Fang Zichen had no intention of competing with the Chu family. They were a small operation just trying to make a living, and it wasn't easy. The paper he produced would be sold up north to Shangyang and Nanjiang—those were prosperous regions with many scholars. One could throw a brick there and hit three scholars; there'd be no shortage of buyers. If he tried to sell locally in Hezhou, this paper mill of his—if not for the silver Xia Jinghong had given him—would likely leave him bankrupt down to his undergarments.
And besides, his paper wouldn't be just one type for writing. He also wanted to make toilet paper.
The conditions here were simply unbearable.
Villagers used tree leaves and corncobs for their business in the outhouse. These were rough on the surface but not too hard—yet most leaves were smooth and didn't really clean well. As for corncobs... better not go there. After using one, the whole experience left a sharp, stinging, thoroughly unforgettable sensation that was hard to put into words. Every time he used one, he'd come out clutching his rear. Ever since arriving in Da Xia, his backside had really been through the wringer.
In town, those slightly better off mostly used cechou (厕筹)—basically bamboo strips or wooden sticks, collectively known as "stirring rods." And they didn't throw them away after use; they'd wash them and reuse them next time.
That wasn't to say nobody used hemp, cloth, or silk for toilet paper. When he'd visited the Left Prime Minister's residence, he'd seen exactly that in the privy used by the Meng household's masters.
But only the wealthiest of the wealthy could afford that. Even the Zhao family still used stirring rods!
If he could produce toilet paper, the market would be enormous. Every town people in all of Da Xia was a potential customer. And then—
Just as Zhao Ger and Guaizai arrived outside the paper mill, they heard Fang Zichen's hehehe laughter from inside. They went in and found him holding Gungun, with Dandan by his side, grinning smugly at a wall.
Guaizai dashed over and grabbed his leg: "Father, what are you laughing at? Did you find some silver or something?"
Fang Zichen pinched his little nose: "Shoo, shoo, don't talk nonsense. Even if I did see silver, your father would return it to its owner."
The villagers were so poor their pockets clinked empty. If they had any silver, it'd be wrapped in layer after layer of pouches—how could it possibly fall out for him to find? And even if it did, it wouldn't be his turn. Last time Old Madam Jia's hen got out and dropped something on the cement road, her little grandson came running to scoop it right back up.
Even manure was scarce, let alone silver.
Zhao Ger called out to him: "Husband, time to go home for dinner."
"Alright."
On the way back, Fang Zichen caught two dragonflies. At home, he took some fine thread from Uncle Tang's sewing kit, tied it to the dragonflies' tails, wound the other end around a corncob, and handed them to the two little ones to play with. Like flying kites—Gungun and Dandan were absolutely thrilled, their eyes wide as saucers.
Gungun, in his gratitude, tugged at Fang Zichen to make him squat down, then gave him a kiss: "Father, Gungun love-love."
Fang Zichen looked at him, his heart melting into a puddle. He planted a kiss on the boy's round little cheek too: "Father loves you too, Gun—" Before he could even finish, Dandan came charging over like a little cannonball, knocking Fang Zichen flat on the ground. Last time the soldiers had delivered cement, Fang Zichen hadn't driven the oxcart before and wanted to try—but the moment he got close, the ox had butted him straight in the chest. He hadn't thought much of it at the time, but now the impact hit him hard. It knocked the wind out of him—his chest tightened and for a moment he could barely breathe.
What a curse!
And Dandan climbed right on top of him, puckering his wet little mouth like some little bully trying to kiss a helpless maiden, determined to plant one on him.
Fang Zichen resisted, shaking his head left and right: "No! Stop—stop it—"
Dandan thought it was a game and found it hilarious, puckering even harder.
Zhao Ger watched from the side, laughing.
Only after Fang Zichen was covered in drool did Dandan finally get up and run off to fly his dragonfly.
Zhao Ger called them for dinner, but they didn't want to eat—they wanted to keep flying the dragonflies first.
Zhao Ger couldn't get them to listen, so he let them be. He helped Fang Zichen up first and saw him rubbing his chest: "You okay?"
"Maybe we should let Dandan eat a little less from now on. If he says he's hungry, just fill him up with two bowls of water." Fang Zichen frowned, deeply worried. "He's heavy as a sack of bricks. It's fine now while he's small, but if he keeps this up, he'll crush his future wife one day."
Zhao Ger gave him a playful punch: "Don't talk nonsense."
Dandan was indeed a bit chubby, but it wasn't that dramatic. When Zhao Ger walked through the village holding one child in each hand, the villagers would look at him—besides the one in front, these two sons behind him were solid and sturdy—and they were all envious, praising him for raising children so well. Zhao Ger thought to himself that if he ever took up pig farming with this "skill" of his, he'd probably be pretty impressive too.
The cement factory over in Luoshan County had hired quite a few workers. When the cement road was first being built, the villagers would occasionally chat with the soldiers delivering cement and learned about the situation. The soldier in charge of delivering cement to Pingxiang Village mentioned that the paper mill was much bigger than the cement factory.
Hearing this, the villagers' hearts stirred with excitement. Such a big paper mill would surely need even more workers. They wondered when the prefect would start hiring—they'd have to be quick, or else the positions would fill up and they'd miss out.
Every family kept an eye on Fang Zichen's movements, but after just a few days, they had no more time to spare—the rice harvest had come.
Zhao Ger went out to the fields for a look. His own rice was fully ripe now. He had drained the water earlier, and the ground had dried out—just right for harvesting.
These days, everyone in the village was busy. Even the little kids who used to sit by the roadside playing with mud had stopped coming; the mud itself must have felt lonely. The adults all had to go work in the fields, but the chores at home still needed to be done, so the children had to step up. The little ones were too young to cook, but they could at least gather firewood, collect dry leaves for kindling, pick and wash vegetables, and feed the chickens and ducks.
Some families had more fields and didn't even bother going home for lunch. They'd get up early in the morning, fry some flatbreads, steam some wowotous, fill up big water jugs, and just make do with a quick meal in the field.
The fields were actually livelier than the village itself. In the past, everyone worked with single-minded focus—any distraction risked cutting a hand, and everyone was rushing to get the harvest in. Besides, the rice had taken months to grow, cost them buckets of sweat, and the family's food and expenses depended entirely on it. Their minds were fixed on the grain: get it cut, get it dried, get it safely stored at home—only then could they finally relax.
What if it rained and flooded the fields? What if someone else finished harvesting first and came to steal at night? There was no room in their heads for anything else. But this time, everyone kept looking up and glancing ahead.
After a hundred or so glances, Zhao Ger finally arrived with the whole family.
The crowd rushed over at once.
No comments:
Post a Comment