He Yuyang: The tough eldest brother of the courtyard house

The summer of 1978 was exceptionally hot, as if the entire world was enveloped in scorching heat. Especially in July, the sun hung in the sky like a giant, fierce fireball, relentlessly baking the earth. At this time, Baoding City was like a scalding hot steamer, tightly enveloping everything within it.

The military family compound was unbearably hot; even the hardest cement floor was scorching hot enough to fry an egg! Yet, amidst this sweltering heat, one place stood out as exceptionally cool and pleasant—the tall, stately peach tree in He Yuyang's yard. Its lush foliage and verdant canopy sheltered half the courtyard like a giant green umbrella, casting patches of coolness and tranquility upon the blue stone slabs.

At dawn, as the first rays of sunlight filter through the leaves, countless glistening dewdrops adorn the leaf surfaces, sparkling like dazzling diamonds. As time passes, these dewdrops gradually absorb heat and begin to roll; when they finally slide from the branches, they crash heavily to the ground below, splashing up tiny droplets and leaving shallow, damp trails, only to be quickly evaporated by the scorching wind.

The cicadas were chirping loudly in the afternoon, their "zhi-liao, zhi-liao" sounds rolling over the courtyard wall, accompanied by waves of heat. Xu Xiuli took the watermelon out of the well water and wiped the water droplets off the rind with a towel—the well water was spiritual spring water that had seeped into the space, and the chilled watermelon had a refreshing sweetness; the flesh was as red as solidified cream, and the seeds were shiny black. She had just cut the watermelon into crescent shapes when the postman's shout came from the courtyard gate: "Comrade He Yuyang, registered mail from Beijing!"

He Shouye's letter was twice as thick as usual, with a Great Wall stamp affixed to the envelope, and the edges still dusty from Beijing. He Yuyang sat under the shade of a peach tree, opening the letter, her military green fan slowly waving in her hand. The wind rustled through the peach leaves, carrying a fresh scent of grass and trees. Unfolding the letter, Shouye's handwriting was more vigorous than in spring, and a simple sketch of a southern coconut tree was drawn along the edge of the paper, with the words "Shenzhen" written on the trunk.

"...Everyone at school is saying that the central government is going to establish a special economic zone in Shenzhen, saying it will become a 'window' to attract foreign technology and capital. My roommate from Guangdong is already packing his bags, saying he wants to drop out and try his luck, saying he can earn 'money he's never seen before' in the special economic zone..." He Yuyang read the letter, his fingertip pausing on the words "drop out," and looked up to see Xu Xiuli arranging watermelons on a porcelain plate, water droplets running down the rinds like miniature waterfalls.

"This child didn't say he wanted to go, did he?" Xu Xiuli pushed the watermelon towards him, her voice tinged with nervousness. She remembered how Shouye used to hold a screwdriver and take apart an alarm clock when he was little. That stubbornness of his—if he were really tempted by something new outside, he might actually do something impulsive.

"He said 'I'll think about it some more,'" He Yuyang folded the letter into three folds and put it in his pocket. "He also said that the factories in the special zone urgently need precision machine tools, and the small stamping die he designed might come in handy there." He picked up a slice of watermelon, and the juice in the red flesh burst on his tongue, sweet with a slightly gritty feel—it was a variety grown with spiritual spring water from his space, 30% sweeter than ordinary watermelons, and with fewer seeds.

"So how do you plan to reply?" Xu Xiuli squatted by the experimental field, loosening the ties on the cucumber vines. The small cucumbers hanging on the vines, topped with tender yellow flowers, were grown from early-maturing seeds from her space, making them available half a month earlier than those on the market, and so crisp they were juicy.

He Yuyang didn't speak, but simply took out a brush and ink from the room. The ink in the inkstone was still the pine soot ink from his spatial dimension; the ground ink was jet black and glossy, and it didn't bleed or spread on the Xuan paper. He picked up his brush and wrote: "The special economic zone is an experimental field, and so is the campus. Hold fast to your original aspirations, and turn the lines on the blueprints into machines that can benefit people. No matter what field it's in, good crops can grow." After writing that, he felt it wasn't enough, so he added, "Uncle Zhou's prototype machine tool will be tested next week. Come back during the summer vacation and see it with your own eyes; it'll be more useful than hearing a thousand words from others."

Xu Xiuli leaned closer to look and saw that he had written the words "original aspiration" with exceptional solemnity, his strokes carrying the ruggedness of a soldier. Only then did she feel relieved. "Also, have him take some mints from your space. Beijing summers are hot, and those candies are refreshing and can help you stay alert." She picked up a handful of freshly picked cucumbers from the bamboo basket. "Oh, right, Jianguo said he'll be returning to his unit this weekend after visiting his family, so we need to prepare some food for his journey."

He Jianguo's leave to visit his family was rushed. He was wearing a faded military uniform, the stars on his epaulets shining in the sunlight, and he was helping He Yuanchao chop firewood. The axe fell, and the firewood split open with a "crack," revealing clear growth rings on the cross-section—it was a branch of a dead old locust tree in the yard, which He Yuyang had specially kept for Jianguo to practice on.

"Is the outpost still short of vegetables?" He Yuyang squatted down beside him, filling his pipe with dry tobacco—tobacco leaves from his spatial dimension, dried thoroughly, with a mellow and non-irritating aroma. He noticed that Jianguo's chopping of firewood was more steady than last year, and the calluses on his hands and feet were thicker, knowing that the boy had suffered a lot while on the border.

"Winter is alright, we can store potatoes and cabbages in the cellar. Summer is the hardest to endure," Jianguo said, stacking the chopped firewood into a neat pile. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead and were instantly absorbed by the ground. "We can dig up some wild vegetables on patrol, but they're lacking in vitamins, and my comrades always have sores on their lips." He picked up the enamel mug on the table and took a big gulp of herbal tea—it was brewed by Xu Xiuli with honeysuckle from her spatial storage, with a slightly bitter aftertaste, and its cooling effect was even stronger than medicine.

He Yuyang didn't speak, but turned and walked towards the side room. A moment later, he came out with a canvas bag containing more than a dozen small kraft paper packets, each printed with vegetable pictures drawn by Xu Xiuli: peppers, tomatoes, cucumbers, and several packets of drought-resistant buckwheat seeds. "These are 'Gobi seeds' that your mother found. She said they can grow in the cracks of rocks. Go back and try them out, and start a small vegetable garden around the outpost." He lowered his voice. "There's a bag of concentrated spiritual spring water in the packet. Dilute it with water and water the land; it will increase the survival rate."

Jianguo's eyes lit up. He knew his parents had a "secret"—those invaluable things they always pulled out at crucial moments, things that always seemed to possess an inexplicable magic. "The potato seeds you gave me last year grew into more than a dozen egg-sized plants by the wall of the outpost. The soldiers shared them, saying they tasted better than canned potatoes." He tightened his canvas bag over his shoulder, his military boots clicking firmly on the ground. "I'll definitely grow them well, and next time I visit, I'll bring you tomatoes grown at the outpost!"

On the day she sent Jianguo to the train station, Xu Xiuli slipped a jar of peach jam into his backpack—made from the second-best fruit that had fallen in the yard, with honey from her spatial storage added; it was perfectly sweet and sour, and spreading it on steamed buns would taste like spring. "Remember to let us know you're safe when you get there," she said, straightening her son's collar and noticing a new scar on his collarbone, from being scratched by barbed wire while on patrol. "Don't always think about saving food; your health is your most important asset."

Jianguo didn't speak, but simply slipped a small cloth bag into her hand. Inside was a safety amulet made from a colored stone from the border patrol, its surface still bearing the marks of his sandpaper polishing—rough yet smooth. "I found it in the mountain stream behind the outpost; they say it can ward off evil spirits," he said, scratching his head. As he turned and boarded the train, his military green silhouette stood out prominently in the crowd, like a poplar tree that had stood for many years in the Gobi Desert.

Three days after returning to her post following the founding of the People's Republic of China, Aunt Zhang burst into the courtyard, the rhythmic clatter of her sewing machine echoing through the air. She wore a newly bought polyester shirt with a red velvet flower pinned to the collar, and carried a kraft paper envelope. Her smile was warmer than the summer sun. "Beautiful girl! This is fantastic news!" she exclaimed, slamming the envelope on the stone table. Several colorful photos of clothing fell out; the models wore bell-bottoms and batwing tops—styles she had never seen in Baoding before.

"It was sent by Section Chief Wang from the Foreign Trade Bureau," Aunt Zhang said, her reading glasses slipping down to the tip of her nose as she pointed to the bell-bottoms in the photo. "He said the garment factories in the Shenzhen Special Economic Zone need to rush to produce a batch of 'trendy clothes' for export to Hong Kong, and they specifically requested our sewing group to make them! They said if we do a good job, we'll have orders every month!" She suddenly sighed, pointing to the batwing sleeves in the photo, "But this style is too strange; the sleeves are so big they could be worn as skirts. How could we possibly make them?"

Xu Xiuli picked up the photo, her fingertips tracing the lace trim on the model's dress. She suddenly remembered the metal cabinet in the space warehouse, which contained several fashion magazines from the 80s—"future data" brought about by the flow of spacetime, the styles printed on the covers even more fashionable than those in the photo. "I think my family sent me a few old magazines with similar designs; I'll go look through them."

She turned and went into the side room, using the excuse of looking for old things to enter the space. The magazine was on the second shelf of the warehouse, the cover model wearing high-waisted flared pants with embroidered patterns at the slits at the hem, about 70% similar to the style in the photo. She tucked the magazine into her bosom, and when she came out, she pretended to have found it in an old wooden box, deliberately crumpling the edges of the pages as if it had really been there for many years.

"Look at this," Xu Xiuli pointed to the pattern in the magazine, which showed precise measurements. "The hip circumference of the bell-bottoms should be three inches wider than regular pants, and the slits at the hem should be seven inches wide, so they look good when walking. The sleeves of the batwing shirt should be made of stretch fabric, with the cuffs tapered to three-quarters, so they're both cool and neat." She picked up a pair of scissors and cut out a paper pattern from scrap fabric. "I'll cut out a sample first, and you can make your own based on it."

Staff Officer Wang's wife came over to take a look, her eyes wide with surprise: "These sleeves use so much fabric! The Dacron fabric from the supply and marketing cooperative requires coupons, where are we going to get so many fabric coupons?" Her abacus clicked loudly as she calculated the cost of the fabric, her brows furrowed in worry.

"My family can get 'processed fabric'," Xu Xiuli said casually. In fact, it was leftover export materials piled up in the space warehouse. The colors were bright and the quality was better than what was available on the market. "There are many colors, and it's cheap. Clothes made from it will definitely be in high demand in the special economic zone." She picked up a piece of peacock blue Dacron and shook it in the sunlight. The fabric's luster was like flowing seawater—it was an improved fabric from the space, wrinkle-resistant and breathable.

The sewing group's warehouse suddenly became lively. Aunt Zhang was trying to make bell-bottoms on the sewing machine, the needle clicking through the fabric, and the slits at the hem were sewn straight; Staff Officer Wang's wife was bent over the table altering the size, her pencil drawing rapidly on the paper; Sister Li's daughter also came to help with the overlocking, the overlocking machine in her hand was a discarded item from the army that Xu Xiuli had "borrowed," but it was actually a small device in the space, three times faster than ordinary machines.

Xu Xiuli sat in the corner cutting fabric, the sound of scissors cutting through the cloth crisp and clean. Watching the trouser legs and garments gradually pile up on the cutting table, she suddenly recalled the "window" mentioned in the letter about maintaining the family business. Perhaps this change, stitch by stitch, was also a small window—allowing ordinary families' lives to become more vibrant with this new breeze.

As evening fell, Zhou Mingyuan, leaning on his cane, arrived with good news. The old man's shirt was wrinkled and soaked with sweat, but he clutched a graph of a machine tool's operation tightly in his hand, the edges of the paper damp with sweat. "Old He! The prototype is done! The error is controlled within 0.01 millimeters, even higher than the design requirements!" He slammed the drawing on the stone table; the curve on it resembled a smooth river. "The miniature mold that Shouye designed—ten parts were tested on the prototype, and every single one passed!"

He Yuyang took the blueprints, his fingertips tracing the crests of the curves, where "1978.7.15 16:30" was marked—the very time Shouye had mentioned in his letter. He suddenly felt that whether it was the wind in the special economic zone, the blueprints on campus, or the needle and thread on the sewing machine, everything was actually working in the same direction—to make life more decent.

At night, Xu Xiuli hung the first pair of bell-bottoms she had finished making on the rope in the yard. Moonlight shone through the peach leaves, and the slits at the hem of the trousers gleamed softly, like a butterfly about to take flight. He Yuyang sat under the lamp replying to Shouye's letter. Next to the letter was a sample of parts sent by Zhou Mingyuan, its metallic surface reflecting the light so brightly that it could reflect one's image.

"...When Uncle Zhou's machine tool starts up, it's like a clap of thunder in spring. The molds you designed turning on it are more powerful than any grand words. The winds of the Special Economic Zone will blow to the north, and your drawings will also reach the south. Holding onto your wrench and pen is better than anything else..." After he finished writing, he folded the letter into the envelope. Suddenly, he heard the sound of Sister Li's noodle shop closing up shop outside the wall. The clanging of iron buckets mingled with the distant factory whistles, like a reassuring nocturne.

Xu Xiuli took the bell-bottoms off the wall and went inside. Passing the experimental field, she saw the cucumbers grown from the space seeds, their pale green gleaming in the moonlight. She suddenly remembered Jianguo's silhouette as he boarded the car with his canvas bag, the coconut trees drawn in Shouye's letter, and the rhythmic clatter of Aunt Zhang and the others' sewing machines. These images, like scattered beads in summer, were strung together by the word "Special Economic Zone," radiating an indescribable hope.

The next morning, when the postman came to collect the mail, he saw a pair of trendy bell-bottoms hanging on the branches of He Yuyang's peach tree, besides a wooden sign that read "Wishing You Fulfilled." A breeze blew, and the trouser legs swayed gently, dancing with the green leaves of the tree, like a welcoming breeze. In the distance, the sewing workshop warehouse was already lit up; the sounds of sewing machines mingled with the chirping of cicadas, creating a lively scene in the summer of 1978.