Lao Qiu's house
Meanwhile, the eldest son's fulang was coughing as he carried water home with a child strapped to his back in an old cloth. He went into the kitchen and picked out four sweet potatoes.
Lao Qiu was weaving bamboo baskets nearby. Seeing this, he said, "Go get two more. Don't overcook them—once they're done, take them to your husband for lunch."
Lu Ger paused while washing the sweet potatoes, was silent for a moment, then said, "Yes, Father." There were only three baskets of sweet potatoes left at home. They'd have to wait at least another three months before the new ones could be harvested. Now was the time to save wherever possible. That morning, when his husband had left, Lu Ger had told him to take two sweet potatoes along, but he'd refused, saying he'd come back to eat in the evening.
Lu Ger knew the family was short on food, and his husband couldn't bear to take any.
But this corvee labor was brutal. A few years back, when they couldn't pay the silver tax, his brother-in-law and many others from the village were taken. Twenty-seven left; only twenty-one came back.
Where did the other six go?
Dead.
Corvee labor had always been a death sentence nine times out of ten.
Those conscripted into the army—they basically never returned.
Those sent to do hard labor fared little better. They had to work every single day, got only one meal a day, and the officials followed behind with little whips and big wooden clubs—one wrong breath and a lash would come down.
With not enough to eat and overwork, deaths were normal.
Lu Ger was terrified his husband wouldn't survive it either.
At noon, carrying the child on his back again, he took two sweet potatoes and headed toward the village entrance. Just as he got there, he ran into several women and fulangs.
They were all heading out to deliver sweet potatoes and water to their husbands or sons.
That morning they'd been busy with farm work and hadn't heard much about what was happening at the river—the site was a fair distance from the village, a good half-hour's walk.
Along the way, everyone was talking about the corvee labor, cursing the new prefect as they went, when Lu Ger suddenly stopped.
"What's that smell?"
The little boy on his back twitched his small nose and piped up in a milky voice.
"Daddy, it smells like meat."
Everyone else caught it too.
It was the smell of frying lard—the aroma that rose when pork fat was rendered was incredibly rich. In the old days, when one family fried lard, the whole village could smell it.
"Whose house is frying lard?"
"Are you daft? We're far from the village! At this distance, even a dog wouldn't catch it. I think the smell is coming from up ahead."
As they drew closer, the scent grew stronger and stronger, and everyone kept swallowing their saliva.
When they arrived, they saw two woks set up at the foot of the mountain. Lao Wang's eldest daughter-in-law was holding a winnowing basket and scooping out wotou from one of the woks.
[窝头 (wō tóu): lit. Nest head; fig. A traditional Chinese steamed bread made from coarse grains like cornmeal, shaped like a cone with a hollow dimple at the bottom, historically a staple food for the poor in northern China, now eaten as a healthy, fibrous food.]
Each one was the size of a grown man's fist. She dumped them into a large bamboo basket that was nearly full. The buns were golden yellow and looked delicious. Beside them, another wok was still frying lard, almost done.
The cracklings (fried pork scraps) were fried to a crispy golden brown. A fulang fished them out and put them in a wooden bucket, while the rendered lard was poured into jars. That wok, having just fried lard, didn't need washing—they could stir-fry vegetables directly in it. But there was so much food... and his son was also working here today...
He added another half-scoop of oil, then cautiously and nervously glanced at Zhao Ger. Seeing that Zhao Ger said nothing, he added a little more. Zhao Ger noticed but still didn't speak.
That elderly fulang wasn't wasteful either—even though it wasn't his own oil, he couldn't bear to add too much more. He was already pained by what he'd used. Just as he was about to tip the vegetables into the wok, Zhao Ger said, "Add two more scoops of oil."
"Huh?"
Zhao Ger explained, "For hard physical labor, they need oil in their bellies."
"But... but this is already plenty."
"There's too many vegetables. Add two more scoops."
Everyone was working with great enthusiasm now, all traces of earlier reluctance gone.
Once the vegetables were cooked, Zhang Quan went over and called out, "Stop work for lunch first. Rest for half a shichen."
Half a shichen was just one hour.
The weather was still mild, not too hot yet. If this dragged on into the fifth or sixth month, they'd need a longer break at noon.
Everyone hurriedly dropped their shovels and hoes and crowded around in a noisy scramble, afraid that if they were even a step slow, they'd miss out. They'd been craving the food ever since the lard started frying.
It smelled too good—absolutely mouthwatering, the kind of aroma that could steal a person's soul.
They'd been distracted all through work, their minds wandering to that oil pot. Some of them hadn't eaten lard in over half a year—like Lu Ger's husband. For better-off families, they'd have a big pot of congee, dip a chopstick into the lard jar to get a tiny smear, then swirl it into the porridge. That little bit of oil might as well not have been there at all.
Before Zhao Ger could say anything, Guaizai yelled out first: "No pushing! Line up, line up—everyone line up!"
"Oh! Oh! Okay!"
Though they were starving and eager, everyone obeyed—after all, this was the prefect's young master! Besides, he was lining up with them...
Wait—how did he get to the front of the line?
The little guy had just been shouting from behind them.
Guaizai stood right up close, nearly pressed against the wok, staring longingly at the buns in the winnowing basket. As if reading everyone's thoughts, he turned around and declared smugly, "Guaizai is an official's son—Guaizai has privileges!"
Back then, Qin Hengxuan had privileges—he didn't have to wait to eat chicken—and Guaizai had been so envious. Now he had privileges too.
He puffed out his chest. A young ger in charge of handing out the wotou followed the "rules" and gave him two buns. Guaizai said it wasn't enough—he wanted one more.
He had privileges.
The young ger gave him another.
Clutching his buns, Guaizai went over to the side to get his vegetables. But now both he and the woman serving the food had a problem.
He hadn't brought a bowl.
What to do?
It was oily food with broth—pouring it into his hands wouldn't work!
Guaizai's eyes darted around, then he tilted his head back and opened his mouth wide: "Daddy said half a scoop of vegetables per person. Auntie, just pour it right into Guaizai's mouth!"
He'd been working all morning. The money for the food came from public funds—eating it meant gaining; not eating it meant losing out, and that would be a waste of all the sweat he'd shed.
The woman froze for a moment, then nearly burst out laughing.
Zhang Quan felt like he couldn't bear to watch.
The young master had been thoroughly corrupted by the adults—he was practically exploiting his privilege to the death!
He went over to pull Guaizai away, but Guaizai refused to budge, keeping his mouth wide open toward the woman.
"Auntie, hurry up and serve the food—Guaizai is starving flat!"
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