In the fiery red era of the heavens, refrigerators are refreshed daily.

Chapter 149, Section 148: Returning to the City for Consultation, the Real Purpose, and Offering Excessive Attention.
As dawn broke, the cool morning light shone through the window into the cubicle.

As Yang Guangyao opened his eyes, he was momentarily disoriented. He was lying on a thick, soft cotton mattress at home, and the familiar scent of camphor and old wood filled his nostrils. It wasn't the hard, damp earthen bed in the Great Northern Wilderness.

He let out a long sigh of relief, his limbs and bones aching from the long train journey, and he slept a deep and sound sleep.

From outside came Zhuangzhuang's childish babbling and Li Guihua's soft coaxing.

The house was quiet; my father and older brother must have gone to the factory.

Yang Guangyao struggled to sit up, put on his empty old military uniform, and shuffled into the main room.

"You're all set up?" Li Guihua was sitting on a small bamboo chair with Zhuangzhuang in her arms. When she saw him come out, she smiled and said, "Are you hungry? The food is keeping warm in the pot. I'll go get it for you."

"Thank you for your trouble, sister-in-law." Yang Guangyao nodded, his voice still hoarse from just waking up. He walked to the courtyard and splashed his face with the cold water in the enamel basin. The icy water made him shiver, but it also completely dispelled the remaining sleepiness. Looking at his still dark and thin face in the mirror, but with slightly less fatigue in his eyes, he rubbed his cheeks vigorously.

The meal was served: a large bowl of warm white rice, a dish of pickled cucumbers, and a few pieces of leftover braised pork from last night. In those days of scarcity, this was an excellent breakfast.

Yang Guangyao sat down and ate in silence. Li Guihua sat opposite him, holding Zhuangzhuang, casually playing with the child and occasionally chatting with him, asking if it was cold in Northeast China or if he was tired from the journey. Yang Guangyao responded briefly, his tone calm.

In the past, his relationship with this sister-in-law wasn't exactly harmonious; there was always some unspoken tension. But after being away from home for two years and just returning, they were both more polite and tolerant of each other, and the atmosphere was quite amicable. Yang Guangyao had something on his mind and didn't have a good appetite. He quickly finished his meal and put down his chopsticks.

"Sister-in-law, I'm going out for a bit." Yang Guangyao stood up and wiped his mouth.

"Okay, sure," Li Guihua replied. "Will you come back for lunch?"

"We'll see. I'll probably just grab something quick outside," Yang Guangyao mumbled, picking up the hat draped over the back of the chair, putting it on his head, and pushing open the door to leave.

In the alley, the workers who went to work had long since left, leaving only a few elderly people sitting in front of their homes basking in the sun, or housewives slowly walking by carrying vegetable baskets.

The autumn wind carried a chill, swirling up fallen leaves. Yang Guangyao wrapped his coat tighter around himself and hurried toward the neighborhood office.

The neighborhood office is a place that every educated youth returning to the city cannot avoid.

He came today for two purposes. First, to routinely register and report for duty—the leave for educated youth to visit their families is limited, and the neighborhood office needs to keep track of the situation. If they stay on the sidelines after their leave ends, they will intervene and urge them to leave. This registration is just a formality.

His real purpose was to gather information about the return to the city.

He traveled a long way back, bringing with him the banknotes, food coupons, and other supplies prepared at home, but that was only part of the reason. More importantly, it was because of the burning flame in his heart—he wanted to return to the city.

Settle down in the Great Northern Wilderness? He couldn't stand it for even a day. He needed to know if there was any way, even just a tiny crack, to get there.

Inside the subdistrict office, red slogans were pasted on the walls, and several staff members dressed in blue-gray uniforms sat behind a few peeling desks.

Yang Guangyao found the window in charge of affairs related to educated youth, which was an elderly comrade with gray hair wearing arm sleeves.

"Comrade, I am Yang Guangyao, a former educated youth who returned to Shanghai to visit relatives. I am from Xiangyang Production Team." Yang Guangyao handed over his household registration book and educated youth certificate, trying his best to make his voice sound steady.

The elderly man adjusted his reading glasses, slowly flipped through the register, found his name, and used a damp cloth to write down his return date to Shanghai. "Oh, Yang Guangyao. How long was your family visit leave approved?"

“Fifteen days, minus travel time, I can stay at home for eight or nine days,” Yang Guangyao replied.

"Okay, remember to come back to cancel your leave three days before the holiday ends. Go back on time and don't overstay your leave." The old comrade gave his businesslike instructions and closed the registration book.

"Understood, comrade." Yang Guangyao didn't leave immediately. He leaned closer and lowered his voice, "Comrade, I'd like to... inquire whether there are any... policies for returning to the city? Or... any other options?"

The old man raised his eyelids, and his worldly-wise eyes swept sharply over him from behind his glasses, carrying a knowing look and an almost imperceptible sigh.

"A policy for returning to the city?" He shook his head, his voice low but like a bucket of cold water poured over him. "There's no official one. Now is the time to call on educated youth to 'take root in the countryside and carry out the revolution,' where would there be a channel for returning to the city?"

Yang Guangyao's heart sank, but he still refused to give up: "Then... are there any special circumstances? For example..."

"Special circumstances?" The old comrade sighed, lowering his voice even further. "There are, but they are extremely rare. Serious illness, disability, the kind that completely renders one unable to work, and a certificate from a hospital at the county level or above, going through layers of approval, it's as difficult as climbing to the sky. Examples of people successfully returning are extremely rare."

He paused, looking at Yang Guangyao's dark and thin but clearly still quite robust physique, "You... don't look like you have a serious illness, do you?"

Yang Guangyao subconsciously straightened his back, then slumped his shoulders back down.

He opened his mouth, wanting to ask again which specific illnesses were referred to by "serious illnesses," but looking at the old comrade's all-knowing yet slightly pitying eyes, the words stuck in his throat, and he couldn't utter a single one.

What good would it do to ask? Pretend to be sick? Obviously, that wouldn't work.

A chilling sense of despair rose from the soles of his feet, quickly spreading throughout his body. The last glimmer of hope was extinguished by these harsh words. He stood there blankly, feeling the air in the office grow even more suffocating and oppressive.

"Comrade, is there anything else?" The old comrade softened his tone when he saw that the man looked distraught.

“…That’s all, thank you.” Yang Guangyao’s voice was dry, almost squeezed out from his throat. He turned around absentmindedly and walked out of the street office’s gate with unsteady steps.

The bright autumn sun shone on the street, but he felt no warmth at all.

The gray buildings on both sides of the street and the hurried pedestrians seemed to be separated by a layer of cold glass.

He walked aimlessly for a while until the cold wind made him shiver, and then he stopped.

The road back to the city seems to be completely blocked at the moment.

He leaned against the cold brick wall, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath of the air, which smelled of coal smoke.

Since he couldn't go back, he might as well... enjoy this short vacation. Only eight or nine days. He rubbed his face vigorously, as if trying to shake off his frustration, then turned and walked towards home, his steps much heavier than when he came.

Back in the Shikumen house, only Li Guihua and Zhuangzhuang were home.

Yang Guangyao didn't say anything and went straight back to his small cubicle in front of the building where he slept.

He threw himself onto the bed, staring at the ceiling covered with old newspapers, motionless, until the aroma of lunch wafted in.

In the following days, Yang Guangyao seemed determined to make up for all the "blessings" he had missed out on over the past two years and might not be able to enjoy for the next few years.

Zhang Xiuying poured all her enthusiasm and the few good things she had at home. Yesterday it was braised pork, today it was scallion oil noodles with some minced meat, and tomorrow she'll ask someone to get her a small crucian carp to make soup. At every meal, the oiliest and best part was always put into Yangguangyao's bowl first.

"Yaoyao, eat more and nourish yourself! You can't get anything good to eat over there..." Zhang Xiuying's eyes always reddened as she watched him wolf down his food.

Yang Yongkang was not a man of many words, but during meals, he would quietly push the few pieces of meat on his plate toward him.

The eldest brother, Yang Guanghui, would eat in silence, never arguing with him.

The home was filled with a cautious, compensatory, and indulgent atmosphere.

He ate whatever the sun shone on, feeling at ease, but he also felt a subtle, invisible pressure—this brief "good life" was bought with his long "bitter life".

Sunday arrived in the blink of an eye.

The sunlight woke me up from what wasn't too early.

The late autumn sunlight slanted through the gaps in the dormer windows of the Shikumen house, falling obliquely onto the bed, carrying a faint warmth.

He rubbed his eyes, listening to the soft clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen downstairs, and the low murmurs of his mother, Zhang Xiuying, and his sister-in-law, Li Guihua.

A sense of homely tranquility permeated the air, a luxury unimaginable to him during his time working in the Northeast.

He put on his faded blue cloth jacket, the elbows worn smooth, and went downstairs in his cloth shoes with thick soles.

Zhang Xiuying was already waiting by the octagonal table, on which sat a bowl of poached eggs in sweet soup. Two plump poached eggs lay in the white porcelain bowl, the sweet soup clear and steaming.

"Eat it while it's hot, Yaoyao." Zhang Xiuying pushed the bowl towards him, her wrinkles smoothing out. "I cooked this especially for you to help you recover."

Sunlight warmed Yao's heart. Without saying a word, he lowered his head and began to eat heartily. The sweetness of the syrup and the savory aroma of the eggs blended together, gently soothing his stomach and stirring up his longing for the taste of home.

After finishing the last bite, he wiped his mouth and said to his mother and sister-in-law, who were bending over washing vegetables by the sink, "Mom, sister-in-law, I'm going to check on Guangming. I'll have lunch at his place. Don't wait for me."

Upon hearing this, Zhang Xiuying immediately straightened up, wiped her wet hands on her apron, and a genuine smile spread across her face:
"Okay, okay! I talked to Mingming about it yesterday, and he said he understands. It's good for you to go and get acquainted with the place, so the two brothers can get together more often."

She looked at her second son, her eyes filled with an indescribable sense of relief and concern.

Yang Guangyao carefully took out the neatly folded little piece of paper from the inner pocket of his Zhongshan suit. On it was the address written by Yang Guangming in neat penmanship. He put the paper away and strolled out the door.

On the streets of Shanghai in late autumn, most of the plane tree leaves have turned yellow and are swirling down in the cool morning breeze.

The sunlight, carrying a cool quality, shone on the somewhat empty road.

There weren't many pedestrians, and most of them were walking quickly, dressed in clothes in shades of gray, blue, and black. Occasionally, bicycle bells would ring out crisply.

There was a line of moderate length outside the state-run food store on the street corner; the supply of non-staple foods was always tight.

Yang Guangyao took a deep breath of the air, which carried a faint scent of coal smoke and fallen leaves—the familiar smell of his hometown.

Following the address, he crossed several familiar streets lined with old-fashioned Western-style houses or Shikumen alleyways, and turned into a workers' residential area.

The scene suddenly changed.

Before me lay a dense cluster of workers' new villages, rows of matchbox-like, dusty gray tenement buildings standing close together, with narrow gaps between them. Many parts of the building walls were already mottled, revealing the red bricks underneath.

Yang Guangyao found Building No. 3.

The cement stairs were rough and cold, and the handrails were covered in dust.

He climbed step by step to the second floor. The stairwell was dimly lit and cluttered with many items on both sides, allowing only one person to pass sideways.

He found room 203, but the wooden door was tightly shut. He raised his hand and knocked three times on the door with his knuckles.

The door opened almost instantly, revealing Yang Guangming's young yet composed face.

He was wearing clean khaki overalls, the cuffs rolled up. "Second Brother, you're here." His voice wasn't loud, but carried a natural warmth. He stepped aside to make way.

As Yang Guangyao stepped into the room, a refreshing scent of soapy water wafted out, a stark contrast to the mingled odors in the hallway. His gaze, like a searchlight, immediately swept over this private space belonging to his younger brother, filled with curiosity and scrutiny.

This is a standard inner and outer room, with a total area of ​​approximately 26 or 27 square meters.

The outer room was small, with freshly painted white walls and a polished cement floor that reflected blurry silhouettes. Against the wall stood a dark brown eight-immortal table, its paint slightly peeling but clean.

Around the table were four identical wooden chairs. In the corner stood a low wooden shelf, neatly stacked with several enamel basins and thermos flasks. The entire outer room was simple and tidy, exuding a sense of efficiency that came from someone who had just moved in.

Yang Guangming gestured for him to go inside.

Pushing open the wooden door to the inner room, the space becomes slightly larger. The most striking feature is a large rosewood bed, its color deep and its wood grain clear, exuding a sense of weight and solidity, clearly not ordinary new furniture.

The bed was covered with a blue and white checkered sheet, and the quilt was folded into a neat square.

Against the wall stood a large, antique-style huanghuali wood wardrobe, its doors tightly closed.

Beneath the window was a desk painted a light yellow, its surface smooth and neatly arranged with several books—a copy of "Selected Works of Mao Zedong," a copy of "Principles of Machinery," a copy of "Xinhua Dictionary," two hardcover notebooks, and a Hero brand fountain pen inserted in an ink bottle.

The windows were polished to a shine, and the late autumn sunlight streamed in without obstruction.

Although there isn't much furniture, just these few large pieces, the arrangement is just right. The space doesn't feel cramped; instead, it has a sense of spaciousness and cleanliness, a feeling of complete personal freedom and undisturbed atmosphere permeating the space.

"Living in such a big place all by yourself..." Yang Guangyao couldn't help but sigh again, his voice filled with undisguised envy and even a hint of disbelief.

He walked over, his fingers stroking the cool, smooth edge of the rosewood bed with an almost reverent touch. He then opened the heavy door of the huanghuali wardrobe and looked inside. Several work clothes, shirts, and neatly folded underwear and socks were hanging there.

“It’s so good…” he murmured, his eyes somewhat unfocused. “It’s a hundred or a thousand times better than the drafty mud and straw huts in our educated youth settlement, and the communal sleeping quarters where dozens of people were crammed together.”

A strong, unpredictable surge of bitterness welled up in my heart and stuck in my throat.

He recalled his shack with mud walls and a thatched roof, which was like an icebox in winter and a steamer in summer. At night, when he turned over, he could bump into the arms and legs of the person next to him, with absolutely no privacy.

Yang Guangming showed him around, making sure he didn't miss a single room.

The sunlight shone through with extreme care.

His gaze lingered on the brand-new aluminum pots and pans, on the thermos flasks with the red double happiness symbol, and even on the small, gleaming kerosene stove for a long time.

These items, even in the cramped homes of Shikumen houses, were scarce commodities that required careful budgeting and were rationed.

He walked to the desk, his fingertips lightly brushing the spines of the books, finally landing on the Hero fountain pen.

The cold, metallic touch sent a jolt through him.

The clean environment, the complete daily necessities, and the fountain pen that symbolizes knowledge and limitless possibilities stand in stark contrast to his simple, impoverished life as an educated youth, which consisted only of manual labor.

After the tour, the two brothers sat down at the Eight Immortals table in the outer room.

Yang Guangming pinched a small amount of tea leaves and put them into a ceramic jar. Then he picked up the bamboo-cased thermos on the table, removed the cork, filled the jar with water, and pushed it in front of Yang Guangyao.

"Second brother, have some tea."

Yang Guangyao held the warm enamel mug in his hands, the rising steam blurring his glasses.

He was momentarily speechless.

I've already expressed my envy, and I've complained about it countless times these past few days at home. Silence filled the small room, broken only by the occasional sound of a neighbor's child crying outside the window.

"You've kept this place very clean." Yang Guangyao finally found a safe topic and broke the silence.

"Living alone means less stuff and easier to tidy up."

Yang Guangming simply replied, picked up his enamel mug, and took a sip.

His gaze inadvertently swept over a few pieces of clothing hanging on a thin rope behind the door—two white cotton shirts that had been changed out, and a dark blue work jacket, the collars and cuffs showing signs of wear.

Yang Guangyao followed his gaze and saw it too.

As if he had suddenly found an outlet for some kind of emotion, he immediately put down his teacup and stood up: "Anyway, I have nothing to do, so I might as well lend you a hand. Where are your dirty clothes? Bring them all over, I'll go to the washroom to wash them for you."

Yang Guangming was taken aback, then quickly waved his hand, his tone sincere in refusal: "No, no, Second Brother! Really, no need. I can wash myself, how can I let you wash? You sit and rest for a while."

"Why are you being so polite with me!" Yang Guangyao's attitude was unusually firm, even carrying an almost urgent enthusiasm that demanded an explanation. "I've seen them all, just those few items. I'm just sitting around anyway, so it'll warm me up a bit. Where's the water room? I'll go right now."

As he spoke, he walked to the door without saying another word, picked up the two shirts and a work jacket hanging on the wire, and did so with such speed that it was as if he was afraid of being stopped.

Seeing his posture, Yang Guangming knew that stopping him any further would seem estranged, so he could only smile helplessly and point to the direction of the corridor outside the door: "The door in the middle of the corridor is the water room. Use the red plastic basin under the windowsill; the soap is on the windowsill."

"Understood." Yang Guangyao, carrying the clothes, walked out with light steps, as if he had received some important task.

The bathroom was dimly lit and filled with dampness and the smell of soap powder.

Several middle-aged women were occupying several taps, some were scrubbing bed sheets with a splashing sound, and others were brushing muddy potatoes and carrots with a rustling sound.

Suddenly seeing a strange man carrying clothes walk in, they all stopped what they were doing and cast curious, slightly scrutinizing glances at him. These days, it was indeed rare to see a man, especially a complete stranger, entering a communal laundry room.

Despite the glare of the sun, he tried his best to appear calm and composed.

He found an empty faucet and put the clothes he was carrying into the large red plastic basin under the windowsill. He turned on the faucet, and the cold tap water gushed down, splashing up tiny droplets.

He rolled up his sleeves, picked up the yellow bar of soap, and began scrubbing vigorously.

Soap suds quickly filled the basin, and the icy tap water made his fingers numb and red, but he scrubbed very hard, as if he wanted to thoroughly remove the dirt hidden deep in the fabric, or as if he was scrubbing away some other unseen dust.

He needs to do something.

Do something tangible that demonstrates value to alleviate the complex and indescribable emotions in my heart—envy of my younger brother's superior environment, bitterness about my own situation, and an awkward desire to express "gratitude" and take the initiative to "show goodwill."

The cold tap water seemed to temporarily numb his chaotic thoughts.

By the time he finally wrung out the clothes and hung them one by one on the rusty public wire at the end of the corridor, his fingers were already stiff and numb from the cold.

He shook his hand and walked back to room 203. As soon as he pushed open the door, he smelled an enticing aroma of oil and a faint scent of wine wafting out from the small kitchen in the cubicle.

Yang Guangming was already busy inside.

Yang Guangyao wanted to go over and help, but just as he reached the kitchen door, Yang Guangming gently blocked him with his arm.

"Second Brother, sit down and rest for a while. The food will be ready soon. There's a lot of smoke." Yang Guangming held a spatula in his hand, and the pot was sizzling.

Yang Guangyao had no choice but to retreat to the outer room and sit down again at the octagonal table.

From the small cubicle came the crisp sound of spatulas clattering against iron pots, the sizzling of oil, and the rich, mingled aromas of various foods.

He sat quietly, listening to the sounds of daily life and smelling the genuine aroma of food. The emptiness in his heart seemed to be filled and he felt more at ease, but what followed was a deeper longing for this peaceful daily life and a sense of bewilderment at his own drifting and uncertain existence.

Soon, the food was served.

The sunlight made his eyes light up immediately.

The main dishes were two cooked dishes, which Yang Guangming took out of the refrigerator: a large, glistening, and trembling pork knuckle with tender skin and meat, and a rich aroma of sauce mixed with the fragrance of meat; and a plate of drunken chicken with golden skin and an enticing sheen, with the aroma of wine and spices wafting into the nostrils.

Yang Guangming quickly stir-fried a plate of golden, fluffy scrambled eggs and mixed a plate of finely chopped, spicy and sour cabbage hearts drizzled with sesame oil and vinegar.

Finally, a small pot of steaming, perfectly cooked white rice was brought out from the cubicle. The aroma of the rice was pure and enticing; in those times of scarcity, it was a treat in itself.

"Wow! So lavish!" Yang Guangyao couldn't help but swallow.

Although the food at home these past few days has been much better than in Northeast China, meat is still a rare treat, not to mention the tender, flavorful, and glistening pork knuckle and the uniquely enticing drunken chicken in front of me.

The lunch was far more elaborate than he had expected.

(End of this chapter)