hair for a month; the scent of scalp oil was strong. In his memory, her oily nape was adorned with a slender, patterned silver hairpin. The smell made him cry loudly; she would pull out the hairpin to threaten him, then carry—or more accurately, drag—him to the wooden bridge in the village to let him cool off in the wind.

His great-aunt had never liked him. As a child, Wang Qiang detested her face, often glaring fiercely at her. Perhaps she was the first enemy in his life. Yet every time his mother saw the old woman, she smiled with exaggerated courtesy, a smile tinged with self-abasement. Their family was poor, and the great-aunt had been a long-term creditor.

Tonight, in this inn room far from home, Wang Qiang inhaled that distant, familiar scent—a faintly warm whiff of scalp oil that stirred his heart. But his body was aching and weary; he yawned, pulled a washbasin from beneath the bed, found his toothpaste and toothbrush, went outside to brush his teeth and wash his face, then brought back some cold water, mixed in a bit of hot water, and wiped himself down. The conditions were basic; a proper shower was impossible.

If not for his cargo, he might have opted for a shared room for three—it was cheaper.

After freshening up, Wang Qiang suddenly remembered he’d sold quite a few portable cassette players today. He murmured to himself, “Let’s see how many I sold.” Shirtless, he squatted and opened his snakeskin bag, counting the players one by one.

“One… three… fifteen… twenty…”

Before long, he finished counting and was surprised: he had sold fifteen players in one night.

Sleepiness hit him. Wang Qiang climbed onto the small bed—likely no more than a meter twenty in length—reached out, and switched off the light.

Breathing deeply, he quickly fell into a sweet, deep sleep.

…

Morning.

Sunlight streamed through the narrow window, casting its glow across Wang Qiang’s sleeping face.

He felt warm and comfortable, couldn’t resist a yawn, then slowly opened his eyes. Struggling, he reached for the watch beside his pillow to check the time.

Eight thirty-five.

Still early… He could sleep more… Eight thirty-five?

Wang Qiang suddenly woke, annoyed, and tapped his own head. He’d overslept and missed the early hours at the market—ah, he’d truly been too exhausted these days, sleeping for more than ten hours in one go. Well, first, he’d renew his room, then grab something to eat and head out.

Thinking this, he washed up, locked his door tightly, went downstairs to the front desk, and called out, “Sister, are you there?”

A woman’s voice came from inside, “What’s the rush? Wait a moment.”

Wang Qiang pulled a chair near the counter and sat down, stretching lazily as he waited.

About two minutes later, the middle-aged woman emerged, saw him, and said listlessly, “What do you want?”

“Renew for another day, pay for the room,” Wang Qiang said, standing up.

The woman reached out, straightforward, “Money.”

Wang Qiang dug into his pocket; all the money he earned last night was inside. It was a lot, and the bag’s opening was small, making it hard to pull out. He gripped it and yanked hard; a few coins clattered onto the cement floor. Squatting, he picked up the coins, leaned against the counter, drew out a ten-yuan note, and quickly stuffed the rest back into his pocket. As the saying goes, don’t flaunt your wealth. He’d only revealed it by accident, and fortunately, there was only the proprietress here; otherwise, envy might have been stirred.

He handed over the money. For lodging, a shared bed was two yuan per night, a triple room five yuan, and his single room was pricier—ten yuan.

The woman gave him a quick glance, and her harsh expression instantly melted into a smile. “Oh, I didn’t notice before—you’re a young boss, aren’t you?”

Wang Qiang smiled but didn’t respond, instead asking, “Madam, is there a public phone nearby?”

“I have one right here,” she said, pulling a red phone from beneath the counter, her tone much friendlier than before. “Local or long-distance?”

“Long-distance.”

“I’ll find the key.” She opened a drawer, took out a small key, inserted it into the phone’s lock, and kindly reminded him, “Don’t forget to dial the area code.”

“Thank you.” Wang Qiang picked up the receiver, dialed the village committee’s number. Communication was difficult in those days, especially with rural areas; you had to call the committee, then have them fetch the person.

Ring, ring, ring.

After a couple of rings, the call connected, and a woman’s voice answered, “Who’s calling?”—the local dialect for ‘Who is it?’

Wang Qiang replied in dialect, “Is this Aunt Yuefen? I’m Wang Baoguo’s son.”

“Oh, it’s Qiangzi.” The village secretary sounded puzzled. “Where are you? Why are you calling the village?”

“I’m in Shanghai. Would you please go get my mother?”

“Alright, call back in twenty minutes.”

“Okay, thank you.”

He hung up.

The woman hurried over to check the display. “One minute, one yuan.”

He handed her a coin.

“Straightforward! The last country fellow who made a long-distance call here spent two minutes, and when I asked for two yuan, he haggled with me—humph.” She was displeased, then smiled. “You’re a real boss, so forthright. I won’t let those country folks use my phone again—so annoying.”

Wang Qiang chatted with her for a bit; the woman showed no impatience, as if she’d become a different person from last night.

During this time, two guests checked out.

She scowled at them, took their keys, pointed them gruffly toward the exit, then turned back to Wang Qiang with a beaming smile. “Young boss, what do you do? Do you have a girlfriend?”

He couldn’t stand her snobbishness and pretended to check his watch. “Just small business, but it’s about time—can I use the phone again?”

“Of course, of course.” She brought the phone up and unlocked it again.

He dialed the village committee.

This time it rang five or six times before someone picked up, and his mother’s familiar voice came through. “Qiangzi?”

“Yeah, Mom.” Hearing her voice, a warmth spread through his chest.

She scolded him, “Why haven’t you called for days? I’ve been worried sick.”

He hurried to explain, “I was on the train the past two days, just got back to Shanghai yesterday, and only now found time. Are you alright at home?”

“I’m fine, quite well,” his mother said, her voice full of happiness. “Did you ask Lu Wei to help out? I didn’t know him before, but he’s a solid lad—shows up every morning at five to help with the cages, and pushes them to town for me. And that girl Junjun—I’m thinking of taking her as my goddaughter, she’s so sweet.”

From his mother’s words, Wang Qiang learned that not only had Lu Wei kept his promise, he’d also helped deliver the fish to town. Wang Qiang was pleased, feeling he’d judged well. He chatted with her about home and didn’t mind the cost of the call.

After a few minutes, his mother suddenly said, “By the way, registration is coming up soon. When will you be back?”

Registration so early?

He paused, then thought carefully. High schools at home usually registered ten days to half a month before term began, since military training followed. Speaking of military training, he remembered a story—was it 1990? He couldn’t recall exactly. Tsinghua or Peking University had a five-year system with a whole year of military training. Luckily, his college wasn’t so strict, so he didn’t know what a year of training felt like.

“Maybe in ten days or so.”

“What about the tuition…?”

“You could borrow some first, pay a bit of interest if needed, and I’ll repay it when I’m back,” Wang Qiang said.

His mother hesitated, “Will that work? We don’t have much money.”

Wang Qiang glanced at the woman watching him, turned away, and spoke in a low voice, “Don’t worry about money, Mom. I’ve made sixteen hundred this week.”

Actually, that sixteen hundred was earned last night, not over several days. But he didn’t want to shock her, so he said ‘this week.’ He’d sold thirty-one pairs of jeans and fifteen cassette players; jeans earned eighteen or nineteen yuan each, players seventy each, totaling about sixteen hundred.

Even so, his mother was stunned. “Sixteen hundred?”

He confirmed, “Yes. Borrow for the registration, and say you’ll repay in ten days or so, when I get back.”

“Alright, alright.”

They chatted a bit more, and at her urging, he hung up.

This time the call lasted seven minutes. Without waiting for the woman to speak, Wang Qiang pulled out seven yuan and tossed them over.

Her smile bloomed like a chrysanthemum.

“Madam, where can I get breakfast around here?” Wang Qiang asked.

She offered, “I’ve cooked some porridge—why not join us?” She quickly added, “No charge, I’ll just set out another bowl and chopsticks.” Although Wang Qiang had spoken softly and in dialect earlier, she’d understood enough to be impressed—sixteen hundred in a few days? This young man was remarkable. She wanted to get closer and ask about his business.

Seeing the chance to save a bit, Wang Qiang didn’t refuse. Every penny counted, since he bore the responsibility of earning ten thousand in half a month. He smiled, “Thank you, then.”

“No need for thanks—make yourself at home.” The woman called out joyfully, “Old Zhu, serve another bowl of porridge!”

A man’s voice replied from inside, “What do you want?”

She shouted back, hands on her hips, “Just do it, stop talking!”