Chapter 14

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Qian Gang was busy selling steamed buns.

His original dream had been to make the buns himself.

But after the sorrowful experience of “adding water when there was too much dough, adding flour when there was too much water,” which wasted all the flour, he decisively gave up this overly ambitious idea.

The buns he sold came from a stall on the next street over: he bought raw buns at 35 cents each and sold them for 50 cents. This spot by the market was prime; during the morning rush, all the buns sold out in a flash.

Counting his earnings, Qian Gang couldn’t help but feel a surge of emotion. “No wonder businessmen make so much money—just riding a bike back and forth, flipping the goods, and easily making dozens of yuan.”

Besides, the 35-cent cost and the coal money weren’t even paid by him—they came from the municipal bureau.

Last month, he had advanced 36 yuan for a case, but the captain said it couldn’t be reimbursed. He was frustrated, but his old colleagues told him not to worry—that he wouldn’t always be at a loss. At first, he thought they were just comforting him, afraid he might quit and go into business himself.

Only old colleagues, with their wide experience, knew best!

Qian Gang happily held a meat bun in one hand and rested the other on the steamer, letting the warm steam add some heat to himself.

A person wrapped head to toe like a ball stopped their tricycle in front of him. From beneath a mask came a woman’s voice: “I’m here to take over. Any unusual situations?”

Qian Gang looked up and saw a pair of familiar eyes. Smiling, he said, “It’s you! I didn’t recognize you at first. Nothing unusual. Hey, you wouldn’t believe it—the nights here are pretty lively. Around eleven o’clock, it’s college students; at three or four in the morning, it’s the bar district. I thought I could get some sleep, but ended up selling noodles all night. I sold all the noodles you left for me—plain noodles, over a hundred bowls. Are they really that good?”

Wang Xuejiao took out the ingredients she had prepared. “People coming out of bars definitely like to eat. After a night of partying, they need to settle their stomachs without too much burden, so they can sleep well afterward.”

“You know them pretty well.”

“Work requires it. Places like this are a mixed crowd—sooner or later, we’ll have to interact with them.” Wang Xuejiao began steaming the rice.

“All right, then be careful. I’m off.” Qian Gang hopped onto the tricycle, pedaled once, then got off to stuff two buns into a plastic bag and handed it to her. “Try these—the pork and vermicelli bun and the sesame oil vegetable bun are really good!”

After thinking for a moment, he left his coal stove and steamer behind. “They’re heavy anyway. I’ll be back at night, so leave them here. There’s a compartment under this stove with two roasted sweet potatoes inside. If you want, help yourself.”

With that, he jumped on the tricycle and creaked away.

It was only half past nine, still technically breakfast time.

In the morning, ordinary people ate one-yuan buns or one-yuan-fifty pancakes wrapped with fried dough sticks and eggs.

No one would spend ten yuan on fried rice or thirty yuan on braised pork.

Boring.

Truly boring.

Without a phone to play with, Wang Xuejiao bought a newspaper and carefully read even the advertisements in the fold.

Finally, out of boredom, she connected the addresses and phone numbers in the ads as a memory exercise: “Numbers starting with 54 are in Xuanwu District, 22 are Baixia District, 33 is the military district line…”

After flipping through the paper twice, her pager buzzed. She took it out and read: “Two orders of Family Feast to be delivered to the printing factory.”

Wow, so generous—already eating this early?

Wang Xuejiao quickly chopped two boxes of meat, asked the nearby stall owner to watch her stand, and crossed the street to the printing factory.

She peered inside the printing room’s doorway and found it empty—no one in sight.

“Is anyone here? I’m the delivery person,” she called out loudly.

The door to the inner room opened, and a man stepped out. He took sixty yuan from his pocket, then thought a moment and handed her another ten. “Help me buy two bottles of Fenjinting special liquor. Keep the change.”

The convenience store was about a hundred meters from the printing factory. Since she had nothing else to do and sitting idly wasn’t pleasant, she went to buy the drinks.

Wang Xuejiao returned quickly. The room was still empty; presumably, everyone was in the inner chamber.

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This time, she was “on official business,” openly carrying two bottles of liquor as she entered the printing room. Approaching the inner door, she lightened her steps and stopped just outside, raising her hand to knock but not actually striking the door.

This way, whether someone came from outside or someone inside wanted to come out, she could pretend she had just arrived and was about to knock.

Such thorough preparation stemmed from Wang Xuejiao’s youthful practice of sneaking TV time.

Before turning on the TV, she would prepare a cloth and freeze it in the refrigerator.

She also memorized the remote’s placement, the initial volume, the channel on startup, the angle of the TV antenna, and how much dust cover hung on each side of the TV.

She could hear her parents’ footsteps from twenty meters away.

Before they opened the door, she had completed cooling the back cover of the TV, adjusted all settings, fitted the dust cover, and returned the remote.

It wasn’t until technology dealt a knockout blow that her sneaky viewing ended: the power supply bureau developed an app to monitor electricity usage in real time on the phone.

Wang Xuejiao held her breath and listened carefully.

She heard voices—at least four men, all male.

What exactly they said was unclear, but there were bursts of loud laughter.

Suddenly, she heard faint footsteps at the main door. She immediately placed her hand on the doorframe and said, “Hello, the liquor’s here.”

Someone inside came to open the door, but only halfway; the man was about a head taller and broader than Wang Xuejiao, blocking her view completely.

“The total is eight yuan; here’s two yuan change.” Wang Xuejiao handed over the money and the liquor. The man took the liquor and said, “Keep the money.”

Then he closed the door.

At that moment, several men walking past the entrance stepped into the printing workshop and saw the door close, with Wang Xuejiao holding two yuan as she walked out.

They knocked, and the door opened again. They shouted loudly, “Drinking and eating meat so early in the morning!”

“I’ve been working hard all night. Don’t I deserve some good food?!”

…

Then the door closed again.

Back at her stall, it was not yet ten o’clock. Wang Xuejiao sat for five minutes, feeling uncomfortable all over.

She had a bad habit: fidgeting.

If her hands were empty, she would unconsciously find something to rub or knead.

She had accidentally destroyed various items this way, including but not limited to: tickets, train passes, earphone cords…

If there was absolutely nothing to rub, she would polish her fingernails with her thumb, making them shiny as if buffed.

Now, she was fidgeting again.

Ah, she should find something to twirl.

She noticed the eggs on the cart. She had brought over two hundred eggs today—more than she could use, so she could afford to waste a few.

Without hesitation, she got to work.

First, she cleared the coal residue from Qian Gang’s stove, replaced it with fresh coal, opened the air vent to the maximum to stoke the fire, then went to the nearby convenience store to buy two bottles of milk.

She mixed white sugar with water to make syrup, placing the syrup and a bowl into the stove’s compartment, along with the milk beside it.

Then she cracked four eggs, sprinkled in a pinch of sugar, grabbed some chopsticks, and vigorously beat the eggs.

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Beating eggs was a pastime, and Wang Xuejiao didn’t feel tired as she continued, watching passersby come and go.

Many people were around, with plenty of small stalls—very lively. Still, she wondered, would there be any thieves?

She observed carefully for a long time—but none appeared.

Though this world was only a story, its worldview was completely realistic, indistinguishable from the real 1990s.

She recalled reading online about people lamenting how crafty European thieves were—arriving and having everything stolen.

One comment read, “European thieves are pretty weak—they even bother with zippers, while 1990s thieves in China just slashed with razor blades.”

Others shared wild stories of 1990s thieves’ brazenness.

The phrase that impressed Wang Xuejiao most was: “In the 1990s, crowded places were guaranteed to have thieves, who didn’t even hide. They came in gangs, fierce enough that the police couldn’t deal with them—they’d get locked up for a few days and be out again.”

Yet here, there were no thieves?

Impossible.

Maybe the thieves here were just too skilled?

She decided to observe for a few more days.

Checking the time, it was almost time for customers. Wang Xuejiao put down her chopsticks and took the syrup from the compartment.

By now, the syrup had turned a caramel color.

The milk beside the stove was slightly warm. She poured the milk into the beaten eggs, stirred them roughly, then poured the egg-and-milk mixture into the caramel-filled bowl.

She covered the bowl with a lid and placed it in the steamer Qian Gang had left behind.

After serving a few orders, the steamer emptied again.

Wang Xuejiao lifted the lid, ready to try some herself.

Just as she picked up a spoon, a woman said, “Boss, one order of fried rice.”

It was Jian Yan—the woman who had shared braised pork with Little Jin Hua yesterday. Yesterday, she had paid for half the portion but ate a full one, still craving more.

Knowing she would get paid today, she decided to indulge again. She didn’t want to buy the braised pork itself but was happy enough with fried rice topped with the braised pork sauce.

While Wang Xuejiao was busy, Jian Yan noticed two bowls nearby, filled with golden-yellow chunks, and asked, “What’s this? Steamed egg?”

“Caramel egg pudding. I made it for fun. Want to try?”

Jian Yan had only read about “pudding” in foreign novels—it sounded fancy, and her curiosity surged. “Sure, I’ll try a spoonful.”

She took a spoon, scooped some, and examined it. It was well steamed—smooth with no holes… but still steamed egg.

She put it in her mouth—the soft, sweet egg was smooth, with a subtle egg and milk flavor, no eggy or milky smell.

The caramelized sugar layer at the bottom was familiar; it was the same flavor she got when making red-braised pork at home, where she caramelized sugar.

Jian Yan had never tasted sweet steamed egg before. Surprisingly, it was quite good. She took another bite—so smooth… another bite, fragrant…

When Wang Xuejiao turned around, she saw one bowl was already empty, and Jian Yan’s eyes were greedily fixed on the other bowl.