Bai Fumei in the ’70s Chapter 23
Translated by Serena Love
Proofread by Soupysuspicions
Edited by Ladyhotcomb
Chapter 23
After sipping the warm chicken soup, a thin sheen of sweat glistened on Zhou Jiazhen’s brow. A pleasant warmth bloomed in her belly, filling her with the cozy embrace of childhood memories cradled in her mother’s arms.
She brushed away her tears and whispered, “Delicious…it tastes just like my mother’s soup.”
The steaming bowl lifted Zhou Jiazhen’s spirits, sweeping away the furrows of sorrow from her brow. Closing the book with a smile, she retrieved a 0.3 pound meat ration ticket from her pocket and laid it on the table.
“Thank you for the chicken soup. The book you gave me is truly beautiful!” Zhou Jiazhen praised wholeheartedly.
“I’m glad you like it,” Zhao Lanxiang replied.
She watched Zhou Jiazhen leave the He family home, then carried a bowl of the chicken soup to He Songbai’s room. At the door, Zhao Lanxiang knocked and twisted the handle, but found it locked from the inside.
“Open the door.”
Zhao Lanxiang frowned as a muffled lazy voice answered, muted by blankets and heavy with the raspy grogginess of an afternoon nap disturbed.
“Sleepin’. What’s the matter?”
Yet after sharing He Songbai’s bed for over a decade, Zhao Lanxiang could not be deceived by his hoarse, feigned awakening. A guilty conscience bled through his rhetorical tone, the sluggish pace of words pulled taut like a Tibetan mastiff straining under a load. How could it escape her ears?
Most likely he was merely pretending to be sleeping.
“You won’t open the door?” Zhao Lanxiang said lightly. “Your sister is coming...”
The “sleeping” man felt a sudden, severe headache, his furrowed brow could almost lift chopsticks.
He scrambled from the bed with incredible haste, limping to yank open the door for this secret lover.
He Songbai hurriedly pulled the woman inside, peeking around the door frame for any sign of his elder sister.
But not a single hair of Sister He could be seen. Turning back, he found only a faint smile on the woman’s lips.
He closed the door, leaning against it to prop himself up, ducking his head to hide the flush burning his ears visible to the naked eye. He coughed. “I was just sleeping. You...made chicken soup?”
Zhao Lanxiang set the bowl on the table. “Drink it. I’ll leave after you’ve finished.”
He Songbai did not want the soup, yet he could not bring himself to refuse the woman’s kindness. After a brief internal struggle, he accepted the enamel bowl in silence and sipped the chicken broth.
He gulped down a tender piece of chicken butt, his tongue lolling out lazily as his placid expression betrayed none of the turmoil brewing beneath.
After wiping his greasy mouth, he spoke with solemn resolve, “Lanxiang, this is the last time I’ll eat your cooking. Maybe you didn’t care about what I said. But…remember, a man who eats soft rice can hardly be called a man at all. You shouldn’t look for this kind of man in the future.”
When he finished speaking, He Songbai limped to the cabinet and retrieved a few crumpled banknotes. Under the woman’s astonished gaze, his broad, calloused palms enveloped her delicate hands, the roughness scratching her skin.
Zhao Lanxiang’s brow furrowed as a crumpled note was stuffed into her hand.
Ten yuan, such a large denomination... Probably what’s left of his meager savings?
He Songbai met her questioning look, his face contorted fiercely. “Just take it.”
Her fingers trembled faintly as she pocketed the rumpled cash. “Tie Zhu brought me a bag of mountain goods while you were in town. I don’t need it, so it’s yours.”
He shuffled over, reaching under the table to pick up a sack, which he thrust before Zhao Lanxiang. Peering inside, she gasped - it brimmed with nourishing red dates and fresh yams, perfect for replenishing He Songbai’s qi and suitable for him to eat.
[T/N: “Qi” figuratively as “life force”, or “vitality”, is the central underlying principle in Chinese traditional medicine and in Chinese martial arts. Believers of qi describe it as a vital force, the flow of which must be unimpeded for health.]
Seeing her thoughts flit across her face, his thick brows knitted. “I won’t eat that. No need to cook it for me. Eat it yourself.”
He emphasized the word “yourself”.
Zhao Lanxiang nodded understandingly. He Songbai patted her head with his broad palm. “Go back.”
His tone softened to a near-whisper. “You careless fool.”
But Zhao Lanxiang heard. Cradling the heavy sack, her cheeks flushed rosy, her heart became sweet like honey.
...
Zhao Lanxiang struggled under the weight of the overstuffed bag. There was so much crammed inside, she doubted she could eat it all before the next Year of the Monkey rolled around, even if she tried.
She was suddenly reminded of her painfully empty wallet. It had been too long since she last went to the black market to “replenish” her funds.
An idea struck Zhao Lanxiang - she could use some of these mountain goods to make yam cakes and sell them at the market. She quickly asked the captain for a day off, then woke early the next morning, her mind buzzing with greed.
First, she soaked the red dates in well water overnight until they plumped up, their color deepening to a rich crimson. Patiently, she peeled each one before steaming them to tenderness. After mashing the softened dates through a gauze sieve, she heated them in a pan with sugar, letting the sweet aroma gradually fill the air.
Next came the yam. She steamed some until the skins turned soft and waxy, then mixed in glutinous rice flour to form a dough. Carefully, she wrapped balls of the white dough around spoonfuls of the red date filling, shaping them into neat little bundles before steaming the yam cakes to perfection.
By the time the first hints of dawn crept across the sky, Zhao Lanxiang had a whole basket stuffed with the fragrant cakes. Wiping the beads of sweat from her brow, she gently wrapped the fresh pastries in a clean cloth and tucked them into her schoolbag. With the village still lost in sweet dreams, she quietly slipped out into the early morning.
Pedaling cautiously along the dark path towards the county town, Zhao Lanxiang was startled to an abrupt stop outside He Songbai’s door. There he sat, head tilted against the wall, caught in the beam of her flashlight. How long had he been waiting there? As she approached, he looked up with an awkward cough.
“Come here,” he said gruffly.
Zhao Lanxiang clutched her bag a little tighter, embarrassed.
“I won’t eat you,” He Songbai said lightly. “What’re you scared of?”
She walked over, and he fished out a scrap of paper from his pocket, handing it to her. “When you get to town, just deliver your things to this address.”
Zhao Lanxiang’s eyes widened in surprise as she shone her light on the messy but legible pencil scrawl.
“You know how to write!” she blurted out in astonishment. Zhao Lanxiang had assumed he was illiterate. But as soon as the words left her lips, the man fixed her with a stern look.
It turned out that he did not receive his education in prison.
He Songbai yawned. “Go on now, I’m heading back to bed. Just come back early.”
Zhao Lanxiang got back on the bicycle, fastening the flashlight to the front, and pedaled off into the dark night.
When she finally arrived at the county town, she traced the roads according to the address He Songbai had scribbled down, eventually finding herself before a brightly lit residential building.
Zhao Lanxiang knocked on the door, and before her knuckles could fall away, a nervous-looking man swiftly appeared.
“Cutting the Peach Blossom branch, he sells them to buy himself wine,” she said.
The man sighed with relief. “He’s old second couldn’t come himself? What did you bring?”
“He’s not feeling well, so it was inconvenient. I’ve got yam cakes - fifteen pounds total. Try one.”
He took a bite. The pastry was soft and glutinous at first, then the sticky, juicy red date filling oozed out with a bit of grit. His mouth filled with sweetness and fragrance, wrapped in a light yam cake layer. Sweet but not greasy.
The man ushered Zhao Lanxiang inside and weighed the cakes. A little over fifteen pounds.
“How much?”
“If you take it all, I’ll give you a deal - seventy cents per pound plus a pound of sugar tickets.”
The man muttered, “So expensive?”
“These are made with real yam, red dates, and white sugar. Delicious and nutritious - perfect for kids and elders. Not like cheap flour goods.”
“Okay, okay, keep it down!” He glared at her and quickly counted out ten yuan. “Get going and be careful.”
Zhao Lanxiang pocketed the money and nodded. This organized, disciplined method - how did He Songbai find out about it?
Last time she only gave him fourteen pounds of mung bean cake and he sold over ten yuan. These yam and red date cakes could be even pricier. Honest folks lose money easily. If only she’d known, she could have arrogantly asked for a yuan per pound first and haggle.
Zhao Lanxiang touched her pale face and quickly pedaled the bicycle home.
...
At G City’s Military Medical Hospital, the gauze-wrapped man read his letter. The nurse who took his temperature that morning couldn’t help glancing at him again, feeling cheered.
Seeing good things always lifts the spirits!
Brother, how are you? Country life is so hard. I’m afraid our food and meat stamps won’t last this month. Please send support if you can. Also, after you coached Zhao Lanxiang last time, she’s been kind to me. Her noodles are delicious too!
-Your sister, Jiang Li.”
The man touched his head, his handsome brows furrowed tightly.
“Commander, don’t tire yourself after surgery,” the nurse said. “You can leave such things to me. Let me read that for you.”
Jiang Jianjun glanced at the calendar, then reread the letter, his dark eyes flashing with surprise.
“Go check if there are any other letters for me in the duty room.”
---
[T/N: Zhao Lanxiang’s yam cakes would be like this:]
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